by Tim Tharp
And the worst part was knowing that The Pretzel had set me up for it. No, that’s not true. The worst part was that somebody caught a video of it and pasted it all over the Internet within probably fifteen minutes.
That was the last straw. I had to do something.
CHAPTER 7
A couple days later Audrey and I were cruising to Topper’s for burgers. Like I said, I didn’t have a car, but it wasn’t so bad since Audrey had this pretty sweet champagne-colored Ford Focus, and we were together most of the time anyway, so it was cool. As we drove, I got the idea she might be getting a little tired of me complaining about the whole Body Bag situation because she’s like, “You know what? You need to stop focusing on that so much. Let it go.”
“How can I let it go? Next time I walk back into school, it’s going to be there again. ‘Here comes Body Bag. Let’s shove him in a sack and roll him down the stairs.’ ”
“You know why I think it bothers you so much?”
“Why? Pray tell, Dr. Freud.”
“Because it hits a little too close to home. Let’s face it. You’re built kind of like a bag. A bag with arms and legs.”
“What?” I glared at her. Sometimes her blunt-and-to-the-point act could get on your nerves. “How would you like it if I said you were built a little bit like a fireplug with pigtails and a Kangol 504?”
That didn’t faze her. “I wouldn’t care. I am built a little like a fireplug. I’m short and solid. Only a fireplug has two arms and just one breast, so I guess I come out ahead on that part. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
So I’m like, “Okay, you can be a double-breasted fireplug, but me, I don’t want to be Body Bag anymore. Anyway, the bag-with-arms-and-legs deal’s not the worst part of it. The worst part is it’s like when I was at the police station—they take your identity away. They strip you of that, and all you have left is a stupid nickname.”
“So, you know what they say?” She smiled at me. “The best revenge is living well.”
“Really? They must not have been in high school when they said that.”
When we pulled into Topper’s, Rockin’ Rhonda was out front as usual. You might think Stan, the owner, would chase off a weird homeless character like Rhonda, but he didn’t. Instead, Rhonda became part of the Topper’s experience.
She was probably in her forties or so and huge, not only for a woman but for anyone. In fact, I thought she was a man the first time I got a look at her. You’d always see her out there in her faded army jacket, pants, and boots—with a frizzed-out pink scarf. The color of her hair I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t have any. She always covered her head with an orange stocking cap, even in the summer.
She got the name Rockin’ Rhonda because she played a beat-up guitar that had no strings and pretty much nonstop sang one golden oldie after another—or at least as much as she could remember of them.
As we walked up to the front door, it’s like:
Me: Hey, Rhonda, how’s it going?
Rockin’ Rhonda (singing): Peggy, my Peggy Sue-hoo-hoo-hoo.
Me: I’ll catch you with some coin on the way out.
Rockin’ Rhonda: I love you, gal. Yes, I love you, Peggy Sue-hoo-hoo.
Audrey: Rock on, Rhonda.
Rockin’ Rhonda (nodding): Yeah, I love you, gal, and I want you, Peggy Sue. Hoo-huh-hoo-hoo. Hoo.
So, yes, having Rhonda out front was a definite bonus, but the real draw to Topper’s was the burgers. The thing is, I’m pretty much an authority when it comes to hamburgers—a real connoisseur of the ground beef and bun—and Topper’s has the best burgers south of Twenty-Third Street. Not that I’ve tried every burger place in the metroplex, but I’ll bet I’ve been to most of the good ones. My personal menu involved about three burgers a week, more when I got lucky, and sometimes I wrote reviews about them for the school paper. The best place I’d tried was actually in Dallas, a place called the Stackhouse, but it’s not like I could make the three-hour drive down there every day. No, Topper’s was easily the best place within fifteen to twenty minutes of my house.
