by Jeyn Roberts
When the long ride is finally over, he gets up to let me out. For a minute, I think he might sit back down but no such luck. He follows me off the train and up the stairs into the night.
“Where are you going?” I ask him. Maybe he’ll give me a clue. It would be nice to know who he lives with. Parents? A guardian? And where does he live? I really know nothing about this guy. I know I should ask more questions but I have a feeling he’ll just be as closemouthed as usual.
“Can I walk you home?”
Now, that I wasn’t expecting. “Um. Sure. I guess.”
“It’s a bad neighborhood. I’d hate to see something happen to you.”
The laughter bursts from my throat before I can stop it. “Yeah, I’m a real weakling.”
“I never said that,” Chael says with a straight face. “You’re confident and a great fighter. I’d be more than a little nervous if I ran into you in a dark alley. But not everything can be solved by fists and ability. There’s a lot more to life than just being tough.”
“You’re doing it again,” I say. “You sound just like Gazer. He’s always telling me there’s more to everything than what I already know.”
“How did you meet Gazer?”
I kick at a pebble with my foot. “He saved my life. And then he took me in when no one else wanted me. My mother threw me out.”
Chael slows down for half a step and I swear his entire body clenches. “Why would she do that?”
“Heam,” I say. “She couldn’t handle my overdose. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t my fault.” I listen to the bitterness in my voice and hate that I can’t control it. “My father had gone to jail for dealing Heam. He owed a lot of money to the wrong people. That’s why they targeted me. Mom ended up on probation because of her involvement. I guess she was afraid for herself. She thought they’d come after her next.”
“That’s not fair. You shouldn’t make excuses for her bad behavior.”
“A lot of things aren’t fair,” I say. “It’s okay, though. I’m better off with Gazer.”
We walk. I find a tin can and kick it for about half a block. The noise is loud and when I look at my watch, I’m surprised to see it’s only a little past one. It feels so much later. Gazer might still be awake. If that’s the case, I’ll have to wait outside. It wasn’t raining earlier but now a soft drizzle is trickling down on my face. At least I won’t get soaked. I can always try to find an all-night coffee shop or something if it gets worse.
But when we finally stop outside the church, I think I’ve gotten my first lucky break that night. I go around to the side, where normally I can see the light from Gazer’s study area. Through the window, I can see nothing but darkness. It looks like he’s gone to sleep. Sneaking in is still an option.
I return to the front, where Chael is waiting underneath the streetlight. His hoodie is down and his hair is just starting to get wet from the drizzle. Diamond droplets stick to his dark locks, giving him a halo effect from the light over his head.
His eyes are dark and his expression is unreadable.
“Thanks,” I say to him.
He nods.
Chael smiles and for a second I could care less that he’s so mysterious. The almost-perfect teeth peek from behind soft lips. So familiar. It bothers me. The more I look at him, the more I believe I know him. I’ve looked into those eyes before. But where?
And even though he’s admitted that he stalks me, why do I feel so safe when he’s around? That makes no logical sense. I should be charging the guy with a criminal offense, but instead I have to stop myself from jumping into his arms for a hug.
Mixed signals here. Maybe I hit my head during that fight?
“So when are you going to tell me?” I finally ask. “Why you seem to know so much about me and yet I know nothing about you.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” I push out my lower lip and widen my eyes. A look I used to use all the time when I was a little girl. A look that used to work on everyone except Christian. He’d laugh and tell me that only dogs could get away with such pleading eyes. But he’d still hand over the last stick of gum or piece of candy he knew I wanted.
“I really can’t,” he says with a bit of a frown. “I’d love to tell you but I can’t.”
“Why? Will you turn into a pumpkin or melt into a pile of goo if you tell?”
“Maybe,” he says with a sad grin. “I have to wait until you figure it out on your own.”
“Figure what out? That makes no sense,” I say.
Chael steps forward and leans down toward me. For a second I believe he’s going to kiss me and my entire body goes into meltdown. It is a kiss but not in the way I think. His lips brush against my forehead and then pull away.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says. “And when you do, I’ll be back.”
I watch him walk away, disappearing into the mist and shadows. Turning, I head back around to the side and pull out my key.
And the memory hits me.
The rain falls down on my face. I’m scared, yes, terrified, but at the same time I’m curious. The silver color of the Heam is beautiful and it looks like something my dolls would drink if they were actually living. I can still hear Christian behind me and I wonder if they’re giving him the same treat. Rufus is holding on to my arm and I try pulling away. But his grip tightens until tears start falling down my cheeks. He leans in close and his eye twitches several times.
“Why are you doing this?” Christian says. “She’s just a kid. She didn’t do anything to you.”
“They’re all bitches,” Trank says, and his fingers reach toward me, but thankfully Rufus slaps them away.
“None of that, Trank,” Rufus says. “Don’t wear the poor girl out before her trip’s even begun.” He flashes a smile at me. As he opens his hand, I see the vial of silvery liquid.
Rufus lets go of me long enough to open the Heam vial. He holds up the bottle in front of me and I can’t stop looking at the beautiful liquid. I’ve been taught about it at school and my mother tells me every day not to do it. How can something this gorgeous be evil?
