Buzz Kill

by Beth Fantaskey

  “Is that what you got in trouble for?” I asked, looking up at Chase. We were out of the cemetery by then, walking down a quiet street toward school. “For doing—or dealing—drugs?”

  Chase seemed to remember that I was there, and he glanced down at me. “No. Not directly.” He also seemed to realize it had stopped raining, and he stepped apart from me to put down the umbrella. It had felt strange to be squeezed so close to him, but suddenly it felt weird to be separated, as if he’d broken down the walls of a confessional. For a second, I thought he wasn’t going to finish the story, but he met my eyes and said, “One Friday night, I was hanging out at my house, doing a little pre-party . . . preparation.” His jaw got really tense and his blue eyes looked almost black. “I left for my friend’s house—the real party—around ten, but I was already way too messed up to drive—illegally, too. On a learner’s permit.” He hesitated, seemingly unwilling to give me details and choosing his next words carefully. “There were . . . injuries. Charges against me. And pressure, by influential people, to make me really pay.”

  He wasn’t telling me everything, and I could tell from the way he avoided my eyes that whatever he was holding back was big. Like somebody had wound up in a wheelchair or a coma. But he’d revealed a lot and certainly didn’t owe me more. I wasn’t even his friend.

  What he just told me . . . It’s terrible. Heinous.

  So why did I find myself putting my hand on his arm and saying, “I’m really sorry, Chase.”

  He stared down the street, his mouth a white line. “Don’t be sorry for me. I don’t deserve sympathy. I was a reckless idiot.”

  “But you obviously served your time—”

  “I’ll never do enough time,” he interrupted, still not looking at me. “A few months in a real detention center and some time in a boarding school . . . That’s not enough.”

  For the first time since I’d seen him at school, I had some serious insight into who Chase Albright was. That big question mark had been at least partly erased. And while I’d been right about some things, I’d been incredibly wrong about others.

  He doesn’t keep apart from other kids because he thinks he’s better than us.

  He thinks he’s worse. Maybe that he doesn’t deserve friends.

  And even though his story was even more disturbing than I’d ever suspected, I still couldn’t help liking him.

  “Chase . . . Where were your parents while you were getting so out of control?” I asked, in part to draw his thoughts away from where I knew they were stuck. On a dark road that smelled of spilled gasoline and burned rubber, and where people might be crying in pain—or too quiet. “How come nobody was watching you? My dad would ground me for life the first time he caught me stumbling or smelled anything weird on my breath.”

  Chase seemed to relax, just slightly. “My parents split up when I was fourteen. I was already hard to control, and my mother gave up custody. She stayed in California, while my dad moved us to Pennsylvania.” He finally looked directly at me again. “Dad hoped to get me away from the people I partied with, back in LA.”

  I could imagine him hanging out with celebrities, but it wasn’t the right time to ask if he could name-drop, so I stayed quiet.

  “But I found new friends in Philadelphia,” he continued. “And as a heart surgeon, my father was too busy to really look after me. For the most part, I was just on my own, living in a huge house with too much time and money at my disposal.” He raised one hand, adding, “It’s not my dad’s fault, though. In fact, he took a lower-paying, less prestigious position here to be close to me when I got sent to Treadwell and then came here.”

  We’d almost reached the high school, but neither one of us seemed in any hurry to go inside. I was pretty sure that, much as Chase wanted to protect his secrets, he was glad to be unburdening himself to at least one person.

  “So where does Mr. Killdare fit in?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I’d figured that out, too.

  “I got kind of . . . catatonic at Treadwell,” Chase admitted. “I didn’t want to talk to anyone or do anything.” The corners of his mouth turned up with the faintest hint of a grim smile. “One day, Coach Killdare came by my room, saw me lying on my bed, barged in, and grabbed me by the shoulder, yelling, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you? You sick or something?’ He actually hauled me to my feet, looked me up and down, and said, ‘Get your ass out to practice! Now!’” Chase continued to grin, just slightly. “I didn’t even know what I was going to practice, but I went where he told me to go. And from then on, I wasn’t just a guy who’d made terrible mistakes. I was at least a football player, too. And a pretty good one.”

