And I got to eavesdrop on some of Julian’s classmates.
“Bojo’s father is the minister at this new-age ministry in Glenville,” she says. “He invited me to an ice cream social Saturday night. I know what you’re thinking. It sounds totally blue-haired-ladies-in-a-church-basement-playing-bingo-and-eating-sour-cream-and-onion-dip, right? But Bojo promises it’ll be epic.”
“And what about Hannah Hennelworth’s ‘It’s-Saturday-let’s-party’ party, aka Operation Make Jarrod Koutsalakis Jealous?”
Tori lets out a sigh. “And how do you suppose I make him jealous if he’s already taking someone else?”
As if the operation was my idea.
“Am I supposed to dress like a ho and flirt with every guy in his path?” she continues.
“Wasn’t that the plan?”
“You really think I’m that shallow?”
I look at my phone, wondering if I’m on some hidden camera show, or if she’s taping this conversation as a joke.
“Whatever, it doesn’t matter.” She lets out another sigh. “I no longer have time for cat-and-mouse games. What I need is a man who’ll help me grow into a better person.”
“Like Bojo.”
“You totally get me, don’t you?” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Not many people get me, you know.”
“Go figure.” I stuff my mouth with more pie.
Tuesday, October 20
Night
I ran from juvie without ever looking back, cutting through the woods behind the facility, swiping branches and brush from in front of my eyes.
A road was coming up. I could hear the swish of cars.
I tripped over a low branch, falling on my face. Blood ran from my nose. A stick stabbed into my neck.
Swish. Swish. Two cars whisked by. I got up, my back aching, and I continued to move forward, stopping just a few yards from the road. All was quiet. I crept a little closer. Three more cars went by before there was an empty road.
I raced across, spotting a strip mall in the distance. Half of it looked abandoned. The other half consisted of a drugstore, a liquor store, and a twenty-four-hour market. There were two cars in the parking lot. It didn’t appear that anyone was in them.
The facility’s siren screeched. I could feel it in my bones. Standing in open view, I didn’t know what to do. Cross the street again? Go back into the woods? I looked at the strip of stores and then at the parked cars. Did I still remember how to hot-wire? But both cars looked too new for hot-wiring.
Beyond the strip was another road. No houses. Not much traffic.
The door of the liquor store swung open. I hurried behind the strip before the person saw me, spotting a Dumpster.
I climbed inside without looking down, landing on a pile of bags—wet, plastic, shit-smelling, stomach-turning. Something stung my face. I touched the spot. Blood came away on my hand.
Broken glass. An old wine bottle.
Police sirens blared. I moved into the corner, burying myself with crap—boxes and bags and old, half-eaten food—flashing back to the day we buried Steven. In the cemetery, Mom was sitting in a chair. There weren’t many people. My parents liked to keep things private—just a couple of cousins I’d never met and an aunt who lived 2,000 miles away.
Dad didn’t cry. He stood off to the side, watching as the casket was lowered into the ground. He hadn’t spoken in days except to say that since Steven could no longer speak, we shouldn’t either.
I wanted to cry. But I wanted to be like Dad even more, and so I sucked in my tears and bit my shaking lip, watching as the priest sprinkled holy water.
“He’s buried now,” Mom said later. “All gone.”
I remember thinking that I liked to bury things too: string beans in my mashed potatoes, candy wrappers between the sofa cushions. Though those things never really went away.
And neither did Steven.
There are more than fifty photos loaded up on my computer screen, old photos that I worked so hard to get, that capture vivid colors and/or play with things like natural and artificial light or macro-filters for magnification. They’re all so perfectly staged: the product of countless hours spent planning how I’d wanted things to look.
But what do they really say? They don’t show anything real. They only give the illusion of reality, which somehow feels dishonest.
I start to dump them into a folder labeled “Make Believe,” just as the phone rings. It’s Max.
“Hey,” I answer.
“What are you up to?”
“Trying to get inspired, but failing miserably.”
“Sounds like someone could use a little caffeinated motivation. Can I bring you a coffee from Java, the Hut?”
I look at the clock. It’s just after seven. Should I let him?
“It’s not that hard of a question,” he says.
I wish that it weren’t.
“Or is it?” he asks.
“How about a rain check?”
“Sure. Consider me your caffeine source.”
“I’ll remember that.” I smile, really wishing this weren’t so hard. I hate that I’m disappointing him. But I hate, even more, that we can’t be friends rather than awkward acquaintances.
I hang up and take a snapshot of myself: I’m the picture of confusion. But still, as confused as I am, I’m suddenly feeling inspired. I pocket my tape recorder, run downstairs to grab the keys to Dad’s old clunker (or, as he likes to call it, his priceless antique Scout), and pull out of the driveway.
The roads are quiet tonight, but Dad’s antique is not. It rumbles every time I step on the accelerator and stalls when I hit the break.
I reach the Pissy Ragdoll in twenty-five minutes flat. Misty, aka Soccer Girl, is still here, cleaning one of the coffee machines.
My pulse quickens as I approach the front counter. Her back is to me as she continues to clean: wipe, wipe, spray, repeat. I push RECORD on the tape player and clear my throat.
