Chapter 13

I told Salk what had happened. At least, I think I told him. My body seemed to be on autopilot while my brain played back snatches of that horrible argument with Deputy Bobby. Salk looked around. He couldn’t find a shell casing. He couldn’t find a bullet. I think he believed me, but all my higher-level functions had come unplugged, and none of it seemed to matter. He called a tow truck. He waited with me.

Mr. Del Real, who owned Swift Lift Towing, told me someone had tampered with the alternator. I thought about how I’d parked right next to the service garage. About how Nate had disappeared in that direction after I’d tried to talk to him the first time. But it wasn’t just Nate who could have done it. Ali Rivas basically had a part-time job disabling machinery. And against my will, I remembered that Jen had told me Damian was good with cars.

As Mr. Del Real was hooking up the Jeep, Salk said, “I think you’re in shock. Let me take you to the medical center.”

I shook my head. “I just want to go home.”

Which was how, about an hour later, I ended up in bed.

A while later, the shadows had changed, deepened, and now the room was dark. I wasn’t sure I’d slept. I didn’t know where I’d been. Someone was knocking at the door.

“Dashiell, dear,” Indira called through the wood. “Would you mind opening the door? We’re all a bit worried about you.”

I thought about ignoring her. But that had never worked with the Last Picks, so I said, “I’m fine. I just need some time alone.”

“Did you hear that?” Millie said. It was like she was standing right next to the bed, by the way. “Did you hear his voice? He’s definitely NOT FINE.”

“I am fine,” I said. “I’m totally fine. I’ll be down for dinner.”

The strained silence on the other side of the door told me I’d made a mistake. I glanced at the clock. It was after nine, which seemed impossible—had I really spent all day in here?

Apparently so, because now my brain told me that my bladder situation was approaching a nuclear meltdown.

“Dash.” This time it was Fox. “Indira made you—well, she made you pretty much everything. There’s a hamburger. There’s a quesadilla. There’s eight-cheese pasta, because remember you told her that four cheeses weren’t enough? And where are we at on the cakes?”

Indira’s answer was muffled.

“We’re up to five,” Fox announced with an overabundance of cheer. “Don’t you want to know what they are?”

Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Is one of them spice cake?”

“Yes, one of them is definitely spice cake.”

“Is one of them peanut butter cheesecake?”

“Uh, sure.”

“What about the apple one that she makes in the skillet?”

“I guess you’ll have to come see,” Fox said.

That part wasn’t quite as appealing.

“Besides,” Fox added, “Millie is going to cry if you don’t let us make sure you’re okay, and you don’t want Millie to cry, do you?”

I did not. I had the feeling that the phrase “gale-force winds” would be involved.

When I opened the door, the three of them were standing right outside my room: Indira’s face was grave; Fox was aiming at cheerful and landing closer to manic; and Millie—

Millie burst into tears as soon as she saw me. “Oh Dash,” she wailed (and one of my ear drums ruptured in the pressure differential), “YOU’RE SO SAD!”

She crashed into me with a hug, her tiny body shaking against me.

It was strangely easier to deal with this than with—well, with everything else. I patted her back. Then I rubbed her back. Then I patted her back some more. I made soothing sounds. I said all sorts of idiotic things like “Don’t cry,” and “Everything’s fine,” and worst of all, “I promise I’m not sad, Millie. Really.”

And as I did, I had nowhere to look but at Keme. He sat on a sideboard, bare feet swinging in the air as he glared at me, his expression set to death-by-incineration.

Finally, Millie calmed down. She hugged me one final time and stepped back, wiping her face.

“Deputy Salkanovic said you might be in shock,” Indira said, but it was more of a question.

And Fox, with a disturbingly keen look in their eyes, added, “And Bobby’s not answering his phone.”

“Dash,” Millie asked, “what happened?”

So, I told them: Nate, and then the Jeep dying, and then Deputy Bobby. As much as I could tell them, I guess. Because there were parts of it—what I hadn’t said, what I’d wanted to say—that I kept buried. Because they didn’t matter. They never had, I realized. It had all been in my head.

Millie started crying again, of course.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems,” Indira said, rubbing Millie’s shoulders. “You had a disagreement, that’s all.”

Fox couldn’t quite meet my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Dash.” And then, in what must have been a last-ditch effort: “But that’s good news about Ali, isn’t it? I mean, she’s on the run, which means she’s hiding from something. And someone tried to kill you again, which is very promising. Maybe next we can—”

I shook my head. “I’m done with that. Deputy Bobby was right: it’s none of my business, and I shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place.”

Fox looked like they wanted to argue about that, but after a moment, they shut their mouth.

