Reunion tm-3

by Meg Cabot

  Still, Father Dominic seemed to have sprung back with more vigor than you might expect for a guy in his sixties. I could barely walk, my shins ached so badly, and I couldn't stop yawning since our little tête-à-tête with the Angels had lasted until well past midnight. Father Dom, except for the shadows beneath his eyes, seemed almost sprightly, bubbling over with energy.

  "Susannah," he said again, less exasperatedly, and more affectionately this time. "Promise me you will do nothing of the kind. You will not call the police with any anonymous tips."

  I shifted the box of candles in my arms. It had certainly seemed like a good idea when I'd come up with it around four that morning. I'd lain awake almost all night wondering what on earth we were going to do about the RLS Angels and Michael Meducci.

  "But - "

  "And you will not, under any circumstances" - Father Dominic, apparently noticing my problem with the box, lifted it easily from my arms and set it down on the stepladder's top rung - "attempt to speak with Michael yourself about any of this."

  That, of course, had been Plan B. If the whole anonymous tip thing to the cops didn't pan out, I'd planned on cornering Michael and sweet-talking - or beating, whichever proved most effective - a confession out of him.

  "You will let me handle this," Father Dominic said loudly enough so that the tourist in the madras, who'd been about to take a picture of the altar, hastily lowered his camera and moved away. "I intend to speak to the young man, and I can assure you that if he is indeed guilty of this heinous crime - " I sucked in my breath, but Father Dominic held up a warning finger.

  "You heard me," he said, a bit more quietly, but only because he'd noticed that one of the novices had slipped into the church carrying more black material to drape over the basilica's many statues of the Virgin Mary. They would remain cloaked in that manner, I had gathered, until Easter. Religion. That is some wacky stuff, let me tell you.

  "If Michael is guilty of what those young people say he is, then I will convince him to confess." Father Dominic looked like he meant it, too. In fact, I hadn't even done anything, but somehow, looking at his stern expression, I wanted to confess. Once I had taken five dollars from my mother's wallet to buy a jumbo bag of Skittles. Maybe I could confess that.

  "Now," Father Dominic said, pulling back the sleeve of his black robe and looking at his Timex. They don't pay priests enough for them to be able to get cool watches. "I am expecting Mr. Meducci to join me here momentarily, so you need to move along. It would be best for him not to see us together, I think."

  "Why not? He has no idea we spent most of last night in conversation with his victims."

  Father Dominic put a hand in the center of my back and pushed. "Run along now, Susannah," he said in a fatherly sort of voice.

  I went, but not very far. As soon as Father D's back was turned, I ducked down into a pew and crouched there, waiting. Waiting for what, I couldn't say. Well, all right, I could say: I was waiting for Michael. I wanted to see if Father D really would be able to get him to confess.

  I didn't have to wait long. About five minutes later, I heard Michael's voice say, not too far from where I was hiding, "Father Dominic? Sister Ernestine said you wanted to speak to me."

  "Ah, Michael." Father Dominic's voice conveyed none of the horror that I knew he felt over the prospect of one of his students being a possible murderer. He sounded relaxed and even jovial.

  I heard the box of candles rattle.

  "Here," Father Dominic said. "Hold those, will you?"

  He had, I realized, just handed Michael the box I'd been holding.

  "Uh," Michael said. "Sure, Father Dominic."

  I heard the scrape of the stepladder being folded again. Father Dom was picking it up and moving to the next Station of the Cross. I could still hear him, however … barely.

  "I've been worried about you, Michael," Father Dominic said. "I understand that your sister isn't showing much sign of improvement."

  "No, Father," Michael said. His voice was so soft, I could hardly hear it.

  "I'm very sorry to hear that. Lila is a very sweet girl. I know you must love her very much."

  "Yes, Father," Michael said.

  "You know, Michael," Father Dominic said. "When bad things happen to the people we love, we often … well, sometimes we turn our backs on God."

  Aw, geez, I thought, from my pew. That wasn't the way. Not with Michael.

