Reunion (12 page)

There was only one thing I didn't tell her, and that was about Jesse. For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to mention him. Maybe because of what the psychic had said. Maybe because I was afraid Madame Zara was right, that I really was this giant loser who was only going to fall in love with one person my entire life, and that person was a guy who:

(a) did not love me back, and

(b) wasn't exactly someone I could introduce to my mother, since he wasn't even alive.

Or maybe it was simply because…well, maybe because Jesse was a secret I wanted to hug to myself, like some stupid girl with a crush on Carson Daly, or somebody. Maybe someday I'd take to standing underneath my bedroom window with a big sign that says
Jesse, will you go to prom with me?
like all those girls who stand around outside the MTV studios, though I sincerely hoped someone would shoot me or something before it came to that.

When I was through, Gina sighed, and said, “Well, it just goes to show. The cute ones always do end up being psychotic murderers.”

She meant Michael.

“Yeah,” I said. “But he's not even that cute. Except with his clothes off.”

“You know what I mean.” Gina shook her head. “What are you going to do if he doesn't confess to Father Dominic?”

“I don't know.” This was something that had contributed to my insomnia of the night before. “I guess we'll just have to get some proof.”

“Oh, yeah? Where you gonna find that? The evidence store?” Gina yawned, looked at her watch, and then hopped off the window sill. “Two minutes until lunch,” she said. “What do you think it will be today? Corn dogs again?”

“It always is,” I said. The Mission Academy was not exactly known for the culinary excellence of its cafeteria. That was because it didn't have one. We ate lunch outside, out of these vendor wagons. It was bizarre, even to a couple of chicks from Brooklyn who had seen it all…as was illustrated by Gina's total lack of surprise about everything that I'd just told her.

“What I want to know,” she said as we made our way out of the girls' room and into the soon-to-be-flooded-with-humanity breezeway, “is why you never said anything about any of this stuff before. You know, the mediator stuff. It wasn't as if I didn't know.”

You
don't
know
, I thought. Not the worst part, anyway.

“I was afraid you'd tell your mother,” was what I said out loud. “And that she'd tell my mother. And that my mother would stick me in the loony bin. For my own good, of course.”

“Of course,” Gina said. She blinked down at me. “You are an idiot. You know that, don't you? I never would have told my mother. I never tell my mother anything, if I can avoid it. And I certainly wouldn't ever have told her—or anybody else, for that matter—about the mediator thing.”

I shrugged uncomfortably. “I know,” I said. “I guess…well, back then I was pretty uptight about everything. I guess I've loosened up some since then.”

“They say California does that to people,” Gina observed.

And then the Mission clock struck twelve. All of the classroom doors around us were flung open, and a flood of people started streaming toward us.

It only took about thirty seconds for Michael to find and then glom on to me.

“Hey,” he said, not looking at all like somebody who had just confessed to a quadruple murder. “I've been looking for you. What are you doing
after school today?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, before Gina could open her mouth.

“Well, the insurance company finally came through with a rental for me,” Michael said, “and I was thinking, you know, if you wanted to go back to the beach, or something…”

Back to the beach? Did this guy have amnesia, or what? You'd think after what had happened to him the last time he'd gone to the beach, it'd be the one place he
wouldn't
want to go.

Still, though he didn't know it, he'd be perfectly safe there. This was on account of Jesse. He was keeping an eye on the Angels while Father Dom and I tried our hand at bringing their alleged killer to justice.

It was as I was mulling over a reply to this offer that I caught a glimpse of Father Dominic as he came toward us down the breezeway. Right before he was pulled into the teachers' lounge by an enthusiastically gesticulating Mr. Walden, he shook his head. Michael was standing with his back to him, so he didn't see. But Father Dom's message to me was clear:

Michael hadn't confessed.

Which meant only one thing: it was time to bring in the professionals.

Me.

