Narc (9 page)

“My stepmom’s attack poodle,” Morgan explained. “She has allergies.”

“Your stepmom or the poodle?”

“Both,” she said, reaching down to scratch the poodle’s ears. “She’s like, my ideal dog. But if you ignore her, she’ll pee on your bed. Come on,” she said and I followed her down the hall. At first, I thought I was sleeping on the couch, but she led me into a bedroom.

Morgan clicked on the light. “You can crash here. Sorry about the mess.”

I stepped over an avalanche of clothes heaped on the floor. On the dresser leaned a castle made of Legos and a baseball cap that said “StarStyled” with a dancer leaping over the word. A mobile threw geometric shadows across the room, making me feel as if I’d sunk underwater.

Looking around Morgan’s bedroom didn’t lend any clues to what she was really like. In fact, I didn’t know this girl any more than she knew me.

She yanked back the bedspread, which was decorated with twirling ballerinas.

“You’re really into dance, huh?” I said.

“Isn’t every little girl?”

“You’re not little anymore.”

She frowned. “I was supposed to go to this big deal school for ballet. Obviously, I didn’t get in.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Look at me.”

“I am looking.”

In fact, I was looking all the time.

Morgan shook her head. “You’re not getting it. Even when my stepmom put me on a diet … ”

“A diet? How old were you?”

“Like, twelve.”

“Shit. That’s so wrong.”

“I know. But I still didn’t make the weight requirement. In other words, I’m too fat.”

“That’s totally not true.”

“Yeah, well. Tell that to the dance director.”

A pair of tangled headphones toppled on the floor. She scooped it up. “Helps me fall asleep.”

“Me too,” I said. “You ever dream about music? That’s like, the best.”

“Doesn’t happen to me. At least, I don’t think so. I never remember my dreams.”

“How can you not remember them?”

“Maybe I don’t have any,” she said, glancing away.

“Oh, come on. Even my dog has dreams. You see his little feet going … ” I flapped my fingers in front of her face.

Morgan tossed a pillow at me. She noticed the rubber band around my wrist and tugged it, snapping it against my skin. “You look like shit, by the way,” she said. Then she left me there, clutching the pillow in both arms.

I shut the door. At one time, it might’ve had a lock, but now there was just a splintery hole gaping beneath the doorknob. On the back of the door was a bulletin board rippling with pictures and cards:
BFF, best friends forever. 2 Good 2 B 4-Gotten. Stay sweet! Don’t change!

If only it were that easy.

Everybody changed, whether we wanted to or not.

I couldn’t look at this stuff anymore. Just snooping through the cards was enough to drown me in a megadose of guilt. What the hell was I doing? I didn’t want to hurt these girls, but that’s exactly what I was supposed to do. And I was scared shitless about what was going to happen, but I couldn’t decide if I was doing the right thing or not. It was getting harder to tell the difference.

I flipped the light switch and stumbled toward the bed, tripping over things in the dark. I crawled under the covers and gawked at the ceiling, where glow-in-the-dark stars looped and swirled and finally faded away.

8 :
House of Women

The next morning, I woke up and saw a lady standing in the middle of the bedroom, stuffing clothes into a laundry basket. The lady, with her squat legs and frizzy braid, looked nothing like Morgan.

I hunched down under the covers.

“Hi,” I said. What else was I supposed to do?

It was ten o’clock in the morning and she’d already painted herself up: mascara, blush, the whole works. She wore a tank top decorated with rhinestone flamingoes and a pair of sweatpants draped low on the waist.

“I wondered why Morgan was sleeping on the couch. I’m her stepmother, Sheryl,” she said, shaking my hand. Her grip was flimsy and dry, like chopsticks. “You go to Palm Hammock?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And your name?”

“Aaron Foster.”

I guess she was one of those “cool stepmoms” who put up with coed slumber parties.

“From whereabouts?” she asked.

“Homestead. We’ve traveled around a lot.”

“Military?”

“Yeah. My dad was in the Air Force.”

Her face changed. “Is he … um … in active service now? I mean, is he over there?” she asked. “Over there” was what people called the Middle East.

“He’s dead,” I told her.

This was really awkward. I hated the way she was looking at me, the pity on her face. So I did something dumb. I started blabbering.

“He was in Iran, taking pictures. He said it’s different now. They even have a Starbucks. Except it’s called Star Box.”

“Well,” she said. “That’s progress.”

“Is it?”

The silence swelled around us. Finally, she said, “I am not in favor of this war. But I want you to know that I support our troops.”

“My dad wasn’t a soldier,” I explained, but she was already shuffling down the hall.

I rolled off the mattress and found my shirt wadded under the dresser. My jeans reeked like hell, but I couldn’t go walking around in my boxers. In the back pocket, I found my cell. There was a voicemail from my “friend.” Great.

“I received a phone call around two-thirty in the morning,” the cop said. “No message. Just a lot of background noise. Can you verify this?”

He sounded agitated. Not a good sign. I wasn’t supposed to call unless there was a real emergency. Our weekly meetings off-site were our only source of contact.

I called back and made up a lie about leaving the phone in my pocket, how it must’ve gone off by itself. Pretty lame, I know.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he said.

“It won’t,” I said before hanging up.

The Narcotics team wasn’t the only one looking for me. Haylie must’ve sent a million text messages. By now, Mom was probably coming home from her shift at the hospital. The student nurses always got stuck with the worst “rotations.” I didn’t think about it much, but Mom’s version of school was crappier than mine.