Audrey and I took our usual booth in the corner and looked over the menu. Of course, we knew everything on there, but it’s always fun to look at the selections anyway, especially since they have pictures of the food. Usually, I got the Number 11, which has pepper-jack cheese, bacon, jalapeños, and anything else you want. In my case, I went for lettuce, tomato, onions, and mustard. Mustard is key. Mayonnaise might be all right for a turkey sandwich, but please leave it off the burgers. Also, Topper’s asks how you want your meat cooked, which is a must for a really good hamburger, and I go for the medium well. No blood for me. Just a light touch of pink so I don’t feel like I’m going to come down with E. coli poisoning or something, but not so overcooked that they burn the succulent juices out of it either.
As for Audrey—here’s a major difference between us—she’s been a vegetarian since eighth grade, so she always ordered the Number 2 with both Swiss and sharp cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, mustard, AND mayonnaise—hold the meat! That’s right—HOLD THE MEAT! I told her that a little piece of me died every time I heard that order.
So, we’re sitting there perusing the menus when who comes out of the restroom? Corman Rogers in all his black-and-silver-chain glory—the same guy who seemed a little too interested in the morbid details of Hector’s death. He’s like, “Hey, hey, Body Bag, found any more good corpses lately?”
“Don’t call him that,” Audrey warned him. “He doesn’t like it.”
But Corman just snickered and headed for the door with a couple of his buddies, their silver chains jingling from their oversized belt loops.
I shook my head. Even a vampire like Corman was going with the Body Bag moniker. You might think that would dampen my appetite, but actually it just made me feel like eating two Number 11s.
I’m like, “Jesus, I have to do something about my life. And it’s not just the Body Bag thing either. It’s feeling like you’re a zero in the scheme of the universe. If I died five years out of high school, I probably wouldn’t have a single person at my funeral. If someone found me dead in a Dumpster, they might as well just leave me there. It’d save the city money for having to bury me.”
“Is this about Hector? Just because he died young doesn’t mean you’re going to.”
“I’m talking about this whole process we’re caught in. I mean, think about grade school—there was just a small number of kids. It was manageable. And you get to fifth grade and you’re totally on top. There’s these puny first graders walking around with their cartoon-character backpacks, and you just—you know—you feel huge. Then comes middle school and there’s like ten times more kids, and you don’t even get to know who they are before they ship you to high school and there’s even more kids. You’re fourteen and there’s guys in the halls with full-grown beards. Girls with giant boobs. And it’s not like I’m a bottom-feeder or anything, but I’m sure not at the top, and the middle is so vast you might as well be nobody. So think about what college will be like. And then you get spewed out of that into this churning ocean of life. What then? Am I going to be like this little speck of plankton for these humongous stupid cop sharks to gobble up and crap out their other end?”
“Wow, you really let those cops do a number on you.” Audrey’s expression of concern turned into a mischievous smile. “But think of it this way—at least then you could go to prison. That ought to be pretty manageable. Who knows, you might even be prom queen.”
But I’m like, “That’s not funny. I mean, listen, you have no idea what it was like sitting in that police station having a couple of cops trying to hound you into confessing to something you didn’t do, treating you like everything you ever did doesn’t matter. I guarantee there’s nothing more depressing than knowing morons have complete power over you.”
“Really, Dylan? What do you think it’s like being gay? I have the whole legal system telling me I’m not good enough to fall in love and get
married, but that’s because they’re losers, not me.”
“Yeah, well, good for you.”
Brenda, the waitress, walked up to take our order, and when she left, I’m like, “My problem is I don’t have any mojo. That’s what I need. I need to get some mojo.”
“Some what?”
“Mojo. You know, power.”
“I don’t think that’s what mojo is.”
“Of course that’s what it is. Mojo. Juice. Pull. Clout. Respect.”
“No.” Audrey shook her head. “I don’t think that’s it. I don’t think you know what you want.”
“Why do you always have to disagree with me so much?”
“Because you’re wrong so much?”
