I remove the rubber gloves and leave the mirror. When I return, I’m holding the pair of scissors. A million thoughts race through my mind. How did I get here? What am I doing?
Jenny enters my mind, and my moment of reprieve from missing her is gone. In its place is the familiar gut-wrenching pain and sadness. I think about Duke’s dopey face. I think about driving back to that used-car dealership and reclaiming my Jeep. I think about leaving this shitty motel room and never returning. I think about going back home, but then I remember what home is like.
I remove the band from my hair, and a wave of brown cascades down past my shoulders. I grab a fistful of thick strands and cut it. I grab another fistful. I cut it. Another fist. I cut it. Slice it. Shred it. The floor is covered in clumps of what Jenny used to call my “gorgeous lion’s mane.” I look back in the mirror and stare at someone I no longer recognize. My hair isn’t pixie short, but it’s damn close. Around my ears and the top of my head, it’s trimmed pretty tight. The longest pieces are maybe an inch and a half at most. I’ve never gone short before, mainly for fear that I’d look like a boy. But it’s clear that I am still very much a girl. I run my hand through the chopped, seductive mess. Jenny would freak if she saw my hair. She would freak and ask me if I was stoned. I grab a bottle of peroxide.
Chapter 13
It’s ten o’clock at night when I go on Facebook to see if Ronnie has checked in anywhere. As I’m thinking how easy it is to stalk people, I discover Ronnie’s profile pic has been changed to a selfie. She’s making some weird face, and I can partially see Cracker’s head behind her. I know it’s Cracker only because I can see the bright-red hair. I click on the photo, and her page is no longer public. “Shit.” I hit it again and again and again, trying to will it to be public, but still—friends only. Same with her Instagram. Now, I’m worried Ronnie knew I was stalking her page. But how could she? I don’t know when someone’s stalking my page.
It totally blows, but it doesn’t change anything. So before I chicken out, I grab the keys to the Olds and head out of the room. I unlock the car door, slide behind the wheel, and catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. I barely recognize myself with my new bleached-blond short hair. Although, some pieces are a lot more yellow than they are blond. I’m a cheap version of Madonna from the eighties when she had short platinum-blond hair and dark eyebrows. I remember when Jenny and I found my mother’s Madonna CD collection in the basement, and Mom played her favorite album for us: You Can Dance. She sang “Everybody” out of tune and twirled her butt in a way that sent Jenny and me running out of the basement, screaming, “Ewwwww!” and covering our eyes. Still, Mom gained some cool points for even owning a CD collection.
I try not to let any of this take up space in my head as I lock the doors, program the GPS on my phone to 22 Oak Street, and drive off. I used to love driving around at night when the world seemed quiet and chill. Jenny used to call me a nyctophiliac because I did it so often. But here in Cantor, I find the nighttime anything but chill or quiet. The streets are, for sure, more sketchy at night, and I’m grateful for the Olds. I certainly would have stood out in my blue Jeep. Several of the blocks are nothing more than decrepit brick buildings with few signs of human occupancy. Other streets teem with people, both young and old, of various ethnicities. Most simply hang out on the front porches of small, run-down houses, drinking beer out of quart bottles and listening to music on massive portable speakers. A few boys run in front of my car, causing me to slam on the brakes. They laugh and shout in Spanish to one another. They’re playing a game of tag.
I arrive at Lori Silva’s house, and right away, I see the red Mustang from Mark Silva’s profile picture parked in the driveway. At least I know Mark lives here. I drive past the house and park on an adjacent street. A hint of yellow light peeks out through the blinds of an upstairs window, but other than that, I can’t see anything. I shut off the engine and sit in the dark, hoping to see Lori exit the house.
Only ten minutes have passed when I check to make sure all the doors are still locked. “What are you doing, Alex?” I ask myself out loud.
A bang startles me.
