“Aaron can do magic,” said Morgan.
“Magicians are hot,” Skully added.
Brent glared at me. “Aren’t you a little old for card tricks?”
“I’m not big into cards,” I told him.
“So what do you do?”
Okay. This was it.
I stepped a few feet away from them. Tilting my body at an angle, I balanced on tiptoe. Then I lifted up, raising my feet off the ground. The girls screamed. Brent hopped backward, stumbling over himself, and tried to act all cool, as if he wasn’t scared shitless.
I couldn’t believe it. Damn. I’d actually pulled off the levitation trick that I’d been practicing for months.
“Okay, okay,” Brent said. “That was freaky. Now tell us how you did it.”
Morgan clutched her chest. “I thought I was going to pass out. That was, like, real magic.”
“ ‘Real magic’? What the hell is that?” Brent was losing his cool now.
I thrust my arm in front of him. “Lay off, okay?”
“Oh, you’re her boyfriend now?”
Morgan was looking at me, her lips slightly parted, inviting. And then I leaned in, slow, and covered her mouth with my own. We kissed and it wasn’t like before. It was more like she was pulling something out of me, reaching down inside, and taking hold, tight. Her lip ring bumped against my teeth. When she finally slipped away, I heard brakes squealing on the boulevard, pigeons rustling all around, and my own quick gasps. Now there was a sliver of gum sliding across my tongue, a little secret between us.
Brent flicked his cigarette on the ground and stomped it. Then he picked up one of the deck chairs and clattered it across the roof, knocking over empty beer bottles. A spray of broken glass flew in all directions. I looked at my ankle, at the tiny beads of blood dotting my skin. When I wiped them away, they popped up again.
“I’m getting the fuck out of here,” Brent said.
He stormed back down the stairs. I was officially stuck. Mom was taking the truck later to work her shift. I had no form of transportation, no deal to report to the cops, and no time left. In other words, I had failed again. What a surprise.
I couldn’t look at Morgan, although I felt her walking behind me, the warmth of her there, as if she knew too much. Skully cracked a joke about the “fragile male ego,” but nobody laughed.
We made it back to the apartment. I went to the closet, grabbed a heap of blankets, and spread them on the floor. The girls stretched out like we were throwing a slumber party. Skully had already taken the bed, so I settled on the floor.
Morgan snuggled next to me. “Mr. Mystery,” she whispered.
“You really scared me tonight,” I whispered back. “Do you use that stuff a lot? I mean, the ketamine or whatever.”
“It’s a lot safer than the weight-loss pills my stepmom gave me.”
“Pills? When was this?”
“Junior high.”
“Shit. Are you still taking them?”
“Obviously not. Then my fat ass would still fit, you know … the size zero jeans I used to wear.”
“For the record, you’re not fat. How many times do I have to tell you? And who wears a size zero anyway? It’s not even a number.”
She traced the stubble along my jaw. “You’re funny.”
I waited to see what she’d do next. Soon she was snoring faintly, her chilly toes tucked against my own. I stayed awake, chewing the flavorless gum because my mouth felt too full. When I finally swallowed it, a trickle of sunlight had cut the room in half, the other side still bathed in shadow. And as I faded into sleep, I heard a familiar rustling: Wendy’s orphaned chicks at the window, cooing in minor keys.
For some reason, I felt like I was the one who let them down.
15 : Carnations
The bus was late, as usual. Morgan slumped on the bench, doodling in her sketchbook. I glanced down at her ballpoint cartoon: a raggedy dude with bugged-out eyeballs. I’d seen this guy at the coffeehouse formerly known as Joffrey’s (hence vanquished by Starbucks). He always wore headphones and a rope-belted housecoat.
“That’s the Cleric,” I said, startling her.
“What? He’s just this homeless freak I’ve been following on the beach,” she said. “I might do a photo collage about him.”
“I know that guy. Not personally. But I see the Cleric all the time. He always gets free coffee.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve never seen him pay.”
“I have this theory about him. He’s actually a multi-billionaire genius. He’s, like, this computer-whiz inventor who struck it rich. He’s only pretending to be crazy.”
“And he’s getting more perverted each day,” she said, adding a garden hose (at least, I hope it was a garden hose), through which his lower body dribbled onto a patch of grass.
“You know, you’re a really amazing artist,” I told her.
“My drawings are crappy. And my parents aren’t exactly thrilled with the idea of me studying art.”
“I hear you,” I said, nodding.
She returned to doodling in her sketchbook, as if the pen were surgically connected to her fingers. “They think I’m going to end up in a cardboard box by the MacArthur Causeway or something. They’re totally in favor of me selling out.” She kept looking at the drawing the whole time, talking to the Cleric instead of me.
“That sucks,” I said.
“I was supposed to get this internship with that guy … you know the one on Lincoln Road who makes Pop Art flamingoes?”
“Yeah?” I said, although I wasn’t sure.