“Sure,” I said, looking from Father Dom back to Michael. “Maybe you can help me with my geometry homework. I don't think I'm ever going to get the hang of this stupid Pythagorean theorem. I swear I'm going to flunk out after that last quiz.”

“The Pythagorean theorem isn't hard,” Michael said, looking amused by my frustration. “The sum of the squares of the lengths of the sides of a right triangle is equal to the square of the length of the hypotenuse.”

I went, “Huh?” in this helpless way.

“Look,” Michael said. “I aced geometry. Why don't you let me tutor you?”

I looked up at him in what I hoped he would mistake for worshipfulness. “Oh, would you?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Can we start today?” I asked. “After school?” I should get an Oscar. I really should. I had the whole helpless female thing totally down. “At your house?”

Michael only looked a little taken aback. “Um,” he said. “Sure.” Then, when he'd recovered from his surprise, he added, slyly, “My parents won't be home, though. My dad'll be at work, and my mom spends most of her time at the hospital. With my sister. You know. I hope that won't be a problem.”

I did everything but flutter my eyelashes at him. “Oh, no,” I said. “That'll be fine.”

He looked pleased—and yet at the same time a little uncomfortable.

“Um,” he said, as the hordes of people pushed past us. “Look, about lunch. I can't sit with you today. I've got some stuff to do. But I'll meet you here right after last period. Okay?”

I went, “Okay,” in this total imitation of Kelly Prescott at her most school-spirited. It must have worked, since Michael went away looking dazed, but pleased.

That was when Gina grabbed my arm, pulled me into a doorway, and hissed, “What are you, high? You're going to the guy's
house? Alone?
”

I tried to shake her off. “Calm down, G,” I said. Sleepy's nickname for her was kind of catchy, loath as I was to admit anything my stepbrother had come up with might have any sort of merit. “This is what I do.”

“Hang out with possible murderers?” Gina looked skeptical. “I don't think so, Suze. Did you clear this with Father Dominic?”

“G,” I said. “I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You didn't, did you? What are you, freelancing? And don't call me G.”

“Look,” I said, in what I hoped was a soothing tone. “Chances are, Michael won't say a word about it to me. But he's a geek, right? A computer geek. And what do computer geeks do when they're planning something?”

Gina still looked angry. “I don't know,” she said. “And I don't care. I'm telling—”

“They write stuff down,” I said calmly. “On their computer. Right? They keep a journal, or they brag to people in chat rooms, or they pull up schematics of the building they want to blow up, or whatever. So even if I can't get him to admit anything, if I can get some time alone with Michael's computer, I bet I can—”

“G!” Sleepy strolled up to us. “There you are. You doing lunch now?”

Gina's lips were pressed together in annoyance with me, but Sleepy did not appear to notice this. Neither did Dopey, who showed up a second later.

“Hey,” he said breathlessly. “What are you guys just standing here for? Let's go eat.”

Then he noticed me and sneered. “Suze, where's your shadow?”

I said with a sniff, “Michael will be unable to join us for lunch today, having been unavoidably detained.”

“Yeah,” Dopey said, and then he made a rude
remark pertaining to Michael's having been detained by an inability to get certain parts of his body back into his pants. This was apparently an allusion to Michael's lack of coordination and not an intimation that he was more endowed than the average sixteen-year-old male.

I chose to ignore this remark, as did Gina, though I think this was because she hadn't even heard it.

“I sure hope you know what you're doing,” was all she said, and it was clear she was not speaking to either of my stepbrothers, which puzzled them enormously. Why would any girl bother speaking to
me
when she could be speaking to
them
?

“G,” I said with some surprise. “What do you take me for? An amateur?”

“No,” Gina said. “A fool.”

I laughed. I really did think she was just being funny. It wasn't until much later that I realized there wasn't anything amusing about it at all.

Because it turned out Gina was one hundred percent right.

Here's the thing about killers. If you know one, I'm sure you'll agree with me:

They can't help bragging about what they've done.