“Really? Think about this—what if Hector had been some rich dude? Things would be different now. The cops would do a whole lot more investigating into what happened instead of just rubber-stamping it as an accidental overdose. And on top of that, I’d get a lot more respect for finding him that night. That’s mojo.”
“And you think that’d change everything?”
“It’d be a start.”
“Then why don’t you go looking for Ashton Browning?”
“Ashton who?”
“Browning. Ashton Browning. The missing girl who’s all over the news.”
“What missing girl? I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Of course you haven’t. And that’s exactly why you’ll never be the editor of the school paper—because you never actually pay attention to the news.”
Audrey was always trying to goad me into taking the paper more seriously.
Acting all exasperated, she pulled out her phone—which I’d like to point out was a lot more expensive than mine—and started looking up the news story online. “Here it is. Come here.”
I moved over to her side of the booth. Sure enough, it was a big story. There was even a video about it from the local news. Apparently, this Ashton Browning girl was the daughter of a banking big shot. I don’t even think he was president of the bank—he was more like the boss of the president. Anyway, Ashton told her friends she was going jogging at the nature park north of town, where you can go hiking or running if that’s what you’re into, among the squirrels and foxes and lizards and whatnot. She never came home. Officials—whoever they were—found her car there but no trace of her.
I stared at her photo—seventeen, blond, blue-eyed, rich. It’s funny—some people you can tell they’re rich just by looking at them, and she was definitely one of those people. But there was something else about her too, a certain mystery in those blue eyes. It made a weird contrast to her little thin smile. I felt like she was looking straight into me, asking, “Can’t you help me?”
I guess maybe I fell a little bit in love with her right then.
“There you go,” Audrey said. “Made to order. You find her, and you’ve got your mojo—or whatever.”
“Yeah, but how am I going to find her?”
“I don’t know, Dylan. You’re the detective-show junkie.”
Then I’m like, “Wait a minute. Look at this. They’re asking for volunteers to come out to the nature park tomorrow to help search the place, I guess for clues or who knows—maybe her body.”
“Well, you’ve got experience with that.”
“You’re right. I do.” That’s when it hit me, the whole investigative-journalist thing and all the mojo that went with it. Sure, I didn’t know Ashton like I knew Hector, but in a weird way I felt like if I could find her, it’d be like making things up to Hector. “This is it,” I said. “This is what I was meant to do. We have to go out there.”
“What do you mean, we? I’m not going out there. I was just kidding you. They have all the cops they need to find her. You’d just get in the way.”
“I won’t get in the way. It says right here they need volunteers. I’d make as good a volunteer as anyone. Besides, I could write about it for the school newspaper, and you could take the pictures. After all, you’re the one always telling me I need to take on some more hard-hitting topics.”
I had her there. She sat staring at the phone for a second. “You know, you’re actually right for once. This would make a great story. And I could get some seriously kick-ass photos.”
“I’m telling you.”
Brenda came back with our order and I moved back to my side of the booth. The Number 11 sat there on the table, gazing up at me with all its fat-packed goodness, like a reward for coming up with the best idea since the invention of the emoticon.
“There’s just one problem,” Audrey said as she lifted her meatless Number 2 from the dish. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Don’t you work Saturday?”
My heart sank. “Crap. That’s right.”
“You could quit.”
“I can’t just quit. I’m saving up for a car—the ’69 Mustang.”
“Then you’re just going to have to decide what’s more important. You can’t really keep working there and expect to do much for the paper anyway. If you want to be the guy who does more than get a piddling article about flu season or something in every third issue, then you’re going to have to put in time after school. It’s up to you. You can work on the all-time best story that’s ever been in the paper, or you can sack groceries.”
“And don’t forget I’m also going to find this missing girl.”
“Whatever. The real thing—the important thing—is working on this story.”
I looked back at the Number 11. It was definitely on the side of finding Ashton Browning. “Okay,” I said. “I’m out of the grocery business and on to being a full-time investigative reporter. With emphasis on investigative.”
