Speaking of Mr. Hattori—we call him Hattori-san—he is a taekwondo instructor and says all women should know self-defense. Maybe he’s right; however, until this morning, the worst news about the high school was about stolen bleachers. That was strange enough. I mean who would do such a thing—and how would they do it? The bleachers have not been found either and something that big is hard to hide.
“No worries.” I sat up straight and tried to think positive. “I can avoid anyone, even Abigail. Nothing will happen till I get to school.”
The current hard copy of The Surf Reporter was on the table.
I wonder . . .?
I flipped the pages to the Horoscope. Not that I took it seriously, you know, but there might be insight into my predicament.
“Aries: Keep options open. Closing your mind may shut out exciting new opportunities.”
Right. Whoever wrote that must be older than Mom.
Out front, an engine rattled, and a horn beeped.
I ran to the front door, opened it, and waved at my friend, Mindy, who was driving her grandfather’s old Volkswagen bus.
“Just a sec,” I called.
I quickly wiped my spilled breakfast off the floor and that was when it hit me: the reason Mom had been looking at the ceiling, the walls, and everything else was to avoid looking at the mess on the floor. Was the favor so important she would ignore that?
The horn beeped again.
I grabbed my backpack, punched in the alarm code, and hurried out the door. I remembered to lock the deadbolt.
Chapter 4. Stunned
Before I got in the bus, I saw Mindy’s cousin, Pamela, in the back seat. Pamela is the cattiest gossip in school so I could not talk about my problems. She would surely make a nasty remark about Logan—and probably his brother Willy who is hyperactive.
I turned the latch, opened the door, and plopped in the front seat. I pulled the door shut and crossed my arms. Then I exhaled loudly and stared straight ahead.
“Oh, wow.” Mindy raised her eyebrows. “What’s the matter with you?”
So much for my subtlety.
The way Mindy sounded, however, told me she had not heard about Logan; otherwise, she would have said something totally different.
It still did not mean the news was a hoax. Maybe when the story went live, she was already on the way over. The bus has a radio, but the glass is blurry and there are no station numbers, so tuning is mostly guesswork. She doesn’t listen to news anyway, mostly hip hop, rock, or oldies.
The other reason she would not know was troubling in a different way—it never happened.
“Oh, nothing’s the matter,” I said, matching her tone. “I’m just thinking about the test. You know, the test.”
Mindy and I looked at each other. I rolled my eyes to the side and tilted my head toward the rear of the bus where Pamela was taking a selfie.
“Oh, right, that test.” Mindy nodded.
As soon as Mindy asked me what was wrong, you could almost hear Pamela’s ears pricking up—way, way up. But it is more than her usual nosiness; it’s personal, and not about me.
For some reason—and that was why I could not say anything about Mom’s favor—Pamela already has a grudge against Abigail. From the minute she saw her, she had been out to get her. I absolutely could not talk about it until we were at school.
Mindy put the bus in first gear. She stepped on the gas and eased out the clutch. The bus lurched and died.
“Not again,” she said, her shoulders slumping.
She sat up straight, restarted it, and put it in gear.
We pulled away from the curb, the engine lugging so hard it jolted us back and forth. If I hadn’t had my seatbelt on, I would have hit my head on the unpadded dashboard or gotten whiplash.
The engine whined louder. It sounded like it was going to blow up.
“Shift!” I said. “Now!”
“I will!” she yelled, over the squealing motor. “I want to get the RPMs up.”
I stared at the dashboard. The RPM needle was bouncing up and down in the red. One of these days she is going to blow the engine. She shifted into second gear. The engine whined again, and she shifted into third.
At last, we were on Sepulveda Boulevard going south. Ahead of us, the road dipped down and rose up again as it neared the intersection. As traffic slowed, red taillights lit up.
The sun was filtering through light haze but farther south it must have been foggy, because a stream of white headlights came toward us.