“Can I help you?” She tosses her rag into the sink.
I look up at the menu, wondering if I should order something.
She turns to face me. “Hey, do I know you?”
“I was in here earlier,” I say, glancing back at the poster of Julian on the wall. “And I heard you talking about Julian Roman.”
Her expression shifts from neutral to annoyed in under a blink. “And?”
“And I’m a student at the university. We have a class called Crime and Caseload, where we delve into local and semi-local cases to pick them apart. My group is researching Julian’s case.”
An older guy—the manager maybe—passes behind her to fiddle with the espresso machine. Misty grabs another rag and pretends to wipe the counter. Meanwhile, the guy pours himself a fresh cup of coffee and moves out of eyeshot.
“To be honest, I don’t really know Julian that well,” she tells me.
“Okay, but do you think I could ask you a couple of questions anyway? I really need to do well on this project. I bombed the first assignment, and he gives us credit for effort.”
She studies my face before peering over at some guy stocking the shelves. “Tag, can you cover for me?”
Tag nods, and Misty leads us to a table by the window. We take a seat, opposite each other.
“His case doesn’t exactly look too good, does it?” she says.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, the fact that he got arrested is a big tip-off. Word also has it that he hated his dad. Plus, his alibi didn’t check out. And it seems there was so much he lied about.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the lawn-mowing gig, for starters. He said he mowed the neighbors’ lawn in the morning, but the owner of the house swears it was more like three in the afternoon, when Julian was supposed to be at the beach. And speaking of the beach…he claims he was there all day, but the cameras didn’t catch him, even though it seems they caught everybody else. Then he said he came straight home to find the crime scene, but he wasn
’t wearing beach clothes. He was still dressed from mowing the lawn.”
“I think I read somewhere that he didn’t go to the beach to sit out or swim. It was May anyway—probably too cool for either. I heard he liked to sit, write, and read,” I say.
“Still, wouldn’t you change after mowing a lawn? Especially if you planned on spending the entire day at the beach?”
Honestly, I don’t know.
“And then I heard that Julian went out somewhere after coming home from the beach…but I’m not sure if that was before or after his parents were found dead. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It’s all so confusing.”
She’s right. It is.
“What was your name, by the way?” she asks.
“Day,” I say, but just as soon as I say it, I wish I could take it back.
“Day? Weird.” She laughs. “Not that ‘Misty’ is totally normal. Anyway, the other sticky piece in all this is that the cameras did place Julian at the beach on Sunday, the day after his parents both died, and if that’s true, it’s seriously messed up. I mean, who goes to the beach after that?”
“You don’t think his mom could’ve done it?”
“Sure I do. I mean, that’s the logical choice. Even though I didn’t know him well, I’ve been going to school with Julian since kindergarten, and it seems that things in that family have gone from bad to worse. Mrs. Roman went from showing up at pickup and walking Julian home from school to hiding in her parked car and then to not showing up at all.”
“Did you know Julian’s brother?”
Her eyes widen with surprise. “Julian Roman had a brother?”
“Forget it.” I wipe the words away by swatting through the air. “Why do you think Mrs. Roman got progressively worse over the years?”
Misty shrugs again. “People say that she was hard-core depressed—like in-need-of-a-warning-label depressed: Keep all sharp objects away.”
“Is it true that she was seeing someone else?”
“I heard that too. And I think she probably was—the guy who owns the horse ranch in Brimsfield—but it had to have ended years ago. I mean, seriously?” She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “You don’t even understand: The woman was a walking zombie. I bumped into her once at the supermarket; it was like the Night of the Living Dead buys a loaf of bread and a pound of cheese. I can’t even imagine what she was like at home.”
“Did anyone ever question the guy from the horse ranch?”
“What, am I FBI?”
“Misty?” Tag says, nodding toward the clock.
“I have to go. I still have a shitload to do before closing time.” She stands from the table.
“One last question: Do you know how I can reach Ariana, the girl from the beach? Or that guy with the faux-hawk?”
“Barry,” she says, correcting me. “You should definitely talk to him. He was, like, Julian’s one and only. I think he’d love the idea of a college doing research on Julian’s case.”
“Misty?” the manager calls.
Misty takes out her phone. “What’s your number? I’ll share Ariana’s contact info with you—she won’t care. But Barry? I can see him getting all moody about it unless it’s on his terms, you know. I could have him text you.”
“Great.” I rattle off my number.
“Good luck with your assignment.”
“Thank you. So much.” I stand from the table.
“And, hey, if you learn anything scandalous, you know where to find me.” She turns away just as my cell phone vibrates with her text.
I round the corner of my street. My house is still dark. No one’s home. I pull into the driveway, pressing the trigger that opens the garage, noticing a car parked in front of my house. Not either of my parents’.
A Jeep. Olive green. The light clicks on inside it, just as the door swings open.
Max steps out. And I don’t know what it is. The deserted house? The empty sensation I feel after dipping deeper into Julian’s world? Or just seeing Max’s familiar face (a reminder of my own world)? But I couldn’t be happier to find him here.
