by Laura Ellen
“Yeah?” Her meaning hit me. “I didn’t steal his car! I don’t even know how to drive—”
“We both know that’s not true,” Detective King said.
“No, now that is true,” Mom piped up. “She’s blind. She’ll never be able to drive.”
I cringed. Of all the times to back me up, she picks now? Detective King was looking at me. “You never told your mother?”
I shook my head as Mom said, “Told me what?”
“I ticketed your daughter a few months ago for driving without a license,” Detective King said. “She wrecked Greg Martin’s car.”
“What?” Mom leaped out of her chair. “You crashed someone’s car? You can’t drive, Roswell! What is going on in that head of yours?”
“Ms. Braylor—Priscilla—please, sit,” Detective King said.
“Okay, so I tried to drive!” I said. “But you saw me! I rammed his car into that light pole! You think I’d try that again? With Jonathan’s Corvette?”
“What I saw,” Detective King said carefully, “was you driving—yes, you weren’t doing a good job of it, I can vouch for that—but you were driving. For all I know, you could’ve been practicing since then and got better.”
“But—ugh!” I raked my fingers through my hair in frustration and slumped back in my chair. “I didn’t steal his car.”
“Okay,” Detective King said. “Then let’s try to confirm your story. How about the bus. Did anyone get off with you? Did you talk to the driver or any passengers? Someone who can verify where you got off the bus and when?”
I’d been too preoccupied. I barely remembered the ride, let alone any passengers. I could’ve been sitting next to Big Foot and I wouldn’t have noticed. “No.” I slumped farther in my chair. “I don’t remember anyone.”
Mom was shaking her head. “You’ve finally done it. Always bent on doing your own thing instead of what’s best for you. Are you happy with yourself now?” She looked at Detective King. “Are there any special considerations for disabled kids? An insanity plea or something?”
“Mom, I’m not disabled—and I’m not insane!”
“She hasn’t been charged—” Detective King said.
“If her story doesn’t check out, she will be. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“It’s possible, yes. After all, she did confess. Normally that would be enough to arrest her, but”—she turned back to me—“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. You did come to me, and so far, I have no reason to believe you aren’t telling the truth. What I don’t understand, Roz, is why you wanted into the apartment. What were you hoping to find?”
“Proof he’s guilty, like Tricia’s cloak or that photo I saw.”
Detective King took a sip of coffee. “I’m still investigating. Don’t you trust me to find the answers?”
I shrugged. “Dellian’s trying to make Jonathan look guilty. He already has you believing Jonathan sold Tricia drugs.”
“Jonathan isn’t a suspect. He’s a person of interest, but so is half this town.”
“If he’s not a suspect, why did you tell him to get a lawyer?”
“Is that what he told you?”
I stared at her ear, taking in the puzzled frown on her face. “I thought that’s what he said.” Doubt began to take over. I couldn’t be sure of anything Jonathan had said, could I? He’d lied about being involved with the fire, lied about being a suspect. What else was he lying about?
“While you two were plotting illegal activities to find evidence against your teacher, I was following up on information you gave me.” She sat back against her desk chair. “Would you like to know what I found, or would you prefer to break some more laws to get the information yourself?”
“I want to hear what you found,” I muttered.
“First of all, the only relationship Rodney Dellian had with Tricia Farni was as her brother-in-law.”
“Brother-in-law?” My mouth fell open.
“Yes, apparently he told the officer this when he and Abbey reported Tricia missing, although it never went into the report. I’m not happy about that at all.”
I didn’t care about police reports and missing information. “What about the baby?”
“Tricia’s niece. Rodney and Abbey are separated. Tricia was the go-between to keep things civil.”
What? No, there had to be something between them. “So he had an excuse to be around Tricia. That doesn’t mean they weren’t involved. What about the photo?”
“He claims he’s never seen it, that if there is one, it was created digitally by you and Jonathan to get back at him. It seems you both have issues? You’ve been suspended for truancy, and Jonathan has been benched for grades?”