I texted Haylie our little secret message: OLA KALA. In Greek, it means, “everything’s okay.” That’s what Dad used to tell us.

Haylie: Are you dead?

Me: Not yet.

Haylie: Liar.

Me: Slept at friend’s house.

Haylie: GIRL friend?

Me: Something like that.

Haylie: !!!!!

Me: Cover for me. Please?

Haylie: OK. But what do I get?

Me: Driving lessons.

Haylie: Deal.

In the sun-drenched kitchen, the smell of pancakes hit me. My stomach tightened. I could see my reflection in every gleaming appliance, from the stainless-steel fridge to the stove, which looked brand-new, as if nobody had ever used it.

Sheryl pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

I plunked myself down at the table. For some reason, I couldn’t stop scratching my ankles. When I peeled back my sock, the skin looked bumpy and swollen.

“Are the mosquitoes biting?” Sheryl asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve got this weird rash.”

She checked it out. “You must be allergic to mangoes.”

“What?”

“The trees in the front yard. I’ve been begging Dave to cut them down. The leaves give me a rash if I touch them. Did you know that mangoes are related to poison ivy?”

She peeked inside the oven, which was crammed with Tupperware. “I was going to make bacon but I can’t find the frying pan,” she said, looking a little flushed. She opened the microwave and thrust a plate in front of me.

“Butter or syrup?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

She laughed.

My mom wasn’t big on anything “instant,” which included pancakes that came ready-made in little plastic pouches. They were rock-cold on one side and scalded on the other, but I grabbed a fork and dug in.

Sheryl sat down across from me. “You live where?”

“Downtown,” I said between mouthfuls.

“That’s a long way to drive.”

“My mom didn’t like the schools in our area.”

She nodded. “Morgan wanted to switch last year. She had such a hard time. Teenage girls can be brutal.”

“Sheryl. Oh, my god,” said Morgan, strolling into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around her head. “Please stop. Now.”

“Fix yourself up,” said her stepmom. “I’m talking to … what did you say your name was?”

“Aaron.”

“Would you two like to explain something to me?” her stepmom asked.

Morgan looked at the floor. “What’s that?”

“The car,” said Sheryl.

“What about the car?” said Morgan, still avoiding her stepmom’s glance.

“It’s scratched, young lady. And guess who’s going to pay for the repair?”

Morgan shrugged. “Dad will fix it when he gets back.”

“This is your responsibility.”

“How do you know it’s my fault?” she said, almost shrieking.

“It was me,” I said.

They both stared.

“I was the one driving. It’s my fault. I’ll pay for it. I promise.”

Sheryl glared at Morgan. “You let this boy drive your father’s car?”

Oops.

“Come here,” her stepmom said. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

I’d heard that one before.

Morgan and her stepmom headed outside. The front door slammed and my glass of orange juice trembled. Behind the door, I caught Sheryl’s voice rising.

“You don’t even know this boy,” she said.

“He’s just a friend,” Morgan shot back.

Ouch. The f-word. God. Is that how she saw me?

“He’s hiding something,” her stepmom hissed. “He said his father was in Iran. Didn’t he mean Iraq?”

My dad was taking pictures, not fighting a war. That was his job—observe from a distance. Why was that so hard to understand? I should’ve made up a lie. Then maybe she’d believe me.

Morgan’s voice cut in. “Give him a break, Sheryl.”

“That boy just tried to sell me a string of lies.”

Could people see through me that easily? I was starting to freak now.

“How long have you known him?” Sheryl went on.

“God. I feel like I’m on trial or something. He goes to my school, okay? We never really talked before. I don’t know why.”

I’m human wallpaper. And I’m not on your social level. That’s why.

“This is your senior year,” Sheryl said. “Not the time to be making bad decisions.”

“Decisions? You mean I actually get a choice? I thought my life was already decided for me. Community college. And, if I’m lucky, a job selling life insurance or whatever.”

“Honey, I know you had your heart set on art school. But I really don’t see how drawing pretty pictures is going to get you anywhere.”

“Yeah. Like dance was a logical career option.”

“You used to love your ballet studio.”

“Actually, I hated it. Don’t you remember? I begged you to take me out of those classes, and you kept making me do it, year after year. Even when I got sick … ”

“Let’s not talk about it. You’re healthy now. That’s all that matters.”

This didn’t sound like the usual school drama. More like family stuff. God. My mom got on my nerves sometimes, but she was the total opposite of Morgan’s freaky stepmother. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

Sheryl came back with Morgan and said, “Let’s get your friend home. Where did you say you lived?”

“I didn’t.”

“Downtown. Isn’t that what you said?”

I didn’t want Morgan to know that I lived in a shitty apartment in Wynwood. It was too embarrassing.

“You can just drop me off at the Metrorail.”

“Actually, I was going to swing by Lincoln Road,” said Sheryl, “so it’s really not a problem, stopping downtown. No trouble at all.” She flashed her teeth at me.

I winced and smiled back. “Can I have another plate first?”

I shouldn’t have wolfed down that second helping. My stomach burned like venom as we barreled down the expressway. I sat up front with Sheryl, who knew the words to every hit on the Top 40 countdown and sang along. Loudly. I rubbed my thumb, like Haylie mentioned, but I couldn’t shake the stabbing behind my eyes.