I turn and see a large man dragging two steel garbage cans to the curb. I sigh with relief. “Relax, you’re fine,” I say, trying to convince myself that I am. I grab my iPhone and check Lori and Ronnie’s page. Still private. Same with Cracker and Mark. Then I do something I haven’t done in a very long time. I scroll through my feed.
Lea has just posted an update: Partying at Michelle’s! Yeah, baby! Michelle is one of the nonathletic girls we’re friends with. I scroll down, passing various profile updates. I see a one-word post from Jay: Ouch.
I scroll to Jenny’s name and click onto her page, knowing I’m clicking onto pain. When it got out about her dying, just about every friend on her page—close to eight hundred people—posted comments on her wall.
I heart you forever!
Thanks for always being my friend!
You are, and always will be, the best!
Jenny’s status update reads They’re probably defrosted!
A week prior to the Cantor High School East game, I pulled a groin muscle during practice. That night, Jenny gave me a bag of frozen peas to ice it. We were watching one of those stupid reality shows when our mother walked into the living room.
“What are you doing to my peas?” she’d shrieked.
Jenny and I busted up laughing.
Our mother didn’t find it funny.
“Gimme those peas! They’re probably defrosted now!”
Jenny and I laughed so hard we both fell off the couch, our eyes filled with tears.
A moment later, Mom returned with a block of ice, the kind you put in a cooler. “Here, use this. Honestly, Alex.” She stalked off, shaking her head.
That night, Jenny posted the comment, They’re probably defrosted!
It’s been there ever since.
Smiling, I reread a text Jenny sent me. I’ve reread it many times before: Yo, hooker! Can u give me a ride home today?
Walk, fat ass, I wrote back.
Ha! You wish.
Fine. But no blowing bubbles out ya ass.
There’s a smiley face after that.
Yo—I had Mom’s meatloaf for lunch. Can’t promise.
Gross!
Another smiley face.
I know! Love ya. Mean it!
Jenny was programmed into my phone as Little Ho, and I was programmed into hers as Big Ho. It was a joke between us. We were both virgins.
I last two hours before I return to the motel room.
I crawl into bed, exhausted yet unable to close my eyes. I stare at my iPhone, which rests silently on the bedside table. I would do anything to see Little Ho show up on the screen right now. Tears fill my eyes, and I pray I fall asleep fast.
Chapter 14
It’s already eighty-five degrees outside, and it’s only eleven a.m. The steering wheel burns my hand when I touch it. I lower the windows and blast the air conditioner. I make a mental note to park in the shade. But there’s hardly any shade to be found. Cantor is like one big cement block.
I head back to Lori Silva’s house to spy on her. When I turn onto her street, the red Mustang from the night before speeds down the opposite end of the block. I hit the gas pedal and chase after it. I have to blow through a red light before I’m able to catch the Mustang stopping in a gas station. A guy with short brown hair steps out from behind the wheel and disappears inside the office.
For the next half hour, I drive up and down the highway, wasting gas, until finally, my gauge falls below three quarters. I return to the station and pull up to the first pump. Moments later, the guy from the Mustang emerges from the office and walks toward my car. He looks about seventeen or eighteen years old, and his hair is messy, as if he has just woken up and hasn’t bothered to brush it.
He
takes his time, not exactly in a rush. When he finally comes around to my driver’s-side window, he immediately checks me out. “What’s up? What can I get you?” His eyes drift below my face.
“Ten dollars, regular.”
“You got it.” He gives me another glance before turning to fetch the nozzle.
If this is Mark Silva, he looks nothing like Lori. He’s way hotter than any boy in my high school, including Jay, although I’d never call Jay hot. This guy has dark-brown eyes, a medium complexion, and his body is lean and muscled.
When the pump finishes, he returns to my window. I hand him a twenty, and he fishes for change. “Here ya go.” He gives me a ten.
“Thanks.” I hold his stare.
I’ve never been one to flirt or act stupid in front of guys. I’ve never understood why girls act dumber than they are or flirt so obviously they are practically throwing themselves at the guy. Amber has it down to a science. To me, it’s embarrassing. But I have a purpose being here. So I act like Amber. “What’s your name?”
