Luke jerks the steering wheel to the right, and we sail into a ditch. Grass hits the underside of the SUV, and finally we stop—an inch away from a fence post.
The sedan races out of sight.
“Are you okay?” Luke throws off his seat belt. He flips the interior light, and his eyes and hands are all over me. “Bella?”
My body shakes like I’m chilled. My heart is lodged in my throat.
Luke’s hands frame my face. “Bella, talk to me. Where are you hurt?” His fingers move across my cheek, my neck, my arms, my—
“Hey!” I slap him away. “Save it for Taylor!”
He leans back some and breathes a sigh full of relief. “So no injuries?”
“There’s a distinct possibility I wet my pants.”
His lips curl into a small smile. “You’re gonna have a bruise here.” He touches my forehead with feather-light fingertips.
“What about you?” I ask. “Are you all right? ” He had to have felt the brunt of the impact.
Luke nods. “I had the steering wheel to hang on to.” His eyes assess me again before he starts up the SUV and slowly backs up and steers us out of the ditch. “Did you see the driver?”
“No. Too dark. Did you ID the car?”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t even tell what color it was. Not a light-colored vehicle. That’s all I know. I was just focused on keeping us on the road.”
“You did a great job.” I slouch deeper into my seat, letting some of the tension go.
His hand reaches out and rubs my arm. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
My hand rests over his, and I nod my head. Our eyes meet and hold. I feel my pulse accelerating for reasons having nothing to do with the wreck.
Luke’s phone rings, and I’m snapped back to reality. Hero’s syndrome. That’s all it is. The guy saved us tonight, and I’m just feeling gooshy inside because of it.
Luke checks the display, silences the phone, then rests it on the console. I glance down at the name. Taylor.
I look up and find Luke watching me out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll call her later.”
“She’s a cute girl,” I say, for lack of anything significant to add.
“Hope there’s not trouble in nerd paradise.”
His laugh is brief. “Not at all. Speaking of paradise, how’s your ex? Hunter, is it?”
I chew on my lip and scan my brain for a snappy comeback. A poison dart of a barb. “He’s fine.” Seeing my life flash before my eyes has somehow robbed me of anything remotely smart. “We’ve had some great discussions about God lately.” Why am I telling him this?
“Do you think God would want you to be romantically involved with someone who cheated on you?”
I eye my purse and envision myself whacking Luke in the head with it. But it would knock him out, and I’m too wired to drive. “I think I read somewhere we were supposed to forgive.” My voice is ice. “I could be wrong. Sometimes I get my Bible mixed up with my Seventeen.”
“Yeah, there’s forgiveness and friendship, then there’s stupidity in hooking up with the guy who didn’t even respect you enough to be faithful the first time. And with your best friend, right?”
I rub the tender spot on my head. “Thanks for the morality lesson, Mr. Judgmental.” Like I’m even considering getting back together with Hunter. At least, I’m mostly not. Pretty much not.
More than likely not considering it. “Hunter needs a friend right now. And I’m going to be that friend no matter what happened a few months ago.”
“I guess it makes for good TV.”
“What does that mean?”
Luke frowns behind his glasses. “I don’t know.”
The next ten minutes pass in silence. When I can’t take it anymore, I voice the thought that’s been running laps in my head. “Are we agreed this wasn’t a coincidence?”
I hear Luke’s deep exhale. “We’ll see what the police have to say.”
“But what do you think?”
His gaze is wary. “I think someone wants us to mind our own business.”
chapter thirteen
Though my mom wanted to keep me on lockdown this morning, I convinced her I was okay enough to go to school. And with finals next week, I really can’t afford to miss a single class.
During lunch I search the parking lot for cars that have some dents and extra paint, but only find one possibility. Call it a gut feeling, but I don’t really think Mrs. Brunstickle, the eighty-one-year-old janitor, is our prime suspect.
Grateful my Bug starts, I follow Luke to the police department after school, where we give our statements and file a report.
“Where are you off to?” Luke opens the door to his 4Runner, and it creaks in protest.
“Pancho’s Mexican Villa.”
He lifts a brow. “Do you have a lead you’re not telling me about?”
“No.” I feel my cheeks flame. “A job interview.” I shut myself in the car before he has a chance to retort.
The owner called and left a message a few hours ago, saying he’d reviewed my application and liked what he saw. I guess listing “I Heart Salsa” as a qualification was a good move.
I park the Bug and take in Pancho’s in all of its glory. Thumbing its nose at the principles of architecture and curb appeal, the restaurant is shaped in the form of a sombrero. It sits directly across the street from the Wiener Palace, and word is the competition between the two eateries is fierce.
