I flip all the way back to the front cover. She’s handwritten that Feynman quote, the same one she highlighted in that book stacked in the sunroom.
"Science is the belief in the ignorance of experts."
I replace her pencil. Give the room one more glance and see a shadow falling between the closet's double doors. The neat freak Mr. Straithern only allows one student to use his supplies. That rat.
She must’ve heard me coming down the hall and jumped into the closet.
That skinny rat.
And now I feel the need for revenge. Tiptoeing over, holding my breath, I yank open the door.
“Gotcha!”
Dull, black magnets. Iron levers. Dowel rods swinging in the breeze I've just created.
“Drew.” My throat feels hoarse. “This is so not funny.”
But the only reply is the clock, ticking away the silence.
***
When I step into the hall, there's an unmistakable sound. Like a horse whinnying.
“Oh, Herb, stop!”
Parsnip.
I am immobile with shock. Herb is Sandbag’s first name.
“Will you please be patient!” she whinnies.
I sneak down the hall in the opposite direction, skirting the litter, until I reach the girls’ bathroom. It’s as dark as the Physics lab. When I flick on the light, I see three stall doors are closed.
“If you're hiding in here, I'm going to kill you.”
No response.
I have to crawl under the doors because you can’t really see under them. And because Drew never gives up. But what I find are toilets clogged with stuff that triggers my gag reflex. I’m coming out of the third stall when the bathroom door opens. I have a moment of hope versus panic—is it Drew, or Parsnip?
Neither.
The janitor gapes at me. “What in blue blazes?!”
“Hi.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He keeps the door propped open, with one hand on the rolling cart that holds his cleaning supplies. “You're not supposed to be in here.”
“I know, I was . . . ”
But I don’t know what to say.
“Who let you in?” he demands.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
I don’t want to get Mr. Galluci in trouble. But I can’t keep eye contact. I have nothing but lies, and this is John, the janitor. Not Ellis or Parsnip, but a guy who’s been nice to Drew and me. To everyone. And to make me feel even guiltier, every time I look away from him, I catch my guilty reflection in the mirror. Somebody’s left a giant lipstick kiss, and it sits right above my head, like a bad joke about kissing my decency goodbye.
“I was looking for something,” I manage to say.
“In the bathroom?"
His voice has some kind of northern accent, New York or New Jersey or someplace where they say exactly what's on their mind in a tone of voice that says you’re an idiot. He’s still holding the door open, expecting me to leave. But then something dawns on him.
“Oh. Okay. I got it. Come out when you’re done.”
He starts to leave.
“Wait!” I call out.
He turns around. He’s bald and the skin on his scalp is all wrinkled up with baffled questions.
“I mean, hang on a second. You know Drew, right?” I make a motion with my hand, indicating her wild brown hair. “Drew Levinson?”
“If you two burned up something, I’m—"
I shake my head. Last spring Drew and I simulated the volcanic explosion of Mt. St. Helen’s. We made sure to wait until school was out for Friday, but our model left some nasty scorch marks outside the gym. John saw us. He chewed us out pretty good, but he also let us go.
“No, nothing like that. I just can’t find her. And her bike is outside."
“You girls.” He rolls his eyes. “Working here is being in a soap opera. I can’t keep up with it.”
Behind him, in the hall, paper rustles off the floor. I dart back into the stall, pull my feet up on the seat.
“John.”
“How ya doing, Miz Parsons.”
“Have you perchance seen a student wandering the halls?”
“Here?”
“Of course here.”
“Tonight?”
“Of course tonight!”
“Seems kinda late, is all.”
“I know perfectly well what time it is. A student—Raleigh Harmon—ran into the building without permission and we haven’t seen her come out. All the doors are locked, I presume?”
“Locked up tight.”
“And you've seen no one?”
“Mr. Sandberg. If you hurry he might still be in his classroom.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“Mr. Sandberg has every right to be in his classroom at whatever hour he chooses.”
“Course he does.”
“He’s an educator.”
“Yes’m.”
There's a moment of tense silence. I count to twenty-five. Then fifty. Then I hear the spritz-spritz of a spray bottle. When I poke my head out, John is squirting down the mirror, soaking that stupid lipstick kiss.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Yeah, yeah.” He scrubs at the greasy lips, smearing them on the glass. “Now get outta here, would ya? Before I lose my job.”
CHAPTER NINE
When I step into the still-dark gym, Mr. Galluci is waiting.
"Harmon," he says, pointing a finger stained bright orange with Doritos powder. "Just for taking off like that, you're running double miles on Monday. Hear me?"
Like that's a punishment. Running, even with aching toes, is my favorite thing.
"Yes, sir." I proceed to apologize, sincerely, because Mr. Galluci, like our janitor, is one of the few people around here who won't rat on us. Sandbag, not so much. He probably told Parsnip he saw me.
But I'm midway through my apology when the band downshifts to a sultry pulse.
Mr. Galluci's head snaps toward the dance floor.
"This is the last song," the singer murmurs into the mic, "so grab your honey and get real close."
"Oh, great," Galluci mutters.
He joins the chaperones, nosing their way to the dance floor while the couples, like minnows avoiding sharks, gather under the disco ball that's twisting spheres of prismatic silver light around the gym.
