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A shiver ran sickly through me. He was right: I couldn’t go home. I’d die if I did; I’d put Mom and Aunt Jo in terrible danger. In my mind, Aunt Jo’s house suddenly looked very small — already distant, moving away from me forever. If I couldn’t go home, then where could I go? I couldn’t put Nina in danger, either. There was no place that was safe; those people weren’t going to be happy until I was dead.
A half angel.
The only sounds were the humming of the Porsche’s engine and the slight whisper of wind rushing past. I hugged myself. If this person Alex knew really did have some answers, then he was someone I seriously needed to meet.
The words hesitated in my throat. I couldn’t believe that I was actually saying them.
“OK,” I whispered, so softly that I could hardly hear myself. “I’ll go. ”
FOR THE NEXT FEW HOURS, neither of us spoke. I stared out the window at the passing trees and farms, hardly able to believe this had happened. Eventually the traffic got busier and the highway widened to six lanes, and I woke up out of my daze and realized that we were on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading into New York City. Almost as soon as I thought it, I could see its famous skyline through my window to the right, spiking up in the late-afternoon sun. Alex took the George Washington Bridge across the river, paying the toll in cash. Skirting north of Manhattan, he drove us into the Bronx. After a while, we were in a neighborhood of crumbling buildings and overflowing Dumpsters.
I cleared my throat. “I thought we were going to New Mexico. ”
Alex didn’t even glance at me. “Not in this car; they’ve seen it. ” His voice was flat. Obviously, he was as thrilled about going to New Mexico together as I was.
Pulling into a small, run-down shopping center, he parked the Porsche and got out. I followed him, wrapping my jean jacket tightly around myself. Nervousness prickled at my scalp as I took in the graffiti on the buildings, the broken glass on the ground.
Alex opened the trunk. There was a black nylon bag inside; he unzipped it and pulled out a bulky envelope, which he tucked into his inside jacket pocket. Then he went around to the front, swept his hand under the driver’s seat, and took out a small metal box. He shoved it into the nylon bag; I caught a glimpse of jeans and folded T-shirts inside. He put in a few things from the glove compartment, too, and then zipped the bag shut again and slung it over his shoulder.
“Come on,” he said shortly.
Shoving down my irritation at having orders barked at me, I started to tell him that he’d left his keys in the car — and then I realized that that was the idea. Feeling sort of stunned, I followed him across the parking lot with its cracked asphalt, glancing back over my shoulder at the gleaming black Porsche.
“Do you have a cell phone?” he asked as we passed a Dumpster. I nodded, and he said, “Let me have it. ”
“Please,” I muttered. I dug in my bag for my little blue Nokia and handed it to him. He pulled a sleek-looking phone out of his own pocket and tossed them both into the Dumpster. They made a clattering noise at they hit the side.
I stared at him. “But —”
“They can track them. ” He started off again without checking to see if I was following. “They’re probably already inspecting your account, to see if you’ve called home. Don’t. Not for any reason. We can’t risk it. ”
I started to protest, but the words faded in my throat. This was real. People were actually trying to kill me. “Yeah . . . OK,” I said. I trudged along beside him, my thoughts whirling. Aunt Jo and I had never been bosom buddies, but she was still going to be worried sick when I didn’t come home tonight. And Mom . . . would she even notice? The thought of that felt even worse somehow.
We came to a subway station, and Alex jogged down the cement stairs. He bought us both a fare card, handing mine over without looking at me. I wanted to know where we were going but didn’t really feel like talking to him, any more than he seemed to want to talk to me.
We rode the crowded subway in silence. Alex sat leaning back with his knees slightly apart, tapping his fingers on his jean-clad thigh. Studying him in the darkened window opposite, I took in the slant of his cheekbones, the tense line between his dark eyebrows. My gaze lingered on the shape of his lips. He really was completely gorgeous, I realized reluctantly.
I almost jumped as our eyes met in the darkened window. For a second Alex’s face was unguarded as he glanced at me, and I caught a glimpse of something — concern, maybe? — that made my heartbeat quicken in surprise. Then the shutters snapped shut again, and he frowned and looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. Remembering his expression of disgust in the car earlier, I felt cold suddenly. I shifted as far away from him on the seat as I could.
When we got to Lexington Avenue, Alex stood up without saying anything. As we emerged out onto the streets again, the sun was setting, clouds bleeding red against the sky. We were in another run-down neighborhood, though not nearly as bad as the one in the Bronx. Glancing up at some shops, I saw that the signs were in both English and Spanish. “Where are we?”
“Spanish Harlem,” said Alex, speaking to the air in front of him. He was striding along, so that I had to hurry to keep up.
Even so, he didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular, just wandering from street to street. After a while we came to a residential area lined with old brownstones and parked cars. Here in the city, the evening still had a tinge of summer to it, and people were sitting outside on their front steps, talking and laughing. Rock music throbbed through the air, something with a heavy beat and warbling Spanish lyrics. I stared around us, taking it all in. I’d never felt so conscious of my blond hair in my life.
“Bingo,” murmured Alex. Following his gaze, I saw an olive-green Mustang Boss parked on the side of the street, maybe a ’69 or ’70. It was sort of beat-up, with a dent on the hood and another on the passenger-side door, but it was still a classic, with hard, muscular lines. There was a sign on it: $1200 OBO.
A group of dark-haired guys was sitting on the brownstone steps nearby, drinking beers. They looked up when Alex approached. “¿Hola, qué tal?” he said. “¿De quién es este coche?” He jerked his thumb at the Mustang. His Spanish was quick, fluent.
“Es mío,” said one of the men. “¿Estás interesado?” He had friendly brown eyes and thick black hair. Rising, he handed his beer can to one of his friends and walked down the steps toward the car.
Alex shrugged, following him. “Sí, puede que sí. Si me haces un buen precio, podría pagarte ahora mismo. ” I gave him a sideways glance as the two of them walked around the Mustang, talking in quick-fire Spanish. Where had he learned to do that? I wondered. God, I hardly knew anything about him — except that he didn’t seem to like me very much. The realization made me feel very lonely. I looked away, leaning against the brick stoop and hugging myself.
About five minutes of bartering later, Alex was counting out some bills from the envelope he’d tucked into his jacket. The guy pocketed the money with a grin, handing over a key ring with a tiny set of fuzzy dice on it. “Gracias, amigo. ”
“Gracias,” said Alex as they shook hands. He tossed his bag onto the backseat, and we got in the car. Black vinyl seats that were deep and cracked; a curved sweep of dashboard. “Highway robbery,” said Alex under his breath, starting up the engine.
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