“Basically, I would be painting the flamingoes for him. You know, coloring inside the lines. But since I’d be working for free, my parents thought it was a waste of time. Then the weirdest thing happens. Right before I got fired, the bookstore asked me to do some lame-ass mural for them. I would’ve gotten paid and everything. They still want me to do it.”
“See? You’re official now.”
“Not really. I’ll probably blow it off.”
“Are you crazy? This is, like, your big break. What’s the problem?”
“I mean, it’s a lot of work and I really don’t feel like it,” she said, scribbling out the Cleric’s face. “Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Excuse me for believing in you.”
“Sorry.” Morgan capped her pen. “I didn’t mean to come off like a bitch.”
“That’s all right. I didn’t think you were. A bitch, I mean.”
She leaned against me, and I forgot how to breathe.
“Makes some room, homies,” said Skully, plopping down between us. She put on her heart-shaped glasses.
When the bus finally rumbled to the curb, a tide of people poured out, mostly old ladies with saggy, flesh-tinted stockings. As soon as they hit the sidewalk, they snapped open umbrellas, although the sky was smeared with just a few faint clouds, like chalk scribble.
“Guess they’re allergic to sunlight,” Morgan said, slamming her sketchbook shut.
We got on and found seats in the back.
“Man, I can’t wait to be old,” Skully said. “Then you can really hit the bitch-switch. Like, you’ll go out to eat at four o’ clock on Sunday, order the early bird special. And when your meatloaf comes out cold, you can yell at the waiter. Say things like, ‘Make it snappy!’ ”
Morgan tore a page from her sketchbook and crumpled it into a ball. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Geez, Louise. You’ve been bitchy all morning. Or should I say, ‘witchy’?”
“Too bad I can’t cast a spell on you. Then you’d finally shut up. And maybe,” she said, turning to me, “I would know why you deleted me from your friends list.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“When I got online this morning, I noticed my friend count had changed. So I did a search for your name. Sorry if I sound like a cyber-stalker.”
“I had a cyber-stalker last year. It was this kid I knew from grade school,” Skully said.
Morgan scowled at her. “Anyway,” she said, talking to the floor. “I noticed you changed your profile and I was like, What’s up with that?”
I swallowed the knob in my throat. Nothing else to do but confess. “It’s not me.”
Morgan looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Somebody made a fake profile,” I explained.
“You’re lying.”
“No, I swear.”
Morgan scrunched her eyebrows. I couldn’t blame her for not believing. Whenever someone ends a sentence with, “I swear,” you can bet they’re lying.
“Check on Aaron’s cell. It has Wi-Fi,” Skully said.
“It does?” I flipped it open. The screen flickered to life.
“You didn’t know? What’s the point of having a pimped-out phone if you can’t surf the net?” Skully pushed buttons until a miniature version of Facebook popped up. “Fire away,” she said, handing it back to me.
I typed my name, then a series of numbers and letters. It returned to the sign-on screen. I’d forgotten that I’d changed my password on the real page a few days ago. I tried again. When I finally reached the page, it looked different. Under Interests, it said, Stealing your girl. In the About You section, it said, Fake ass poser. I clicked on my picture.
NARC, it read in all caps.
I dropped the phone, which clattered on the floor and slid like a missile toward the back of the bus. I scrambled out of my seat. Skully beat me to it.
“Maybe they phished your password,” she said, handing it back.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You click on a link and they hijack your profile. Are you getting a lot of spammy bulletins?”
“No. I didn’t click on anything. I don’t know how it got messed up.”
“Oh, well. Just change your password.”
“I did.”
“Change it again.” She laughed. “Don’t freak out. It’s no big deal.”
Morgan touched my knee. “Any clue who did it?”
“Nada,” I said. Another lie. Maybe it was her psycho ex-boyfriend sending those messages. Or some random person at school. Hell, it could’ve been Nolan Struth, traveling in his time machine.
“I don’t think that’s the profile I saw this morning. So which one is the real you?” she asked.
I got the same kind of feeling you get when you’re crossing the street and a truck almost hits you.
“Neither of them,” I said.
She pursed her mouth. For a minute, I zoned out, watching her lips close and open over that crooked smile. When I drifted back to earth, Skully was saying something about tech support.
“Send them a message. They’ll kick off the imposter.”
“Okay. Cool,” I told her.
She waited. “Why don’t you do it now?”
“Later,” I said. “It’s a pain in the ass.”
“It’s easy. Go to Inbox,” she said, hovering over my shoulder.
“God, Skully. Give him some space,” Morgan said.
“Listen,” I said. “Check this out.” I showed them the message, the one with the date and address. “Do you know who could’ve sent this to me?”
Skully squealed. “Oh, my god, Double A. You got an e-vite to a Halloween blowout in the Everglades? That’s sick. Why didn’t I hear about it?”
“Do you recognize this username?”
Skully shook her head. “Nope. But I am so there.”
“Wait,” I said. “There’s nothing in the e-mail that mentions a party. It just says Tamiami Trail.”
