by Meg Cabot
"Hmmm." Douglas considered this. "I find that last part particularly troubling. Does the FBI have proof or something that I killed these girls?"
"It's just one girl that's dead," I said. "The other one just got beat up."
"Well, why can't they ask her who beat her up?" Douglas wanted to know. "I mean, she'll tell them it wasn't me."
"She doesn't know who did it," I said. "She said they wore masks. And I figure even if she did know, she's not going to say. I am assuming whoever did this to her told her he'd finish the job if she talked."
Douglas sat up. "You're serious," he said. "People really do suspect me of doing this?"
"Yeah," I said. "And the thing is, the Feds are saying that unless I, you know, become a junior G-man, they're going to pin this thing on you. So before I sign up for my pension plan, I need to know. Have you got any kind of alibi at all?"
Douglas blinked at me. His eyes, like mine, were brown.
"I thought," he said, "that you'd told them you lost your psychic abilities."
"I did," I said. "I think my finding Heather Montrose in the middle of nowhere last night kind of tipped them off that maybe I hadn't been completely up front with them on that particular subject."
"Oh." Douglas looked uncomfortable. "The thing is, what I was doing last night . . . and the night that other girl disappeared . . . well, I was sort of hoping nobody would find out."
I stared at him. My God! So he had been up to something! But not, surely, lying in wait at that house on the pit road for an innocent cheerleader to go strolling by. . . .
"Douglas," I said. "I don't care what you were doing, so long as it didn't involve anything illegal. I just need something—preferably the truth—to tell Allan and Jill, or my butt is going to have 'Property of the U.S. Government' on it for the foreseeable future. So long as they have something on you, they own me. So I have to know. Do they have something on you?"
"Well," Douglas said, slowly. "Sort of...."
I could feel my world tilting, slowly … so slowly . . . right off its axis. My brother, Douglas. My big brother Douglas, whom all my life, it seemed, I'd been defending from others, people who called him retard, and spaz, and dorkus. People who wouldn't sit near him when we went to the movies as kids because sometimes he shouted things—that usually didn't make sense to everyone else—at the screen. People who wouldn't let their kids swim in the pool near him, because sometimes Douglas simply stopped swimming and just sank to the bottom, until a lifeguard noticed and fished him out. People who, every time a bike, or a dog, or a plaster yard gnome disappeared from the neighborhood, accused Douglas of having been the one who'd taken it, because Douglas . . . well, he wasn't all there, was he?
Only of course they were wrong. Douglas was all there. Just not in the way they considered normal.
But maybe, all this time … maybe they'd been right. Maybe this time Douglas really had done something wrong. Something so wrong, he didn't even want to tell me about it. Me, his kid sister, the one who'd learned how to swing a punch when she turned seven, just so that she could knock the blocks off the kids down the street who were calling him a freakazoid every time he passed by their house on the way to school.
"Douglas," I breathed, finding that my throat had suddenly, and inexplicably, closed. "What did you do?"
"Well," he said, unable to meet my gaze. "The truth is, Jess . . . the truth is . . ." He took a deep breath.
"I got a job."
C H A P T E R
16
The first call came right after dinner.
It was a quiet affair, dinner that night. Quiet because every single person at the table was angry with somebody else.
My mother, of course, was angry at me for having snuck out the night before with Rob Wilkins, a boy of whom she did not approve because a) he was too old for me, b) he had no aspirations for attending college, c) he rode a motorcycle, d) his mother was a waitress, and e) we did not know who Mr. Wilkins was or what he did, if anything, or if there even was a Mr. Wilkins, which Mary Wilkins had never admitted either way, at least in the presence of my father.
And she didn't even know about the whole probation thing.
My father was mad at my mother for being what he called an elitist snob and for not being more grateful that Rob had insisted on accompanying me on another of what he referred to as my idiotic vision quests, and making sure I didn't get myself killed.
