by Sophie Davis
“Maybe you’re not giving him enough credit,” Annie said, letting her idealism slip in. “Maybe he wants to meet your crazy mother. And your awesome, sweet, funny best friend.”
“Taylor?” I asked with feigned innocence.
Annie snorted and then gave me a pointed look.
“I think you should bring him. It’s your eighteenth birthday, beyond perfect for introductions. You’ve probably just built this all up in your head, and it wouldn’t even be a big deal. Unless he’s, like, really, really old. Or weird…like a clown or something. Oh! Or your dad’s boss. Wait, does your dad have a boss?”
Giggling at her ability to put things in perspective, I shook my head.
“Perfect! So you’re good to go—no rumormongering!”
Annie’s unyielding optimism was a big part of what had originally drawn me to her in ninth grade. It was why I loved her like a sister. I, of all people, could see how that optimism might be construed as naiveté. Instead, I relied upon it to bolster my own dark, hopeless view of humanity.
“I will certainly ask him,” I said, feeling only a little bad about the lie. No way was I inviting Blake to my party. “But don’t get your hopes up, okay? I don’t want a scene with my parents or the guys, and neither does B—he.”
“I get it.” Annie forced a smile. “Another time?”
“Another time,” I echoed. The crestfallen expression on my best friend’s face drew the next words from lips. “Want to come over and help me get ready for my date?” I asked, knowing full-well that she couldn’t resist the girly tradition.
“Definitely,” Annie answered brightly.
****
It was ironic that I cared most about impressing the person who cared least about my attire. No matter what I was wearing or how I looked, Blake’s face lit up every single time he saw me, without fail.
Maybe I liked the challenge—seeing the extra sparkle in his eyes when I went the extra mile because he knew I’d done so just for him.
For tonight, I’d gone for uptown chic in a classic black Chanel dress with a scooped back. To add a hint of edge, I paired it with booties instead of pumps and chose black tights with a seam up the back. All in all, I was feeling rather sassy.
Annie was curled up on my bed, leaning against the head board. She had my oversized digital photo frame in her lap, and was flipping through pictures from freshman year. Each photo seemed to remind Annie of a funny story about the night it had been taken.
I pulled a gray patent tote from the shelf in my closet and giggled along with her.
“I can’t believe I left the house with my hair like that! And I can’t believe your mother didn’t kill the girl at Freddie’s for giving you cat eyes! Speaking of eyes, have you ever noticed Brent’s? They’re this amazing shade of like honey brown….”
As Annie segued to the cute, new transfer student, I scurried around my closet, only half listening to her twentieth diatribe about his New England accent and how mature Brent was, having attended boarding school for the past ten years in Massachusetts. I added a pair of comfy, worn-in jeans and blue oxford to the tote, just in case I had to go straight to the salon for my hair appointment the next day. The silk sleep shorts and matching camisole that I stuffed in next were a peacock blue, the same shade and material as the lingerie I was wearing. Adding decidedly less fancy unmentionables for the next day, I only had to grab my travel toothbrush and I was good to go.
Instead of heading straight for the bathroom, I plopped down in my armchair to give Annie my full attention for a few minutes. Her not-so-subtle, repeated mentions of Brent weren’t normal for Annie, though that didn’t make them any less transparent.
I knew very little about the guy myself. But I had yet to hear anything scandalous about him in the month he’d been attending Gracen—news of scandals travelled swiftly in our set—and our guys thought he was too square to be a good time. So, all-in-all, Brent What’s-His-Name was probably a decent guy.
As his name flowed into her head and out of her mouth yet again, I hid a smile. And a quick prick of jealousy. Gabbing to my friends about Blake wasn’t something I’d ever longed for, wasn’t exactly my style, but it would’ve been nice to have the option.