“He’s lying! I mean, that’s true about our issues, but I saw the photo in his desk!”
“Right now, it’s your word against his. No one else has seen it.”
I sighed, defeated. “I suppose he lied about being there that night too?”
“Actually, he said she did call, hysterical, needing a ride. But he couldn’t find her when he got there; after looking a while, he went to get Abbey. They returned, still couldn’t locate her, and that’s when they reported her missing.”
I sat up. “No! I know he found her that night!”
She tilted her head in surprise. “How do you know?”
“Because, you know, he said he knew about the loft thing.” I wanted so badly to tell her the truth, to tell her Dellian had been there when Tricia attacked Jonathan and me. But I couldn’t without admitting I’d lied, admitting we’d fought, and admitting I actually couldn’t remember any of it.
“She could’ve told him that over the phone when she called for the ride,” Detective King said. “It doesn’t mean he saw her.”
“I guess so,” I said. But he had seen her. He’d been there for the fight.
I knew why I was lying. Why was Dellian?
Ten days after
My first day back from suspension, I tore through Chance High’s usual mob of colors and smells with my war face on, but no one bothered me. Maybe the rumor mill hadn’t been briefed on how I’d set fire to Dellian’s apartment building? When I noticed a glittered wall-length PROM!!! sign, however, I figured everyone probably did know and didn’t care. Finding a date before the deadline was more important than fires, burglaries, and a dead drug addict.
I ripped at my locker handle, expecting it to open. My fingers jammed into the locked metal, ripping two fingernails backwards. Dammit! I didn’t have time for this. I needed to find Greg before class.
With my face pressed against the cold surface, I frantically turned the dial. The more I tried to hurry, though, the more I fumbled. Over and over, I dialed wrong.
I snatched my magnifier from my backpack, not caring who saw me. The bulky glass fit over the dial, enlarging the numbers, but I had to remove it to turn the knob. Ugh! I threw the glass into my bag and went back to searching out the numbers the hard way.
On about the fifteenth combination attempt, I got it. I threw the door open and tossed my stuff inside. There was Ruth’s yearbook on the bottom where I’d left it. I hadn’t looked at Renny’s picture. I would today, with Ruth.
On the way to first hour, I searched the halls for Greg, even though I knew if I found him now, I wouldn’t have enough time to talk. I didn’t want to be rushed. I still wasn’t sure what to say.
Would he ignore me or lecture me? Lecture, I hoped—a scathing, bruising lecture. I deserved that. But if he ignored me—looked through me as if I didn’t exist in his world any- more—I couldn’t take that. It would mean he’d given up on me.
The whoosh of wheels on tile caught my attention. Fritz. God, how I’d humiliated him. Hanging from Mr. Dellian, helpless and scared. I didn’t deserve forgiveness, but he certainly deserved an apology. I hurried around the corner to catch him.
I ran into Ratner instead. “Roswell, come with me.”
Not again! What now? I relucta
ntly followed him into his office.
“There are serious allegations against you, most of which are not my jurisdiction. However . . .” He picked up his phone. “Miss Glendale? Please send in the officers.”
Officers? What was going on?
The door opened. Detective King and a man in a gray business suit entered. The man stepped over to me. “Roswell Hart?”
The saliva glands in my mouth stopped working. “Yes?” I croaked.
“You’ve been served.” He handed me a piece of paper. “This is a restraining order. You are not permitted to be within a three-mile radius of Mr. Rodney Dellian. If you and your parents have any questions, the number is printed on the bottom. Have a nice day.” He nodded at Principal Ratner and exited the room.
Restraining order? I stared at the paper blankly, the print too small to read. “What is this for?”
“Unfortunate it’s had to come to this,” Principal Ratner said. “I believe he’s filing charges against you as well.”
“For what? He’s the one—” I looked at Detective King. “Tell him!”