I was mad at my dad for calling my psychic visions idiotic, when they had, as a matter of fact, saved a lot of lives and reunited a lot of families. I was also mad at him for thinking that, without some guy to watch over me, I could not take care of myself. And of course I was mad at my mom for not liking Rob.
Meanwhile, Douglas was mad at me because I had told him he had to 'fess up to Mom and Dad about the job thing. I fully understood why he didn't want to—Mom was going to flip out at the idea of her baby boy soiling his fingers at any sort of menial labor. She seemed to be convinced that the slightest provocation—like him maybe lifting a sponge to wipe the milk he'd spilled on the kitchen counter—was going to set him off into another suicidal tailspin.
But Dad was the one who was really going to bust a gut when he found out, and I don't mean from laughing, either. In our family, if you worked, you worked at one of Dad's restaurants, or not at all. That whole thing where they'd let me spend the summer as a camp counselor? Yeah, that had only come about because of the intensive musical training I would be receiving while I was at Wawasee. Otherwise, you can bet I'd have been relegated to the steam table at Joe's.
So I wasn't too happy with Mom, Dad, or Douglas during that particular meal, and none of them were too happy with me, either. So when the phone rang, you can bet I ran for it, just as a way to avoid the uncomfortable silence that had hung over the table, interrupted only by the occasional scraping fork, or request for more parmesan.
"Hello?" I said, snatching up the receiver from the kitchen wall phone, which was the closest one to the dining room.
"Jess Mastriani?" a male voice asked.
"Yes," I said, with some surprise. I had expected it to be Ruth. She's about the only person who ever calls us. I mean, unless something is wrong at one of the restaurants. "This is she."
"I saw you talking to Tisha Murray today," the person on the other end of the phone said.
"Uh," I said. "Yeah." The voice sounded weird. Sort of muffled, like whoever it was was calling from inside a tunnel or something. "So?"
"So if you do it again," the voice said, "you're going to end up just like Amber Mackey."
I took the receiver away from my ear and looked down at it, just like they always do in horror movies when the psychopathic killer calls (generally from inside the house). I've always thought that was stupid, because it's not like you can see the person through the phone. But you know, it must be instinctive or something, because there I was, doing it.
I put the phone back up to my ear and went, "You're kidding me with this, right?"
"Stop asking questions about the house on the pit road," the voice said. "Or you'll be sorry, you stupid bitch."
"What are you going to do," I asked, "when I hang up and star-six-nine you, and five minutes later, the cops show up and haul your ass into jail, you freaking perv?"
The line went dead in my ear. I banged down the receiver and pushed the star button, then the number six, then the number nine. A phone rang, and then a woman's voice said, "The number you are trying to call cannot be reached by this method."
Damn! They'd called from an untraceable line. I should have known.
I hung up and went back into the dining room.
"I wish Ruth would stop calling us during dinner," my mother said. "She knows we eat at six thirty. It really isn't very thoughtful of her."
I didn't see any reason to disabuse her of the idea that it had been Ruth on the phone. I was pretty sure she wouldn't have liked hearing the truth. I plunked down into my seat and picked up my fork.
Only suddenly, I couldn't eat. I don't know what happened, but I had a piece of pasta halfway to my lips when suddenly my throat closed up and the table—and all of the food on it—went blurry.
Blurry because my eyes had filled up with tears. Tears! Just like Mark Leskowski, I was crying.
"Jess," my mother said, curiously. "Are you all right?"
I glanced at her, but I couldn't really see her. Nor could I speak. All I could think was, Oh, my God. They are going to do to me what they did to Heather.
And then I felt really, really cold, like someone had left the door to the walk-in freezer at Mastriani's wide open.
"Jessica?" my dad said. "What's wrong?"
But how could I tell them? How could I tell them about that phone call? It would just upset them. They would probably even call the police. That was all I needed, the police. Like I didn't have the FBI practically camped in my front yard.
But Heather … what had happened to Heather … I didn't want that to happen to me.
