“Don’t laugh at my outfit,” she says, referring to her perfectly pressed chino pants, her powder blue crewneck sweater, and her tan leather loafers. Kimmie’s hair, as well, is much tamer than usual, one side held back with a coordinating blue barrette. “It’s sort of a long story, and I really don’t feel like getting into it.”
“And how are you doing?” I ask Wes, noting his pink-striped shirt and leather clogs—no doubt the ammo that set his dad off.
“In some way I almost feel bad for my dad.” He shrugs. “I’m his worst nightmare come true.”
“You’re hardly a nightmare,” I counter. “Your dad’s an ass for not seeing what an amazing person you are.”
“Well, then, I’m an amazing person with a friend who’s on the road to getting herself killed.” He lowers his glasses to glare at me over the rims.
“What are you talking about?” I ask him.
“Wes and I got talking about all this Adam stuff,” Kimmie explains for him. “And maybe getting involved isn’t such a good idea. I mean, haven’t you already been through enough?”
“And what if Ben had shared that same philosophy?” I ask them. “What if last September he’d just decided to look the other way when all of that stuff was happening with Matt? I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something bad happened to Adam because I did nothing to try and stop it.”
“Yes, but you don’t even know if Adam’s telling you the truth,” she says.
“What does Ben say about all this?” Wes asks.
“Because you know it’s only a matter of time before he tries convincing you to stop helping Adam,” Kimmie says, before I can answer. “And you can’t really blame the guy. He isn’t going to want you putting yourself in danger again.”
“Nor is he going to want you spending all your free time with Adam,” Wes adds. “And that’s what you’re going to have to do, you know, if you really want to figure this all out.”
“Don’t you think I should figure it out?” I ask. “I mean, there’s a reason this is happening to me—that I’ve been given this insight. Shouldn’t I use it?”
“Not if it means getting yourself killed,” Wes says.
I shake my head, knowing that I haven’t even told them the worst of it yet. And so I spend the next several minutes filling them in on the details of the latest crossword puzzle, and how Adam suspects that someone broke into his apartment.
“And nobody else has a key?” Kimmie asks.
“What about his ex-roommate?” Wes suggests.
“Good question,” I say.
“Well, here’s a better one,” he continues. “What kind of lock is on the door?”
“What difference does that make?”
“It makes a huge difference in the scheme of breaks-ins. For example, is there a dead bolt? And if so, is it surface- mounted, lockset, or maybe a combination of both? Is the lock spring-loaded? Or is it the mortise kind, with a box? On second thought, considering what an ass-pit the place is, my guess is it’s a cheapo entry style, just waiting to get picked, but we should probably check it out just to be sure.”
“Or we could simply call the police and ask them to do their job,” Kimmie says.
“Adam’s against calling the police,” I say. “He doesn’t think we have enough proof. Plus he hates the idea of getting anyone in trouble, especially if it’s one of his friends.”
“Even if one of his friends wants to kill him?” Wes asks.
“I know,” I say. “It’s crazy.”
“Well, crazy or not, it sounds all too familiar.” She gives me the evil eye.
“So, let’s go check out the lock,” Wes says. “At least then we’ll know what kind of talent we’re dealing with.”
“But first…” Kimmie drops a first-prize ribbon into my lap, the gold part of which reads: GRAND PRIZE: VINTAGE REVISTED.
“What’s this?” I ask, fairly certain she would have mentioned having entered a contest.
“It’s Kimmie’s lame-o attempt at getting her parents back together.” Wes yawns.
“Explain, please,” I say, noticing that the ribbon was awarded by the Fashion Institute.
“Okay, so obviously it isn’t legit,” she confesses, plucking it out of my hands. “But my parents totally think it is, and as my reward I’ve told them I want to go out to dinner with just the two of them Saturday night.”
“Kimmie will arrange to meet them at the restaurant,” Wes explains. “But then she won’t bother showing up, leaving Mommy and Daddy to dine on their own.”
