Jillian Cade

by Jen Klein

  Twenty minutes later, I was back over the garage, tugging on a pair of tight, ripped jeans and shoving my feet into the Harley-Davidson boots I scored at a yard sale last year. I threw on a black tank top with the word evil scrawled across the front in scarlet thread. Then I smudged a thick line of black around my eyes, smeared crimson over my lips, and mussed a handful of product into my hair until the strands fell like cracks around my face.

  Summers are long. Students forget state capitals and quadratic equations and how to diagram a sentence. I wanted to make sure everyone remembered exactly who I was: The Girl Who Shall Not Be Fucked With.

  As I headed out, I paused to turn off the light before remembering I didn’t have to. It was already off because so was the power. My fault. I had forgotten to pay the bill.

  As I approached Norbert’s house, I wondered how long Aunt Aggie and Uncle Edmund would continue to let me live alone. Dad had talked them into it when he left last year. Since they lived so close, they could watch out for me without hovering. But of course no one thought I’d fly solo for this long. A couple weeks on your own is one thing. Living as an adult for an entire year when you’re only a sophomore—and now a junior—is a different story.

  I pulled into Norbert’s driveway and gave the horn a quick tap. Sure enough, he scampered outside accompanied by his parents. Of course they wanted to see their kid off to his first day of high school. It’s what any responsible parent would want.

  “Angel love!” chirped Aunt Aggie. It had probably been unrealistic to think she would ignore me slumped behind the wheel of my own GTO.

  I cranked the window down and gave her the best smile I could. “Hi.” It sounded weak, even to me.

  Aunt Aggie didn’t care. Her arms swooped through the open window, and she hugged me in a way that no badass should ever be hugged. I couldn’t return the favor because my elbows were pinned to my sides, so mostly I just fluttered my fingers against the sleeves of her cotton housedress.

  “I can’t believe you’re in eleventh grade!” she trilled.

  “Mmph,” I managed from where my face was pressed into her shoulder.

  Aunt Aggie finally released me. I averted my eyes from the red smudge my mouth had left on her dress. No need to blot my lips then.

  As Norbert slid in beside me, Uncle Edmund dropped a paper sack onto my lap. “Muenster and sweet pickle on white with mustard,” he said.

  “You didn’t have to—” I started to say, but he waved off my protest.

  “A brain needs nourishment. You kids have a great day at school.”

  “Thanks.” I jammed my car into reverse and backed out of the driveway.

  “Bye!” called Norbert.

  “I love you!” sang out Aunt Aggie, waving.

  Uncle Edmund gave a military salute. “So say we all!”

  In my rearview mirror, I watched him sling an arm over Aggie’s shoulders. They stood there, both of them beaming, as we drove off.

  We were a block away when my cell buzzed from the backseat.

  “I got it,” said Norbert. He performed some very interesting calisthenics as he twisted and stretched to get my backpack without unbuckling. Finally, he sat back up straight, holding my phone. “Text from your dad.”

  “Delete,” I told him.

  “He wants you to send him some records,” said Norbert. “They’re in—”

  “Did he happen to mention anything else? Maybe tell me to have a nice day at school?” I took a corner with a little extra aggression.

  “No,” said Norbert. Then his cell phone buzzed.

  “Let me guess.”

  Norbert looked at his phone and nodded. “Your dad.”

  “Delete.”

  “You should call him.”

  “You should mind your own business,” I said. “Besides, I don’t have the time.”

  “The new case?”

  “I got this one,” I told him, holding firm. This case was actually sort of real, after all. It was no place for my wide-eyed cousin.

  “Oh.” Norbert looked crestfallen. “But what about school?”

  “I told the client to meet me on campus at lunch. He’s only dropping off a file. It’ll be an easy grab.”

  “All right,” said Norbert. “But if you need help later, let me know, okay?”

  “Deal,” I said, not meaning it.

  As it turned out, I didn’t even have time to worry about Norbert. Once we arrived, he went on his merry little way without so much as a backward glance. Good for him. My hope was that no one would mess with him once they realized he was my cousin.

  The rise of my infamy had coincided with my mother’s spectacular spiral downward. The first person to make a public comment about her had also been the last. It had been Mario Amello, captain of the football team. He had a good foot and at least a hundred pounds on me, yet he had gone home with a bloody lip, three sprained fingers, and a pair of seriously bruised testicles. I came away with a one-week suspension and a reputation for violence that prevented any hope of a future social life.

  The upside: fewer distractions. The downside: a very specific kind of loneliness.

  After I got my class schedule, I went searching for my locker. I trudged up two flights of stairs, past hordes of other students who were all exchanging hugs and waves and big dumb OMGs about their stupid summers. I caught pieces of conversations as they floated by me. Apparently, most of my classmates had toured colleges or gone to the beach or been, like, totally bored. No one else had fake-exterminated fake ghosts in fake haunted houses. Go figure.

  I found my locker near the biology lab. Awesome: a year of smelling like formaldehyde. I dropped my backpack on the floor so I could dig the combination out of my jeans. Except the combination wasn’t in my right pocket. Or the left one. Or either of the back ones. Really? This? Already?

