But this isn’t the time for memories and regrets; I have to keep moving. I leave my wet shoes by the door, grab a garbage bag from under the sink, and dash up the stairs to the bathroom.
What I see in the mirror is revolting. The black hair dye has started to run down my face and neck. The makeup is streaked and smudged. What a mess! After stripping out of my soaked, dirty clothes, I go through my pockets for money, Slade’s penlight, and other things I don’t want to forget. All the change in my pockets comes to a little over a dollar. I thought I had more, but now that’s just one more problem I’ll have to deal with.
I stuff the wet clothes into the garbage bag and get into the shower. The hot water feels so good. It takes a lot of shampoo to get most of the black dye out. Finally I towel off and blow-dry my hair. Not all the color is out, but enough to make my hair look an unnatural shade of dirty blonde.
Wrapped in the towel, I head back downstairs and raid the kitchen. There’s milk in the refrigerator, and Honey Nut Cheerios in the cupboard. Two bowls later I’m back upstairs. Alyssa’s room is a reflection of a girl with one foot in the smooth sands of childhood and the other on the rocky shore of adolescence. Posters of singers on pink walls, an electric guitar leaning against a dollhouse, a training bra lying in the pile of yesterday’s soccer uniform. I go through her dresser and find a long-sleeved white cotton turtleneck that will cover the Sharpie tattoo on my neck. Next I pull on denim shorts over white leggings, then a pink hoodie and a matching pink baseball cap. A pair of pink-and-white Velcro sneakers are a nice touch. Even Alyssa, at age twelve, probably wouldn’t be caught dead in something so childish.
I find her old eyeglasses in a drawer and lollipops in the candy jar in the kitchen.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I’m almost unnerved by how young I look. Maybe it’s the candy-cane eyeglass frames, but I wonder if I’m actually more convincing as a pre-pubescent girl than I was as a punk. I wander away from the mirror and into the hall, barely conscious of where my feet are taking me until I stop outside Slade’s door. So far I can justify sneaking into the Lamonts’ house, eating their food, taking a shower, and borrowing some of Alyssa’s clothes. Desperate times call for desperate measures. But what I want to do next crosses the line. Only I can’t help myself. I press my fingers against the door to Slade’s room and go in.
My heart thuds and the ache returns, stronger than ever. So little in this room has changed. The car and motorcycle posters on the wall. The ankle weights on the floor, which Slade is supposed to use to keep the muscles around his knee fit. The shelf of dusty everyone-gets-one trophies from soccer and Little League.
But there’s something new hanging on the closet door—a pale green-gray military camouflage uniform. And on the floor, tan lace-up boots. Slade’s uniform.
On his desk is a new laptop, which he got through the army PX. A photo is taped to the outer edge of the screen so that every time he sits down he sees it. It’s a photo I know well, because I have a framed copy of it on my night table at home. In it Slade and I are together, arm in arm, smiles on our faces one night last April at a party Dakota gave.
I feel a rush of hope. He’s kept the photo where he can see it all the time! My spirits lift. So he does still care!
Only now I notice something else in the photo. Something I missed before, because I’ve always been content to look at Slade and me standing in front of the small crowd of people with drinks and food in their hands. In that crowd, staring at us with an unmistakable look of dismay on her face, is Dakota.
And suddenly I have an outrageous idea. Or maybe the best word to describe it is desperate. Jerry has made my phone untraceable. So that means I can call … Dakota. I can confront her with what I think, and see how she reacts.
I go over and over it in my head, but there’s so much I can’t predict … other than the one thing I’m sure of—that I can’t hide from the police much longer. That sooner or later I’m going to get caught.
With shaking hands, I turn on my phone. It’s the middle of the school day, so I can’t call her. But I can text. My trembling fingers make mistake after mistake. Finally I manage to get it right: I no U killed K.
With my heart pounding as if I’ve just run five miles, I hit SEND.
Now what?
I sit on Slade’s bed. Even though the rain’s passed, I can’t go anywhere in my new disguise, because it’s a weekday and girls my age should be in school. So I have no choice but to wait. But I know that it won’t be long before Dakota reads the text. It’s the middle of fourth period at school. Even if she has gym or is super busy in some class, the period ends at 10:56 and she’ll read it then.
The first week of senior year passed and Dakota was still a no-show at lunch in the cafeteria. I saw her in the hall between classes and she said she was using lunchtimes to work on a research project in the library. But it was much too early in the year for anyone to be working on a research project. Had it not been for Brianna’s presence, I might have thought Katherine and Dakota were just having another one of their tiffs. But during the previous fights, even the long one the spring before, no one had dared sit in Dakota’s seat, the way Brianna now did.
Chapter 30
Tuesday 10:58 A.M.
MY CELL PHONE vibrates. I flip it open and see the text: Who this?
Trembling again, I thumb the answer: U no.
She writes, U have 2 turn urself in.
No way.
Everyone looking 4 U. U cant hide 4ever.
Even as Dakota and I text back and forth, I’m starting to formulate a new plan. Maybe if I make her nervous enough, she’ll try something dumb and desperate. Something that might make her reveal the truth about what happened. So I text back: Bet?