Detective King stepped forward. Principal Ratner held up his hand. “Allow me.” He turned back to me. “As I said before, most of the allegations against you are not my jurisdiction.” He paused. “However, after Mr. Dellian apprised me of this situation, he and I both felt it would be wise to search your locker, to be sure there were no explosives or weapons—”
“What? Why would I have weapons?”
Principal Ratner ignored me and went on. “So this morning we conducted a search of your locker and found this.” He pushed a clear plastic bag toward me.
“What is it?” A small green object was inside. It looked like—
Tricia’s pipe?
“It’s used for smoking drugs. Of course, you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” I frowned up at him. “But that’s not mine!”
“It was in your locker.” He handed the bag to Detective King. “Given this pipe and your other offenses—truancy, that field trip stunt you pulled, arson—I am expelling you.” Ratner nodded at Detective King. “We’re trying to reach her mother. When we do, I’ll send her to the station.”
“Station?” I looked from Ratner to Detective King. “But the pipe isn’t mine! Someone put it there! Probably Dellian, while he helped you search my locker.”
“Mr. Dellian wasn’t there,” Detective King said in a stern voice. “I was. With a warrant.”
“Warrant?” I stared at her. “Why?”
“It’s not just the pipe, Roswell. We received a tip that you bought crack for Tricia. The anonymous informant was very specific on the time and date—even said you left school to get cash at an ATM for the purchase.”
Jonathan. That asshole! First the fire and now this? I started to shake my head. “No, I didn’t—”
“We have a bank video corroborating the claim,” Detective King said, shutting me up. “The video alone isn’t enough to arrest you—though it does support the suspicion that you purchased drugs with the intent to distribute—but your confession to being an accessory to the fire and the possession of the pipe is enough.” Detective King took a pair of handcuffs from her pocket.
Life slowly drained from my body.
“Roswell, I’m arresting you for the illegal possession of drug paraphernalia as well as arson and the suspicion of purchasing narcotics with the intent to distribute. You have the right to remain silent . . .”
Right to remain silent? I couldn’t have spoken if I tried.
In third grade, Missy and I, and sometimes Greg, would play detective games with an old Polaroid camera and a fingerprinting kit. The villain was the sought-after role. There was something glamorous about having my mug shot taken and messy black powder smeared on my fingertips. Now that I was playing for real, it didn’t feel glamorous at all.
Someone took my photograph. Then an officer shuffled me off to be fingerprinted. There was no messy black powder. The technician doused my fingertips with water and pressed each one onto a smooth glass surface; my fingerprints magically appeared on the computer screen—“Roswell Hart” was now listed in the fingerprint database, just like a real criminal.
“As soon as your mother gets here, we’ll take you for interrogation,” Detective King explained, unhooking my left hand from the handcuff. “Would you like some water while you wait?” She reattached the cuff to the chair.
“That pipe’s not mine,” I whispered.
“Let’s wait until your mom gets here, okay?”
Hurricane Priscilla blew in twenty minutes later, still wearing a black smock from the hairdresser’s, highlighting foil layered on one half of her head. “Now you’re buying drugs?” she screamed.
“Ms. Braylor, please sit down,” Detective King said. “I’m sorry to take you from your appointment—”
“Not as sorry as she’ll be.” She glared at me. “If I knew where your father was, I’d send you there right now.”
Nogales, Mexico. Although chasing UFOs in the desert sounded good right now, I didn’t share the information.
“We wanted you present while we interrogate your daughter,” Detective King explained. “You should probably call an attorney.”
“This is going to cost a fortune, isn’t it?” Mom said.
“We have public defenders, ma’am.”
“I don’t need a lawyer!” I said. “I didn’t do anything, I swear.”
“I want to believe you,” Detective King said, “but you haven’t been entirely truthful.” Mom snorted in agreement.
An officer tapped on the door. “Her prints match a few found in the Corvette—only on the passenger side, though.”
Detective King smiled at me. “That’s good—you didn’t steal Jonathan’s car.”
