“Different style of coaching,” said one of the parents, coming across the field.
“Works for me,” said another. “How are the girls going to relate to an old coot like him?”
One thing about Ingrid: She never took naps during the day. But after the game, rain falling hard now and the wind really blowing, she went down to the TV room. That old couch, the one that used to be in the living room before Mom upgraded at Pottery Barn—so comfy. She pulled up Mom’s mohair blanket, clicked through the channels. Wall-to-wall college football. Ingrid didn’t care about college football. She cared about Echo Falls football, specifically how Ty was doing. A disk was in the DVD player. She hit Play to see what it was.
An impossibly beautiful black-and-white face appeared on the screen. Were any faces in the whole history of the human race ever really as beautiful as that? The face spoke. The voice was beautiful too: “Oh, Rick.”
No, not Casablanca.
But it was. Mom’s favorite movie—Ingrid had tried to sit through it once, a sappy tale about always having Paris or something like that, with a song about do or die that had made Mom cry tears in buckets. None of that was important, except for the fact that Mom and Dad had actually named Ingrid after Ingrid Bergman, the star of the picture. In the whole history of Hollywood there must have been thousands of female movie stars to pick from, including Daisy Duck. Mom and Dad could have done way better.
Rick told the piano player never to play that song again, or possibly to keep playing it, as a sort of punishment, although who was being punished wasn’t clear. Cigarette smoke curled upward. A ceiling fan spun. Ingrid’s eyes closed.
Whiz. Thump.
“Phone.”
Ingrid awoke, dim light in the room, blue screen on the TV, portable phone lying in a curl of the mohair blanket.
Ingrid picked it up. “Hi.”
“Hi,” said Joey.
“Hi.”
“You, um,” said Joey, “all right?”
For a moment, she’d forgotten the whole thing. Now it all came back: shadowy garage, swimming pool smell, darkness. “Yeah,” she said.
“Like what happened?” Joey said.
“Didn’t your dad tell you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well that’s what happened.”
“You got kidnapped.”
“Yeah.”
“And escaped out of a car trunk?”
“Yeah.”
“And all this, um, duct tape, was gone?”
“That’s right.”
“Um. Are you okay?”
“I played soccer this afternoon.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You win?”
“Four one over Torrington.”
“Cool. Score any goals?”
“No.”
Silence.
“So,” said Joey.
“So?”
“Like, why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would someone do that to you?”
Ransom—no note. Sickos—no evidence. Enemies—none. What other possibilities were there? “I don’t know,” Ingrid said.
Silence.
“What’s up, Joey?”
“Thing is,” said Joey, “guess who came over here.”
“Just tell me.”
“Ms. Groome.”
“Ms. Groome came over to your house?”
“She just left.” Joey paused. “She was talking to my dad. In the kitchen. You know the front hall at our place?”
“Yeah.”
“You can hear what goes on in the kitchen from the hall. I snuck down there.”
“And?”
“She was saying all these bad things about you.”
Did that really surprise Ingrid? Maybe not. But it made her sick for a moment, just the same.
“Like what?” she said.
“Stupid stuff.”
“Tell me.”
“Really dumb.”
“Joey—are you going to tell me or not?”
“She thinks you made it all up.”
“Why would I do that?”
“That’s what my dad said. And she told him it was all to get her back for making you go to MathFest.”
“That’s so wacked.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he tell her she was out of her mind?”
Pause. “He didn’t say much, just kind of listened. She, uh, thinks you’re, um, what’s that word?”
“What word?”
“Means, like…” Joey lapsed into silence.
“Like what?”
“Like when you, uh…”
“Manipulative?”
“Yeah, that’s it—she thinks you’re manipulative. You’ve got everybody fooled.”
“She said that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Your dad knows me.”
“Yeah.”
“So there’s no way he’s going to believe her.”
Silence.
“He believes me, right?”
More silence. At last Joey said, “I believe you, Ingrid.”
Ingrid went upstairs. “Anybody home?”
No answer, even though she knew Ty had to be around somewhere. She glanced in the driveway. No cars. But Chief Strade’s cruiser was parked across the street. For a moment, Ingrid thought maybe he was standing guard. Then she noticed he wasn’t actually in the car but at the Grunellos’ front door, talking to Mrs. Grunello.
Mrs. Grunello wore a pink housecoat and had pink curlers in her hair. She pointed at the birdbath on the front lawn. Chief Strade went over, walked around it, said something. Mrs. Grunello shook her head. The chief said something else. Mrs. Grunello looked across the street at 99 Maple Lane and shook her head again. She closed her door. The chief got in the cruiser and drove away.
Ingrid stood in the hall for a long time, gazing out at the Grunellos’ house. It seemed to get closer and closer, as though she were crossing the street. The next thing she knew, Ingrid was crossing the street. She had to know.
She knocked on the Grunellos’ door. Mrs. Grunello opened up. She still had the curlers in but now she wore a wine-colored pantsuit instead of the housecoat, and held a lipstick in her hand. Her eyes: surprised for a second; then a shift to some quick thought; and back to their normal expression, warm and friendly.
