Where You'll Find Me (3 page)

“You gonna get out?” Misty asks. “Or you can come back to my house if you want. My parents aren’t home.”

As appealing as that option sounds, I need to see if Nate is in the garage or not. Get it over with. “Thanks, but I haven’t even started the Spanish project that’s due tomorrow. I need to do something for it or else I’m going to fail.”

“That’s due tomorrow?” Rosalinda asks. “I thought we still had another week.”

I open the van’s door and hop out. “Five percent off your grade for every day that it’s late,” I call before shutting the side door. As thanks for my reminder, she flips me off through the window. I laugh and return the gesture.

My heart pounds as I walk up the sidewalk to the side door. A thin coating of snow fell while we were in the mall. It’s the icy kind that crunches under my feet with every step. When I get to the door, I pause and shift my shopping bag from my right hand to my left. After silently counting to three, I open the door.

The lights are off, so I flick the switch. The space between the Trans Am and the wall is unoccupied. The tarps and towels are back in their places. Part of me expects him to jump out and scare me, but as I look around, he’s not here. The garage is empty. Though I should be relieved, I feel empty, too.

Before I head inside, something catches my eye. It’s a shopping bag that almost blends in with the tarp it’s sitting on. The handles are tied, the plastic is crumpled, and it can’t be much bigger than the size of my fist. Walking away without checking it out is not an option.

I set my purchases down and pick up this small bag. It weighs almost nothing. The opaque plastic is impossible to see through. The bag’s knotted handles come loose with a few tugs. When I look inside, I gasp. It’s a necklace. The Petoskey stone necklace I saw before our shopping trip was interrupted.

The chain is thin and silver with a small, perfectly circular stone pendant. When I hold it up to the light, both the chain and the stone’s polish shine.

I’m trying to make sense of twenty-seven different feelings when a scrap of paper catches my eye. It’s a receipt, but not from Truly Michigan. It’s from China 1, for an order of chicken and broccoli with fried rice. There’s a grease smudge in one corner. Confused, I flip the receipt over.

Hanley,

Saw you looking at this. Thought it would be beautiful on you.

The note isn’t signed, but it doesn’t need to be. I close my eyes. But when I open them, there’s just one word:

Beautiful.

Chapter Six

Monday passes in its usual, exhausting way. There’s something depressing about the weekend being four full days away. Monday’s major accomplishment: turning in a half-assed Spanish project just good enough to keep my C average going strong.
Muy bueno.

I checked the garage when I left for school and when I got home. Maybe someday I’ll forget about Nate. But not when I can still picture the blue eyes and the crooked smile. Not when my heart beats faster with the rush of doing something wrong that might be right. Not when my garage is empty, and I have to remind myself why that is a good thing. Not today.

Even though Tuesday is one day closer to the weekend, it ends up being worse than Monday because Rosalinda doesn’t come to school. When I text her during first period, she says she’s sick—code for hungover or skipping a test. I suck it up and resist the urge to cut class with her.

Second period biology is painful without Rosalinda. Most days, we survive the class by playing a game. Whenever Mr. Fulcher says “indubitably,” we grab our water bottles and take shots like it’s vodka. Halfway through class, we have to pee so badly that we both get passes and spend the rest of the hour talking in the bathroom. Without Rosalinda, I sit in the classroom and learn about the nitrogen cycle. It hurts my brain. Mr. Fulcher says “indubitably” a record-setting nineteen times during the hour. Too bad.

English with Mr. Whitfield doesn’t go any better. It’s so boring that I fall asleep and earn myself detention.

“Helton,” Mr. Whitfield says as he writes out the detention slip. “Hanley, you’re not related to Heather, are you?”

He studies me from above a pair of reading glasses. Comparing my dark hair to Heather’s dark blond. Her green eyes to my mud brown. The way she sucks up and studies and gets perfect grades to the way I…well…don’t.

I force a smile. “Heather? Nope. Never heard of her.”

Mr. Whitfield tears off the piece of paper and hands it to me. “Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

The rest of class is supposed to be spent prewriting our essay on
Romeo and Juliet
. Instead, I bubble map the torturous ways my parents are going to kill me when they sign the detention slip. My personal favorite? Death by documentary, in which they make me sit on the couch with them and watch documentary after documentary until I literally
die
.

Once English is over, the part of the day I’m dreading most of all without Rosalinda is lunch. The high school cafeteria is like an overstacked lunch tray. One tiny shift in the balance and you’re wearing mashed potatoes, green bean juice, and fruit cocktail for the rest of the day. Not having your best friend is more than enough to knock the tray upside down.

I’m in line for food when someone calls, “Hanley!”

Clinton waves at me from the counter where the ketchup, napkins, and plastic sporks reside. I pay for my burger and fries and head over to him. “Hey.”