“It’s on All Hallows Eve. What else would it be? Anyway, Morgan should know. She’s the witch,” Skully said.
Morgan turned to me. “Could be mildly amusing. You plan on going?”
“Hell no,” I said.
“Well, now you have no choice,” she said, smiling. “Because we’re not having fun without you.”
I sank down in my seat.
For the rest of the bus ride, the girls wouldn’t stop talking about the “Glades party.” If Skully posted a bulletin to all ten thousand of her closest “friends” in cyberspace, the entire school would show up.
The cops were planning a big bust. This meant an arrest of epic proportions—not just the dealer, but any kid from Palm Hammock who was caught smoking chronic or knocking back a few beers.
I was in this weird position, like I was Mr. Innocent, like I’d never touched weed or got wasted. The truth is … I made lots of mistakes. Not because I was a bad person. There’s all kinds of reasons why someone does a bad thing. Most of the time, we only see the surface of people—the face they put on at school, the shield, the battle armor.
Before I got to know the girls, I’d already made up my mind about them. At first, I thought they were just scene queens. I guess you could say I was judging, the way people had judged me. Now I was drifting on the other side, past the gates of social limbo. Except it felt more like Hades, the land of the dead.
16 : Do Unto Others
When I ditched the girls, they gave me the third degree. I used the babysitting excuse, saying my little sister needed me. In a way, this was actually true. I stepped into the parking lot at the bookstore, took out my cell, and dialed the magic number. No dice. It didn’t even ring once. I tried again. Same thing. I looked at the screen.
Searching for service.
I headed back inside and glanced around the store, at the bald dudes thumbing through sports magazines. I asked if I could use the phone behind the counter to make a local call.
“There’s a pay phone at the Metro station. Go across the street,” said the cashier.
I called the lead officer, then a Sunshine cab, and booked it out to Key Biscayne.
We weren’t supposed to meet so soon (the less time I spend around cops, the easier it should be, staying undercover). He didn’t ask why I called. Just materialized in the front row of the marine stadium, wearing his pleated khakis and aviator sunglasses.
The seats faced the bay, where bands used to perform on a floating stage. Graffiti was splashed across every part of it, from the crumbling skybox to the weed-infested orchestra pit.
I got there first and killed time, inspecting the aisles. On one of the seats, a tagger had sketched (with colored Sharpies, no less) a mural of Tom, the cartoon cat, hightailing it after Jerry the mouse. I never understood why people thought that shit was funny. Once in kindergarten, I raised my hand and told the teacher that I didn’t get why ninety percent of kids’ shows violated the Golden Rule, which she made us memorize and recite like robots. Ms. Kemp frowned. She asked if I knew the difference between the real world and make believe.
The cop was sweating. I wanted to jump in the waves and backstroke away from the questions I knew he’d ask.
“What have you found?” he asked, taking out a memo pad.
I told him about the date with Finch.
“So you bought a jar of X from this guy?” he asked, trying to be cool, speaking the lingo.
“Not exactly,” I said.
“What happened?”
I could’ve lied. Or wiggle out by saying, “He flaked on me,” which was exactly what I did.
“This is a real disappointment,” he said.
I hung my head. God. Just rub it in.
“Did you get his number, at least?”
“Yeah.” I took out my cell and searched the contact list. “Shit,” I muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What’s the problem?”
“My phone died.”
The cop sat there, saying nothing. “Died in what way?” he finally asked.
“It’s not working.”
He sighed. “Did you drop it somewheres?”
This was the only man I’d ever met who said somewheres, as if it were plural. As if there was more than one somewhere. I shrugged and told the truth for a change.
“Sorry. I kind of broke it.”
He took the phone and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll see if we can get it repaired. You can bet he’s going to call again. Until then, we can get the paperwork started on a search warrant.”
“Wait a minute. Whose house are you searching?” I asked.
“You already told me that this girl, Jessica Torres, has an operation going out of her parents’ place.”
“No. I mean, it’s a party house. People hang out there. I saw some things that night. But Skully is clean. In fact, she’s almost straight-edge.”
The cop put a hand on my shoulder. “Aaron. You’re not protecting these kids, are you? No, you wouldn’t do that. Because if you did, you’d be going to jail. I’d make sure of it. Do you understand?”
I nodded. An all-too-familiar sickness burned in my stomach. If I went to jail, who would watch out for Haylie? Not that was doing a real good job of it lately. Shit.
“Is that clear?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He let go, but I could still feel his grip. “Now what about Morgan Bask—”
He couldn’t even pronounce her name.
“Baskin,” I said nice and slow for him.
“Right. She’s the ex-ballerina. Floats between cliques. Easy on the eyes.”
“What about her?”
“You told me that she’s been dealing pot to her buddies. Because of her social standing, she might even be our alpha dog.”
“Morgan isn’t much of dealer. She just ends up giving it away to her friends.”
“How do you know for sure? I mean, these popular kids … you’re not really part of their clique, are you?”
Narc Page 11