Her eyebrows rose. “Really? I suppose Courtney handed it over to him on a silver platter.”
“More or less.”
“Okay. You win. Your story’s worse.”
“I know. I’ll trade you any day.”
“Did you hear from Fresh Meat?”
My gaze shot to hers. Did she know? “Why would I?” I asked.
She yanked me to a stop, and her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “Spill.”
I shook off her hand and stepped to my locker. “Nothing to spill.”
“You did talk to him. Did he call? How did he get your number?”
“He didn’t call me.” I avoided her eyes and dug in my locker as if enamored with every item.
The warning bell rang.
“You better get going, Miss Newly Studious.”
She stepped away then turned back. “At lunch, Phillips. You’re telling me everything at lunch.”
I waved my hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said and walked off to chemistry.
Chapter Eight
Mr. Armstrong was sick, so we had some flabby sub named Ms. Rodstick. Imagine. With a name like that, she might as well paint a target on her butt.
Some guys in the front row started right in, but she was oblivious. She picked up the sub plans and read through them aloud in a GPS voice.
“Have kids read pages 340 through 351. They can write out answers to the check-up questions. If you have any questions, ask Ms. Petty across the hall.”
“Hey, does that mean if we have questions, we ask Ms. Petty?” Harv, who only has two brain cells, asked. “Do we go across the hall?”
The guy behind him slugged him in the back and snorted.
Rodstick looked up from the paper and gawked at him. “What? You go across the hall?” Her eyelids were on a timer and fluttered for a good five seconds. “No. I believe your teacher meant me.”
“So you’re going across the hall?” Harv continued. “We’ll be good while you’re gone.”
Her eyebrows came down into a tight V, creating a formation of geese on her forehead. “No. No. Only if I have questions.”
Harv’s two brain cells finally came together. “Okay, I get it now.”
Snickers erupted around the room. Rodstick set down the piece of paper. “All right, class. Get busy.”
To think she got paid. They could’ve snagged any bum off the street. I plugged in my buds and cranked up the music. No one was supposed to carry their phone to class, but I figured old Rodstick wouldn’t have a clue. I opened my book so it’d look like I was working, hunching over it and closing my eyes. I even held a pencil in my hand over an open notebook. There. She’d never know I was snoozing.
But I didn’t snooze. My mind had already fast-forwarded to Hansen’s class, wondering if Fresh Meat would be there. Wondering what he’d be wearing. Wondering what he might say to me.
The dismissal bell for first period woke me up. Guess I’d dropped off after all. I gathered my stuff and hustled to art.
When I burst through the door, Fresh Meat was already there, bending over his project, displaying his tight rear and muscular legs. I paused. If we were drawing nudes, he could be the model. I wondered how the school board would react if we started a nude model unit at Longacre. They should agree since drawing nudes was art, not porn. Everyone knew that.
Shelley bumped me from behind. “Move, Phillips.” She looked in Fresh Meat’s direction then back at me. “Oh, I see. Admiring the scenery, huh?”
I glowered at her. “Mind your own business.”
“Yeah, like you’re minding yours.” She laughed and walked to her cubby.
I looked around to ensure nobody had heard her. I needn’t have worried — no one was paying attention. Everyone was roaming around, getting their own station set up.
I walked to my usual table in front of Fresh Meat’s. He watched me, and his stare made me go hot. I ignored him and plunked down my books, but I felt his eyes on me as I went to the cubbies and grabbed my supplies. On the way back to my table, I couldn’t help it, my gaze met his.
He smiled and nodded, and my blood stirred all the way to my feet. I gave him a curt return nod and continued to my spot.
“Doing anything tonight?” he asked, leaning over his table toward me.
I turned to him. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Just wondered.”
“If you have something in mind, say it.”
He laughed. “Always to the point.” He laughed again and bent his head over his work.
I waited a minute, expecting him to say more. When he didn’t, I gave a huge sigh and went back to my art. Was he toying with me now?
Mr. Hansen cleared his throat. “Anyone know where Marvin is? Anyone see him this morning?”
“He’s sick,” yelled Stephan from the back corner.
“Thank you,” Hansen said, and clicked something on his keyboard. He stood. “This is the last day of work on your actual projects, and don’t even think about begging for more time. You should be finishing up your pieces now. For tomorrow, it’s back to slides and lecture, so be ready to take notes.”
Everyone moaned in unison.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you poor babies. I feel your pain.” He picked up the clipboard and started his rounds, commenting and making suggestions on everyone’s work.
I was done anyway. I fussed a bit with the colors on my signature to look busy, but I had nothing to do. I was satisfied. My piece was good.
Something brushed my back and I spun around to slap it away. Fresh Meat caught my hand in his strong grip.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked, staring hard into my eyes. “You fight all the time?”
I swallowed my breath and glared back.
“I was coming to see your piece. Do you mind?” He looked over my shoulder at my three-dimensional representation of a wall covered with graffiti. The colors were dark — the mood was dark.
Fresh Meat studied it. I watched the muscles around his mouth tighten and then relax. I watched his lips, remembering how they felt on mine. I watched the shadows in his eyes flicker and for a quick moment, I thought they would disappear. I was wrong.