This time a reply doesn’t come so quickly. Is she frantically plotting her next move?
The phone vibrates: Where U @?
As if I would tell her. But it makes me think. Going purely on gut instinct, I write: Lets f2f.
Again I wait, but not that long. She texts back: Where?
An unexpected chill envelops me. By asking where we should meet, has Dakota just unknowingly confessed her guilt? Would anyone ever agree to meet someone they thought was a killer? No, of course not. So if Dakota is willing to meet me, it means one of two things: Either she doesn’t believe I’m the killer, because she knows who the killer really is—her. Or she will bring the police. In either case, do I really want to go through with this?
I’m in the middle of trying to figure out the answer when the phone vibrates again. Thinking it’s another text from Dakota, I flip it open. But it’s not a text; it’s a call from “unknown.” I nervously lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Callie?” It’s a male voice.
“Yes?”
“Hey, it’s Jerry.”
“Oh, hi!” That’s a relief. For a moment I thought maybe it was Dakota purposefully calling from a different phone so I wouldn’t think it was her.
“So listen, I just wanted to see how the phone’s been working,” he says.
“It’s working fine, Jerry. Thanks for checking. And thanks again so much for helping me.”
“No prob. So, uh … you okay? Need anything?”
I’m just about to tell him that I’m as well as can be expected when I realize that’s not true. “Actually, there is something I need. I’m out of money and I’m scared that if I use my ATM card, I’ll give the police another way to track me. I hate asking you, but could you lend me some? I promise I’ll pay you back.”
Jerry laughs. “Are you kidding? Of course. You want to meet somewhere?”
I almost agree when I catch myself. Jerry leave his house? Why would he risk being caught helping me? Isn’t it strange how a few moments ago Dakota agreed to meet me and now Jerry calls and agrees to do the same thing? The third of Slade’s three Ps pops into my head—paranoia. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Jerry. If anyone sees you with me, or we get caught, you could get i
nto really big trouble. I think it would be a lot smarter if you just leave the money for me somewhere and I come and get it.”
There’s a pause. Then Jerry says, “Uh, well, uh, hey, listen, can I call you right back?”
“Okay …”
He’s off the line and now I can’t help feeling even more paranoid. What just happened seems odd. Like he had to check with someone else before answering me.
When the phone rings a few moments later, I almost don’t answer. Then I do. “Hey, okay,” Jerry says. “I got an idea. You know the warming room at the train station? There’s an old bookcase there. People leave books after they finish them. I’ll leave the money for you this afternoon in the last book on the first shelf, okay?”
I would feel grateful to him were it not for my suspicion that something isn’t right. Still, I know I have to pretend. “Thank you, Jerry. You’re such a sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Hey, no prob. So I’ll probably get over to the station around three. You can pick it up anytime after that. But I wouldn’t wait too long, you know? Someone might come by looking for a book to read and get a big surprise.”
I pretend to laugh at the thought of someone picking up a used book and finding money inside.
“In fact, do me a favor, okay?” he goes on. “Send me a text after you get it. Just so I know?”
I tell him I will.
“Promise?”
“Yes, Jerry, I promise. And really, thanks so much.” I close the cell phone. The more I think about it, the stranger it all seems. Jerry leave his cave voluntarily? He’s going to touch a used book that who knows how many germy hands have held? No way. Not in this lifetime.
And now I realize something else. Dakota asked where I wanted to meet and I didn’t answer. She hasn’t followed up. Or has she, by getting Jerry involved?
Two nights after school began, my phone rang. The number came up as private. After staring uncertainly at it for a moment, I decided to answer.
“Hi.” It was Dakota.
“Oh, hi,” I said, surprised.
“So what’s up?” she asked.
“Oh, well, nothing, except, you know, everything,” I said. “I mean, how come you’re not sitting with us anymore?”
“What does Katherine say?” she asked.
“You know her. She never says anything.”
“Has anyone asked her?”
“Not when I was around
What do they say when she’s not around?”
It never ceased to amaze me how certain she and Katherine were that everyone talked about them. “Everyone’s just wondering what happened.”
“And you’re sure Katherine hasn’t said anything?”
“Not to me.”
There was a short pause and then she said, “Have you spoken to Slade?”
It didn’t feel like we were having a conversation. Rather, it felt like she was running down a prepared list of questions.
“No,” I answered.
There was another short silence, then that brief blank sound when another call is coming in. “It’s my mom,” Dakota said. “Talk to you later.”
“Do you think I’m sexy?”
“Sure.”
“You’re going to do what I want you to do?”
“I said I would, and I will.”
“Good, because I did what I said I’d do.”
Chapter 31
Tuesday 4:32 P.M.
A HUNDRED YARDS south of the train station, a bridge goes over the railroad tracks. That afternoon around four thirty, I ride toward the bridge on Alyssa Lamont’s old pink bicycle. I have the lollipop in my mouth and I’m wearing the candy-cane framed glasses and pink baseball cap. I stop on the sidewalk at the middle of the bridge and look toward the station. On both sides of the tracks are long flat platforms. On the platform on the left side is the glass-enclosed warming room.