“Mark.”
So he is Mark Silva, Lori’s younger brother. I suddenly hate him by association. It must show on my face.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“Nothing.” I force a smile. “I’m Ally. Ally Walker.”
“Ally Walker, huh?”
“Yeah. I figured you should know my last name before you forget it.”
“I won’t forget you.” His smile reveals a dimple in his cheek. He looks at me in a way I’ve seen other guys look at me, but few back up that look. “Yo, you’re beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“So I’ve never seen you before, Ally.”
“No, I just moved here.”
“To Cantor? Yo, I’m sorry to hear that. Seriously.”
He looks genuinely sorry, and something about Mark makes me feel at ease. Maybe it’s his smile or that dimple. But whatever it is, I don’t feel threatened or uncomfortable. I decide to leave without seeming desperate, even though I know I’ll be back to visit him.
“See ya around.” I start the engine.
“Yo, what’s your number?” Mark grabs onto the window to stop me from leaving.
Unfortunately, I’m not prepared to give him my number. And if I were, how many other female customers has Mark Silva hit on today? I’m guessing this is his thing.
“Jus’ so you know, I don’t ask every girl for her number,” Mark says, as if reading my mind.
“I doubt that, killer.”
He laughs as if caught in a lie. “Yo, it’s true!”
I wonder if Mark Silva is telling me the truth. “I know where to find you.”
“Seriously, you ain’t gonna give up your number?”
“Not today, handsome.”
“Not today, huh?” he says with another laugh, enjoying my attention. “Yo, at least come back and visit me, a’right?”
“Maybe.” I drive off, leaving him staring after me.
From there, I head straight to the nearest wireless store and purchase a used iPhone with a Cantor phone number. I wish I thought of this earlier because if I did, I would’ve gladly given Mark my number. I think about going back to the gas station, but again, I don’t want to look desperate. So I decide to do a drive-by of Natice Gentry’s house instead.
I type in her address and follow the directions into a neighborhood that seems even less safe than Lori and Mark’s. I can’t even count how many boarded-up homes I pass, not to mention piles of junk wasting away in open fields of dirt. The block Natice lives on is a one-way street facing a hill of weeded grass along a highway. There aren’t any houses, only two-storied redbrick apartment buildings clustered together with air-conditioners sticking out from the windows. Each pothole in the road I hit makes the car rattle. It isn’t until I reach the end of the block that I notice a mailbox fastened to a screen door with the name Gentry written in white paint. There’s a driveway on the side of the apartment, but no car is in it.
I only stick around for a few minutes before the heat and a crazy-looking dude wearing a long coat makes me want to get out of that neighborhood. I grab some Burger King from across the street from my motel and take it back to my air-conditioned room. I kick off my shoes and plop down on the bed, spent. The Coca-Cola is extra syrupy, and the French fries are less than crunchy. I take a bite out of my cheeseburger and look across the bed at the TV, wanting to turn it on to drown out the silence. The remote sits next to it on the dresser, but I’m too lazy to get up. I pull a fry from the bag, and my mind wanders to Jenny. Anytime we ate McDonalds or Wendy’s at home—we never got Burger King—we’d sit at the kitchen table, tossing fries to Duke. He’d be sitting perfectly still, his brown eyes trained on the fry with the precision of a sniper’s scope, following it from the box to our mouths. As soon as we tossed one in the air, like Jaws, his teeth would clamp down on the fry, and he’d swallow it whole.
Occasionally, Jenny and I would get brave enough to let Duke take the fries straight from our fingers. “He’s so fast!” Jenny would scream, yanking her hand away as fast as she could. We’d laugh hysterically. You’d lose your thumb if you didn’t move quickly enough. Thinking about the memory, I push aside my burger and fries and ball up into a fetal position, pulling the pillow in close to me. I try taking a nap, but after closing my eyes then quickly reopening them and staring at the wall for twenty minutes, I give up and call my dad.