As we drove, we passed kids standing on the sidewalk and some of them pointed and hooted at the bus chugging down the road. I wanted to give them the finger—hey, it’s transportation and that’s all that matters—but I did not know if Pamela was ready to take another selfie. If she had her phone out, it would be my luck to have her video me while I’m flipping someone off and then post it on Instagram.
I took out my phone in the hopes it was working again. To my surprise it seemed okay. I searched for the story about Logan, but the post was no longer there. I put the phone away and hoped the whole thing was nothing more than a sick joke.
As we crossed the intersection, I glimpsed the ocean and the rolling blue waves brought back another memory of Logan.
It was last August, the day of the Manhattan Beach pro volleyball tournament. Mindy and I had left before it ended and drove to Hermosa Beach. She planned to get a tattoo, and even though she was not going to get one that day she wanted to look around, so we went to Nikos Vintage Shop. They have lots of stuff like oil lamps, beaded lamps, macramé, Indian prints, and tie dye. One section has water pipes, cigarette wrappers, and metal hash pipes.
If my mom knew, she would have lectured me about going in there, but I went anyway. I did not see any harm in it. I was not interested in tattoos and there was nothing I wanted to buy. I had no money with me anyway, I was just curious. Logan worked there and I thought it would be nice to see him and say hello.
When we went in the shop, a display of beaded coin purses caught my eye. On the shelf above them, ribbons of smoke curled from incense sticks set in a bronze holder. Patchouli makes me sneeze, so I tried not to inhale it, but I had already caught a whiff and that was enough. I tried to hold the sneeze back and sputtered loud enough to sound like I was choking.
Tattoos were done at the back of the store. I made a lot of noise sneezing and trying not to and it caused Logan to look up; that’s when I saw how pale he was.
He lifted his chin like hey there and went back to inking his customer. His right hand shook so much he had to wait till it stopped.
I wondered if something was wrong with him but did not know him well enough to ask. It’s also not the kind of question you can blurt out in front of a stranger.
“Here.” Mindy handed me a tissue.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
She waited until my eyes stopped watering, then went to look at earrings and bracelets. I went to a clothes rack.
A few minutes later, Mindy finished making her purchase. She was bursting with excitement and wanted to show me what she bought. Logan looked up at us. I waved to him, and he gave me his familiar half smile. Then he lowered his head, positioned the needle, and went back to work.
“Look at this!” Mindy had said, jiggling a thin plastic bag at me. She gleefully pulled out several sheets of paper with small nonpermanent tattoos.
“Those are great,” I said. I would not have wanted one myself, but at least they would wear off and could be done without a needle.
I glanced back at Logan, but he was so engrossed in his work he did not look up again. He tilted the man’s arm and put the needle on the edge of the tattoo. I got a better look at the picture he was drawing. It was like an ouroboros, a snake eating its tail, but it had long curved horns.
The customer’s head was angled in the same direction as Logan. Apparently, he, too, was concentrating on the tattoo’s progress.
I was so preoccupied watching I did not realize I was starin
g, but the man must have felt it. Without lifting his head, his eyes shifted upward, and he looked pointedly at me. I turned away, hoping he hadn’t noticed me, but he probably did. Mindy and I left discussing which tattoo she should try first.
As that memory of Logan drifted away, the bus hit a bump and jolted me back to the present. I still didn’t feel like talking, so I watched the traffic and gazed at the ocean.
We were now half a mile from school and the radio caught Mindy’s attention. She sat up straight, grinned, and leaned forward to tune it.
Stomping and clapping came from the old speakers. She adjusted the tuner, got a wild, crazy look on her face, and turned the volume up full blast.
Stomp, stomp, clap . . . stomp, stomp, clap . . . the intro to Mindy’s favorite song—and one I did not want to hear right then. Or maybe I was not in the mood for Mindy singing—make that screaming—right then.
The volume was so loud I knew she could not hear herself, but everyone else on the street could.
“We will. . . (static) will . . . rock you . . .”