Seriously. They are totally vain. And that, generally, is their undoing.

Look at it from their point of view: I mean, here they are, and they've gotten away with this terrific crime. You know, something totally ingenious that no one would ever think to pin on them.

And they can't tell anybody. They can't tell a soul.

That's what gets them almost every time. Not telling anyone—not letting anyone in on their
brilliant secret—well, that just about kills them.

Don't get me wrong. They don't want to get caught. They just want somebody to appreciate the brilliance of this thing they've done. Yes, it was a heinous—sometimes even unthinkable—crime. But look.
Look.
They did it
without getting caught.
They fooled the police. They fooled everybody. They
have
to tell somebody. They have to. Otherwise, what's the point?

This is just a personal observation, of course. I have met quite a few killers in my line of work, and this is the one thing they all seem to have in common. Only the ones who kept their mouths shut were the ones who managed to keep from getting caught. Everybody else? Slammer city.

So it seemed to me that Michael—who already believed that I was in love with him—just might decide to brag to me about what he'd done. He'd already started to, a little, when he'd told me how Josh and people like him were just a “waste of space.” It seemed likely that, with a little prompting, I could get him to elaborate…maybe to the tune of a confession that I could then turn around and give to the police.

What's that you're saying? Guilty? Won't I feel guilty for snitching on this guy who had, after all, only been trying to get back at the kids who'd let
his sister hurt herself so badly?

Yeah. Right. Listen, I don't do guilt. In my book, there are two kinds of people. Good ones and bad ones. As far as I was concerned, in this particular case, there wasn't a single good person to be found. Everybody had done something reprehensible, from Lila Meducci crashing that party and getting herself trashed in the process, to the RLS Angels for throwing the drunken free-for-all in the first place. Maybe some of them had committed crimes a little more heinous than the others—Michael's killing four people comes to mind—but frankly, in my mind…they all sucked.

So, in answer to your question, no, I didn't feel guilty about what I was about to do. The way I saw it, the sooner Michael got what was coming to him, the sooner I could get back to what was really important in life: lying on the beach with my best friend, soaking up some rays.

It was as I was in the girls' room just after last period let out, applying eyeliner in the mirror above the sinks—I have found that wringing confessions from potential murderers is easier when I am looking my best—that I got my first indication that the afternoon was not going to go exactly as I'd planned.

The door opened and Kelly Prescott walked in, followed by her shadow, Debbie Mancuso. They were not, apparently, there either to relieve or coif themselves, since all they did was stand there and stare at me in a hostile manner.

I looked at their reflections in the mirror and went, “If this is about funding for a class trip to the wine country, you can forget it. I already spoke to Mr. Walden about it, and he said it was the most ludicrous thing he'd ever heard of. Six Flags, maybe, but not the Napa Valley. Wineries
do
card, you know.”

Kelly's upper lip curled. “This isn't about
that,”
she said in a disgusted tone of voice.

“Yeah,” Debbie said. “This is about your
friend.”

“My friend?” I had extracted a hairbrush from my backpack, and now I ran it through my hair, feigning unconcern. And I wasn't concerned. Not really. I could handle anything Kelly Prescott and Debbie Mancuso dished out. Only I didn't exactly feel like dealing with this, on top of everything else that had happened lately. “You mean Michael Meducci?”

Kelly rolled her eyes. “As if. Why you would ever want to be seen with
that
, I cannot imagine. But we happen to be talking about this Gina person.”

“Yeah,” Debbie said, her eyes narrowed to angry little slits.

Gina? Oh,
Gina.
Gina, who had stolen both Kelly's and Debbie's inamoratos. Suddenly all became clear.

“When is she going back to New York?” Kelly demanded.

“Yeah,” Debbie said. “And where is she sleeping? Your room, right?”

Kelly elbowed her, and Debbie went, “Well, don't act like you don't want to know, Kel.”

Kelly shot her friend an annoyed look, and then asked me, “There hasn't been any…well, bed-hopping, has there?”