“Hey, kiddo. How’s camp?” my father asks, his voice upbeat.
“It’s good.” I sit on the edge of my motel bed.
“How are the coaches?”
“They’re tough. They make Coach Prudenti look like a kitten.”
“They’re not working you too hard in this heat?”
“Nah. We’ve mostly been playing inside.”
“Well, make sure you drink lots of water. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”
“Don’t worry. I am.”
I hate myself for lying to my father. If he only knew I was in some crappy motel room in Cantor. Thank God, he doesn’t ask me a million questions. “How’s Duke?”
“He’s good. Misses you. I’ve been letting him sleep in our room.”
I feel even guiltier, as though I’m the worst person in the world for abandoning Duke, but at least he and my dad are keeping each other company. “Give him a kiss for me. Okay?”
“I will.”
“How’s Mom?” I finally ask.
There’s a pause. “She’s doing better.”
I can tell by my father’s tone that things are the same, and by the time I hang up the phone, I’m determined to stay in Cantor the full two weeks.
Around midnight, I end up back in Lori Silva’s neighborhood, and everything looks exactly as it did the other night, including Mark’s mustang in the driveway. I park in a different spot and watch, this time without going on Facebook. About an hour later, Mark exits the house with a blonde, and they drive off together in his car. He may not be a criminal, but he’s obviously a player. Unfortunately, I don’t see Lori, and after growing restless and tired, I quit spying for the day.
Chapter 15
After eating a Twix bar for breakfast, I go by the gas station in hopes of flirting with Mark and somehow using him. But I don’t see his red Mustang, so I decide to check out Ronnie Rodriguez’s home. The case folder doesn’t include much on Ronnie, other than her and her mother’s testimony as to where Ronnie was on the night of the shooting. They both claim Ronnie was at home having dinner with her brother and sister. Her mother even stated that Ronnie felt sick afterward and stayed in, going so far as to say she gave Ronnie aspirin for a headache at around eight o’clock that night. I wonder if this is true or if Mrs. Rodriguez would lie for her daughter. Her father, Carlos Rodriguez, was at work.
Thankfully, Ronnie lives in a neighborhood that is actually nice, even charm
ing. There aren’t any cars propped up on cinder blocks, or trash cluttering the front lawns, or clothes hanging out windows. The people here seem to care about their homes. Each one is crafted in an old Colonial style. They’re small and all bunched together like most of the housing in Cantor, but they’re well kept and painted in vibrant greens, reds, and yellows. I arrive at Ronnie’s house, and there’s a statue of the Virgin Mary prominently displayed in the front yard.
I’m barely there five minutes when the front door swings open and a woman in a loud, aqua-blue dress hurries out, shouting in Spanish. “¡Llegamos tarde! ¡Cierre la puerta! ¡Cierre la puerta!” She waves for the door to be closed.
Two teenagers I recognize from Ronnie’s Facebook photos trail after the woman.
“Ronnie! Tell your father to hurry!” her mother yells, breaking into English.
Ronnie finally appears, and she does not look happy. “Dad! C’mon!” She tugs at the dress she is wearing. It fits snugly around her sides and belly.
“Leave it. It’s pretty,” her mother says in Spanish, swatting Ronnie’s hand away and fixing her daughter’s dress.
“Can I borrow the car tonight?” Ronnie asks.
“No,” her mother says flatly, continuing in Spanish. “I’m not in the mood to fight, so don’t start with me.” She throws a hand in the air to emphasize her point.
Ronnie breaks into Spanish, raising her voice, arguing that she asked her mother two nights ago, and her mother said yes.
“I did not.” Her mother shakes her head no.
“Yes, you did!” Ronnie insists, pointing to the car. She quickly reminds her mother that she even promised to put gas in the car, and her mother agreed.
Her mother wags a finger in the air, saying she only agreed to give Ronnie the car Friday night, and not tonight too.
Girl on Point Page 7