The door jangles as I enter the building. “Welcome to Pancho’s Mexican Villa,” three workers call out. They don’t look up from whatever it is they’re doing, and if they got any less excited, I’d think they were unconscious.
“Um . . . thanks.” I approach the one most likely to have a pulse. “I’m here to speak to the owner. Is he here?”
The girl rolls her eyes. “Manny’s always here.” From beneath her red poncho, she lifts her hand and points to the office. “In there.”
“Qué pasa?” a deep voice bellows when I knock on the door.
I ease into the room and blink. “Manny?” I had expected a man of Latin descent. We have a decent-sized Hispanic population in Truman, so surely the owner of the sole Mexican joint in town would not look like a lower-class Jersey boy with a beer gut and gold chains.
“Wassup?” He holds out a fist, and I hesitantly bump mine to it. “You must be Bella Kirkwood, right?”
I think I might want to be somebody else. “Er, yes.”
“I’m Manny Labowskie. Come on. Let me show you around.” He stands up, and I get the full view of the ensemble. Shiny navy running suit, jacket zipped a quarter of the way down. Hairy chest in lieu of a shirt. A thick rope chain hangs around his neck like a memento from a rap star’s garage sale. His high-tops squeak as we tour the restaurant.
“Now when people come in the door, you gotta say, ‘Welcome to
Pancho’s Mexican Villa!’” He scratches his extended belly and grins.
Capped teeth smile back at me. “Go ahead, give it a try.”
“Now?”
“Sure!” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I can tell a lot about a person by the way they call out the Pancho greeting. Let’s hear it.”
I nervously scan the room. Besides the workers, there’re only two customers, and luckily I don’t know either of them. So far, my reputation is safe. But as soon as I get my own sombrero and poncho, I can kiss it good-bye.
I cup my hand around my mouth. “Welcome to Pancho’s Mexican Villa.” I sound like a ticked-off cheerleader.
Manny slaps me on the back, nearly sending me to the other side of the room. “Good stuff, Kirkwood. That was sheer poetry.
Now let’s visit the kitchen.”
I follow him behind the counter. “Shouldn’t those guys have gloves on?” I point to two high schoolers who are elbow deep in refried beans.
Manny’s eyes go all shifty. “Um, right. Definitely. Junior! Chris!
If I see you without gloves again, you’r
e, like, fired. What do I tell you about the gloves?”
The two guys exchange confused looks. “That we only had to use them if we saw someone with a health department badge?”
Manny erupts in laughter. “Oh, those kidders. Those nuts.” He smacks one on the back of the head, sending a sombrero into a vat of salsa.
“Now, Kirkwood, my life’s work is to make the best taco in the whole town of Truman.”
Shouldn’t be too hard since this is the only place that even offers tacos.
“We make them good, and we make them fast. You have about ten seconds for each taco.”
Yikes. “That’s pretty fast.”
Manny covers his heart with a big, hairy hand. “Do you believe in the Lord, Kirkwood?”
I nod.
“The town of Truman is my mission field. And I’m reaching the people . . . one taco at a time.”
“Touching.” I think somebody’s eaten too many pinto beans. “You do understand this is temporary and for the Truman High Tribune?”
Manny’s gold-ringed hand waves away this idea. “People don’t stay here long anyway. I’ll take what I can get.”
Thirty minutes later, I’ve been shown how to operate the two main assembly lines—the burrito and the taco. I’ve learned the order of operation and exactly how much of each ingredient should go into the food. I think I’ve got it.
“Well, what do you think? Are you ready to join the Pancho’s Mexican Villa team? We only pay minimum wage, but unlike the Wiener Palace, I can offer you all the chips you can eat.”
“I was hoping for a little more.”
“Fine. Half off queso.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Muy bien!” Manny spits on a finger and rubs a spot of dirt off his Nikes. “That means very good. You should probably write that down. You don’t know when I’ll just bust out the Spanish on you. Now, come with me.”
He leads me back to his office and squishes a giant sombrero on my head and drapes me in a poncho marked XL. “Can you start immediately?”
“I guess. I’ll need to call my mom.” I try to adjust the shapeless poncho, but it’s no use. I’m tall, but it still hangs long and offends every fashionable bone in my body.
“I can tell you are just what I need for a very special job. Not anyone can do it, but I trust you with it.” He pats his heart again. “I feel like I know you already, and the Lord has spoken to me and said, ‘Manno’—that’s what he calls me—‘Manno, this is just the right person for the job.’ Are you ready for that special assignment, Kirkwood?”
I bob my head weakly, knowing doom is about to rear its ugly head.
Manny slides a giant sandwich board over my coat. I readjust my hat and look down. Pancho’s for Your Luncho. Wieners Give You Gas.
“Clever.”
Manny winks. “I know, right?”
