by B K Stevens
“So did I.” Marie held out the money again. “Will you take it?”
“Sure,” Graciana said. “Thanks. I bet other people will want to make donations, too. I’ll start a list of names and—”
“Don’t put my name on a list,” Marie said. “Don’t tell anyone.” She practically ran to the other end of the lot, hugging her books, keeping her head down. A guy was waiting for her there, just over six feet, broad shoulders, standing next to a battered red Mustang, his hands on his hips. He said something to her, she said something back, he lifted a hand in the air, and she flinched and got in the car. He stood there another minute, staring at us. Then he got in the car, too, and they drove away.
“Wow,” Berk said. “She must be on drugs.”
“I don’t think that’s how people on drugs act,” Graciana said. “She’s in mourning. Nina was barely a year older than she is, and I think they were very close.”
“Yeah, having your sister jump off a bridge—that’d be hard to take.” Berk lowered his voice. “The whole family’s messed up. People say her mom’s a drunk, her dad’s always in and out of prison, and her brother—”
“People say lots of things,” Graciana cut in, then paused. “It’s hard to tell what’s true, and normally I’d say it’s none of our business. But Marie’s father is in prison, for stealing a truck and some tools. It’s not his first conviction, so he’ll probably be there a while. He had to come to his daughter’s funeral in handcuffs and leg irons. I’m sure that was hard on Marie—I’m sure lots of things are hard on her right now. Maybe we should all look for ways to be friendlier to her.”
Berk looked like he wasn’t crazy about the idea. To tell the truth, neither was I. But I knew Graciana was right.
“Sure,” I said, and Berk nodded.
On the drive home, Berk and I talked about the memorial issue, about krav, about the chemistry quiz. We didn’t say one word about Suzette. But it was like we both knew we weren’t talking about her. Someone listening in might’ve thought it was a normal conversation, but it wasn’t, not for Berk and me. I hadn’t even asked her out, and already things between us had changed.
At dinner, Cassie seemed fine, asking for seconds on frittata and saying the haricot verts tasted très bon. When Dad asked how she felt, though, she said she still had an awful headache and probably shouldn’t go to school tomorrow. Cassie’s the last person on Earth who’d ditch school. She loves school. And she’d never had a headache that lasted two days. She almost never has headaches at all. I hoped she didn’t have something serious.
“You should work at getting rid of this headache, Cassie,” Mom said. “Don’t stay up late tonight, and don’t spend the whole evening reading. Do something that’ll let you rest your eyes.”
Cassie looked around the table hopefully. “Maybe we could all play charades.”
Yeah, or maybe we could take turns jamming toothpicks under our fingernails. I didn’t know which I’d hate more. “I have to study,” I said. “I’ve got a chemistry quiz Friday.”
“I could help,” Cassie said. “I could make flash cards or drill you on vocab or—”
“Thanks, but Mom says you should rest your eyes.” I smiled at her and stood up. “I’d better go hit the books.”
That was close, I thought as I headed upstairs. True, escaping from charades and Cassie-Plays-Teacher meant missing dessert, but I didn’t mind. Mom had said she’d made something called flan, and I didn’t like the sound of that.
Ten
“I was afraid you wouldn’t make it,” Graciana said.
I slid into a chair at the library table, between Berk and Joseph. “Sorry. I’d planned to sneak out sooner, but whenever I tried, Mr. Pavlakis spotted me and asked me a question I couldn’t answer. Have you told Joseph about Richmond, and about Mrs. Dolby?”
“Yes,” Joseph said. “And I agree the special newspaper is suitable to do for Mr. Colson. But will it lead to an explanation of his death?”
“We’re just gathering all the information we can,” I said, “hoping something will click into place. And we’re hoping if something was bothering Coach, he told someone he liked, and that person will tell us.”
Berk sighed. He made a big deal of it—breathing in loud and yanking his shoulders up to his ears, huffing out hard, plunging his shoulders deep. “That’s a hell of a lot to hope for. We’ll just waste time talking to people who don’t know anything.”
