by Carrie Arcos
We both stopped laughing, but Tyler held my gaze and smiled encouragingly. I smiled too, because I felt that we were in this together. He gave me back my notebook.
“Thanks for helping me with the form. Getting my car stolen had better be worth it.” Translation—we had better find Micah. “So, what do we do now?” I asked.
“Let me see that e-mail.”
I pulled it out of my backpack and pushed it across the table.
“Too bad she doesn’t give us an address or something.”
I smiled thinking about how I had thought the same thing earlier. But something he’d said struck me. “You said ‘she.’ Why?”
“Just doesn’t seem like a guy would go through the trouble. And this part, He’d be upset if he knew I wrote you. A guy wouldn’t care about making another guy mad.”
“I figured it was a guy, or someone making a joke.”
“No, this isn’t a joke.” He folded the e-mail along the already worn crease and handed it back to me. “How long ago did you get this?”
“Two weeks or so.”
“Micah could be anywhere, then.” Tyler looked as if he were struggling to ask me something. “Why . . . never mind.”
I looked down at my hands. I couldn’t go there yet, couldn’t deal with all the whys or why nots. It would have to be enough that I was looking for him today. It would have to count that I was trying to make up for what I had wished.
“You wanna keep going?”
I thought about what I’d have to face at home. The silence. The not knowing. The guilt. I was supposed to become a hero today. “Yes.”
Tyler began texting and said, “Time for Phase Two.”
“Phase Two?”
“Operation Dillon.”
Chapter Eleven
Operation Dillon involved getting in touch with a surfing buddy of Micah and Tyler’s. I thought about calling it OD for short, but I didn’t, for obvious reasons.
“How do you know him?” I asked Tyler as we walked.
“We met surfing a couple of years ago. He’s cool. We crashed a few times at his house.”
“You think Micah could be staying with him?”
“Maybe. But Dillon’s mom wouldn’t like it.”
“Why didn’t we contact him in the first place?”
“Your e-mail said he was living on the streets, so that’s where we started.”
I didn’t like the feeling that Tyler was keeping something from me, not lying necessarily, but feeding me the truth in pieces. “Is there anyone else we could meet up with while we’re down here?”
“Dillon would know.” Tyler stopped and turned to face me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I looked down at the sidewalk.
“You’re pouting.” He let out a sigh.
I looked up. “Just don’t sugarcoat anything.”
This time his eyes avoided mine. “I won’t.”
* * *
Dillon Rodriguez lived in OB, not too far from the beach. It took us twenty minutes to walk to his house, a tiny duplex with a couple of bikes and an old rectangular trampoline in the front yard. Orange clay pots of red geraniums and cactuses led the way up the sidewalk to the red front door. A red door. I took that as a good sign. I loved red doors.
Dillon opened the door before Tyler could knock, and they were embracing in that sideways way guys do sometimes. A few things stood out to me. First, Dillon was short, not much taller than me, which made Tyler tower over him. Second, he was older, definitely out of high school.
“Tyler, hermano. Long time.”
“Seriously. Couple months?”
“Probably. Who’s this cutie?”
“Rachel Stevens. Micah’s sister.”
Dillon’s brown eyes darkened at Micah’s name, though it could have just been the shade from the yellow cowboy hat he wore. He tipped his hat toward me. “Pleasure. How is my buddy Micah?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Tyler said.
Dillon leaned back against the door frame and crossed his arms. He seemed to be mulling over something, and after coming to a conclusion, he yelled out, “Ma!”
“What?” a woman’s voice, loud and irritated, responded from somewhere inside.
“I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“Out.”
“Don’t take the car.”
“I gotta.” He removed a pair of keys from his pocket.
“Put gas in it!” the woman shouted as Dillon shut the door behind him.
“Sorry about that. Mom’s a little crazy. Tyler, you working out?” Dillon put Tyler in a headlock and practically wrestled him down the walkway.
Great, I thought, he’s one of those guys.
He released Tyler and then flexed for us. “Pretty soon you’ll be looking this good, right, Rachel?”
“Right. So have you seen Micah around?” I was beginning to get impatient with their male bonding.
Dillon stopped smiling. “She’s kind of a killjoy, isn’t she?”
I didn’t wait for his answer. “Look, I don’t mean to be anyone’s buzzkill, but we’re—I’m worried about Micah. I haven’t seen him in months. The last I heard was that he could be down here. I think he’s in trouble.”
“Where have you looked?”
“Down by the beach, around the pier,” Tyler said. “We heard he was sleeping on the streets.”
Dillon nodded. “I’m not sure where he is.” He took a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it. “He’s pretty fucked up.”
“How?” Tyler asked.
“Last time I saw him, he was tweaking pretty bad and all paranoid. He thought someone was after him.” He looked away from me. “It was hard, you know, seeing him like that. He’s a good guy, just, I don’t know.”
For a moment I thought maybe Dillon had sent the e-mail, but I decided he didn’t seem the type. “Was someone after him?”
“Hard to tell. That shit he’s on messes with your head.” He paused and took a quick puff and exhaled, adding through the smoke, “He’s a decent guy. I felt sorry for him.”