“Hello, Ingrid,” she said.
“Hi, Mrs. Grunello,” said Ingrid.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure,” said Ingrid and saw an opening. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t really know,” said Mrs. Grunello. “That is, Mr., uh…”
“Mr. Strade?”
Mrs. Grunello laughed, a laugh that somehow told Ingrid that Mrs. Grunello realized she’d been watching from across the street. “He didn’t exactly tell me the reason for his questions,” Mrs. Grunello said.
“What kind of questions?” asked Ingrid.
Mrs. Grunello paused. “He didn’t say I couldn’t discuss it, either.”
Ingrid waited.
“I got the idea that maybe there’d been a stalker or something in the neighborhood this morning,” Mrs. Grunello said.
“Yeah?” said Ingrid.
Mrs. Grunello nodded. “Mr. Strade asked if I’d seen a car parked outside your house between eight and eight thirty.”
“And?”
“I didn’t. And it just so happens I was out on the front lawn the whole time.”
“You were?”
“Working on the birdbath.”
“The birdbath?”
Mrs. Grunello pointed. “Prepping the base for this new protective coating stuff I got from Towne Hardware. The stone’s starting to dissolve, like it’s getting eaten away by acid.”
“Oh,” said Ingrid.
“I hope it’s not pollution,” said Mrs. Grunello. “That would be scary.”
“Very,” said Ingrid. All of a sudden she heard Nigel barking, no doubt right behind the door a
t 99 Maple Lane.
“But the point was I didn’t see any cars parked on the street,” Mrs. Grunello said. “None even drove by the whole time I was there.”
From inside the house, Mr. Grunello called, “Where the hell are my tassel loafers?”
“Where they always are, in the closet,” Mrs. Grunello called over her shoulder. She lowered her voice back to normal and added, “You dope.” And then to Ingrid: “So what’s this all about?”
“I wish I knew,” said Ingrid.
fifteen
IM-ING, SUNDAY NIGHT.
Powerup77: i’m hearing weird stuff
NYgrrrl979: i-girl—is it true????
Gridster22: what are u hearing?
NYgrrrl979: u made up some story to ditch mathfest
Gridster22: NOT TRUE
Powerup77: thats what I thought
Gridster22: mia—u think its true?
NYgrrrl979: no no no no no
Gridster22: because it happened
NYgrrrl979: so you were really????
Gridster22: yeah
NYgrrrl979: but who would do it????
Powerup77: if we knew who this would be o-ver
Gridster22: yeah
NYgrrrl979: or why????
Powerup77: same answer—u not getting it girl
Gridster22: stace—who told u?
Powerup77: sean—but lots of people seem to know
Gridster22: lots?
NYgrrrl979: it must have been so scary
Powerup77: you ok?
They got on the phone. Ingrid told them the whole story.
“Morning, petunia,” said Mr. Sidney as Ingrid stepped on the bus.
“Morning, Mr. Sidney.”
A normal Monday start, but after that things changed.
At first it was just an uneasy feeling. Ingrid sat down beside Mia. The uneasy feeling didn’t come from Mia, who said, “Hey,” and held out half a blueberry muffin. It came when Ingrid, taking a bite, glanced around and saw kids looking at her. Not all the kids, just some here and there. None of them met her glance; all eyes quickly averted. The muffin turned dry in her mouth, and Ingrid handed the rest back to Mia.
“What?” said Mia. “You love blueberry muffins.”
After that, a kind of prologue, things went bad in three acts.
Act One: Math class. Ingrid sat in her place at the back, the best seat in the house, but her mind no longer wandered pleasantly. She kept her eyes on Ms. Groome the whole time. Ms. Groome never looked at her once. She taught a lesson about if Miguel is three years older than Faraz and Faraz is two years younger than some other kid, and on and on, completely incomprehensible. At the end of the class, with Miguel and all the others ranked in order of age on the blackboard and everyone nodding falsely that they understood why, Ms. Groome said, “And now it’s my pleasure to present the MathFest awards. Mia McGreevy, would you step forward?”
Mia walked up to Ms. Groome’s desk.
“For coming second in the entire MathFest celebration, Mia wins a twenty-five-dollar Blockbuster gift certificate. Congratulations, Mia.” She handed Mia an envelope. Mia turned pink and went back to her seat.
“Bruce Berman?”
Brucie was already halfway there.
“For participating in MathFest, Bruce wins a coupon good for one medium-size ice cream, cone or dish, at Moo Cow. Congratulations, Bruce.”
“Math rules,” said Brucie, pumping his fist.
Someone spoke in a low voice. “He gets a prize for just showing up?”
A low voice, but Ms. Groome heard everything. “Precisely,” she said.
As though Ingrid were some kind of magnet, eyes shifted toward her from all over the room. The lunch bell rang.
“Dismissed,” said Ms. Groome.
Act Two: Lunchtime. Ingrid hung out with Stacy at one of the picnic tables near the swings. She took out her lunch—PB&J on whole wheat, milk, a Macoun apple, her favorite—found she wasn’t hungry. On the far side of the swings, some boys were playing touch football. The ball spiraled up into the sky. A blue sky: That surprised Ingrid because of how dark everything seemed.