Suddenly Douglas shoved his salad plate to the floor. It shattered with a crash into a million pieces.
"Take that," he yelled at the bits of lettuce with ranch dressing littering the floor.
I blinked at him through my tears. What was going on? Was Douglas having an episode? I could tell by the expressions on my parents' faces that they thought so, anyway. They exchanged worried glances....
And while their attention was focused on one another, Douglas glanced at me, and winked....
A second later, my mother was on her feet. "Dougie," she cried. "Dougie, what is it?"
My dad, as always, was more laconic about the whole thing. "Did you take all your medication today, Douglas?" he asked.
Then I knew. Douglas was faking an episode—to get them off my back about the crying thing. I felt a wave of love for Douglas wash over me. Had there ever, in the history of time, been such a cool big brother?
While my parents were distracted, I reached up and wiped the tears from my eyes with the backs of my wrists. What was happening to me? I never cried. This thing with Amber, and now with Heather, was getting way personal. I mean, now they were after me. Me!
Between the Feds thinking Douglas was the killer, and the real killers threatening that I was going to be their next victim, I guess I had a reason to cry. But it was still demoralizing, seeing as how it was such a Karen-Sue-Hankey thing to do.
While I was trying to get my emotions under control, and my parents were questioning Douglas about his mental health, the phone rang again. This time, I practically knocked my chair over, diving to get it.
"It's for me," I said quickly, lifting the receiver. "I'm sure."
No one so much as glanced in my direction. Douglas was still getting the third degree for his assault on his dinner salad.
"Jessica?" a voice I did not recognize asked in my ear.
"It's me," I said. And then, turning my back on the scene in the dining room, I said in a low rapid voice, "Listen, you loser, if you don't quit calling me, I swear I'm going to hunt you down and kill you like the dog that you are."
The voice went, sounding extremely taken aback, "But, Jess. This is the first time I've called you. Ever."
I sucked in my breath, finally realizing who it was. "Skip?"
"Yeah," Skip said. "It's me. Listen, I was just wondering if you'd thought about what we discussed today at lunch. You know. The movie. This weekend."
"Oh," I said. My mother came into the kitchen and went to the pantry, from which she removed a broom and dustpan. "Yeah," I said. "The movie. This weekend."
"Yeah," Skip said. "And I thought maybe, before the movie, we could go out. You know, for dinner or something."
"Uh," I said. My mother, holding the broom and dustpan, was standing there staring at me, the way lions on the Discovery Channel stare at the gazelles they are about to pounce on. All her concern for Douglas seemed to be forgotten. This was, after all, the first time I had ever been asked out within her earshot. My mother, who'd been a cheerleader herself—and Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen, County Fair Princess, and Little Miss Corn Detassler—had been waiting sixteen years for me to start dating. She blamed the fact that I hadn't been out on a million dates already, like she had at my age, on my slovenly dress habits.
She didn't know anything about my right hook.
Well, actually, I think she did now, thanks to Mrs. Hankey's lawsuit.
"Yeah, about that, Skip," I said, turning my back on her. "I don't think I can go. I mean, my curfew is eleven. My mom would never let me stay out for a movie that didn't even start until midnight."
"Yes, I would," my mother said loudly, to my utter horror and disbelief.
I brought the phone away from my ear and stared at her. "Mom," I said, flabbergasted.
"Don't look at me that way, Jessica," my mom said. "I mean, I am not completely inflexible. If you want to go to a midnight show with Skip, that's perfectly all right."
I couldn't believe it. After the grief she'd been giving me about Rob, I was pretty sure she was never letting me out of the house again, let alone with a boy.
But apparently it was just one particular boy I was banned from seeing socially.
And that boy was not Skip Abramowitz.
"I mean," my mother went on, "it's not like your father and I don't know Skip. He has grown into a very responsible young man. Of course you can go to the movies with him."
I gaped at her. "Ma," I said. "The movie doesn't even start until midnight."
"So long as Skip has you home right after it ends," my mother said.