Tyler looked away from me, took off his cap, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, do you know where we can find him?”
“I haven’t seen him around here for a while, but I did see him a couple of weeks ago in Mission.”
Mission Beach wasn’t too far, the next beach north of OB—but definitely too far to walk.
“I don’t know where he is, but I can help you look for him. If I were out there, I’d be glad to know that people were trying to find me. I was planning on heading to Mission anyway, if you want to follow my car. I have to stop to pick up my board at the shop. I’m pretty sure the owners knew Micah.”
“Can you give us a ride?” Tyler asked.
“My car got stolen. Long story,” I said before Dillon could ask.
“Sure. My ride’s in the garage.”
Dillon pushed a button on his key chain and the garage door slowly opened, revealing two vehicles inside. One was a white Toyota. The front end had a dent, and the mirror was missing on the driver’s side. I was relieved when Dillon opened the door to the second car. It was old and black, probably from the ’60s, and what I could only describe as beyond cool. It was the kind of car a greaser would be proud of. Her black paint reflected my face perfectly in the shine. The tan leather seats looked as if they were installed recently. No scratches, no marks of any kind defaced this car.
Tyler whistled.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Dillon admired her with us for a few seconds.
“This your mom’s car?” I asked.
“Yeah, she’s kind of punk rock that way.”
I understood why she didn’t want him to take it.
“Hop in.”
Tyler opened the passenger door and climbed into the back so I could sit in the front.
I felt shy about sitting next to Dillon, but I knew Tyler was being thoughtful. “Thank you.”
“Of c
ourse.”
“And they say chivalry is dead,” Dillon said, getting behind the dark wood steering wheel. He put the car in reverse and slowly backed out of the garage.
The car’s engine roared as Dillon applied the gas. Instinctively, my hands reached for something to hold on to, but despite the loud noise, the car traveled smoothly along the asphalt. I relaxed into the soft leather.
At the first red light, Dillon pushed a button and the top of the car began to fold back, exposing us to the sun. He put his arm around the seat where I sat, the other hung over the outside of the car. People in the crosswalk turned to look at the car, and I could tell Dillon enjoyed the attention. He made an interesting picture: a short, stocky guy in a cowboy hat, T-shirt, and board shorts behind the wheel of a classic.
The light turned green. Dillon gunned the car again and she produced a low guttural moan. I heard Tyler say something behind me, but I couldn’t understand him. We picked up speed. The wind whipped through my hair, and I couldn’t help but smile as we drove toward the beach. I could see the water in the distance rising like a huge blue sun in front of us. For a moment I forgot about Micah. I thought about riding in that car and following the coastline to wherever it might lead us.
* * *
It led us to the first gas station.
After stopping, Dillon turned to me and held out his hand. I gave him some cash.
“In between jobs,” he said, and exited the car to buy gas.
“I could have covered it,” Tyler said.
“I know.” I didn’t expect Tyler to pay. Micah was my brother, my responsibility.
I relaxed and turned to look at myself in the rearview mirror. Not too bad. I wet my fingers and calmed a few of the windblown strands of my hair. I searched inside my backpack for my sunscreen.
“You want some?” I offered the tube to Tyler.
“Nah, I’m good. One of the benefits of being brown.” To prove it to me, he held out one of his arms—tan and defined. Flustered again, I focused on applying a layer of sunscreen on my face and arms and legs.
“What’s the deal with Dillon?” My eyes scanned the mini-mart where Dillon had gone to pay.
“What do you mean?”
“He seems like, I don’t know . . .” My voice trailed off because I really didn’t know. “He’s older than us.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So what does he do? Does he go to school? Does he work?”
“Dillon is classic. He’s on the five-year junior college plan. You don’t have to worry about him.”
I watched Tyler for a few moments. The left side of his cheek gave no hint of the dimple it wore when he smiled. “I should call my mom, and make up some excuse about why I’m late. What did you tell your parents?”
Tyler shrugged. “I’m seventeen. What are they gonna do? Ground me?”
Mine would, I thought. I started fishing around in my backpack, forgetting for a moment that I had left my phone in the car. Tyler was way ahead of me. He held out his phone.
“Just tell them you’re spending the night somewhere.”
“How late do you think we’ll get back?” I dialed Mom’s cell.
“Better give yourself plenty of room,” he said.
I hoped Mom’s voice mail would pick up.
No such luck. “Hello?” she answered live.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Oh, Rachel. I didn’t recognize the caller.” I heard the familiar sounds of her office in the background.
I winced, forgetting about caller ID. “Yeah, my phone died, I had to use Michelle’s phone.”
“How’s shopping?”
“I found some shoes,” I lied with practiced ease, adding, “on sale for only twenty.”
“You and your shoes. Let’s get rid of some of the old ones cluttering your closet. Just one sec, Rach.” She spoke to someone else while I waited. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”
“I wanted to see if it was okay to spend the night at Michelle’s.” I made my voice sound casual as if I didn’t really care about the answer.
“Tonight? Don’t we have something going on?”
“No.”
“Wait. Yes, the Hammonds. They invited us for dinner.”