“Don’t you think that’s just a tad bit cheesy?” I ask her.
“Not to mention desperate and predictable,” Wes adds. “Which is exactly what I told her.”
“Well, I really don’t see what my alternative is.” She huffs. “I’ve already tried dressing boring…like you”—she gestures at my jeans and T-shirt—“and that didn’t catch their attention. And you know I went the whole hickey route a few weeks ago, and that was a total bust….”
“You don’t seriously think their separation is as shallow as a wardrobe malfunction, do you?” I ask her.
“You guys don’t understand,” she whines. “Everything’s different now that they’ve separated. My mom got a job at the hardware store downtown.”
“The horror of it all,” Wes jokes.
“Is your mom still drinking a lot?” I ask her.
“It seems she’s replaced drinking with working.”
“Well, that’s better, at least.”
“Not for Nate it isn’t. He has to go to the Y now every day after school. Meanwhile, Dad’s living a bachelor-pad life whilst dating someone barely old enough to vote.”
“But maybe they’re all happy,” Wes says. “I mean, for once your house is quiet. I can’t remember the last time I was here that it didn’t sound like a filming of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
“They only think they’re happy,” Kimmie says, sulking. “Things were so much better when they were trying to tear each other’s heads off.”
AFTER KIMMIE SLIPS into something a bit more her (a long taffeta skirt paired with a T-shirt and boots), we hop into Wes’s car, and he drives us over to Adam’s apartment. “Do you think I should call and tell him we’re here?” I ask, looking up at his building.
“No way,” Kimmie says. “You’ll get way more accomplished with an unannounced visit, which is precisely what I plan to do this weekend. Picture this: me, dropping by my dad’s place around eleven p.m. on a Friday night, probably just after he and that child get back from dinner. Any wagers as to what they’ll be up to?”
“Why are you trying to punish yourself?” Wes asks.
“It’s him I’m trying to punish. Can you imagine how pissed he’ll be when I tell him I want to spend the night?”
“Let’s go,” Wes says, grabbing a screwdriver, a rag, and some wire from his glove compartment.
“What, no power drill?” Kimmie asks.
“Are you kidding?” He winks. “My power drill comes with me wherever I go.” He pulls on some black leather gloves, and we head up to Adam’s floor.
I shake my head at the sight of his door, still stunned that Adam would wash the message away.
Wes tries to pick up any lingering inky residue with his rag, but it comes away pretty clean. “I should’ve brought along my UV light.”
“Because it’s superimportant for us to know if the psycho in question peed, drooled, or bled on his door,” Kimmie says.
“I guess I can sort of understand why he washed it,” Wes continues. “I wouldn’t want the world to know that I deserved to die, either.”
“Right, but it makes showing the police a whole lot harder,” I say.
Wes knocks a couple of times, but Adam doesn’t answer. “Jackpot,” he says, kneeling down to examine the lock. He takes the bundle of wire from his pocket and proceeds to make a key of sorts.
“You’re not going to break in, are you?” I ask.
“Well, um, yeah.” Kimmie rolls her eye
s, as if the answer’s completely obvious.
Wes sticks his key into the lock and starts to jiggle it back and forth. A moment later, the doorknob turns.
Only, Wes isn’t the one turning it.
Piper then whips the door open. “Oh, my God,” she says, smacking her chest like we’ve scared her, too.
“We were looking for Adam.” I peek past her into the apartment.
“He isn’t here,” she says, glaring at Wes, no doubt annoyed that he’s attempting to pick the lock.
“Would you believe that I dropped a contact?” he asks, before finally getting up.
“Not likely, since you’re wearing glasses.” Kimmie bops him on the head with her Tupperware purse.
“Wait, did you and Adam have a date?” Piper asks me. “Because I totally don’t want to be in the way.”
“Adam and I are just friends,” I tell her.
“Oh, I just thought…” She shrugs. “I mean, he doesn’t normally blow me off, especially when we’re working on a project together.”