  “Wow.” I was getting a different picture of Chase—and, gradually, a new image of Hollerin’ Hank, too. Maybe, just maybe, there had been times and places where his abrasive personality had served a purpose. Maybe even had saved at least one kid.

  Chase finally gave me a genuine smile. It changed his whole face in a good way, and I wished he felt he could do it more. “I know everybody at Honeywell thinks Mr. Killdare was just a blowhard,” he said. “But he was practically a softie, by Treadwell standards. We were used to getting yelled at, all the time. Hank Killdare didn’t really stand out at a boarding school for delinquents.”

  “So how’d you end up here?” I gestured toward the school that we still weren’t approaching.

  “Coach Killdare spoke on my behalf at one of my ‘progress’ hearings, telling the court I was ready to go back into society. Then, from what I understand, he strong-armed Woolsey into not only letting me come here, but allowing me to start over under my middle name.”

  I jabbed a finger at him. “So that’s why I couldn’t find you on Google! You had a different name!”

  Did I really just say that?

  Chase was clearly amused. And maybe slightly concerned. “You Googled me?”

  “I don’t know . . .” I shrugged, turning away to hide my embarrassment. “Maybe.” Forcing myself to look at him again, I asked, “What’s your real name, anyhow?”

  “Colton Chase Albright.”

  We were having a pretty serious talk, but I snorted. “Jeez, did your parents pick your names from The Fifty Most Pretentious Names for Boys book? Because that is a doozy!”

  “Is it now, Millicent?” he shot back, kind of smiling again.

  Okay, he had a point. My name was a mouthful. “Anyway, I guess you owe Coach Killdare a lot for springing you from the pen and helping you start over fresh—with a better name,” I couldn’t help adding, because, really . . . Colton?

  “Well, Mr. Killdare wanted me here to play quarterback, too,” Chase reminded me. “He had selfish reasons for getting me transferred. Mike is a great player—could probably still go far as a running back if he could get that chip off his shoulder about me taking his place. But Mike didn’t lead the team. Hollerin’ Hank knew I could do that.” It wasn’t a boast. Chase almost sounded self-deprecating when he pointed out, “Leaders aren’t always liked, and I don’t need anybody’s approval or friendship.”

  I didn’t really believe that. “Maybe you needed Mr. Killdare’s approval?” I ventured. “His friendship?”

  Chase didn’t buy my attempt at pop psychology. “No, Millie. Not really. But like you said, I do owe Mr. Killdare. A lot. That’s why I helped out around his house. Watching Baxter, mowing the lawn . . . It was my pathetic way of saying thanks.”

  “You could really thank him by helping me investigate his murder,” I said. “You seem to know him better than just about anybody. So help me.”

  That all came tumbling out before I’d thought it through, and I expected Chase to flat out turn me down—or laugh at the ridiculous idea of a teenage girl trying to solve a crime.

  Therefore, I was shocked when a moment later he agreed, saying, “Okay. I’ll do it. And I think I may have a lead for us to follow.”

  “What?” My heart started to race—half to know that we had a “lead,” which sounded very official
, and half, I had to admit, at the prospect of hanging out with Chase again.

  Don’t be stupid, Millie. He’s a delinquent with secrets that he didn’t fully divulge. Not to mention still a rich snob—with a girlfriend!

  I knew all that, but I still felt pretty excited when he confided, “I noticed two people at the memorial service. A couple I definitely didn’t expect to be there—and who I think we should check out.”

  Chapter 32

  “This is not a date!” I told Laura for the millionth time—which didn’t stop her from digging in my closet, looking for a different outfit for me. For some reason, she didn’t think an Old Navy T-shirt was nice enough for a ride in a BMW with a hot guy, even if we were only going to track down a former classmate who’d disappeared after collapsing at football practice—and whose parents had shown up at Hollerin’ Hank’s memorial. Chase had recognized Roy Boyles’s folks and wondered why they’d pay tribute to a coach who’d driven their son hard enough to maybe damage his brain. “We’re going to New Holland to investigate a murder,” I added. “That’s all.”