People stand on both platforms—nannies, laborers, men and women in business clothes with briefcases, and teenagers with backpacks filled with books. A southbound train pulls into the station. People get on and off, and a few moments later, the train leaves. But strangely, two men, one at either end of the platform, don’t get on the train, nor are they now exiting the platform. They just stand there as if they’re waiting for another train. One reads a folded newspaper. The other appears to be fiddling with an iPod.
A few minutes later, the same thing happens on the northbound platform. A train pulls in, people get on and off. But when the train departs, there’s still a woman on the far end of the platform and a man on the near end.
I wait and watch. It is nearly rush hour and not long before more trains come and go and more people get on and off. But those four people remain.
There was another change at the table. Katherine turned cool to me. Once again I felt like I was out of the loop. I felt confused and uncertain of what to do. But this time I wasn’t as eager to find out why she was acting that way. I was still bothered by and unsure about what had happened at the party the night before school had begun.
Mia still came to the table at lunch, but she no longer asked whether anyone had plans or wanted to do something with her after school. She would just sit there quietly, trying to act like she didn’t care.
Most of the girls at our table ate salads or brought yogurt and fruit or vegetables from home. Everyone agreed the school food was gross. The exception was Mia, who bought a school lunch each day and clearly enjoyed pasta and pizza and fries, as well as ice cream, pudding, or cake for dessert. One day at lunch, I noticed that Katherine had a frown on her face. She was staring at Mia, who, somewhat obliviously, was sliding her finger around the inside of a plastic container, collecting the very last traces of chocolate pudding, then sticking her finger in her mouth and licking it clean.
When Mia got up to return her tray to the kitchen, Katherine immediately turned to me. “Tell that fat pig that she’s no longer sitting at this table.”
The cheerful mood around the table vanished. Everyone went silent. Mia might not have been skinny, but she hardly qualified as fat. “Why?” I asked.
“Because she’s disgusting and the way she eats is gross.”
It was an order, and I knew I had a choice. Follow it, and remain at the table, or disobey, and be cut loose.
I watch from the bridge over the tracks while those four people below stand around not taking trains. Strangely, instead of feeling angry at Jerry, I feel bad. When my phone suddenly became untraceable, did the police figure out that I’d gone to his house and that he’d helped me? I wouldn’t be surprised if they threatened to arrest him if he didn’t cooperate.
But what if I’m wrong? Those four people could be standing on those platforms for a hundred reasons that have nothing to do with me. But how can I know for certain? I have an idea and take out my cell phone and, as promised, send Jerry a text: Got the $$. Thx!
Down on the platforms nothing happens. I wait and watch. One of the men is still reading the paper. The woman appears to be thumbing a BlackBerry. So it looks like I was wrong and there is such a thing as being too paranoid. I decide to ride over to the bike rack. From there I’ll take the stairs down to the warming room and get the money.
Then, all at once, the people on the platforms press their fingers against their right ears. It looks very strange until I realize what it means. They’re all wearing earpieces.
The next thing I know, they’re jogging quickly down the platforms. They must be headed for the warming room. The two on the northbound side will probably take the walkway under the tracks to get there.
But that’s not what happens. The two people on the southbound platform jog right past the warming room. The two on the northbound platform pass the entrance to the walkway.
And that’s when I realize they’re headed for the bridge … and me.
Chapter 32
Tuesday 4:39 P.M.
I QUICKLY LOOK around. Traffic passes behind me on the bridge. There’s t
he heavy low grumble of a diesel engine as a garbage truck approaches. In the meantime I can hear slapping footsteps coming up the steps from the platform.
The garbage truck is passing. It has one of those big scoop-shaped bins at the rear.
I toss the cell phone into it.
A moment later, the first earpiece man reaches the bridge, breathing hard, his right hand still pressed against his ear.
He looks around, then stares right at me!
I feel myself freeze, my hands gripping the handles of the bike so hard my knuckles turn white, my heart racing.
There’s a loud screech as a police car flies around the corner and starts to speed up the bridge in our direction. At the same time, the earpiece man starts to run toward me.
Something heavy sinks inside me. Even with this bike, there’s no way I can get away from them. This is it. It’s all over. I’m caught.
* * *
The night after Katherine ordered me to tell Mia she couldn’t sit with us any longer, Dakota called.
“I heard what happened at lunch today,” she said.
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t know what else to do except acknowledge what she’d said and wonder why she was calling me.
“You know it’s all about power. She’s the most evil, nasty, insecure person ever. She has to constantly reassure herself that she’s in control, and the only way she can do that is by making people do things for her that they don’t want to do. You think it’s any surprise that she chose you to tell Mia not to sit with us anymore? No way. She chose you because she knew you’d have the hardest time doing it.”
I listened silently.
“And you know why you’ll do it?” Dakota asked in a condescending tone.
“No,” I said, almost befuddled by the meanness I felt emanating from her. We might have shared a common frenemy, but that clearly did not make us friends.
Blood on My Hands Page 12