“Not necessarily.” Graciana hesitated, then went ahead. “The fact is, when there’s a murder, unless it’s a drive-by shooting or something, it usually turns out someone close to the victim was involved.”
“We’ll be talking to students and teachers at Ridgecrest High,” Berk said. “You think someone at Ridgecrest High could be involved in a murder?”
“I know it sounds unlikely,” Graciana said. “But think about the news reports you see when someone’s arrested for murder. The neighbors always say, ‘He seemed so nice. She seemed so friendly.’ Probably, the person was nice and friendly, most of the time. But even nice, friendly people can get drawn into a murder if they’re greedy enough, or scared enough, or angry enough.”
Berk laughed, but it didn’t sound natural. It sounded like he was forcing it, because he wanted to prove how dumb we were being. “Ms. Nguyen!” he said. “I knew it! Bobby Davis is her secret lover. She pretended to like Coach and got him to write a will leaving her all his millions. Then she got Davis to kill him so that she’ll inherit everything, and she and her sweetie will spend the rest of their lives living in a mansion on an island somewhere.”
Berk’s my best friend, but sometimes he does a pretty good impression of a five-year-old. “Cut it out,” I said. “Graciana’s making good points. And maybe interviewing Coach’s friends isn’t a perfect plan, but what else can we do?”
“Perhaps,” Joseph said, “we could find the lawyer.”
“What lawyer?” I asked, and immediately felt like an idiot. Oh, yeah—that lawyer.
“Do you not remember, Matt?” Joseph said. “After the tournament, you heard Bobby Davis talking on the phone, asking someone to get him a lawyer. Later, Graciana’s parents saw Davis in the parking lot with someone they thought was a lawyer. Michael Burns—was that not the name, Graciana? Very probably, if someone else was involved in the murder, this was the person Davis called, and this person then called the lawyer. So if we ask Mr. Burns who called him, we will know who else might have been involved.”
I smacked my forehead and slid my hand down to cover my eyes. Could it really be that simple? I spread my fingers apart and looked at Graciana. “Would that work?”
She shook her head. “Burns won’t tell us anything. Lawyers have to be careful about confidentiality. And asking him could be dangerous. When we talked to Dr. Lombardo Monday, she mentioned a lawyer who’s advised the school. I bet you anything she meant Burns. During my sophomore year, he helped the school avoid a lawsuit when a rookie football player was injured during a hazing incident. If we call him, he might tell Lombardo, and then we’d be in real trouble. She warned us not to do any investigative reporting about Coach’s death.”
“So where does that leave us?” I asked.
Graciana sighed. “I don’t know. And the library’s closing soon, and we’ve got krav tonight. Should I ask my parents if we could meet at my house tomorrow at seven and talk more? Would that work for you guys? Great.” She grabbed her books and left.
“Graciana proceeds with efficiency,” Joseph said.
“That’s one way to put it,” I said. “Want a ride home?”
Joseph accepted, but Berk said he felt like walking. It’s over a mile—he doesn’t usually feel like walking that much. Then, right before dinner, he called. I didn’t need to give him a ride to krav tonight, he said, because he had to work on the English essay due next week. I know Berk. He never works on essays until the night
before they’re due.
“Are you sure?” I said, and paused. “Is this about Suzette?”
“No,” he said, but the starch in his voice told me it was. “I couldn’t care less about her.”
“Okay. But if it is about Suzette, I told you, I won’t ask her out. I’m not even sure she likes me. If she does, it’s not my fault. I’ve never done anything to encourage her.”
“Sure you haven’t,” he said, and hung up.
That’s not fair, I thought. I know he’s hurting, but he’s got no reason to act like I’ve betrayed him or something.
Seconds later, Suzette texted me, asking if I could drive her to krav. That means I’ll drive her home, too, I thought. And since Berk’s skipping class, I’ll be alone with her after we drop Joseph off. Maybe I should avoid that. Then I remembered how unfair Berk was being. I texted her back: No problem.