Regardless of my evil green monster rearing his ugly head, I was all for this budding romance. Though my intentions may not have been entirely altruistic—Annie being occupied was a good thing. I’d been feeling increasingly guilty about the amount of time I was spending with Blake, and hated the thought of Annie feeling as though she’d been abandoned. Still, I never would’ve encouraged her if I hadn’t felt like Brent would be good for Annie.
Now that I understood so much more about love and emotions and romance than I had pre-Blake, I understood what Annie had been gushing about since the moment I met her. Of course, at the time, I’d always thought she was living on a different planet. Completely out of touch with any semblance of reality. Since finding out what a relationship could be, I wanted Annie to have everything she’d been dreaming about. It was corny as hell, and I would certainly never say it out loud, but Blake and I were living proof that dreams were attainable.
“Did you know he’s in my AP History class?” Annie asked.
I smiled. Yes, I did know that because she’d told me several times. Still, I was quick to say, “He is?” as though the fact were news to me.
“He sits next to the guy in front of me, and he gets the most adorable look on his face when he’s concentrating. And when he wears his glasses, wow…I mean, he’s really good-looking. Maybe even too good-looking, you know? I hate when guys know how handsome they are, it’s obnoxious. And yet, they can get away with it, precisely because they are.”
I loved seeing Annie like this. Which was why I’d kill Brent if he so much as disappointed her. Figuring I might get an extra wish since I was turning eighteen, I used one for Annie.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?” I said, smiling fondly. “He is really cute, but obviously doesn’t let it define him. If he did, you know he’d be hanging out with our guys and making the rounds of the girls in school. In which case, we would’ve heard about it. It’s a shame he wasn’t around when we made the guest list for tomorrow night.”
“Oh! No, I mean, I know. I wasn’t saying—I understand,” she said.
“Luckily, we both know my mother, and we both know she’s ordered enough food and alcohol to accommodate everyone in Manhattan. You should invite him! You know…as your date,” I suggested.
Since Annie wore her feelings on her sleeve, I could pinpoint the exact moment she went from disappointed, to intrigued, to excited, to nervous.
“Nope, no way,” she laughed off the suggestion. “It’s your night. What kind of best friend would I be if I made it about me and the hot new guy?”
“The kind that does what the birthday girl says,” I replied with mock sternness. “And if you’re worried about it being awkward, just tell him how privileged he should feel to not only be graced with your presence, but to be invited to the party of the millennium. My birthday!”
A pillow sailed through the air, smacking me right in the nose. Her aim was a little off with the second fluffy missile and it slid over the top of my head. Annie snorted, apparently laughing at the new hairdo the static energy had given me. I sent it flying back to her, followed by one of the many decorative ones from my chair.
“Invite the man!” I choked out through my laughter, sending a barrage of the throw pillows flying through the air. “Make him your lovah! Waltz your way into his heart!”
My encouragement was rewarded with another pillow to the face.
DITCHING ASHER PROVED impossible. It seemed he was more determined than ever to keep me in his sights. Not wanting me to run off to Lark’s apartment alone in the middle of the night was understandable; it really wasn’t very safe for a girl to be running around DC by herself in the wee hours of the morning. But a trip to the bank in the middle of the day? Not the least bit dangerous. When
I pointed this out, however, Asher played his trump card.
“What if you find more documents with your name on them? Or pictures of yourself? Sorry to bring it up, but you sort of lost it last night, Raven. Don’t get me wrong—if I were in your situation, I would’ve had exactly the same reaction. But don’t you think it will be better if I’m there, just in case?”
Much as I hated to admit it, his point was valid. I’d totally freaked out. Truthfully, I still felt shaken over the whole thing. Finding the passport was probably the reason I was so nervous about opening the safety deposit box. Right? What if there were pictures of me inside? Or an entire dossier documenting the utterly mediocre life of Raven Ferragamo? What then?