“I told you I didn’t.”
The officer cleared his throat. “We also got a partial off that pipe.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “Tricia Farni.”
“That’s not so good.” Detective King said. “You’d better start talking, Roswell. Let’s start with how a crack pipe with Tricia’s prints ended up in your locker.”
I felt out of breath. “I—” I shook my head. “Jonathan. It had to have been Jonathan. He put it there.”
“Earlier you said Mr. Dellian put it there,” Detective King said.
“I know, but that was before—”
“Before what?” Detective King asked. “It was less than an hour ago.”
“Before . . .” If I said Before I knew you had a tip about my buying drugs for Tricia, I’d have to explain, and that meant admitting I was guilty of exactly that. Why would they even want to believe me about the pipe after I admitted I bought her drugs? I shrugged and slumped in my chair. “I don’t know.”
“Roswell,” Detective King warned, “if you know something, now is the time to tell me.”
“Okay. I think it was Jonathan because I think he called that tip in, about . . . me.”
“What tip?” Mom asked.
“The tip that made us search her locker,” Detective King said, sounding annoyed. She looked back at me. “But why are you so sure now that it was Jonathan, and not Dellian? What changed from an hour ago?”
“Because”—I tried to fill my lungs with air—“he was the only one besides Tricia who knew about that day. He was with me when I took money out at the ATM. But I swear, it was to buy Tricia pot, not crack.” I ignored the “Oh, dear Lord” from Mom and continued. “Pot helped her keep off heroin. When Dellian took her pot away, she begged me to get more.”
“Where did you buy the pot?” Detective King asked.
“I didn’t. I gave the money to Jonathan to buy it.”
“Why Jonathan? Did he have some? Or knew someone? What?”
I shrugged. “Tricia just said he’d know how to get it, so I asked him to help me.”
“You didn’t question why she said that? Didn’t think maybe he was a dealer?”
“No.” Why hadn’t I question
ed that? Why did I go to him without wondering how he’d know? Because he was Jonathan Webb, lightning-fast god of the ice? God, I was an idiot for ever liking him. The tips of my ears began to burn. “But he said he’d never bought it before and didn’t know what it would cost. That’s why I took out eighty dollars.”
“Eighty dollars?” Mom said. “You used eighty dollars of my money? For drugs?”
“It’s my money, from my Social Security check.”
“Oh, that’s even better, Rozzy. You have the government purchasing your drugs!”
“Ms. Braylor, please,” Detective King said. “Roswell, did you see the pot? See who he bought it from?”
“No. That day, Tricia got really high, though. They sent her to the hospital. Dellian said it wasn’t pot or heroin. I thought maybe something was in the pot, so I asked Jonathan. He said he gave the money to Ethan to buy the pot for her.”
Detective King tapped her pen on her chin. “But you didn’t see him give the money to Ethan or see Ethan give him the pot?”
“No, he just said he did.” And we all know how good Jonathan’s word is, I thought bitterly.
“Is it possible Jonathan told Ethan everything, and Ethan phoned in the tip?” Detective King asked.
I hadn’t thought of that. The way those two were, it was entirely possible. Heck, Tricia could’ve told Dellian too that day he’d taken her to the hospital. Just because I hadn’t told anyone didn’t mean no one else had. “Yes,” I said, feeling confused and defeated. “It’s possible.”
“Okay,” Detective King said. “Let’s assume for a moment that you are telling the truth about the pipe.” Detective King ignored my emphatic “I am!” “How about your locker—”
Something flashed through my mind at that moment, distracting me from what she was saying. At that first party with Jonathan, when he put money in for the keg, he had a wad of cash—but hardly any when we’d gone to the ATM the day before. Was that my money in his wallet? Had I paid Jonathan for Tricia’s pot?
If there even was any pot. Maybe he had lied to me. Maybe he kept the money and never gave her anything, forcing her to get another needle full of heroin from wherever she’d got the last one.