At dinner, I found out Mom had taken Cassie to the doctor, and he said she seemed fine and could go to school tomorrow. Good. I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back, just kept picking at her broccolini couscous. Well, I’m no fan of broccolini couscous, either. She’d feel better once she got back to school and spent time with her friends.
I picked Suzette up and immediately launched into talking about the bake sale, not letting her steer the conversation toward anything personal. I tried not to notice how nice she looked in a black tank top and jeans that were probably too tight for sit-ups.
Class was intense. Twenty minutes of jumping jacks, push-ups, and running laps felt like forty. Aaron turned the music off.
“Let’s talk about hostage situations,” he said. “A killer’s trying to get away and grabs you, using you as a human shield to keep the police from shooting. He’s got a gun. If he escapes, he’ll kill again, starting with you. What do you do? Joseph, grab a rubber gun, get behind me, and hook your left arm around my neck. Move in close, so I can’t get away. With your right hand, point the gun at all those imaginary police officers out there.”
Joseph did it, and Aaron raised his hands. “Now my hands are in the ready position. Joseph thinks I won’t resist. And he thinks he’s safe, because the police can’t shoot him without hitting me. He seems to have an insurmountable advantage. But there’s always a defense. Watch.”
With his left hand, Aaron grabbed the barrel of the gun, forcing it down. “See? That’s the deflecting part. Even if the gun goes off, the bullet will go into the ground. The takeaway comes next. Notice that when I grabbed the gun with my left hand, my right hand went down. Now I swing my right fist up to strike Joseph’s wrist—his gun hand’s being twisted from two directions, so I can wrench the gun away. Next I turn my body to break away from his arm, and I shove him with my shoulder. That’s it. I’m free, and I’ve got the gun. I back away at a forty-five-degree angle, keeping the gun pointed at Joseph. I’m out of the line of fire, so the police can shoot him if necessary. But he’ll probably give up, and they’ll move in and arrest him.”
“Should you not yell?” Joseph asked. “Should you not threaten to shoot?”
“I’ll let the police handle that. I’m only the hostage. I’ve got your gun, so I can provide backup if necessary. But chances are, once you’re handcuffed, I’ll simply give the police your gun, go home, and wait for my Good Citizen commendation to come in the mail. Let’s go through that again.”
When Aaron told us to pair up, I saw Graciana sitting nearby. “Want to try it?” I asked. She nodded, and I ran to get a gun.
It wasn’t until I’d stood behind her and hooked my arm around her neck that I realized how awkward this could get. Aaron walked around the room, calling out instructions.
“Attackers, get a good grip on your hostages,” he said. “Don’t make things easy for them. Matt, move in closer to Graciana.”
I moved in, my body pressing against hers. She looked great tonight, even in sweat pants and a baggy orange tee-shirt. She’d had her hair tucked into a loose knot, but it’d come undone while we ran laps. It fell over her shoulders now, brushing against my face. Its soft, warm smell reminded me of honey.
Damn. I felt like a pervert, getting turned on by my partner during a martial arts lesson. Focus, I told myself. I imagined a line of cops facing me and lifted my arm.
Graciana glanced at my hand. “Take your finger off the trigger, Matt. I don’t want to hurt you when I grab the gun.”
What a dumb mistake. At least I was standing behind her, so she couldn’t see me blush.
She didn’t have any trouble forcing the gun down, knocking my arm away, twisting the gun from two directions and pointing it at me as she backed off at an angle. She smiled.
“You’re going to jail, mister. Better call a lawyer. I can recommend a tall, thin, bald one.”
“You’ll never take me alive!” I clutched my chest like I’d been shot and flopped down on the mat—dumb, but if she noticed I was out of breath, she’d think it was because I’d hit the floor too hard.
We kept practicing for ten minutes. It was easier when I played the hostage and could focus on the technique, not on how good her hair smelled. Then Aaron called us together again and demonstrated a grappling technique to use if an attacker pinned us to the floor. When we practiced that one, I made sure to pair up with Joseph.
Afterward, back in the car, Joseph said something about looking forward to working on the memorial issue, and Suzette let out a snort. She’s the kind of girl who can make even a snort sound cute.