"Oh," came a voice from the receiver, which I was holding limply in my hand. "I will, Mrs. Mastriani. Don't worry!"
And just like that, I had a date with Skip Abramowitz.
Well, it wasn't like I could get out of it after that. Not without completely humiliating him. Or myself, for that matter.
"Mom," I yelled when I had hung up. "I don't want to go out with Skip!
"Why not?" Mom wanted to know. "I think he's a very nice boy."
Translation: He doesn't own a motorcycle, has never worked in a garage, and did really well on his PSATs.
And, oh, yeah, his dad happens to be the highest-paid lawyer in town.
"I think you're being unfair, Jessica," my mother said. 'True, Skip may not be the most exciting boy you know, but he's extremely sweet."
"Sweet! He blew up my favorite Barbie!"
"That was years ago," my mom said. "I think Skip's grown into a real gentleman. You two will have a wonderful time." She grew thoughtful. "You know, I just found a skirt pattern the other day that would be perfect for a casual night out at the movies. And there are a few yards of gingham left over from those curtains I made for the guest room. . . ."
See, this is the problem with having a stay-at-home mom. She thinks up little projects to do all the time, like making me a skirt from material left over from curtains. I swear sometimes I'm not sure who she's supposed to be, my mother or Maria von Trapp.
Before I could say anything like, "No, thanks, Mom. I just spent a fortune at Esprit, I think I can manage to find something to wear on my own," or even, "Mom, if you think I'm not planning on coming down with something Saturday night just before this date, you've got another think coming," Douglas came into the kitchen, holding his dinner plate, and said, "Yeah, Jess. Skip's really neat."
I shot him a warning look. "Watch it, Comic-Book Boy," I growled.
Douglas, looking alarmed, noticed Mom standing there with the broom. "Oh, hey," he said, putting his empty dinner plate down in the sink. "I'll clean it up, don't worry. It was my fault, anyway."
My mom snatched the broom out of his reach. "No, no," she said, hurrying back into the dining room. "I'll do it."
Which was kind of sad. Because of course she was only doing it because she didn't want Douglas messing with bits of broken glass. His suicide attempt last Christmas had convinced her that he wasn't to be trusted around sharp objects.
"See," Douglas
said, as the swinging door closed behind her, "what I go through for you? Now she's going to be watching me like a hawk for the next few days."
I suppose I should have been grateful to him. But all I could think was that things would be a lot less stressful if Douglas would just come clean.
"Why don't you go tell them now?" I asked. All right, begged. "Before Entertainment Tonight. You know Mom never lets a fight last more than five minutes into ET."
Douglas was rinsing his plate.
"No way," he said, not looking at me.
I nearly burst a capillary, I was so mad.
"Douglas," I hissed. "If you think I'm not telling the Feds, you're out of your mind. I can't let them go around thinking they have something on me. I'm telling them. And if they know, how long do you think it's going to be before Mom and Dad find out? It's better for you to tell them than the damned FBI, don't you think?"
Douglas turned the water off.
"It's just that you know what Dad's going to say," he said. "If I'm well enough to work behind the counter at the comic book store, I'm well enough to work in the kitchens at Mastriani's. But I can't stand food service. You know that."
"Who can?" I wanted to know. But when your dad owned three of the most popular restaurants in town, you didn't have much of a choice.
"And Mom." Douglas shook his head. "You know how Mom's going to react. That out there? That was nothing."
"That's why I'd tell them now," I said, "before they find out from somebody else. I mean, for God's sake, Douglas. You've been working there for two weeks already. You think they aren't going to hear about it from somebody?"
"Look, Jess," Douglas said. "I'll tell them. I swear I will. Just let me do it my own way, in my own time. I mean, you know how Mom is—"
The swinging door to the dining room banged open, and my mother, carrying the now full dustpan, came into the kitchen.
"You know how Mom is what?" she asked, looking suspiciously from Douglas to me and then back again.
Fortunately, the phone rang.