“He didn’t blow you off. We just had some important stuff to discuss.”
“Like what?” she asks with a fold of her arms, reminding me of an overprotective parent.
I blink hard, surprised at her attempt to pry.
“Is that why you’re here now?” she asks when I don’t say a thing.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
Piper’s face softens, and she unfolds her arms. “My com- puter’s being fixed, so Adam said I could use his. I have a major philosophy paper to finish by tomorrow morning. Does anyone know anything about existentialism?”
“Just that people who practice it think that death is absurd.” Kimmie pushes past Piper to step inside the apartment.
“Pretty wacked-out theory, right?” Piper laughs. She nods toward the wire in Wes’s hands and then twists the knob back and forth. “No need to try and break in, by the way. It was never even locked. Adam hardly ever locks his door.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. My mouth falls open.
“It’s true,” she says, stepping aside as Wes enters the apartment. “And it’s so totally stupid. I’ve told Adam, like, a kagillion times. Tray’s place got broken into just a few months back, and he always locks up.”
I take a deep breath, wondering what else Adam’s failed to tell me.
“Yeah, Adam’s definitely not the brightest bulb in the socket when it comes to practicality,” she continues. “But he’s totally sweet. I mean, who else would let me take over his computer for the entire night, right? Certainly not Melissa. Talk about a bad mood. That girl has had her panties in butt-cracker territory for way longer than I’d ever have imagined. Ohmygosh, did that just sound totally bitchy?” She covers her mouth. “I’m telling you, I can be such a major meanie at times.”
“Does she also hang out here when Adam’s not home?” I ask.
“We all do,” she says, scrunching up her bobbed black hair with her hands. “Adam’s supergenerous with his place, which is extra good for me, seeing as I still live at home.”
I shake my head, completely confused. I mean, how are we supposed to figure all of this out if Adam isn’t taking it seriously enough to lock up? “Did you happen to see the writing on his door?”
“What writing?” She cocks her head to one side.
“Forget it.” I sigh.
“Better to ask Tray, maybe. He and Janet were here just before I arrived. And you should totally have seen them, too. So supercute. I wish he’d just ask her out.”
“Why doesn’t he?” Wes asks.
“Stupidity?” She giggles. “Seriously, boys don’t know what they want.”
“Amen to that,” Kimmie says, rifling through Adam’s kitchen cabinets.
“Are you thirsty?” Piper asks, watching as Kimmie pretends to search for a glass.
Meanwhile, Wes is drawing something on Adam’s dry-erase board. It’s a hangman puzzle, complete with a stick figure hanging from a noose. Wes fills in the message over the dashed letter spaces: IDIOT, LOCK YOUR DOOR!
AFTER OUR IMPROMPTU visit to Adam’s apartment, Wes takes me back to Kimmie’s house so I can get my mom’s car and drive home. “Looks like you’ll make it just in time for your curfew,” he says, checking the clock.
Kimmie breathes a heart-shaped cloud onto the passenger-side window. “I can’t even remember the last time a curfew meant anything in my house.”
“I have a curfew,” Wes chirps, “but my dad respects me more when I blow it.”
“Which is why you’re going to help me with my precalc homework tonight,” Kimmie says, turning to him.
“Sadly, that would have to be the sexiest offer I’ve gotten in a long time.”
“Even sexier than Helga the cleaning lady?” I joke.
“Of course, you’re so full of fungus,” Kimmie tells him. “Rumor has it that Tiffany Bunkin has major hot pants for you.”
“Well, I suppose that’s better than granny pants,” he says. “But you seem to be forgetting that Tiffany Bunkin smells like dirt and looks like a dandelion.”
“That’s her charm,” Kimmie sings. “She’s one of those earthy-crunchy tree-hugging girls.”
“An earthy-crunchy tree-hugging girl who dyes her hair yellow and spikes it up to look like petals,” he adds.
“Tiffany is totally cute,” I tell him.
“And you should totally ask her out,” Kimmie says.
“She’s already asked me out,” he says.