“I bet Graciana’s looking forward to it, too,” she said. “A special issue of the paper—she’ll have to put in lots of late-night sessions with Mr. Bixby. You know, one of my friends goes to the same church as Mr. Bixby’s family, and she says he’s stopped coming to services with his wife and kids. People are wondering if they’ve split up.”
“That has no necessary basis,” Joseph said. “Perhaps he is simply not religious.”
Suzette smiled wisely. “You always want to explain things away. Now, I don’t know if he’s actually moved out, or if they’re still thinking about it. And I don’t know for sure it’s because of Graciana. But if Mrs. Bixby does know about her, that can’t be helping.” She sighed. “Those poor kids!”
I couldn’t let that go. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on. Graciana and Mr. Bixby are both interested in newspapers, and they probably like each other, but maybe they haven’t—done anything.”
Suzette gave me a sad little smile. “You’re sweet. And I hope you’re right. Maybe it’s a coincidence Mr. Bixby’s marriage is in trouble. I like Graciana. I’d hate to think—let’s not talk about it anymore. Did you guys hear we might finally get a lacrosse team? My dad’s pushing for one.”
After we dropped Joseph off, Suzette started talking about this movie she wanted to see, about how her friends said it was funny but also had good action scenes. She was dying to see it, she said. But she hated going to movies alone.
After that, it’d be almost rude not to suggest going together. Besides, I wanted to see the movie, too, and if we went with a group, it wouldn’t be a date. Maybe I could talk Berk into coming. “If you want, we could go this weekend. Maybe some of the other guys—”
“I think everybody’s already seen it. But I’d love to go with you, Matt. And my grandparents gave me an Olive Garden gift card for my birthday, and it’s enough for two. So we can have dinner before the movie. Saturday night?”
Just the two of us, dinner and a movie, Saturday night. I guess you’d have to call that a date. Berk must be right. She did like me. And an Olive Garden gift card sounded like a strange present for her grandparents to give her. I half-suspected she’d buy the card herself tomorrow, to make it official we were dating now.
A few hours ago, I’d told Berk I wouldn’t ask her out. I hadn’t, not exactly. But good luck getting Berk to believe that.
I glanced at Suzette. She practically glowed, her big
blue eyes dancing with light, her hair a soft gold cloud around her face. God, she was pretty. And she was happy, just because she was going out with me.
It made me feel good to think a girl like Suzette could get so excited about that. Yes, she’d almost tricked me into it, and she’d probably lied about the gift card. Probably, that should irritate me. It didn’t. I felt flattered, and I thought it was cute.
And suddenly I didn’t much care if Berk believed me when I tried to explain. If he wanted to keep being a jerk, if he wanted to throw our friendship away for no reason, I couldn’t stop him. If he got over it and started being reasonable again, good. If not, I’d survive. I was glad I’d asked Suzette out.
Eleven
We sat in Graciana’s basement family room, demolishing the cinnamon-sugar butter cookies her mom had made, talking.
“So now we do what?” Joseph asked. “You said Burns will not speak of who called him, because it breaks confidence. Is all hopeless?”
Graciana lifted a shoulder. “Probably. We could find an excuse to see him—we could say we’re writing profiles of Ridgecrest High graduates, for the anniversary. But I don’t see how we could weave in questions about Davis and trick Burns into telling us anything.”
“So we’ll be straight with him.” Berk sat forward, face hard with determination, knees bouncing. “We’ll explain why we think Davis killed Coach on purpose, and why the person who called him might be involved.”
I shook my head. “We couldn’t even get Mr. Quinn to take us seriously—why would a lawyer who’s never seen us before? And if Burns thinks we’re stirring up rumors that’d hurt the school, he’ll call Dr. Lombardo.”
“So you’re saying we shouldn’t even try?” Berk said. “That’s stupid.”
“No, Matt’s right,” Graciana said. “Lawyers aren’t exactly eager to hand out information that might implicate their clients. Talking to Burns would be taking a big risk with practically no chance of success. So let’s push ahead with the memorial issue.”