“Nice,” he said and moved back to his table.
Mr. Hansen bustled his way to my spot. “Well, Miss Phillips, I must say that you’ve worked diligently on this project. Which, as we both know, isn’t always the case.”
I gave him a half-smile. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for his appraisal.
He took a step back and squinted. He nodded and then nodded again. My palms grew moist as I clenched them into a fist at my waist.
“Good job, Tiffany. I mean it. You’ve managed to portray an entire array of feelings with very few colors and even fewer materials. I like it. I think you’ll do well at the competition.”
“I didn’t think we all had to enter. Isn’t it our choice?”
He sighed and tilted his head. “No, it is not your choice. Everyone’s entering. How could you not know? I’ve been harping on it all semester. It’s the Art Show at City Hall.”
“I know where it’s at.”
“You should pay attention when I lecture sometimes. You might learn something.” He walked off.
I frowned. He was right; I rarely paid attention to his lectures. They were the perfect time to catch some extra sleep. But still, how had I missed the fact that we all had to enter?
Fresh Meat was chuckling. I looked at him. “What are you laughing at?”
“You,” he said.
I clamped my mouth shut and decided not to waste my time on such an aggravating person.
****
No one but Denny ever sat by me on the bus. Ever. That afternoon was no different. I was still fuming over Fresh Meat’s laugh as I stared out the window on the way to pick up the middle school kids.
The bus came to a wheezing stop in the lot and a bunch of twerpy kids piled on. Denny was nowhere to be seen. As the last few kids straggled into place, I s
tood.
“Where’s Denny?” I boomed over the chatter. “Where’s my brother?”
A few kids shrugged their shoulders. I pushed my way to the front. “I need to find my brother,” I told the driver. “Wait for me.”
“No can do. Got a schedule. Isn’t your sister in town these days? He’s probably with her. He must’ve had an appointment or something.”
“No, he didn’t. He would’ve told me. And my sister’s back at college. I have to go look for him, and you’ve got to wait.”
“Like I said, no can do. I’ll radio in that he wasn’t on the bus. Should get an answer in a minute or two.”
I hurtled down the steps of the bus nearly twisting my ankle when I landed on the asphalt.
“Tiffany, get on back in here. I told you I’d radio.”
“Well, you can radio in about me, too, because I’m not going.”
The bus driver knew that unless he got off the bus and wrestled me to the ground, I’d get my way. He shut the bus door with a hollow wheeze and roared out of the lot.
I hurried toward the school, fishing for my cell in my backpack. I punched Denny’s number. It was still ringing as I entered the front hall. The stale air inside slammed me, and I was momentarily transported back to the three miserable years I spent within those moldy walls.
Denny’s voicemail came on. I hung up.
The secretary, Miss Smythe, was digging in a file drawer when I burst into the office. Her lip curled slightly when she glanced up and saw who it was.
“Where’s Denny?” I blurted.
She took a long, slow breath. “Good afternoon, Tiffany. Denny was excused like all the other students.”
“How do you know? He wasn’t on the bus.”
That got her eyelids twitching. She shoved the file drawer closed and went to a stack of slips lying on the counter and flipped through them. “I have no early check-out form. No one informed me of any change of schedule.”
I tapped my foot against the tile, and nervousness surged through me. “He wasn’t on the bus,” I repeated.
She pressed the intercom button. “Dennis Phillips, if you’re in the building, please report to the office. Dennis Phillips, to the office.”
I listened to the metallic echo of her voice down the hall. And then it dawned on me.
Dad.
He’d taken Denny. I dissed myself for being such a moron. I should’ve thought of Dad immediately.
“Nevermind,” I told Miss Smythe. “I know where he is.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
Like she cared. I could hear her sigh of relief as I left the office. I dialed Dad’s cell on my way back outside. One ring. Two. Three.
No answer. His voicemail came on. I waited till the beep.
“Do you have Denny? I’m standing here at the middle school looking for him. What were you thinking?”
I shoved my phone into my pocket. A light mist moved over the parking lot like a cat. I shrugged down into my jacket and started for home. With my luck, it’d be pouring before I got halfway there. Anger toward Dad gurgled and grew in my gut with each step.
Denny had to be with him. Where else would he be?
I was the one who ran off all the time. Not Denny. Never Denny.
The walk home wasn’t long, but I’d been right. The mist turned into a sprinkle and then into a full-blown rain. My hair plastered itself against my forehead and water dripped down my face. I figured my eyeliner had become black roads down my cheeks.
Up ahead was our condo. I blinked through the wet and saw our car parked in its spot. I opened the door and heard laughter. Dad and Denny were sprawled on the rug, wrestling.
I dropped my book bag and glowered.
They froze and stared back.
“Tiff, how come you’re so wet?” Denny asked, scrambling to get up.
“It’s raining.” My voice was a block of ice.
Denny glanced at the clock on the wall. “Did you walk? How come?”
Dad struggled to get off the floor and climbed into the recliner like a long-legged spider. “Why didn’t you take the bus?” he asked.