As usual, he’s wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He’s carrying his own tray, filled with a burger and what looks to be a triple serving of fries. “Where’s your cohort in crime?”

“Rosalinda? Home sick.”

He shakes his head and gives me a dimple-laden smile as he fills a paper cup with ketchup. “There’s a word for ‘hungover’ I’ve never heard before.”

My eye roll is automatic. “Right?”

He picks up his tray. “You can sit with us if you want.”

He walks away without waiting for me to respond. I should head to my usual table, which will feel empty without Rosalinda’s presence. Instead, I follow Clinton until he stops at a table full of upperclassmen—mostly girls. Surprise, surprise. I set my tray down across from him.

Clinton’s friends are nice enough. I’ve seen most of them around before, both at school and at his parties. The girls laugh and talk and compliment me on my vintage shirt. The guy sitting next to me—J something…John? Justin?—mooches my overcooked fries.

When the bell rings, I say good-bye to John/Justin and a few of the girls. Now the upperclassmen will return to their world, and I’ll return to mine. Two more classes. I can get through this. I’m almost out of the cafeteria when Clinton calls my name again.

Stopping in the middle of the postlunch rush is a bad idea. I almost get knocked over by a tall kid from my math class. Stepping out of Tall Kid’s way, I ask, “Yeah?”

“Tell Rosalinda I missed her.”

It’s a weird request. Since when does Clinton miss Rosalinda? Really, since when does Clinton notice that Rosalinda’s not at school or notice anything besides whatever girl is hanging on his arm that day? But I say, “Okay.”

He smiles, and then he’s gone.

…

As usual, I’m the first one home. When I walk through the garage, my eyes are drawn toward the space between the Trans Am and the wall. I wonder how long it will be before I
don’t
look. Probably a while.

I make myself a cup of hot chocolate and head up to my room. On my bed, I weigh myself down with blankets before wrapping my hands around the mug. I turn on one of those reality shows that’s so stupid I’m confident my IQ drops a few points by the end of the episode, but at least it makes me laugh. Soon, the mug is empty, and I’m falling asleep.

When I open my eyes, it’s dark outside, and the reality show has been replaced by a game show with bright lights and a loud audience. Before I can fall back to sleep for an hour or two, there’s a knock on the door.

“Hanley?” Heather calls.

I groan. “What?”

She sticks her head into the room. She’s wearing a National Honor’s Society sweatshirt that makes me want to gag. To be a nerd is one thing. To broadcast it to the world is something else entirely. “Nice shirt.”

She flips me off. “Mom and Dad are both working late. I’m ordering pizza.”

“No mushrooms.”

“Fine.” But the tone of her voice suggests she’s going to order extra mushrooms. I’ll have to pick them off. She starts to close my door, then stops. “Did you hear we don’t have school tomorrow?”

I sit up. “What?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “The temperature isn’t supposed to get above zero. They’re worried about the buses not starting or kids freezing to death or something.”

She closes the door, and I fumble through blankets until I find the remote. Sure enough, the local news has a list of school closings scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

Above the list, the top story is the cold weather. Reporters interview everyone from meteorologists to school officials to employees at the power company. One reporter is talking to a homeless shelter volunteer when Macomb County schools begin scrolling across the screen. Thomas Edison High is closed.

Normally, I would be ecstatic. Snow days are better than weekend birthdays and alcohol-infused whipped cream. But right now I can’t be ecstatic because I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen where they’re talking about the number of homeless people in the metro-Detroit area and the dangers they’ll face tonight. All I can think about is Nate. If he’ll be warm. If he will have someplace to go, even though I kicked him out of our garage. If he might be one of the homeless who are injured or killed, and it would be my fault.

I shove the blankets off my lap and grab my jacket. This might be a stupid move, but I have to do something.

Downstairs, Heather is sitting on the couch, textbook and binder spread out on her lap. I resist the urge to give her a hard time for doing homework when we just found out
school is cancelled
. Brushing the bangs away from my face, I stand in front of her and say, “I need a ride to the mall.”

Heather laughs without looking up from her book. “No way. It’s freezing. I’m not going back out there.”

It hurts me to get out the next word. “Please. It’ll take five minutes.”

“No. The pizza will be here soon.” She continues working, as if this conversation isn’t even happening.

I pull my fingers through my hair and tug at the roots. “Fine. I’ll walk.”

It only takes a second to unearth my snow boots that barely fit anymore. Once they’re on, I zip my fleece as high as it will go.

“Hanley,” Heather calls, “don’t be ridiculous. It’s freezing out there. You’re not going to walk.” She sounds just like Mom.

“It’s either walk or drive without a license, so I’m walking.” With a pocket-patting check for my keys and phone, I head toward the door.

“Wait,” Heather says. She appears in the hall behind me. “Is it really that important?” There’s an edge of exasperation to her voice.