“Let’s go downstairs and have something to eat,” Indira said. “We’ll all feel better after we get some food in us.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

Millie let out a sob.

Fox glared at me.

Keme’s feet stilled in the air.

Indira’s eyes were wide, as though I’d slapped her.

I mumbled, “I, uh, suppose I could eat something.” Jerking a thumb toward the room, I said, “Let me wash my hands.”

“You’re not going to lock yourself in your room again, are you?” Fox asked.

Millie sniffled. “Is this one of your sadness baths?”

“No,” I said. “And no. And I don’t even know what a sadness bath is.”

“We’ll see you downstairs,” Indira said, and mercifully, she herded the others toward the stairs.

I peed. I washed my hands. I considered the creature from the Black Lagoon who had appeared in my mirror. I honestly hadn’t known, until right now, that eyes could come in that shade of red.

For a moment, the pain threatened to overwhelm me: how terribly everything had gone with Bobby; how much I’d hurt him, because I’d been selfish, because I’d let my own feelings take control; the fact that, no matter what happened now, our friendship wouldn’t be the same. He’d move. And maybe, for a while, we’d keep trying. But the gulf—physical and emotional—would be too great. I didn’t know how to deal with that much pain—didn’t want to think about what it meant, that it could hurt so much. So, I stuffed it all down inside me somewhere, and I let myself out of the bathroom.

The blur of movement came so fast that I didn’t have time to respond. The blow to my head rocked me back, and I stumbled into the doorjamb. I stared at Keme in disbelief. He hadn’t hit me hard, not exactly, but he hadn’t been roughhousing either. His dark hair hung loose, and combined with the glint in his eyes, it made him look feral. He held my gaze for a moment, and then he pointed toward the front of the house.

“What the heck—” I began.

Before I could finish, Keme kicked me in the shin. Even though he was barefoot, it hurt, and I hopped as I massaged my leg. “Ow! What’s wrong with you?”

He stabbed his finger at the front of the house again.

“Fine, fine, I’m going. But you don’t have to be a jerk—”

I didn’t get to finish the sentence; Keme tried to cuff me again. This time, my reactions were faster, and I managed to avoid the blow.

He was still glaring at me. And, I realized, he was about to cry. Again, he pointed to the front of the house.

“I don’t know what that means—”

“Go talk to him, you donkey!”

I stared at Keme.

Keme stared back. His chest was heaving, and he dashed at his eyes. His voice was rocky as he said, “God, why do you always have to be such an idiot?”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. In all fairness to myself, I’d never heard Keme talk before. (And, honestly, it was a great question.) All I could think about was his voice. It wasn’t an adult’s voice, not yet. But it was pleasantly masculine, with a little gravel in it that was going to drive the girls (or boys, or whoever) crazy.

“You’re talking to me,” I said.

“This is what I mean: it’s like you’ve got sand in your head. Did you hear me? Go talk to Bobby. Right now.”

“You’ve never talked to me.”

“Dash!”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m still processing. Wait, why are you talking to me now?”

“Because, dingus, this is the first time I’ve had to fix things. Go. Talk. To. Bobby.”

“Uh, no?”

He tried to kick me again.

“Knock it off,” I said. “Bobby doesn’t want to talk to me. He made that perfectly clear today. He doesn’t want me around. He doesn’t want me to be involved in his life. He doesn’t want my friendship.”

“Did he say that?”

The question felt like a trap. Finally, I said, “No.” Then I held up a finger and added, “It’s complicated for adults. I know you don’t understand, but I promise, I already tried talking to Bobby, and he made it clear that he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Keme gave me a look, and it was less than flattering. “God, this is what I tell Millie all the time: you really are as stupid as you look.”

“Hey—”

“Why do you even wear those dumb glasses if you’re not going to be the useful kind of nerd?”

“Okay, rewind. In the first place, these glasses are actually hip right now, and I am the useful kind of nerd because I still know all the secret passages in GoldenEye —”

“Go talk to Bobby!”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me. I tried, and he shut me down. Why would I put myself through that again—”

“Because not everybody knows how to talk about their feelings!” The shout hung in the air. Keme looked away from me and pushed his hair back unsteadily. In a softer voice, he said, “You live your whole life in words, Dash. And that’s great. But not everybody’s like that.”

I tried to find an answer for that. More words, I thought, and a part of me wanted to laugh. Just a teensy-weensy bit of hysterics. Hadn’t Deputy Bobby tried to tell me the same thing? He’d told me about his dad. He’d told me about his mom. He’d told me about what happened when he tried to talk to West.

Keme’s gaze had come back to me, uncertainty written in the lines around his eyes as he tried to read me.

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” I told him.

He scowled, but only for an instant. Then a smile slanted across his face, and he made a very, very, very rude gesture.