  "Sometimes we become so resentful that this terrible thing has happened to someone who doesn't deserve it that we not only turn our backs on God, but we might even begin contemplating … well, things we wouldn't ordinarily contemplate if the tragedy hadn't occurred. Like, for instance, revenge."

  All right, I thought. Getting better, Father D.

  "Miss Simon."

  Startled, I looked around. The novice who had come in to finish draping the statues was staring at me from the end of my pew.

  "Oh," I said. I slithered up off of my knees and into the seat. Father Dominic and Michael, I saw, had moved so that their backs were to me. They were too far away to overhear us.

  "Hi," I said to the novice. "I was just, um, looking for an earring."

  The novice didn't appear to believe me.

  "Don't you have religion with Sister Ernestine right now?" she asked.

  "Yes, Sister," I said. "I do."

  "Well, hadn't you better get to class, then?"

  Slowly, I rose to my feet. It wouldn't have mattered, even if I hadn't gotten caught. Father Dominic and Michael had moved too far away for me to have heard anything anyway.

  I walked, with what dignity I could, toward the end of the pew, pausing when I reached the novice before moving on.

  "Sorry, Sister," I said. Then, striving to break the awkward silence that ensued, during which the novice stared at me in mute disapproval, I added, "I like your, um …"

  But since I couldn't remember what they call that dress they all wear, the compliment fell a little flat, even though I thought I'd sort of saved it at the end by gesturing toward her and going, "You know, your thing. It's very figure flattering."

  But I guess that's the wrong thing to say to somebody who is in training to be a nun, since the novice got very red in the face and said, "Don't make me have to report you again, Miss Simon."

  Which I thought was sort of harsh, considering I'd been trying, anyway, to be nice. But whatever. I left the church and headed back to class, taking the long way, through the brightly sunlit courtyard, so I could soothe my frazzled nerves by listening to the sound of the burbling fountain.

  My nerves soon shot back up to frazzled, however, when I spotted another one of the novices standing by the statue of Father Serra, delivering a little lecture to a group of tourists about the missionary's good works. In order to avoid being spotted out of class without a hall pass (why hadn't I thought to ask Father D for one? I'd been thrown by the whole candle thing), I ducked into the girls' room, where I was met by a cloud of gray smoke.

  Which meant only one thing, of course.

  "Gina," I said, stooping over so I could figure out which stall she was in by looking under the doors. "Are you insane?"

  Gina's voice came floating out from one of the stalls on the end, near the window, which she'd strategically opened.

  "I do not," she said, throwing open the stall door, and then hanging onto it while she puffed, "believe so."

  "I thought you quit smoking."

  "I did." Gina joined me on the window sill, onto which I'd hauled myself. The Mission, having been built in like the year 1600 or something, was made of this really thick adobe, so all the windows were set back two feet into the stone. This supplied built-in window seats that, if they were a little high, were at least very cool and comfortable.

  "I only smoke now in emergencies," Gina explained. "Like during religion class. You know I am philosophically opposed to organized religion. How about you?"

  I raised my eyebrows. "I don't know," I said. "Buddhism has always struck me as kin
d of cool. That whole reincarnation thing is very appealing."

  "That's Hinduism, you dink," Gina said. "And I was talking about smoking."

  "Oh. Okay. No, I never got the hang of it. Why?" I grinned at her. "Didn't Sleepy tell you about the time he caught me trying to smoke?"

  She frowned prettily. "He did not. And I wish you wouldn't call him that."

  I made a face. "Jake, then. He was pretty peeved about it. You better not let him catch you at it, or he'll dump you like a hot potato."

  "I highly doubt that," Gina said with a mysterious smile.

  She was probably right. I wondered what it would be like to be Gina, and have every boy you met fall madly in love with you. The only boys who fell madly in love with me were boys like Michael Meducci. And he wasn't even technically in love with me. He was in love with the idea that I was in love with him. Something I still couldn't think about, by the way, without shuddering.

  I heaved a dejected sigh and looked out the window. About a mile of sloping, cypress-tree-dotted landscape stretched to the sea, teal blue and sparkling in the bright afternoon sunlight.