I took two strides until I hung over him, dripping onto his pants. “I did take the bus.”
He looked confused.
“But I got off at the middle school because Denny wasn’t there.”
Denny sucked in his breath. “Tiff. I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”
I glared at Dad. “I looked for him in the school. The bus left without me.”
Dad flinched. “Oh.”
Denny walked to me and put his hand on my sleeve. “Tiffany, sorry.”
“Hope you had a good time,” I said to Dad. Rivulets of rain dripped from my hair onto my shirt, soaking through to my skin.
“I didn’t think about calling you,” Dad said.
“I called both of you. You never answered.”
Dad pulled his phone from his pants pocket. “It’s on mute. Oh, and I missed a call from you and Longacre Middle School.”
“Imagine that.” I stomped up the stairs, glad my wet shoes squawked with every step.
In the bathroom, I cranked the heat lamp up to its full strength and stripped off my wet clothes. Standing in the scalding shower, I inhaled the steamy heat until the chill left my bones.
****
At seven o’clock that night, someone banged on our condo door. I heard it all the way upstairs. I slid off my bed and was going for the stairs when Serena met me head on. Her hair was deep purple and twisted into a strange bun on the top of her head.
“Serena? What’s going on?”
She rushed by me, yanking on my arm to pull me with her. When we got inside my room, she slammed the door behind us.
“You won’t believe it.”
“What?”
“Fresh Meat committed murder.” A look of delight covered her face.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yeah, he did. That’s why he’s running.” She plopped onto the middle of the bed and grabbed my pillow, hugging it to her chest. “Isn’t that delicious?”
I sat with her. “Yeah, it would be if it was true.”
“But it is. Jared overheard some guys in the locker room, I don’t know who, and he posted it.”
I jumped from the bed. “What? Jared posted it online?”
Serena threw my pillow down. “Geez, Phillips, your pillow stinks. Ever hear of a washing machine?”
I hunched over my computer and clicked onto Jared’s page. There it was: Hey, did you know the new guy is wanted for murder?
“What a coward. He didn’t even call him by name.” I sank to my desk chair and skimmed through the replies.
“There’s such a thing as slander, dim-wit. He’s being careful.” Serena slid off the bed and hovered behind me. “Hey, don’t scroll so fast. I can’t read all the comments.”
I ignored her. Looked like the entire school was jumping on board. The comments ranged from, You’re lying to Whoa, who’d he kill? I rolled my eyes. Fresh Meat was an idiot. Who talked about stuff like that in the locker room?
I pushed back from the computer with an ache in my throat. How would he feel? If he saw this, how would he feel?
Serena had pulled her phone from her pocket and was busy thumbing across the screen. She laughed. “Hey, did you see Amanda’s comment? Like she knew he was a killer from his looks. That girl is seriously sick.”
“I wonder if Fresh Meat knows,” I asked. “I should call him.”
“You have his number?” Serena glanced up from her phone with wide eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I didn’t have his number. I didn’t even know why I said that. “Nothing,” I answered. “Just thought I’d be polite. But I don’t have his number.”
“We can find it,” Serena said. She plunked back onto my bed.
“How?”
“Oh Tiffany, Tiffany, you underestimate me.”
“No, I don’t. How?”
“I’m a member of sleuth.c
om. We can find out anything.”
I stared at her. Sleuth.com? Was she kidding? And since when?
“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t you remember that time my mom was sneaking around?”
“What are you even talking about?”
Serena dropped her hands to her lap. “You don’t remember? Are you even my friend?”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m the only friend you’ve got.”
“Two years ago? Before the divorce was final? Hello?”
I scanned my brain. I did remember a time around Thanksgiving a few years back when Serena was a total witch. She yelled for no reason and burst into tears whenever she thought no one was around. She never said why. And I didn’t push. I’d had enough problems of my own.
“You never told me.”
“Yes, I did. Mom was cheating on Dad.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to remember even a whisper about it. “No. You never told me.”
Serena clamped her lips shut. She studied the wall by the door. “You’re right. It was too awful.”
“So how’d you find out?”
“Sleuth.com. Did you know that every single thing you do or say can be found somewhere on the Internet? And it doesn’t cost much to find it, either.”
“Then why didn’t you help me before? When I was trying to find Fresh Meat’s profile?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Not enough motivation.”
I gave her an acid look. “Thanks a lot.”
“Careful. Or I won’t help you now.” She pressed her phone screen a couple more times then held it up to me screen-side out. “Voilà.”
And there it was blazoned on the screen. Jason Connor’s name and his cell number. I grabbed her phone. “Just like that?”
She snatched it back. “Just like that. You going to call or should I?”
“I’m calling.”
I peered at the number and punched it into on my phone. Fresh Meat answered before the first ring finished.
“What?”
“Geez. Nice greeting.”
“Who is this?”
“Tiffany.”
Silence.
“Aren’t you glad to hear from me?” I couldn’t resist the sarcasm.
“Yeah. Delighted.”
And I thought I had the market on rude.
The Return: Death, Runaways, and Romance (Ocean Mist Book 3) Page 9