  I was reaching down for my backpack—maybe I had shoved it in there after all—when I heard a voice from behind me.

  “Six, thirty-nine, seventeen.”

  I spun around. Standing in unacceptable violation of my personal space was a tall guy with messy blond hair, green eyes, and bright white teeth. Also, an inappropriate number of angles and muscles. For no apparent reason, my heart paused for a second, recovered, and kept beating . . . a little too quickly.

  That was new.

  The guy wore what looked like a military jacket covered with musician buttons and metal pins. He smiled down at me, brandishing a slip of paper between two of his fingers. My locker combination.

  “It fell out of your pocket.”

  “You shouldn’t be looking at my pockets,” I snapped, snatching the paper from him.

  He was obviously brand new, gathering from the fact that he was (a) still smiling at me, (b) hot, but (c) not yet face-suctioned to Corabelle LaCaze or Angel Ortega. Those girls had game for miles, whereas I still didn’t even know the location of the stadium.

  “I like pockets,” he said.

  I could see what was going on. He was trying to assert his dominant place in the social hierarchy by messing with me. Or by flirting with me. Or by messing with me while flirting with me. Regardless, it was just what I didn’t need: a hot, deviant pickpocket on my ass (literally). I turned and concentrated on opening the lock. And trying to ignore him. But after two failed attempts at getting the combination right, I had to admit to myself that I couldn’t focus. He leaned against the adjoining locker, watching me . . . and apparently enjoying himself.

  It made no sense whatsoever. It was high school, for crap’s sake. There had to be a cheerleader or two around that he could gawk at.

  “Do you mind?” I asked.

  “Not at all.”

  I finally succeeded in yanking open the padlock. I slid the shackle out of the locker handle. “Ask around about me,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “If you’re looking for a ne
w school romance, you’re barking up the wrong girl. I’m not the chick with a tough exterior concealing a wounded, golden heart, the one who’s aching for the right guy to notice her so he can crack her shell and sweep them both into the sunset. I might look like that girl, but I’m not her.”

  “Then which girl are you?”

  “The one who wants to be left alone.” Even as I said it, there was that teeny-tiny part of me that knew it wasn’t true, but I forged ahead anyway. “I’m Jillian Cade, and chatting with me is not going to improve anything about your life, especially your social standing.”

  My monologue did nothing in the way of discouraging him. In fact, it appeared to have the exact opposite effect. His green eyes widened. He straightened and suddenly got all formal, jutting out a hand toward my own. He was even closer now, close enough for me to get a whiff of minty toothpaste and boy shampoo.

  “I’m Sky Ramsey, and if your father’s name is Lewis, then I beg to differ. Chatting with you has, in fact, improved my life. Significantly.”

  Ah. There it was. He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to the daughter of Lewis Cade.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You are the single pro next to a very long list of cons about moving here,” he added, dropping his hand when it was clear I wasn’t about to shake it.

  There was no reason to be disappointed. Despite the fact that this guy—I mean Sky—was much prettier than the usual flock of Lewis Cade fanboys, that’s exactly what he was. Another brainwashed lemming looking to fling himself over the cliff of my father’s lies. God forbid a normal boy be into me, just once.

  “You are a fan of fiction,” I informed him, “not a fan of me.”

  Sky raised an eyebrow. “Fiction?”

  I was great at promoting my father’s paranormal baloney when operating undercover, but I drew the line at real life. Fake Me ran my father’s fraudulent cases. Real Me called it like it was.

  “Poorly written fiction,” I clarified.

  “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” said Sky. “I’ve read everything your father has written—poorly or not—and the truth is that I would love to meet him.”

  “You’re too late. He’s away on business.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “It might be permanent.” My voice hardened. “And even if he was here, I’ve got better things to do than arrange his playdates.”

  Sky laughed. “Funny,” he said, which startled me. No one at school ever thought I was funny. Then again, I wasn’t exactly the class clown. He reached out to touch my arm. “Look, I didn’t ask to move to Van Nuys. Your name is the one familiar thing around here. I’m happy to meet you. That’s all.”

  He gave my arm a gentle squeeze, and before I could think of anything to say in return, he sauntered away down the hall. I stared after him, wondering what had just happened. I turned back to my locker. I was about to toss my Muenster and pickle sandwich inside it when I realized it wasn’t empty. Leaning against the interior wall was a brown envelope.

  What the hell?

  I pulled out the envelope, ripped open the top edge, and upended it. A torn scrap of paper—maybe the size of my palm—fluttered out. I lifted it and scanned the printed text.

  “What. The. Hell.”

  This time I said it out loud. The thing I was holding made no sense. It had no reason to exist.

  It was a piece of newspaper.

  An obituary.

  My obituary.

  Three

  And that’s where the rest was ripped away.

  Was it supposed to be a joke? Faking a piece of newspaper seemed like a lot of work. It didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like a real piece of newsprint.

  It also felt like a threat.