Bed-hopping?

“Not to my knowledge,” I said. I thought about messing with them, but the thing was, I really did feel for them. I know if some superhot femme fatale ghost had come along and stolen Jesse from me, I'd have been plenty peeved. Not that Jesse had ever even been mine to begin with.

“No bed-hopping,” I said. “Footsie under the dinner table, maybe, but no bed-hopping that I know of.”

Debbie and Kelly exchanged glances. I could see they were relieved.

“And she's leaving when?” Kelly asked.

When I said “Sunday,” both girls let out a little sigh. Debbie went, “Good.”

Now that she knew she wouldn't have to put up with her much longer, Kelly was willing to be gracious about Gina. “It isn't that we don't like her,” she said.

“Yeah,” Debbie said. “It's just that she's…you know.”

“I know,” I said in what I hoped was a comforting manner.

“It's just because she's new,” Kelly said. Now she was getting defensive. “That's the only reason they like her. Because she's different.”

“Sure,” I said, putting my hairbrush back.

“I mean, so she's from New York?” Kelly was really warming to her subject. “Big deal. I mean, I've been to New York. It wasn't so great. It was really dirty, and there were these disgusting pigeons and bums everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Debbie said. “And you know what I heard? In New York, they don't even have fish tacos.”

I almost felt sorry for Debbie then.

“Well,” I said, shouldering my backpack. “It's been a pleasure. But now I gotta go, ladies.”

I left them there, dipping their pinkies into little
pots of lip gloss and then leaning into the mirror to apply it.

Michael was waiting for me exactly where he'd said he would be. You could tell the eyeliner was doing its job, since he got very flustered and went, “Hi, uh, do you, uh, want me to take your backpack?”

I cooed, “Oh, that would be lovely,” and let him take it. With two backpacks slung over his shoulders, mine and his own, Michael looked a bit odd, but then, he always did—at least with his clothes on—so this was no big surprise. We started down the cool, shady breezeway—empty now that most everybody had left for the day—and then stepped out into the warm yellow sunlight of the parking lot. The sea, just beyond it, winked at us. The sky overhead was cloudless.

“My car's over there,” Michael said, pointing at an emerald green sedan. “Well, not my car, really. But the one the rental agency loaned me. It's not a bad little number, actually. Has some punch to it.”

I smiled at him, and he tripped over a loose piece of concrete. He would have fallen flat on his face if he hadn't saved himself at the last minute. My lipstick, I could see, was performing as well as the eyeliner.

“Let me just, uh, find the keys,” Michael said as
he fumbled around in his pockets.

I told him to take his time. Then I pulled out my DKs and turned my face toward the sun, leaning against the hood of his rental car. How, I wondered, to best bring it up? Maybe I should suggest we stop by the hospital to see his little sister? No, I wanted to get to his house as soon as possible so I could start reading his e-mail. Would I even know how to access his e-mail? Probably not. But I could call CeeCee. She'd know. Could you talk on the phone and access someone's e-mail at the same time? Oh, God, why wouldn't my mom let me get a cell phone? I was practically the only sophomore without one—Dopey excepted, of course.

It was while I was wondering about this that a shadow fell over my face, and suddenly I could no longer feel the warmth of the sun. I opened my eyes, and found myself staring up at Sleepy.

“What,” he demanded in the same somnambulistic manner in which he did everything, “do you think you're doing?”

I could feel my cheeks getting red. And it wasn't because of the sun, either.

“Getting a ride home with Michael,” I said meekly. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Michael, over on the driver's side of the car,
had finally found the keys, and had frozen with them in his hand, the driver's side door open.

“No, you're not,” Sleepy said.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe he was doing this to me. I was so embarrassed, I thought I was going to die.

“Slee—” I started to say, then stopped myself just in time.
“Jake,”
I said, under my breath. “Cut it
out.
”

“No,” Jake said.
“You
cut it out. You remember what Mom said.”