  "I don't see how you can stand it." Gina exhaled a plume of gray smoke. She was back to talking about religion class, I could tell from her tone. "I mean, it must all really seem bogus to you, considering the whole mediator thing."

  I shrugged. I had gotten home too late the night before for Gina and I to have our "talk." She'd been sound asleep when I snuck back into the house. Which was just as well, since I'd been exhausted.

  Not exhausted enough, however, to fall asleep.

  "I don't know," I said. "I mean, I haven't got the slightest idea where the ghosts go after I send them packing. They just … go. Maybe to heaven. Maybe on to their next life. I doubt I'll ever know until I die myself."

  Gina aimed her next plume of smoke out the window. "You make it," she said, "sound like a trip. Like when we die, we're just moving to a new address."

  "Well," I said. "Personally, I think that's how it works. Just don't ask me to tell you what that address is. Because that I don't know."

  "So." Her cigarette finished, Gina stamped it out on the adobe beneath us, then flung the butt expertly over the closest stall door, and into the toilet. I heard the plop, and then the sizzle. "What was that all about last night, anyway?"

  I told her. About the RLS Angels, and how they thought Michael had killed them. I told her about Michael's sister, and the accident out on the Pacific Coast Highway. I told her about how Josh and his friends were looking to avenge their deaths, and about how Father Dominic and I had argued with them, long into the night, until we'd finally convinced them to let us try to bring Michael to justice the old-fashioned way - you know, utilizing the appropriate law enforcement agencies, and not a paranormal contract killing.

  There was only one thing I didn't tell her, and that was about Jesse. For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to mention him. Maybe because of what the psychic had said. Maybe because I was afraid Madame Zara was right, that I really was this giant loser who was only going to fall in love with one person my entire life, and that person was a guy who:

  (a) did not love me back, and

  (b) wasn't exactly someone I could introduce to my mother, since he wasn't even alive.

  Or maybe it was simply because … well, maybe because Jesse was a secret I wanted to hug to myself, like some stupid girl with a crush on Carson Daly, or somebody. Maybe someday I'd take to standing underneath my bedroom window with a big sign that says Jesse, will you go to prom with me? like all those girls who stand around outside the MTV studios, though I sincerely hoped someone would shoot me or something before it comes to that.

  When I was through, Gina sighed, and said, "Well, it just goes to show. The cute ones always do end up being psychotic murderers."

  She meant Michael.

  "Yeah," I said. "But he's not even that cute. Except with his clothes off."

  "You know what I mean." Gina shook her head. "What are you going to do if he doesn't confess to Father Dominic?"

  "I don't know." This was something that had contributed to my insomnia of the night before. "I guess we'll just have to get some proof."

  "Oh, yeah? Where you gonna find that? The evidence store?" Gina yawned, looked at her watch, and then hopped off the window sill. "Two minutes until lunch," she said. "What do you think it will be today? Corn dogs again?"

  "It always is," I said. The Mission Academy was not exactly known for the culinary excellence of its cafeteria. That was because it didn't have one. We ate lunch outside, out of these vendor wagons. It was bizarre, even to a couple of chicks from Brooklyn who had seen it all … as was illustrated by Gina's total lack of surprise about everything that I'd just told her.

  "What I want to know," she said as we made our way out of the girls' room and into the soon-to-be-flooded-with-humanity breezeway, "is why you never said anything about any of this stuff before. You know, the mediator stuff. It wasn't as if I didn't know."

  You don’t know, I thought. Not the worst part, anyway.

  "I was afraid you'd tell your mother," was what I said out loud. "And that she'd tell my mother. And that my mother would stick me in the loony bin. For my own good, of course."

  "Of course," Gina said. She blinked down at me. "You are an idiot. You know that, don't you? I never would have told my mother. I never tell my mother anything, if I can avoid it. And I certainly wouldn't ever have told her - or anybody else, for that matter - about the mediator thing."