In the end, we compromised. Asher would accompany me to First National, but I would retrieve the contents of the safety deposit box by myself, while he waited in the lobby. Though I wasn’t overly thrilled with this arrangement, the hard set to Asher’s jaw and determined glint in his brown eyes said he’d sooner walk barefoot over rusty nails than let me go to the bank by myself.
As ridiculously overprotective as he was, a part of me was comforted knowing that Asher worried about my wellbeing. Considering we barely knew each other, it was kind of him to want to be there for me through this strange journey. No one had ever watched out for me the way Asher did. Yes, being independent and self-sufficient was important. But being cared about was nice, too. Sure, my parents loved me and had always been there for me. Yet Lark’s disappearance never surfaced in our conversations. The obligatory phone calls home included only vague mentions of job searches that I hadn’t actually performed and new friends that didn’t exist. Because I loved them so much, every lie I told made my stomach ache. But telling them the truth about how I spent my time would only cause worry.
Between our negotiation over Asher accompanying me and me thinking about his protective ways, we were back at The Pines before I knew it. In Darrell’s usual spot behind the lobby desk was an older gray-haired gentleman, who gave us a kind smile as we passed. With a quick wave to him, and brief stop at the mailbox, we headed upstairs to play Nancy Drew—though I fancied myself more of a Veronica Mars-type than goodie-two-shoes-Nancy.
The bank statements I’d collected from Lark’s mailbox proved unhelpful in determining which branch of First National held the safety deposit box. A quick Google search, however, produced four options inside the District. Two were immediately dismissed based on location alone, both having street addresses in the Southeast quadrant of the city. Since everything Lark had done and left behind thus far was in Northwest, a deviation from the norm seemed unlikely. That left two possible candidates. One downtown on K Street and one on 19th in the Dupont Circle area. Both branches were roughly a mile and a half from the Pines, leaving the decision of where to go first up to fate, via the flip of a coin. Heads, we start downtown. Tails, Dupont Circle.
Just after noon, I entered First National Bank on K Street with Asher by my side.
“You can still change your mind, Raven. I’m happy to go back there with you,” Asher said for the tenth time.
Seriously, the guy was starting to sound like a broken record. I felt like I was stuck listening to the refrain from some sappy love song on repeat, written by a supportive, albeit clingy, boyfriend.
“I’m good. Really. I just…I don’t know. I truly think it’s best if I go in alone.”
This, too, was quickly becoming an overused phrase that I was tired of saying. Evidently, Asher was equally as tired of hearing it, because he finally gave up.
“Okay, well just call or text if you change your mind. I’ll be right out here.”
“Thanks. I won’t be long.”
Instead of joining the end of a long line of people doing their banking over lunch breaks, I headed straight for the desk off to the side of the tellers. The manager on-duty was a woman named Maria Gonzalez-Harkman, according to the nameplate on her desk. When I approached, she had her dark eyes glued to the computer monitor in front of her. Without looking up, she kept clicking the mouse and using the arrow keys. I couldn’t help but smirk.
Solitaire or Mindsweeper? I wondered.
“Um, excuse me. Hi there. Are you the person I talk to if I want to access my safety deposit box?” I asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Asher walk up to the island that held the transactional slips and pretend to fill one out. A giggle nearly escaped me, but I swallowed it down. What was he doing? There were several vacant benches where he could’ve waited for me to finish conducting my business.
He’s probably worried about looking shady by lingering in a bank lobby with no obvious purpose, I realized. In truth, it probably did seem kind of suspicious to any onlooker. Like he was casing the place for a robbery or some big, elaborate heist.
“I am,” Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman finally said, drawing my focus from Asher back to the manager. She smiled warmly and gave me her full attention. “Please, have a seat. Do you have your key?”
“I do,” I replied brightly, taking an instant liking to the bank manger’s friendly demeanor.
Two chairs were positioned in front of the woman’s desk, and I sank into one of them. From inside my messenger bag, I produced the strange key from the decorative box we’d found at Larry’s Pawn. I placed it on the desk between us.
Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman studied the key critically without picking it up, and my stomach lurched. Was I wrong? Maybe the key didn’t go to a safety deposit box after all?
Lark did have a thing for safes. Maybe there was another one in the apartment. Or maybe this key went to another train locker. Or maybe the safety deposit box was at the Dupont location. Or maybe…maybe I had no idea what I was doing.
“Is there a problem?” I asked slowly. “Because I—”
“No, no dear. No problem at all. That key belongs to one of our elite boxes. Airtight, waterproof, fireproof—virtually indestructible.” Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman laughed good-naturedly. “Look at me, telling you what you clearly know already. Just give me one moment, and then I will take you back to your box.”
My box.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins, causing my heart to pound painfully in my chest. It wasn’t my safety deposit box. It wasn’t even Lark’s, not exactly anyway. Since the bank statements were addressed to Lila Quattrocchi, logic dictated it was her name attached to the box. Then again, the First National debit card was in my name.
Shit, this is all so incredibly confusing.
Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman picked up the key and inserted one end into a rectangular object next to her computer that reminded me of a pencil sharpener. She tapped several keys on her keyboard, pale pink nails clicking against their targets and grating on my frayed nerves.
When I finally find you, Lark, I am going to write you a bill for services rendered. And the amount is going to be sufficient to send me on a Caribbean vacation where I do nothing but relax and take advantage of the spa services the resort offers. I’d better find you alive.
The pencil sharpener machine thingy beeped. Lost in a vision of fruity drinks with colorful umbrellas and water so clear the sand below was visible, I jumped in my seat. The bank manager looked up abruptly from her computer screen. Not wanting to appear nervous, I gave her what I hoped was a winsome smile. Judging by the way her thin brows drew together and her nose wrinkled, I failed.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “Got startled for a second.”
The bank manager smiled, but her dark eyes narrowed farther and the look she gave suggested she doubted my mental stability.
“Okay…,” she replied doubtfully. “Well I’m all set here. If you’ll follow me, dear?”
The bank manager hit several keys on her wireless keyboard before standing and walking around to my side of the desk. I stood as well, slipping my messenger bag over my head and securing it on one shoulder, so that the strap was across my chest. Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman gestured for me to follow as she started across the bank lobby and rounded the line of pat
rons waiting to see a teller. Several people smiled and waved to the bank manager, who called out greetings in both English and Spanish, addressing each by name. Her stellar memory for faces ratcheted up the anxiety building inside of me, and the fears from earlier returned.
Was she the same person who’d helped Lark set up the bank account and safety deposit box? Did Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman know that I wasn’t Lark? Since I had the key, did it matter if she did?
As we passed by where he stood, still pretending to fill out a deposit slip, I tried to catch Asher’s eye, hoping for a reassuring look from him. But my extremely friendly neighbor seemed to have struck up a conversation with a man in a business suit.
Leave it to Asher to make friends wherever he goes, I thought wryly.
“Would you care for something to drink while you look over the contents of your safety deposit box?”
“No, thank you,” I said, quickly returning my attention to the bank manager. “I don’t plan to stay long.”
Ugh, why did you say that, Raven? Don’t volunteer useless information.
“Of course, Miss. But there is no hurry as far as we’re concerned. You will have use of our private room for as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” I said.
We started down a hallway to the left of the bank of teller windows. It was long and fairly wide, with numerous doors and windows that showed men and women hard at work behind their computer desks. After passing all of the offices, a pair of restrooms and a water cooler, we finally came to an elevator. The sight of it caused a distinct feeling of dread deep within my gut.
“Are we going down?” I asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
Reaching into my shorts’ pocket, I felt for my cell, suddenly reconsidering the decision to leave Asher in the lobby. What if I needed him and my phone didn’t have reception once I was deep within the bank?
“Why, yes. Our viewing rooms are on the lower level,” Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman said as she pressed the down arrow.