Audrey wiped her mouth with her paper napkin. “I’m so proud of my boy. He’s getting all grown up.”
After we finished eating, I stopped out front to give Rockin’ Rhonda the change I got from paying for my meal.
“Thank you,” she said, Elvis-like. “Thank you very much.”
“Rhonda,” I said, “you’ve heard of mojo, right?”
With what you might call the classic faraway look in her eyes, she’s like, “Mojo? Sure. ‘Mojo Hand,’ by Lightnin’ Hopkins. ‘Got My Mojo Workin’,’ by Muddy Waters, ‘Mr. Mojo Risin’ ’—Jim Morrison and the Doors. Oh yeah, man. Mojo.”
“So what does it mean? It’s like power, right?”
“Oh yeah, it’s the special power. It’s the magic power.”
I looked at Audrey. “See, I told you.”
She gave me the whatever eyebrow shrug.
“You want to see my mojo?” Rhonda asked.
I’m like, “Uh. Okay?”
I admit I was a little afraid of what she was going to show us, but she just held up her stringless guitar and goes, “This is it, man. This is my mojo.” And then she made a big windmill pantomime strum and launched into song: “Mr. Mojo risin’, Mr. Mojo risin’, gotta keep on risin’—”
CHAPTER 8
Saturday morning I woke up feeling guilty about quitting my job. Don, my boss, wasn’t happy about it, considering I gave less than a day’s notice. I explained that I had to do it for my future as an investigative journalist, but that didn’t help much. He seemed to think doing anything outside the grocery business was stupid. So I told him my parents and my journalism teacher were making me do it, which wasn’t exactly true. I still hadn’t told my parents about quitting, and Ms. Jansen never did act like I had much potential. She always said my stuff was too informal, which was a load of crap as far as I was concerned.
Anyway, I started to think I’d made a mistake, so I turned over in bed to consider the prospect a little more and ended up drifting back to sleep instead. I woke up again later with Audrey yanking on my covers, going, “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be ready. Come on, let’s go.”
“I have to take a shower.”
“We don’t have time for that. The search party starts at ten o’clock.”
“Well, I at least have to eat breakfast.”
“We’ll get it on the way. I’m going out to the kitchen and talk to your parents. You’d better be ready to go in five minutes.”
“I don’t know if I want to do it anymore.”
“Oh, you’re doing it all right.” She popped me on top of the head with the flat of her hand. “I’m not letting you back out now.”
When she left the room, I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on my favorite jeans and sneakers and my Chuck Norris T-shirt. Here, let me point out that I am a huge fan of Chuck Norris and his show Walker, Texas Ranger. I watch the reruns religiously. I mean, nobody can kick someone in the neck like Walker—bikers, drug dealers, crooked corporate tycoons, you name it. Walker is the man. I know about ten people I wouldn’t mind kicking in the neck like that.
Anyway, after I got dressed, there was nothing to be done with my hair, so I shoved my black porkpie hat down over it. Not that I’m big into hats like Audrey, but six months ago I had a weak moment and thought it’d be cool to go with the porkpie. Now it was the only hat I owned.
About fifteen minutes later we were on the road, and Audrey’s like, “So I had this idea about what happens to Harry Potter in ten years. He dies and comes back as Edward from Twilight, but the catch is Hermione has also died and come back as this moody chick who is actually a lesbian now and is in love with Sookie from True Blood.”
And I go, “Yeah, but then it turns out that in the meantime, Sookie died and has come back as Jacob the werewolf.”
“So that would mean that Jacob is actually now an awesome she-wolf.”
Usually, we could have gone on like this for twenty minutes, but I was still feeling the guilt over the job situation and switched the topic over to how everyone at work probably hated me now.
“Quit worrying what other people think of you so much,” Audrey said. “You’re starting a new phase in life. You never know what might happen if you apply yourself.”
“You sound like my parents.”
“Well, you should listen to them.”