I navigate to the far wall, stepping around the pushed-up bleachers. Even from over here, even in the dark, I can see them.
Couples.
Couples everywhere. So close they merge into one. I push away the pang in my heart, needling me. I remind myself that these couples have no idea. Love isn't a corsage and a limo ride and a shiny dress. It's not even a love song. In fact, if these couples knew the truth, they might avoid the whole thing altogether. I mean, look at my dad. He's vowed to love my mother and what does he get in return? Pain. Suffering. Grief.
And yet, if I know all that, why does it feel like an invisible hand is squeezing my heart?
But when I step outside, the feeling evaporates.
“Where is Miss Parson?” Mr. Ellis says.
“I don’t know.”
“She went inside to retrieve you.”
“Really? I didn't see her.” This statement is true. I heard her, while locked in the stall.
“Ah, there you are!” he calls out, as Parsnip barges from the gym.
The woman always looks one degree from boiling over, but her temperature rises as she informs Ellis that Mr. Sandbag "caught" me "running through the halls."
“Neither you nor Miss Levinson have permission to sneak into this school after hours,” Parsnip says. “There will be consequences.”
Before she can count those out to me, the doors burst open again. The couples start pouring out.
“Form a line!” Ellis shouts. “All rides must be accounted for!”<
br />
I walk away, feeling a deep stab of resentment. But the chattering crowd seems to fade when I reach the bike rack. Drew’s purple Schwinn is here. Now. I stare at it, trying to figure things out. Maybe she moved the bike after the plumbing truck left? But that still doesn't explain why she didn't come to dinner. I touch the metal frame, glancing around, hoping to see her step from the darkness, a huge smile on her face. The frame feels cold under my fingers. When I look down at the lock, the black cable snakes through the front spokes.
Once.
I lean down.
The lock circles the wheel and the bike rack. But only once.
I stand up. My heart is pounding again. Drew maintains more compulsive habits than I can count, and one of them is twisting that cable through her bike spokes twice. She always makes a figure eight: the sign of infinity.
And another habit: the combination's numbers.
I lift the black bar, reading the five numbers: 5-8-3-9-2.
My heart is rioting.
Never. She would never lock her bike like this. Like that white arrow on her locker must point at zero, Drew always sets this combination back to 0-0-0-0-0.
Always.
I stare at it, feeling like I must be going crazy.
“Raleigh?”
I glance up. My heart kicks again. But this time for a totally different reason. I shake the hair from my eyes, look away.
“I thought that was you,” he says.
Unlike all these other rent-a-tux guys, DeMott Fielding's tuxedo looks like every seam was stitched to fit his body. And it’s a very nice body. My heart does another flip.
“Why were you running through the gym?” he asks.
I keep telling myself he's not my type. But if that's really true, how come I always find myself looking for him in church? And how come right now I'm trying to find some really cool reason to explain why, dressed in baggy sweats, I bolted through the dance?
As usual, no great words come in time.
“What's wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“You don't look like nothing's wrong. No offense.”
I glance down at the bike. It sits there, waiting like some Exhibit A to prove I'm really not a total dork.
“I'm looking for my friend.” I even pat the bike frame. As if this proves something. “This is her bike.”
He nods. But it's vague, some gesture of politeness. Which makes me feel like an even bigger dork.
I don't want to sound crazy, since everyone knows my mother is completely nuts. But I really don't have a lot of options right now. Tell him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Yeah. I snuck out of my house, ran all the way here, in the dark, and searched the classrooms—and the girls’ bathroom—because I can't find my friend.
That doesn’t just sound weird—it sounds like I’m gay. Not that I care what he thinks, of course.
"Raleigh." He tilts his head to the side. "I can see something's bothering you. What is it?"
I glance over his shoulder. Ellis is thirty yards away. Parsnip stands across from him, big feet spread like a drill instructor. When I glance back at DeMott, his eyes seem as blue and calm as a clear summer sky.
"I can't find her."
"Who—your friend?"
"Drew, her name's Drew." The rest of it tumbles out, not even in the right order, and I data-dump all over him: her stuff in Physics lab, her mom, dinner every Friday, and this bike, Exhibit A. "It wasn’t here when I came by earlier."
I sound crazy.
“I swear it wasn't here,” I add quickly. “There was a plumbing truck. Right here. Backed up to the bike rack and—”
“I believe you.”
“—her lock. See how—”
“Raleigh. I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Something's not right.”
But I can only stare at the ground. At his black shoes, so polished that the overhead light makes the tips appear white. Something's not right. His words both make me feel better, and worse.
“I'll help you look for her,” he says.
Every single thought inside my head starts to collide with its opposite.
First I think: Wow, that would be great. Then: No, terrible. And then: Maybe it would work.
And all that hesitation steals my one chance to invite DeMott Fielding into my life. Because here comes Satan herself:
Tinsley Teager.
Her long platinum hair curls just so from her flawless face. She seems to float over the pavement, her lemon yellow gown frothy and feminine.
“I've been looking for you,” she says, batting her green eyes at DeMott.
“Raleigh can't find her friend.”