  “Millie’s right,” Ryan agreed without looking up from his chemistry book, because even though he’d skipped the break-in adventure to study, he’d still bombed his test. “I really think Chase has a girlfriend.”

  “Nobody knows that for sure,” Laura countered as she pulled down a bright green shirt—one of my favorites, with a big owl and the phrase “Whooo Loves You?” on the chest. Scowling, she put it back, reminding us, “Nobody’s ever seen her in person. Where is she?”

  Maybe California? I almost said that. But for some reason, I wasn’t telling even my best friends everything I’d learned about Chase, not even the mundane stuff, and I shrugged. “Who knows? And Chase isn’t into me, anyway. I’m telling you, this outing is strictly business.”

  Laura would not be dissuaded. “Well, it never hurts to look good.” She stopped ransacking my wardrobe long enough to point to my desk, where The Hidden Staircase was on top of the pile of Nancy Drew books. “Look at Nancy, climbing around a filthy old house in a pencil skirt. You could at least wear something that isn’t stained.”

  The book did, indeed, feature Nancy in an outfit that I would’ve considered too fancy for a job interview, let alone exploring what looked like a dirty dungeon. Meanwhile, my T-shirt might’ve had a tiny mark, courtesy of a Fudgsicle.

  “This shirt is fine,” I said, rubbing the stain. “And I wish you guys would come, too. If we’re invoking Nancy Drew here—she always took her friends sleuthing.”

  Ryan closed his book. “Sorry, but I’m out. I gotta solve ‘The Riddle of the Intermolecular Forces,’ or my parents are going to kill me.”

  “And three’s a crowd in a BMW,” Laura said. “Have you seen the back seat in those things?” She pulled down another shirt and tossed it to the floor. Before I could protest, she added, sort of glumly, “Besides, Chase didn’t invite us.”

  Ryan and I shared a look, as if to say, “Is she jealous?”

  “Umm, Laura?” I asked uncertainly.

  She twisted to see me at my desk. “What?”

  “You don’t really care if I hang out with Chase, do you? I mean, it’s not a date—but . . .”

  “It sucks when you like somebody, and your friend gets his attention.” Ryan finished my thought. “Even if it’s just platonic.”

  Laura finally abandoned Project Millie Makeover and plopped down on my bed. “No, honestly, you guys. I think Chase is really good-looking, but I don’t even know him. Me drooling all over him . . . It’s mainly a joke, you know?”

  I was glad to hear that she really wasn’t jealous, but I was also struck by what she’d just said about not knowing Chase.

  Did I know him after one admittedly deep talk? And was I doing the right thing, keeping his secrets just that—secret?

  I glanced at The Hidden Staircase again.

  Would sensible Nancy have told her friends Bess and George everything she knew about a boy who’d confessed to wrecking a car before she hopped into his “keen” vehicle?

  Jeez, Millie . . . Nance wouldn’t go at all. In a way, Chase is worse than most of the villains she confronted. And he hasn’t even told you the whole story. You know he hasn’t!

  All at once, I wondered if I was being stupid disappearing into the countryside with a guy I still barely knew, who probably did have a girlfriend, and whose hair might look sun kissed, but who obviously had a very dark aspect to his psyche.

  But it was too late to back out—or to change my shirt, which I was suddenly regretting—because the doorbell rang, making me jump.

  Chapter 33

  There were probably dozens of things Chase and I could’ve talked about as we sat next to each other in quite possibly the nicest car I’d ever been inside. Chase could even set an exact numerical temperature for the interior, while most of the vehicles I was familiar with offered “blue” for cold air and “red” for hot—or, in the case of Ryan’s car, windows up or down. I probably could’ve commented on that.

  And, of course, we could’ve developed a strategy for what exactly we’d do when we reached the address Chase had found for Leonard Boyles, Roy’s father, using a simple whitepages.com search.

  What do we intend to do there? Peer in the windows, looking for a “vegetative” boy in a hospital bed? Hunt for evidence that Roy doesn’t exist at all anymore?