Mom. He'd called my mother
Mom.
What was going on here?

I lowered my sunglasses and looked past Jake. Gina, along with Dopey and Doc, stood on the far side of the parking lot, leaning against the side of the Rambler and staring in my direction.

Gina. She'd told on me. She'd told on me to
Sleepy.
I couldn't believe it.

“Sleep—I mean, Jake,” I said. “I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I can take care of myself—”

“No.” And to my surprise, he wrapped a hand around my arm, and started to pull. He was surprisingly strong, for someone who gave the impression of being so tired all the time. “You're coming home with us. Sorry, man.” This last he
said to Michael. “She's supposed to ride home with me today.”

Michael, however, did not appear to find this apology a satisfactory one. He put down both our backpacks, and, slipping his car keys back into his trouser pocket, took a step toward Sleepy.

“I don't think,” Michael said in a hard voice I'd never heard him use before, “the lady wants to go with you.”

The lady? What lady? Then I realized with a start that Michael meant me.
I
was the lady!

“I don't care what she wants,” Sleepy said. His voice wasn't hard at all. It was simply very matter-of-fact. “She's not getting into a car with you, and that's the end of it.”

“I don't think so.” Michael took another step toward Sleepy, and that's when I saw that both of his hands were curled into fists.

Fists! Michael was going to fight Sleepy! Over me!

This was very exciting. I'd never had two boys get into a fight over me before. The fact that one of the boys was my stepbrother, however, and held about as much romantic appeal for me as Max, the family dog, somewhat dampened my enthusiasm.

And Michael wasn't much of a catch, either,
when you actually thought about it, being a potential murderer, and all.

Oh, why did I have to have such a couple of losers fighting over me? Why couldn't Matt Damon and Ben Affleck fight over me? Now
that
would be truly excellent.

“Look, buddy,” Sleepy said, noticing Michael's fists. “You don't want to mess with me, okay? I'm just going to take my sister here”—he dragged me off the hood of the car—“and go. Got that?”

Sister?
Step
sister!
Step
sister! God, why can't anyone keep it straight?

“Suze,” Michael said. He hadn't taken his eyes off Sleepy. “Just get in the car, okay?”

Well, this, I decided, had gone on long enough. Not only was I completely embarrassed, but I was getting hot, too. That afternoon sun was no joke. Suddenly, I just didn't have any ghostbusting energy left in me.

Plus I guess I didn't want to see anybody get hurt over something so completely lame.

“Look,” I said to Michael. “I better go with him. Some other time, okay?”

Michael finally looked away from Sleepy. His gaze, when it landed on me, was odd. It was like he wasn't even really seeing me.

“Fine,” he said.

Then he got into his car without another word, and started the engine.

God
, I thought.
Be a baby about it, why don't you?

“I'll call you when I get home,” I shouted to Michael, though I doubt he heard me through the rolled-up windows. It would be difficult, I realized, to wring a confession out of him over the phone, but not, I thought, impossible.

Michael's tires squealed on the hot asphalt as he drove away.

“What a freakin' jerk,” Sleepy muttered as he dragged me across the parking lot. Only he didn't say
freakin'.
Or
jerk.
“And you want to go out with this guy?”

I said sullenly, “We're just friends.”

“Yeah,” Sleepy said. “Right.”

“You,” Dopey said to me as Sleepy and I approached the Rambler, “are so busted.”

This was one of his favorite things to say to me. He said it, as a matter of fact, whenever he had the slightest chance.

“Not technically, Brad,” Doc said thoughtfully. “You see, she didn't actually get into the car with him. And that was what she was forbidden to do. Get into a car with Michael Meducci.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Sleepy said, heading for
the driver's seat. “And get in.”

Gina, I noticed, slipped automatically into the front passenger seat. Apparently, she didn't believe that when Sleepy had told us all to shut up, he meant her, too, since she went, “How about we stop somewhere for ice cream on the way home?”