I lock the Scout away in the garage and begin walking toward him.
“Cool wheels.”
“My dad’s. He’d die if he knew I took it out.”
“Don’t tell me you went on an emergency coffee run without me.”
My heart instantly clenches. “Were you following me?”
“Following you? No. That would make me a creep.” He hands me an iced coffee; it’s the perfect shade of mocha-brown. “I thought I’d surprise you. That’s a medium brew, by the way, with two splashes of almond milk and a packet and a half of sugar.”
“You remembered,” I say, flashing back to last spring, when he took my order on a coffee run during finals week. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He smiles.
I take a sip, trying to hold it all together—the details of Julian’s case, the homework I’ve yet to finish, this paranoia I’m experiencing.
“Is everything okay?”
I can feel the emotion on my face, spreading like a fever across my cheeks. “Do you want to sit for a minute?”
“Definitely.”
We take a seat on the front steps. The chilly autumn air blows against my skin, making me shiver—and the icy coffee isn’t helping. “Have you ever felt as though you’re in way over your head?” I ask him.
“Pretty much on a daily basis,” he jokes. “Are we talking about the PB&J club?”
“A PB&J-club type of situation—well, kind of. In the same stratosphere, maybe.”
“That sounds pretty clear.” He smirks.
I know. It doesn’t. “Let’s just say that I’m trying to solve the situation single-handedly, and I’m feeling completely overwhelmed.”
“Why? I’m happy to help.” He bumps his shoulder against mine, causing the ice in my cup to rustle.
“I know.”
“Then what?”
I stare downward, at my shoes. My fingertips are turning numb. “I really want to help this person, and part of me thought I could, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Wait, you’re not talking about that case again, are you? The guy from juvie?”
I press my eyes shut, feeling my insides cringe.
“Holy crap, you are.”
“I just thought that I could help him.”
“Help him what? You haven’t talked to the guy, have you? Do you know where he is?”
“No,” I lie. “It’s just…we’re talking about someone’s entire future here. I wanted to make sure that his arrest was warranted, because from everything I’ve read, it seems he’s being used as a scapegoat.”
“Wow.”
“Wow, I’m totally crazy?”
“Wow, you’re pretty incredible.”
I shake my head, holding back tears. “I’m not. Really. I actually feel like I’m failing him.”
“Even though you don’t even know the guy?”
I hold in a breath, wondering how well I do know Julian.
“Well, honestly?” he continues. “If I were in that sort of dire situation, with my future depending on it, you’d be the person I’d want in my corner.”
“For real?” I look up from my shoes.
“No doubt.”
“You’re really sweet, you know that?” I say, noticing once again how blue his eyes are—the color of sea glass.
“I’m not trying to be sweet. Ever since I’ve known you—”
“Since kindergarten,” I remind him.
“Right, since kindergarten…you’ve always stood behind whatever you felt passionate about. Remember, in second grade, when Ms. Meany wanted us to collect caterpillars so that we could research their life cycles? You wrote a letter of complaint to PETA. None of us even knew what PETA was. Then, in sixth grade, you stood before the school committee asking if you could help raise money for healthier food initiatives, including educating the nutritional staff on the harmful effects of food additives, pesticides
, and TMOs.”
“GMOs,” I correct him.
“No one knew what you were talking about.”
“And so they did nothing, including Ms. Meany, who ended up with five sacrificial caterpillars because, let’s face it, re-creating the natural conditions of a monarch takes a whole lot more than branches, grass, and an overhead light.”
“See that?”
“What?” I sigh, feeling more defeated by the moment.
“You fight for what you think is right.”
Correction: I’ve fought for what I thought would make my parents proud. “And you can see how far my fighting has gotten me.”
“Probably a lot further than you think. Who knows what kind of ripple effect you’ve caused—all the people who’ve watched, and listened, and admired you over the years. Like me.”
“Well, thanks,” I say, thinking how everything he’s saying…it’s sort of how I’ve always felt about my parents, but never about myself.
“If there’s anything I can do—with this situation or anything else—to help you, remember, I’m always here.” He flashes me a shy smile.
I smile back, wishing I could be the person he thinks I am: the superheroic woman I’ve always aspired to be.
What would that feel like?
Even for just a moment?
He looks back up, and I venture to touch his hand.
“Day?” His face furrows in confusion.
I lean in closer and kiss his questions away. His fingers tangle up with mine as he pulls me toward him. I can sense how into the moment he is—much more of a kiss than I anticipated.
And still I don’t feel superheroic at all.
I pull away, and our lips make an unpleasant sucking sound. “I’m really sorry,” I tell him.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, running his hand along my forearm. His touch fills me with guilt, because I know he doesn’t get it. And because I know that’s my fault.
“I should probably go inside,” I say, hating the sound of my voice. “I still have a bunch of homework.”
His eyes remain locked on mine, probably trying to figure me out. Sandra Day Connor: the Queen of Mixed Messages. Finally, when he sees I really mean it, he backs away slightly, letting go of my forearm. “Sure.” He tries to smile, but I can see the disappointment on his face, wriggled across his lips.
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