“Shame. One more picture, pretty please? The photographer promised he'd wait.”
“I was going to help Raleigh.”
Tinsley's neck looks rigid. “Help her . . . how?”
“I told you, she can't find her friend.”
“Are we talking about Drew Levinson? Wait. What am I saying?” She giggles at me. “You don't have any other friends.”
“Tins, that's not—”
"Missing.” Tinsley's smile grows large and white, a veritable glacier of perfect orthodontics. “DeMott, you should know something about Drew Levinson. First of all, she enjoys being the center of attention.”
“That's a lie!” I say.
Tinsley turns to him, not faltering for one icy second. “She just called me a liar.”
“Raleigh's upset, that's all. I think we should—”
“You're right, DeMott.” Her smile grows bigger. “Of course, Raleigh's upset, bless her heart.”
Those three words, coming from Tinsley Teager, is like being stabbed in the back and then asked to admire the knife's handle.
“DeMott,” she says. “Did Raleigh happen to mention that Drew's run away before?”
He looks at me, questioning.
“That was a long time ago,” I say.
“Actually, no,” she says. “The whole school turned itself upside down and inside out trying to find that girl. Do you know where she was? Hiding. Hoping to get more attention. Bless her heart.”
DeMott is frowning, taking in this new information. I wonder if he thinks I'm a liar.
“Yo, Fielding!”
He turns. In the parking lot, a guy leans from a limo's back window. His red bow tie is askew.
“You and Tins coming?” the guy yells. “Drinks are melting!”
Tinsley gasps. She is our student body president—or, as Drew says, “student busybody president.” She spins around, checking to see whether Parsnip and Ellis heard. But they're dealing with Harper Conneally, whose black shrug is way too small for her enormous new chest. In fact, a blanket might be too small, but that doesn't stop Parsnip from pinching the shoulders of the little shrug and tugging it down, as if this will change the fact that Harper, who last year was flat as an ironing board, realized she will no longer be ignored by all the guys if she gets a pair of boobs. This summer, she did. As Parsnip makes some futile wardrobe adjustments, Ellis is acting like some termite inspector, staring up at the gym's roof.
Once again, I pounce on opportunity. “Tinsley, did Drew happen to say anything during tutoring?”
“Tutoring?” DeMott looks surprised. “Tins, you're tutoring this girl? That's great.”
She takes his arm, patting it flirtatiously. But her smile looks cryogenically frozen. “DeMott, honey. Would you do me just the biggest, grandest most wonderful favor in the whole wide world?”
“Of course.”
“Please go tell Stuart Morgan to be quiet?” She bats her eyes. “I really can't have him broadcasting across the parking lot. And I'll be right there after you.”
“But I have to help Raleigh.”
“No, that's okay,” I say.
“You sure?” he asks.
No, I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything tonight, except that having DeMott Fielding wearing his tuxedo while he search
es for Drew and Tinsley hounds behind him in her lemony gown is not the help I need.
“I'm fine,” I say. “But thanks. I appreciate the offer.”
His blue-eyed gaze lingers on me. One second, two, three. Then he nods, as if some thought has come to him. He turns to leave.
But Tinsley sinks her claws in deeper. Lifting her face to him, she puckers her glossed lips and says, “Kiss, kiss.”
I could hurl right here, except for the fact that DeMott only pecks her forehead.
She blinks, stunned.
And then we both watch him walk away. DeMott's one of those guys who looks so comfortable when he walks, like he expects life to move at his speed, not the other way around. I feel so much better just looking at him. And I can't really say why.
But from the corner of my eye I see a yellow flash, right before Tinsley spits out the words.
“Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?”
CHAPTER TEN
"I asked you a question," Tinsley says.
Now that DeMott’s out of range, Tinsley's reverting to her true self. It's like seeing Barbie morph into a pit bull. I shift my gaze to DeMott’s back, a much-improved view.
Tinsley reaches out, squeezing my arm. "Answer me!"
I shake out of her grip. "I'm looking for Drew."
She laughs coldly. "Do I look stupid to you?"
"Actually—"
"You know what's wrong with you?" she says, cutting me off. "You've got issues."
"I've got issues?"
"Raleigh, face the facts. Your real dad dumped you, your mom's crazy, and your only friend has run away. Again. And now look at you. Bless your heart, wearing sweats to the dance. You're having a public meltdown."
Something runs down my spine, colder than the night wind. Colder than Tinsley's glacial smile. It’s true that my birth dad took off. I was four. My mom had to get a job, Helen and I went into cheap daycare, and we rode city busses because we couldn’t afford a car. But my clearest memory from those hard years is standing next to my mother in the grocery story. She was picking out collard greens—cheap green food—for our dinner. A song played overhead and she was singing to it. A man stopped to stare at her. He was very, very handsome and I felt ashamed of my mother, singing in public, picking over that stiff green food we hated eating. But the man didn’t leave. He kept watching her, looking at her like he knew her. More than that: he looked at her like he’d known her his whole life. Eight months later, that man, David Harmon, married my mom and we moved into his big house on Monument Avenue and never rode the city bus again. My birth dad took off. David Harmon is my real dad.
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