I look over at Christian and he’s sandwiched between the man with the scar on his forehead, and another man with long sandy hair. The scarred man is ugly. Almost grotesque. His scar is a nasty blotchy-looking thing that has eaten away most of his eyebrow. He’s pinned Christian’s arm so far behind his back it looks like it might break. Poor Christian. I can tell he’s trying not to cry. I try again to pull away from Rufus and move toward my friend but they won’t let me. They push me away and laugh. I fall to the ground, the cement scraping my knees, cutting me; my blood mixes with the rainwater and disappears into the gutter.
Rufus holds out the bottle.
“Will it hurt?” I ask.
“Only if you want it to.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rufus smiles. Trank grabs my arms and Rufus brings the bottle up toward my lips. The smell of strawberries hits my nose.
“You’re a pretty little piece of sunshine. You’ll figure it out.”
I look over at Christian. It’s the last glimpse I ever get of him alive. Even though he’s struggling with his own pain, he’s looking straight at me. Smiling.
“It’ll be okay, honey bunny,” he says. “It’s okay.”
Honey bunny. One last tease. A plea to try to take away my fear.
The men laugh and Scarface puts his dirty hand over Christian’s mouth.
My head snaps up in surprise. Honey bunny?
How is it possible that Chael could know that? He said those very words to me.
There were only six people there that night. Rufus. Trank. Ming. Phil. Four men. Two victims. Christian and me.
My father called me that, but he’s dead.
Christian’s dead.
Where does Cha
el fit in?
I turn and run back to the front of the church, hoping that Chael is still there. But the street is empty. The light shines down on emptiness.
I jog down to the end of the block but he’s not there either.
“Chael!” I scream, but not too loud. I don’t need to wake up the entire neighborhood.
I hear nothing but the sound of the rain as it falls harder.
“Chael!” I repeat. I look around and slowly start walking back toward the church. No familiar figure appears and by the time I reach the door, I have my key back in my hand. I twist the lock, grimacing when the door squeaks as I push inward.
I turn again, looking out once more onto the empty wet street.
“Christian,” I whisper.
I made it to bed without incident. I didn’t sleep.
There is no way Chael could have been there. He’s not one of them, my enemies. I know them better than I knew my own mother. I’ve spent a lifetime following them. Besides, Chael is too young. He would have been Christian’s age six years ago.
But he’s not Christian. Christian’s dead.
So who is he?
In the middle of the night, I slip out of bed and go into the back of my closet, where I keep my photo album. There are only a few pictures there. One of them is of Christian and me. It was taken shortly before his death. The two of us were at his house and his dad was trying out his new camera. I’m smiling, big and goofy, and Christian has his arm around me. I look like the happiest kid in the world even though my dress is secondhand and my hair is held back with a ponytail holder I found in the Dumpster. I was so thrilled that Christian had his arm around me and I planned on taking that picture to school and telling everyone he was my boyfriend. I carry the photo back to bed with me and light a candle. By the small flicker of light, I stare at it for the longest time.
Christian’s hair. Dark chestnut brown. His eyes. Green. His smile. White and pretty. Beautiful and dead.
It’s not possible.
I went to his funeral. Gazer held my hand. Christian’s parents were kind to me. They hugged me tightly and even offered to take me home with them. They’d heard by then about what my mother did and thankfully she wasn’t invited. But I declined. The hatred and desire to seek revenge were already embedded in my brain. Gazer had promised to teach me how to fight. As much as I loved Christian’s parents, I knew my future didn’t involve being their adopted daughter.
But I would get revenge for their son.
As the candle burns down, I trace my fingers along the initials scratched into the bedside table. Christian’s name.
Not Chael’s.
Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out the flyer that the girl with the red umbrella gave me. Opening it, I stare at Arnold Bozek’s face. His short blond hair and glasses. His smile is big and toothy. The nerdy image of someone who would never take Heam but has gone missing just the same. The little girl accused me of keeping him from her.
“You talked to him right here. Under this light. I saw you!”
As God is my witness, I’ve never talked to Arnold Bozek. I remember when she called out to us and Chael suggested we go grab a cup of coffee. He’d been nervous and pulled the hoodie up over his face but that didn’t mean a thing. He’s always doing restless stuff like that. That has to be the night she’s talking about. There wasn’t any other. I don’t understand how the Red umbrella girl could possibly mistake Chael for Arnold. They don’t look a thing alike.
There are too many questions going through my mind. Funny enough, I don’t think about Trank. His death isn’t what’s keeping me awake. If anything, his death is a relief. It’s one less person I have to follow. One less monster out on the streets. I’m glad he’s dead.
When morning comes, I must look like a zombie. Gazer sits down while I’m at the breakfast table, my cheek leaning against my coffee mug in a pathetic attempt to try to keep my face elevated.
“Rough night?”
I look at Gazer in alarm but he’s not even paying attention to me. He picks up the paper and opens it. I really pulled it off. He thinks I stayed home.
“Didn’t sleep well,” I say.