“Letting that sandwich go to waste?” Stacy said.
“It’s all yours.”
Stacy bit into Ingrid’s sandwich. “I love the way your mom puts in those banana slices,” she said, or something like that, her mouth practically glued together with peanut butter.
Mia came over, laid the Blockbuster gift certificate in front of Ingrid. “Here,” she said.
“No thanks.”
“Take it.”
“No.”
“I don’t want it,” said Mia.
“If no one else wants it,” said Stacy, sweeping it up.
Mia shot her an angry look. They sat quietly for a minute or two, the only sounds Stacy’s chewing and the thump of the football.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Ingrid said.
“I wasn’t looking at you,” Stacy said.
“Me either,” said Mia.
“Just stop,” said Ingrid.
“But—”
A shout rose from over by the football game, then another. The boys didn’t seem to be playing football anymore. Instead they’d gathered in a ragged circle. In the middle of the circle, raising clouds of dust, two—no, three—boys were scrambling around in a funny way. Was it possible they were—? Yes. Fighting.
Ingrid, Stacy, and Mia were on their feet. Something about fighting made you do that. They moved closer, past the swings, to the edge of the circle of boys.
Three boys, two against one. The two were the Dratch twins, Dustin and Dwayne, the biggest kids at Ferrand Middle, partly because even though the Echo Falls School Board mandated social promotion, they’d both been held back twice and were now fifteen years old. The kid they were ganging up on was pretty big for thirteen but nothing like the Dratch twins: Joey Strade.
Dustin Dratch threw a punch at Joey, hit him in the chest. Joey punched him right back, caught him on the nose. That got Dustin all fired up, and he took a wild swing that missed completely, but meanwhile Dwayne snuck around behind Joey and kicked him in the back of the knee.
Joey’s leg buckled and he slumped to the ground. Dwayne crouched, wound up, hit Joey in the mouth as hard as he could. Then Dwayne and Dustin jumped on him. They rolled around, Joey getting an arm free and pounding on a beefy Dratch back. One of the Dratches growled like a savage animal. Ingrid took a step forward.
But before she could take another one, a man rushed into the circle, pushing boys aside. A man with a whistle around his neck—Mr. Porterhouse. He reached down into the pile, jerked the Dratch twins up by the scruffs of their necks. Joey got up too, dusting himself off. His mouth was all bloody.
“What the hell is going on here?” said Mr. Porterhouse.
The Dratch twins gave him a look, sullen and challenging. Joey glared at them, his hands balled into fists.
“I asked a question,” said Mr. Porterhouse.
Silence.
“I’m going to ask once more,” said Mr. Porterhouse. “What the hell is going on?”
Then something weird happened. The Dratch twins turned and looked right at Ingrid. Mr. Porterhouse followed their gaze. His mouth opened, but Joey spoke first.
“We were just playing football,” he said. “It got a little out of hand.”
Mr. Porterhouse’s eyes went from Joey to the Dratch twins, back to Joey. And then very quickly to Ingrid, so quickly she almost missed it.
Mr. Porterhouse nodded. “It happens,” he said. “Don’t let it happen again.”
The Dratch twins started to smile. Identical ugly smiles—they were getting off scot-free.
“Would, say, a week of detention help you remember?” said Mr. Porterhouse.
The Dratch twins looked confused. Ingrid knew why: The question was a little too complicated; they knew that either yes or no got them out of detention but couldn’t figure out which.
“A week of detention it is, then,”
said Mr. Porterhouse.
Dwayne pointed at Joey. No problem telling the Dratch twins apart—the cauliflower ear was Dustin. “What about him?” he said.
“Him too,” said Mr. Porterhouse. “Now everyone inside. Stop by the nurse’s office first, Joey.”
Brucie Berman didn’t actually play touch football, but he liked to stand on the sidelines and make comments. On the bus ride home he told Ingrid what had happened.
“It was about you,” he whispered, bobbing up and down with excitement on the next seat over.
“Me?”
“Dustin said you made up that whole story. Joey was like ‘say it again.’ Dustin said it again. ‘She made up the whole thing.’ Joey popped him.”
“Zip it, guy,” said Mr. Sidney from the front of the bus. He’d said that a million times but never angry like this.
Act Three: At home. No one there, the house a little cold, Nigel sleeping by his empty food bowl in the kitchen.
Ingrid called Joey right away.
“Hello?” Not Joey, but his father, Chief Strade.
Ingrid almost hung up, remembering at the last moment that her number probably showed up on his screen. “Is Joey there?” she said.
“No,” said the chief. “That you, Ingrid?”
“Yes,” said Ingrid.
“How are you doing?”
“All right.”
“Crime lab boys dusted your garage this morning,” he said. “No prints.”
“Oh.”
“Manage to think of anything else in the meantime?” the chief asked.
“Anything else?”
“About the whole incident. Something you might have forgotten to tell me, for example.”
Behind the Curtain Page 11