  Between the obituary, the upcoming client appointment, the run-in with my father’s fanboy, and several calls from my father himself (ignored), I had a hard time paying attention in either Geometry or Chemistry. Luckily, it was all first-day BS: speeches about expectations for the year. When copies of grading policies and test schedules were handed to me, I shoved them into my backpack. Everything else, I tuned out. I needed to talk to Norbert.

  Obeying my strongly worded text message, he met me near the history classrooms before third period.

  “I don’t understand the question,” he said before I could speak.

  “It’s simple. Of the guys I’ve dated—”

  “You don’t date,” said Norbert.

  “I’ve been on dates.” It sounded defensive, even to me. “There was that guy the summer before last. The one in Santa Monica.”

  “That wasn’t a date,” Norbert told me. “Getting drunk and making out under the pier is not a date.”

  “He bought me a Slurpee.”

  “Oh yeah? Then what was his name?”

  “Dusty.” I said it with more conviction than I felt.

  “I thought it was Rusty.”

  “Whatever. My mother had just died. I was coping.” I snapped my fingers, remembering. “And last year, I went to the movies with Michael Wilkins.”

  “Doesn’t his mom play mah-jongg with my mom?”

  “Who cares? Do either of those guys seem certifiable to you?”

  Norbert considered. “I don’t think so. And by the way, my first day of high school is going great. Thanks for asking.”

  I scowled and handed him the scrap of paper.

  He looked it over and blinked a few times. “Whoa. Unnerving.”

  “Now do you get my questions?”

  “How do they know about your PI work? Nobody knows about that.”

  “I hardly think that’s the weirdest thing on that paper.”

  Norbert glanced up at me. “Who is this sister Rose? Do I have another cousin?”

  “No!” I said it a little too loudly. A passing senior in a football jersey turned to look, and I glared in his direction. He sped up. I lowered my voice. “No sisters, no brothers. You’re the closest thing I have to a sibling.”

  Norbert’s eyes went all dopey and grateful like an anime fairy’s. “You think of me as a brother?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head—and no hugging,” I added hastily as he took a step toward me. He must have gotten that instinct from his mother.

  “Going from cousin to brother is a clear indication of leveling up,” he said.

  “You’re still actually my cousin, and I’m actually going to punch you if you don’t focus. My potential demise is on the horizon.”

  Norbert returned his gaze to the scrap of newspaper. “Okay, so someone is trying to upset your equilibrium.”

  “In other words, it’s a death threat. Don’t sugarcoat. Do you think I pissed off a former client or something?”

  “If so, they’re giving you a big head start. Look.” He pointed at the date on the newspaper. “Six months until your potential demise.”

  He was right. March 11. At least I had a running start.

  “Go,” I told him. “You don’t want to be late to class.”

  “Copy that.” I felt a flash of guilt as he took off down the hallway. I probably should check on him, I thought. Given some of the dickheads prowling the halls, it would be shocking if he made it through the day without getting beaten up.

  As it turned out, I didn’t need to worry about Norbert at all.

  The next time I saw him was at lunchtime in the cafeteria. He was sitting at a table with what I assumed were two other freshmen: a boy wearing a what the frak? shirt and a girl who was demonstrating what appeared to be some Hogwarts-style wand work.

  My relief over Norbert’s acceptance into a clique—however dorky—was tinged with just a touch of envy. His first day of high school and he’d already found his tribe. Me: I had always been slow to bond, slow to trust, and once things had started going downhill at home,
it was all over. The few acquaintances I’d made in the first half of my freshman year disappeared along with my ability to invite people to my house.

  I waved to Norbert and headed back out, soda in hand—past the sundial and through the horde of front-lawn students who were tapping frantically away on their phones.

  Even though everyone did it, we weren’t technically supposed to text inside the school building. As a result, the lawn transcended cliques—tiny personal screens both include and exclude everyone—so I usually found a place to eat alone out there. But that day I’d made certain to be far from the mob. I threaded my way through it to a low-growing magnolia tree on the edge of campus. Beneath the tree was a bench, mostly hidden from view by a thick explosion of lilac shrubs. It was often empty, due to the abundance of birds pooping on it from the branches above.

  This was where I had told HelpMeDude to meet me.

  Unfortunately, as I saw when I arrived, it was also where senior Corabelle LaCaze had chosen to hang out.

  Crap. Apparently bird poop doesn’t affect hormones. But I should have figured. Everything that made the bench perfect for a covert fake detective meeting made it equally perfect for a covert make-out session. I didn’t know who Corabelle was currently dating, but her tongue hadn’t spent a lot of time in her own mouth last year. The girl was something of a rock star. If she’d had a way to bottle and sell her sex appeal and self-confidence, I would have happily bankrupted myself buying it. It wasn’t just the way she looked. It was how she moved and spoke and breathed. She assumed the world already loved and wanted her, whereas I assumed exactly the opposite about myself.

  In both cases, the world lived up to our expectations.

  Corabelle was perched on one end of the bench, bright blond ponytail tilted back, big round boobs tilted forward. First day of school and—of course—already in the cheerleader outfit. She didn’t look any more thrilled to see me than I was to see her. However, and to her credit, she greeted me with something that passed for politeness. “Hi.”