“What is that horrible noise?” Pamela yelled.
“Buddy you’re a . . .”
“It’s—” I began
“What?”
“Mindy, it’s really loud,” I said.
Mindy bounced up and down in the seat and tapped the steering wheel. Every time the guitarist soloed, she moved her head in and out, from side to side, and around in circles.
Any other time it would be both of us clapping, stomping, and singing, but thinking about Logan, and now Abigail, had put me in a gloomy frame of mind.
I sighed and looked out the window. It was a radio; it would only play once.
“Oh my god, that is obnoxious!” Pamela hollered. She got out of her seat in the back, came forward, and hit the back of my seat with her fist.
Mindy smiled to herself and reached for the knob. She tried to turn it up, but it was already as loud as it could go.
We passed a group of kids waiting for the school bus. They snickered at the bus—and us I’m sure—because the music vibrated through the asphalt.
Once again, I thought about the absolute awesomeness of having a car—and, most of all, a driver’s license. That was the only reason I agreed to do the favor for my mom. I have been looking forward to driving by myself for three years. Doing her a favor could only help.
The song ended and the radio went dead. It does that.
Without Mindy singing, I could think again about all my problems.
Maybe I could find a cheap car on eBay like Mindy’s grandfather did, however, I didn’t have any money. So, rather than think about my insurmountable money problem, I thought about my other problem. Abigail.
Mindy knew I would tell her. But what could I say that would not sound hypocritical?
I’m as open-minded as anyone in high school—which may not be that much—but even if I were some sort of official greeter, I had no intention of being Abigail’s friend. A thief, a spy, the person who stole the school bleachers, maybe. Abigail? No.
But that’s not fair, is it? Of course not. So, now I was on a guilt trip.
It’s not Abigail’s fault she’s a total dweeb. School started three weeks ago, and Abigail started one week ago. It’s bad enough to be new, but to be new after school starts, then you really stick out.
I have said hi to her a couple times, but she never answered so I assumed she wanted to be left alone. It’s possible, too, she didn’t even hear me, but either way she is really disconnected. Still, I feel sorry for her. Who wouldn’t?
“Can’t this stupid junk heap go any faster?” Pamela said.
Okay, some people would feel sorry for Abigail, but Pamela is not one of them.
“Pamela, hello, the light is red,” Mindy said.
The turn indicator ticked as we waited for the left-turn arrow to turn green.
“If I don’t get my own BMW so I can join the school club,” Pamela shot back, “then I don’t even want to drive.”
I had hoped to get to school without hearing her complain. No luck.
The other thing about Abigail, and this is probably the worst part, she plays tuba in the high school marching band, and she carries it wherever she goes.
Before she brought her tuba to class, I had never been near one. It is huge, must be three feet tall or more, and probably weighs a hundred pounds.
When she is not blowing on it, she is practicing—even without the tuba. Her cheeks puff out, her fingers wiggle, and her eyes bulge.
Seriously, I have heard of air guitar—but air tuba? It’s sad, and she even doesn’t know.
So, how to get around the Abigail problem since it won’t just go away? It wouldn’t be easy, but I could fake being friends since my driver’s license depends on how much my mom thinks I’m cooperating. Or maybe I somehow could get her to leave the tuba home and talk to people. Before I began another round of worrying, my thoughts were interrupted by Pamela.
“Oh, by the way,” she said, trying to sound indifferent, “have you seen the new girl?”
“No,” I said quickly.
“Really? Even you must have seen her.” Pamela sneered. “Abigail: her arms are like fuzzy, white pipe cleaners; you know, the kind we twisted together and made reindeer out of when we were kids.”
“Nope! Haven’t seen anyone like that.” I shook my head. If Pamela knew what my mom had asked, she would latch on like an electric eel.
“Are you sure?” Pamela said. “Brown hair in a French braid sticking out all over the place; big flyaway ponytail—Not seen that? —And her glasses! Big, thick, square, black frames.” Pamela smirked. “She doesn’t shave her legs either—or under her arms.”