  I shrugged uncomfortably. "I know," I said. "I guess … well, back then I was pretty uptight about everything. I guess I've loosened up some since then."

  "They say California does that to people," Gina observed.

  And then the Mission clock struck twelve. All of the classroom doors around us were flung open, and a flood of people started streaming toward us.

  It only took about thirty seconds for Michael to find and then glom on to me.

  "Hey," he said, not looking at all like somebody who had just confessed to a quadruple murder. "I've been looking for you. What are you doing after school today?"

  "Nothing," I said quickly, before Gina could open her mouth.

  "Well, the insurance company finally came through with a rental for me," Michael said, "and I was thinking, you know, if you wanted to go back to the beach, or something...."

  Back to the beach? Did this guy have amnesia, or what? You'd think after what had happened to him the last time he'd gone to the beach, it'd be the one place he wouldn't want to go.

  Still, though he didn't know it, he'd be perfectly safe there. This was on account of Jesse. He was keeping an eye on the Angels while Father Dom and I tried our hand at bringing their alleged killer to justice.

  It was as I was mulling over a reply to this offer that I caught a glimpse of Father Dominic as he came toward us down the breezeway. Right before he was pulled into the teachers' lounge by an enthusiastically gesticulating Mr. Walden, he shook his head. Michael was standing with his back to him, so he didn't see. But Father Dom's message to me was clear:

  Michael hadn't confessed.

  Which meant only one thing: it was time to bring in the professionals.

  Me.

  "Sure," I said, looking from Father Dom back to Michael. "Maybe you can help me with my geometry homework. I don't think I'm ever going to get the hang of this stupid Pythagorean theorem. I swear I'm going to flunk out after that last quiz."

  "The Pythagorean theorem isn't hard," Michael said, looking amused by my frustration. "The sum of the squares of the lengths of the sides of a right triangle is equal to the square of the length of the hypotenuse."

  I went, "Huh?" in this helpless way.

  "Look," Michael said. "I aced geometry. Why don't you let me tutor you?"

  I looked up at him in what I hoped he would mistake for worshipfulness. "Oh, would you?"

  "Sure," he said.

  "Can we start today?" I asked. "After school?" I should ge
t an Oscar. I really should. I had the whole helpless female thing totally down. "At your house?"

  Michael only looked a little taken aback. "Um," he said. "Sure." Then, when he'd recovered from his surprise, he added, slyly, "My parents won't be home, though. My dad'll be at work, and my mom spends most of her time at the hospital. With my sister. You know. I hope that won't be a problem."

  I did everything but flutter my eyelashes at him. "Oh, no," I said. "That'll be fine."

  He looked pleased - and yet at the same time a little uncomfortable.

  "Um," he said, as the hordes of people pushed past us. "Look, about lunch. I can't sit with you today. I've got some stuff to do. But I'll meet you here right after last period. Okay?"

  I went, "Okay," in this total imitation of Kelly Prescott at her most school-spirited. It must have worked, since Michael went away looking dazed, but pleased.

  That was when Gina grabbed my arm, pulled me into a doorway, and hissed, "What are you, high? You're going to the guy's house? Alone?"

  I tried to shake her off. "Calm down, G," I said. Sleepy's nickname for her was kind of catchy, loath as I was to admit anything my stepbrother had come up with might have any sort of merit. "This is what I do."

  "Hang out with possible murderers?" Gina looked skeptical. "I don't think so, Suze. Did you clear this with Father Dominic?"

  "G," I said. "I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

  She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't, did you? What are you, freelancing? And don't call me G."

  "Look," I said, in what I hoped was a soothing tone. "Chances are, Michael won't say a word about it to me. But he's a geek, right? A computer geek. And what do computer geeks do when they're planning something?"

  Gina still looked angry. "I don't know," she said. "And I don't care. I'm telling - "

  "They write stuff down," I said calmly. "On their computer. Right? They keep a journal, or they brag to people in chat rooms, or they pull up schematics of the building they want to blow up, or whatever. So even if I can't get him to admit anything, if I can get some time alone with Michael's computer, I bet I can - "