“Aren’t we one for secrets? So, what did you tell her?” I ask.
“Just that I’d have to check my schedule.”
“Why?” Kimmie glares at him. “Because you might have a CSI marathon to catch or some ugly shoes to shop for?”
“I just don’t think that Tiffany’s my type.”
“Well, then, who is your type?”
“Maybe we should let Wes make his own dating decisions,” I suggest.
“Yeah, but what fun would that be?” Kimmie says. “Especially since I haven’t gotten any of my own offers in, like, even longer than Wes’s hair.” She attempts to run her hand through his lengthy layers, but her fingers get caught up in the gel.
“Good night,” I tell them, rechecking the clock. I have less than nine minutes to get home before my parents start to panic.
* * *
Exactly seven minutes later, I pull into my driveway, and the motion detector goes on right away.
Illuminating Ben.
The light shines on his perfectly chiseled features, his broad chest, and a sudden sprinkling of snow as it falls all around him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, stepping out of the car.
“Waiting for you.” He closes the car door behind me. “I called you earlier and your mom said you’d be home around nine. You’re two minutes early.”
“Should I go away and come back?”
“What do you think?” he asks, encircling my waist with his arms. Snowflakes land on his face, making his skin glisten.
“You know, you could always ring the doorbell. My parents would let you wait inside.”
“Next time.” He kisses my lips; his mouth is wet with snow. “So, how was your day?”
“It’s a long story,” I say, taking his hand and leading him toward my bedroom window. “Wait here.”
“What happened to being honest with your parents?”
I clench my teeth, still bitter that my mom wouldn’t tell me about Aunt Alexia earlier. While Ben waits for me to let him in, I enter through the front door. My dad’s doing bills at the living room table, and my mother’s making banana pops in the kitchen.
“Have a nice time, sweetie?” she asks.
“It was fine,” I say, almost eager for her to ask about Wes—to see how plugged in to my world she actually is.
“Well, that’s good,” she says instead.
“Did you talk to Aunt Alexia tonight?”
She shakes her head and dips a pop into a bowl filled with carob a
nd nuts. “I’m going to freeze these overnight. They should be good and ready by tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds great,” I say, deciding to remain secretive, too. I move into the living room and ask Dad if I can take a rain check on our heart-to-heart.
“Are you sure?” he asks, removing his glasses. His eyes look tired and strained.
“Tomorrow,” I promise. “I kind of just want to go to bed.”
He nods and kisses me good night, confessing that he, too, is beyond exhausted.
In my room, I close and lock my door, then open my window wide to let Ben in. He shakes the snow from his hair, but he’s completely covered.
“Here,” I say, helping him off with his coat and his sweatshirt, until there’s only a thin layer of T-shirt covering his chest. “You must be freezing.” I use the corner of my blanket to wipe his face dry.
“Quite the contrary.” He takes my hands and pulls me onto the bed, into his lap, still expecting me to fill him in on all the details.
And so I do.
But Wes couldn’t have been more right.
“I really don’t like the idea of someone having the potential to break in to Adam’s place,” he says. “It definitely makes this all the more dangerous.”
“Not if Adam failed to lock his door, and if he promises to keep it locked from now on.” I look down at our hands, clasped together, feeling sure that there’s something he’s not telling me. “Are you sensing something right now?”
“About Adam?” He smirks. “Not exactly.”
“Then about me?” I swallow hard.
Instead of answering, Ben opens my hand and runs his thumb along the center of my palm, sending tingles straight down my spine. “What do you think would happen if we combined forces?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Any chance your parents are in bed yet?” He peers out my window at the snow flurries. “It’s not like I’d be able to ride home in this weather anyway.”
We wait for my parents to turn in and shut their bedroom door, and then we sneak downstairs to the basement. I click on my worktable lamp but keep the overhead lights turned off. Instead, I light a vanilla bean candle. The flame’s shadow dances against the wall, making the snowflakes that land against the window appear almost shimmery.
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