Stay calm, I told myself. “Well, that’s really more you and Dad, don’t you think?”
“There’s their son Jason. It would be nice of you to come for him.”
“He’s like, ten, Mom.” I couldn’t help the irritation in my voice.
“He’s in the eighth grade.”
Same difference, I thought. I tried a different tactic. “Well, I can make it if you really need me to. I was looking forward to spending some more time with Michelle before she leaves for her dad’s. That’s all.” Michelle spent a couple of weeks every summer with her dad in Michigan.
A slight pause followed. My mom sighed. “Okay. You can spend the night. I know how much you’ll miss Michelle when she’s gone.”
“Thanks, Mom.” She was always a sucker for guilt. I hung up. “Your battery’s almost dead.” I gave Tyler back his phone.
“You’re good,” Tyler said.
I smiled, but inside I felt a little bad for lying. Maybe if I wasn’t so good at hiding the truth, I wouldn’t be here now.
Tyler sat forward and removed his sunglasses. “What do you want to do? You want to go?” His face was suddenly very close to mine. I backed away out of reflex.
“Go where?”
Dillon appeared at the passenger side of the car and lifted the gas pump off its hinge. He leaned his back against the car as the gas dispensed. His arms were thick with muscle and tats. Though I supposed a cowboy hat would look ridiculous on most people, he made it look cool.
“Hey, kids,” he said.
“Hey,” I said with a smile.
“You don’t really look like Micah.” He peered at me over the top of his sunglasses.
“They have the same color eyes,” Tyler said from the back.
“Oh yeah? Brown?”
“Amber.”
Tyler was right. Our eyes were kind of reddish brown. I kept my focus on Dillon and acted as if anyone would have noticed the subtle difference between brown and amber eyes.
“Were you guys close?” Dillon asked.
Were we close? The question echoed in my mind. Define close. I hated him, and he left without saying good-bye. “We didn’t tell each other everything.”
He nodded and said, “I have a little brother,” as if that explained things.
“So what do you do, Dillon?” I asked, wanting to shift the conversation away from me and Micah.
“Well, I am currently working on a degree in business. I plan to graduate next year. For recreation, I surf, and I am a Leo. Anything else is top secret. I’d have to kill you.”
I ignored the last part. “How old are you?”
“I’m finally legal, baby. Twenty-one. How old are you?”
“Almost seventeen. What kind of business do you want to do?”
“Finance.”
“In this economy?”
“Money still rules the world.”
“Why do you live at home?”
“Two words: free rent.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Tyler, please make it stop!”
Tyler started laughing. I didn’t see what was so funny. I genuinely wanted to know what kind of guy Dillon was. Was he the kind you blew off, or was there substance underneath?
“No more questions. I didn’t agree to this torture.” He finished at the pump, walked around to the driver’s side, and got in. “Let’s go see if we can find Micah.”
* * *
Searching for Micah began with an anonymous e-mail, but it also came from a basic need. At first I needed to know that he was okay, that he was safe. But not only for him. Part guilt offering, my decision to find Micah was not entirely selfless. Micah was my only brother. It was as if some part of me were out there, lost and terribly sick. And I wanted to destroy
the image of him sitting in our backyard shooting meth into his veins.
I was late for curfew. Michelle and I had taken in a last-minute movie. I sneaked in through the side gate and planned to use the back door. Tiptoeing along the pathway to the patio, I froze when I saw a silhouette. My first thought was that Dad was waiting up for me, but the body sitting in the chair was much leaner than Dad’s. I almost whispered, “Micah,” but something about his actions stopped me. His head was bent over his arm, and I watched him stick himself with a needle without even flinching. It didn’t take long, a couple of seconds. When he finished, he leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes. I waited for him to move, but he didn’t. He didn’t even hear me as I crept past him and into the house.
In the kitchen I poured myself a glass of water and my hands shook. Some of the water spilled down my shirt as I took a drink. I was scared, more scared than I had been about anything before. But I was angry, too. It was the anger that stopped me from telling my parents. I left Micah outside, twitching and high, because I was pissed that he had left me, that he had decided to go somewhere I knew I could never follow.
Chapter Twelve
I had two high points my freshman year. The first was that I lettered in cross-country. The fact that we had only enough runners to field a varsity team didn’t negate the accomplishment, in my opinion. The second was ninth-grade world history. About halfway through the year, right between WWI and WWII, our teacher decided to quit and move to Milwaukee. Instead of hiring another teacher, the school administration went cheap and got us a long-term sub.
The first thing everyone noticed about Mr. Parnell was his thick, bushy, red beard, the kind that looked like a mountain man’s, the kind I wanted to shave off. After telling us a little bit about his life (as if we really cared about it), he confessed that teaching the next generation was a grave responsibility. I remembered that’s exactly what he said, grave responsibility. I didn’t know anyone who spoke like that except in old books.
The second day he divided us into teams and taught us how to play the game Risk—the one where the goal is “world domination.” We played it every day for the rest of the year. At first it was pretty cool, but it soon became boring trying to take over the world all the time. None of us said anything to other teachers or our parents, though, because we never had homework and feared being called a rat.