“Totally missed it!” I said.
Mindy glanced curiously at me. Of course, we had seen her but admitting it would only make Pamela go on longer.
Poor Abigail. How could we miss her? The first day she started school, she came to class late and was wearing a green plaid jumper and a matching plaid hat called a Tam O’Shanter, with a big white fuzz-ball on top—and she had her tuba.
Instant social disaster.
If you think Abigail has not made any friends, you are right. People with three heads would make friends quicker and do lots of selfies. I doubt if she knows what a selfie is. I hope she doesn’t find out. Selfie: girl with tuba.
Mindy slowed and made a right turn into the parking lot. The front and rear right tires went over the curb. The parking permit hanging from the rearview mirror swung wildly from side to side. Once again, the only reason we didn’t end up on the floor was thanks to our seatbelts.
“When will you learn to drive?” Pamela sneered.
“As soon as you lose ten pounds.” Mindy snorted then pressed her lips together and turned them under like they got sucked inside, so you could only see the skin on the top and bottom. She rolled her eyes to the side and looked at me. Then she unfolded her lips and said really fast, “I didn’t want to tell you, Pamela, but you have a muffin top.”
I held my breath; else I would have burst out laughing.
Silence—complete silence—but the hate vibes were screaming.
Next to Abigail, Pamela is the skinniest person I know, size zero-zero, but she is dead serious about weight, or she would know Mindy was joking.
“Let me out—now!” Pamela ordered.
The bus was idling while the car in front waited for another car to back out of a parking place.
“Don’t you want me to park first?” Mindy said in a small voice.
“No!”
“Okeydokey, here you go.”
“Pick me up in front after school.” Pamela gritted her teeth. “And don’t be late!”
She got out and slammed the door—or tried to. There is too much air in the bus, so the door won’t slam. It closed with an oomph.
I exhaled slowly. “She’s really mad at you,” I said as Pamela stormed away.
“Oh, she’s always mad at me,” Mindy said, t
otally unconcerned.
I thought Pamela would turn around and throw something at us, but she didn’t have anything. Nothing fits in her itty-bitty fashion backpack. The leaves on our fiddle leaf fig are three times as big.
Pamela swept past several boys on the football team. Their heads turned and they smiled stupidly. She tossed her head, her long auburn hair flipped to the side, and she passed them without a glance. Her perfect, tiny figure disappeared around a corner.
“She makes me sick,” I said.
“Me too.” Mindy pulled the parking brake and turned off the motor. Then we got our backpacks. Mine is big enough to hold the volleyball team equipment.
“Now. What is going on?” Mindy said, turning to me as we headed toward class.
She was so excited and eager to hear what I had to say I could not mention Logan. I needed to be sure or else rumors would fly. If it turned out to be false, it would still raise questions and somehow it would turn into: Olivia started it, she wanted attention.
Gossip always gets back to parents and teachers, and they interpret it in their own way.
And if it turned out to be true and I knew about it ahead of time, one question would lead to another. The teachers would get involved and that was the last thing I wanted especially if the police decided it was homicide.
The biggest reason however is the more kids I saw arriving at school, not looking sad or upset, but smiling or frowning like they always did, hurrying to get themselves and their things out of cars, the more normal everything seemed.
Best to wait and be sure.
“My mom asked me to do a favor,” I said. “She wants me to—I can’t say it.”
“Oh please.”
“No, seriously. It’s the worst thing in the world.” I grimaced and looked across the quad—and that is when I saw her.
“It’s Abigail!” I squeaked.
“What are you talking about?”
I didn’t answer because at that moment my eyes were fixed on the giant metal daffodil walking by itself through the parking lot. It bobbed up and down, turned this way and that, like a shiny one-eyed alien. Of course, it only looked like it was walking by itself. Next to it, still not visible, was Abigail.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 2