“Maybe you’re doing too much,” he says, and he goes over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. “You should take a break. All this work you’re doing. You’re too young to look that awful.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
“I’m serious,” Gazer says. He comes over with the coffeepot and refills my cup. “Take today off. I don’t want to see you go down to the basement. Go do something fun. Go to the mall or something. Whatever it is normal girls do. Get a manicure. Go to a movie. Do you need money?” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some bills, and drops them on the table in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You need to do this more often,” Gazer says. “Take breaks. They’re good for the soul.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in souls?” I say as I pocket the money.
“Figure of speech. Now, what do you feel like for breakfast? I’m in a cooking mood. Maybe some pancakes? Or how about an omelet?”
“Do we have hash browns?”
Gazer goes over to the fridge and checks the freezer area. “Not sure. When’s the last time we cleaned this thing out? I think there’s a frozen dinner here from ten years ago.”
“If the stupid machine stopped breaking all the time, we might be able to put fresh food in there,” I suggest. As soon as the words are out, the fridge shudders and dies. Neither of us looks surprised. It’s a daily event around here.
Gazer gives the machine a swift kick and it jolts back to life. One of these days it will probably throw in the towel for good and Gazer and I will be forced to live on crackers and chocolate bars for a month or two before we’re able to find a cheap enough replacement.
“Maybe we’d better stick to pancakes,” Gazer suggests. “Doesn’t that come in a box? Besides, I’m not sure we have eggs.”
I get up and poke around in the cupboards until I find the instant pancake mix. Gazer finds some milk that isn’t expired. Together we manage to come up with a breakfast that doesn’t look like it will give us massive heartburn or food poisoning.
It’s a miracle that we’ve both managed to stay alive this long, considering that our cooking skills together match those of a child mixing dirt in the sandbox. But the pancakes come out almost fluffy and not too badly burned and I find a bottle of syrup sticking to the bottom shelf in the fridge.
“Not bad,” I say through my first mouthful of pancake.
“I should have sent you to cooking classes,” Gazer said. “I’m not sure what this private school is teaching you if you think this dreck is tasty.”
“I never said it was tasty,” I said. “But it is edible. That’s better than we manage most days.”
Gazer laughs and I pour more coffee.
I like mornings like this. It’s almost enough to take my mind off of last night’s events.
Almost.
A strange noise fills the kitchen area. Someone has just rung the buzzer. Gazer looks at me with surprise. “Wonder who that could be. Are you expecting anyone?”
“Nope,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.
I don’t follow Gazer to the door. I stay in my chair although my legs start to twitch and I fight an uncontrollable urge to get up and run. This can only be bad news. No one ever comes to visit us since neither of us actually has friends. Gazer parted ways with his old life before I ever met him. There used to be a few guys from the force that would drop by from time to time but eventually they stopped coming around. As time moved on, so did they.
Gazer opens the door and I can hear low voices talking back and forth. A few minutes later, Gazer returns, and he’s being followed by two cops in black uniforms.
Uh-oh.
; “Faye,” Gazer says, and I can see the anger boiling over in his eyes. “These officers would like to have a word with you. Something about a party last night?”
I’m so boned.
We go into the living-room area to sit down since the kitchen table is full of leftover pancakes. Suddenly the smell of maple syrup is a tad overwhelming. The two officers have identified themselves as detectives Daily and Aggett.
I sit down on the chair and the officers take the couch. Gazer stands over by the bookshelf and he won’t even look at me. He asks if the cops want any coffee and they politely decline.
Daily is older and fat. He’s of average height but he looks taller because of his girth. His belly sticks way over his belt and his forehead is beaded with sweat even though the church is cool. His mustache is trimmed and neat. He wears a ring on his finger and I wonder if his wife is concerned about his health. Does she lie awake at night worrying about him getting killed on the job or is she trying to come up with healthy choices to keep his heart beating a few more months?
Daily pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead quickly before opening up a notebook with his pudgy fingers. “We just want to ask you a few questions,” he says, and his voice is friendly enough.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask. I keep my voice high and breathy, trying to sound worried and slightly confused. I’ve decided to go for the innocent-girl look. It’s worked for me before. I look over at Gazer and he’s glaring at me. He knows exactly what I’m doing. But he’s not the person I’m trying to convince.
“That depends on where you were last night.”
Now I’m really boned. I could lie and say I was here last night, but Gazer will immediately know I’m full of it. But will it be enough to convince the police?
I look over at Detective Aggett and discover he’s not paying attention to us. He’s staring at the rows of wooden pews and the dirty stained-glass windows that make up our living area. He’s uncomfortable. Maybe he was an altar boy at one point. Maybe he wore the long robe and stood uncomfortably on the platform, wishing he were anywhere except there. I find that people with strong religious backgrounds have trouble being in our house. They look around at the marble and unpolished wood and find it sacrilegious that anyone would ever want to live here. Then when they see that we’ve put a couch and chair where the altar used to be, they have to clamp down to try to keep the lectures out. Aggett has that look on his face right now. He wants to ask us why we’d ever defile a house of God with our philosophical books and small color TV that no longer works.