  For, like Chase Albright, Roy didn’t show up on any of the usual Internet places. I couldn’t find a single social media account for him anywhere.

  Chase and I probably should’ve been discussing that stuff. But all I seemed able to do was stare straight ahead, sweating, even though the fancy temperature readout registered a very comfortable seventy-two degrees. Well, I stared, sweated, and sniffed, taking in that wonderful cologne I’d smelled on Chase before, which mingled with the scent of luxurious leather and a more general “new car” smell that a mayor’s salary didn’t let us Ostermeyers ever enjoy. And where were the fast food containers—the half-empty cups from Wendy’s and the stray French fries on the floor?

  I stole the tiniest glance at Chase’s profile, which belonged on a big screen, not in a small sports car. Hair couldn’t be that beautiful in real life. It just couldn’t . . .

  You are out of your league, Millie! In so many ways! Just like Viv told you!

  I was thinking all that, when Chase slowed the car and met my eyes for a second, asking softly but point-blank, “You’re nervous to be with me, aren’t you, Millie?”

  Chapter 34

  “What?” I squeaked. “Don’t be ridiculous! Do you think I’m like every other girl who falls apart and gets all tongue-tied in your presence? And I know this isn’t a date. I’m well aware of that.” I picked up the hem of my shirt, showing him the stain. “Would I have worn this on a date? Of course not! It’s covered with Fudgsicle! Who would do that? So why would I be nervous? Huh?”

  Chase slowed the car to a crawl and then, much to my surprise, pulled off the side of the road, even though we were still miles from New Holland.

  “Why are we stopping here?” I demanded, spinning around in my seat, eyes darting everywhere and still talking too quickly. “Why here?”

  And when I turned back to Chase, I saw that his arms were crossed on the steering wheel and his head was resting against them, while his shoulders were shaking. For a second, I thought I’d somehow made the hardened, delinquent quarterback of Honeywell High cry. Like maybe my failure to immediately fall for his charms had devastated him. I almost reached out to touch his shoulder and comfort him, when all of a sudden he sat back and I realized that he wasn’t upset.

  Something, or maybe everything, I’d just said had made Chase Albright—he of the stone face and anguished psyche—laugh. Hysterically.

  Chapter 35

  “I am so sorry, Millie.” Chase apologized yet again, swiping one finger under his eyes because I had, indeed, eventually made him cry—from laughing too hard. “It’s just that when you sh
owed me the stain on your shirt, talking a mile a minute . . . It just struck me as really funny.”

  I slouched down in the world’s cushiest seat, arms crossed—yet not feeling very comfortable.

  Okay, maybe my body felt comfortable, but my pride was stinging because, from Chase’s response, it was abundantly clear that I was the only one of us who’d even thought of the word “date” in relation to what we were doing. Which was probably Laura’s fault.

  “I really don’t know what’s so funny,” I grumbled. “And can we go? It’s getting late.”

  Chase didn’t put the car in gear, though. “Millie?”

  He seemed more composed, and I reluctantly met his eyes. “What?”

  “It’s been a long time since I laughed like that,” he said, no longer laughing at all. “A long time. So please don’t be angry with me.” He hesitated, studying my face and getting even more serious. “And I would never really expect you to get tongue-tied in the presence of any guy. Let alone around an el jerko like me. You seem way too self-possessed for that.”

  His faith in me was somewhat misdirected, but I liked that he believed I was too cool to get flustered by a guy. “Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed.

  He moved to twist the key, but before he started the engine, he admitted softly, “I was afraid you were quiet because you’re in a car with a guy who wrecked one. I was worried that you were terrified.”

  That had crossed my mind, but I told him, “No, Chase. I trust you. You actually seem like a really good driver.”

  We both knew there was an unspoken “when you’re not high as a kite” at the end of that sentence, so there was no need to say it.

  Chase put the BMW in gear and pulled back onto the road. “Thanks.”

  He honestly did seem competent, and I finally relaxed, glad, in a way, that the ice had been broken, even if I’d made an idiot of myself.