“Yeah.” I look her in the eye and hope she can see how desperate I am. “It is.”

She sighs. “Fine. But you better be in and out in five minutes. Tops.”

Relief washes over me. I thank Heather and take her keys while she puts on her coat and shoes. Who knows if Nate will be at the mall, but at least I’ll know I tried.

I climb in the passenger seat and start the engine. Crappy Heather music is playing, so I turn the radio off. The car smells like coconut sun tan lotion. There’s not a stray crumb, coin, receipt, or straw wrapper in sight. My car won’t be like this. It will be lived in. Comfortable. Messy.

“You owe me,” Heather says as she climbs into the driver’s seat, shivering.

While Heather drives, I stare out the window. We pass familiar houses, restaurants, and shops. When we approach McKinney Drive, I have to look away. Too many memories of a best friend who’s not there anymore. “There are a lot of stars tonight,” I say, unable to keep my voice from cracking. I slide my ring off my thumb and back on again. It’s always too big when my hands are this cold.

“That’s why it’s going to be so cold.”

I glance over at Heather, who’s still shivering. “What?”

She slows for a red light. “It’s clear tonight. There aren’t any clouds to act like a blanket and keep heat near the Earth’s surface. That’s why it’s so cold.”

The light turns green, and the car starts moving again. “I didn’t know that.” When I look up through the window, the stars don’t seem as pretty as they did a few minutes ago. We ride in silence the rest of the way. The heat is on full blast, but it doesn’t take the edge off the chill.

“Five minutes,” she reminds me when we pull up in front of the food court.

“Five minutes.” I jump out of the car and run to the entrance. The automatic sliding doors open far too slowly. Inside, the blast of warmth hits me like a wall. I run right past the China 1 employee, ignoring his free sample. There’s a first time for everything.

My feet lead me in one direction: toward the Truly Michigan store with the Petoskey stone jewelry and the bench where Nate sat before. If I’m going to find him, it’s going to be there.

I weave through the crowd of people, which is surprisingly large for a freezing cold Tuesday night. At one point, I run into a lady with big hair and big bags who’s talking on her cell phone and not looking where she’s going.

As I make the final turn, my heart pounds, though I can’t tell if it’s from nerves or running or both. Nate’s bench is still hidden behind the kiosk and fake trees. I pick up the pace, narrowly avoiding an elderly man pushing a woman in a wheelchair.

“Slow down,” the man calls.

“Sorry,” I say over my shoulder. When I turn around, Nate’s bench is right in front of me.

Empty. I stand in front of it, breathing hard as my stomach sinks. I spin in a slow circle, searching for a sign that he’s been here. But there’s nothing.

“Looking for someone?” a voice asks. It’s the guy working at the miracle face lotion kiosk next to the bench. His whole persona screams
fabulous
, from the blond tips in his hair, to skin that’s way too tan for winter, to his shiny black shoes. His blue contact-covered eyes are kind, so I nod.

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“What do they look like? Maybe I can help.”

“He’s tall,” I say, indicating several inches above my head. “Short hair. Buzzed. Wearing a blue and gray North Face jacket and jeans.”

The kiosk employee nods. “Carries a backpack, right?”

Relief washes over me. “Yeah. Have you seen him?”

The guy leans against the kiosk, examining the fingernails on his left hand. Though the nails aren’t polished, their shine and precision indicate a recent manicure. “He hangs out here a lot. I’m afraid you missed him, though. He left ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

My heart sinks again. So close. “Do you know where he went?”

The guy gives me a kind smile. “Sorry. I didn’t notice.”

“Okay.” But I can’t just walk away. “If you see him tonight, could you give him a message?”

“Sure, sugar. What’s the message?”

“Tell him…” It’s only then that I realize I didn’t know what I was going to say if I did find Nate. I was just focused on making sure he was going to be okay. “Tell him Hanley was looking for him.”

The guy nods slowly. “Hanley. Pretty name. I won’t forget that one.”

“Thank you.”

“Now,” he says, picking up one of the sample containers lined up in neat rows, “you’re far too young for this, but the second you start seeing crow’s feet or laugh lines, you come see me, okay? This stuff can help keep your skin beautiful.”

Without warning, he reaches out and rubs some of the lotion into the skin on the back of my hand. The lotion is creamy and absorbs easily. It smells like cucumber with a hint of chamomile. “Okay,” I say, feeling my soft skin. “I will.”

I smile and walk away, feeling a tiny bit better about my failed attempt. At least Nate might get the message. He can do whatever he wants with it, but some of my guilt will be gone.

“Hey, Hanley,” the kiosk employee calls from behind me when I’m only a couple of stores away. I turn, but he is no longer looking at me. He’s standing at the glass barrier overlooking the mall’s lower level. “Want to give him the message yourself?”