Three minutes and seven seconds later, I’m planted by the side of the road, waving a giant taco and wondering what my chances are for an apocalypse.
“Hey!” Budge yells from across the street. “What are you doing?”
“Ruining my odds for ever getting a date!”
He storms over to where I stand guard, his giant Aladdin pants swishing in the brisk wind. “My boss sent me out here. She’s warned Manny about that stupid sign.”
“I don’t think his sign is illegal.” Stupid. Humiliating. Possibly a big joke from the dark side, but not illegal.
Budge opens his mouth, then stops. He digs into his silky back pocket and pulls out a phone. “Smile! This baby’s totally going on Facebook.”
I make a grab for the phone, but the sandwich board slows me down. “You jerk! When I get home, I’m going to—”
I’m interrupted by the rumbling sound of a motorcycle. Budge looks beyond my shoulder, his mouth gaping. “It’s—it’s her.”
I swing around as Ruthie McGee pulls her bike next to us. She kills the engine and whips off her helmet, her spiky hair miraculously bouncing right back into its place.
She reads my sign. “Nice motto. Catchy.”
“Is that tobacco in your mouth?” I stare at the wad she’s got between her cheek and gum.
“Beef jerky.”
“Classy.”
“Someone’s hacked my MySpace page and sent out all these bad notes about me—complete with pictures. Are you on the job or aren’t you?”
It’s really hard to have an intelligent conversation with someone when you’re wearing a sign about the farting dangers of wieners.
“Look, I’ve had some developments with another situation. I haven’t forgotten about you, Ruthie.”
“Someone’s out to destroy my reputation. Someone with killer computer skills.”
My eyes shift to Budge. “I know someone like that.”
“I’m not an evil mastermind. I use my skills for the good.” Budge’s face softens as he gazes at Ruthie. “I can’t imagine anyone hurting you.”
She switches her jerky wad to the other cheek. “Really?”
Budge nods. Then nods some more. “T–t–totally. Maybe I could help you?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“I’d have to take a look at your computer, but we might be able to trace the hacker back to his or her own computer. I get off work at seven.”
She turns the key on her bike and revs the engine. “Be at my house at eight.” She jabs her gloved finger in his vest. “And don’t be late. This is the night I reserve for my flute practice and poetry reading.”
Ruthie zooms away, and I don’t have to look at Budge to know he’s slack-jawed and moon-eyed.
I sigh and straighten my hat. “She could’ve at least bought a taco.”
chapter fourteen
Good morning, Tigers! This is Megan for Tiger TV with your Monday announcements.”
I read over some vocab words in English class, wishing I had studied more over the weekend. Between church, calculus homework, and a call from Hunter, I just ran out of time.
Hunter is being so incredibly nice. He always was a good boyfriend— well, minus the cheating part. But now he’s practically dream boyfriend material. Like he’s a little less self-absorbed, a little more humble, and . . . I have to admit I like the new Hunter. When I told him what I had going on at work and school, he actually listened.
“. . . And don’t forget to pick up your Match-and-Catch forms. Junior class officers will be passing them out in the caf during lunch. To get the results of your perfect Truman High mate, just pay ten dollars . . .”
I lean across the row and poke Budge in the shoulder. “Are you going to do that?”
He huffs, sending his red ’fro bouncing. “Dude, do I have loser written across my forehead?”
“So that’s a yes?”
“The day I fill one of those out is the day I wear girl’s underwear.”
At lunch I go find the Match-and-Catch table, knowing Lindy will be there.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“We’re being stampeded. Pass these out.” She shoves a stack of forms in my arms. “Don’t forget tonight’s the FCA ice skating party downtown.”
“Yeah, I have to work, so I’ll be there pretty late.” Tomorrow is dead day—a day to review in every class before finals start Wednesday. So to let off some steam before all the cramming begins, we’re having a Christmas party.
“Hey!” Ruthie McGee shoves her way to the front. “Have you seen Budge?”
“No, I—”
Ruthie spots him walking by, grabs him by the collar, and yanks him into the crowd. “Did you find anything out yet?”
Budge blinks a few times. “Um . . . I . . . haven’t really found much information for you. I’m still working on it.”
She tweaks a form out of my hand. “My boyfriend broke up with me when he saw the incriminating photo. I need a new man.”
She stares down Budge. “Are you going to fill one out?”
His mouth opens like a fish. “I . . . was just coming here to get
one. Bella, give me a Match-and-Catch form.”
I pass it to him. “Victoria’s Secret makes a nice panty, by the way.”
I return from my second night on the job smelling like one big taco.
It’s saturated my hair, my pores, and permanently stuck up my nose. My fingers hurt from rolling burritos, and my poncho looks like I bathed in salsa. The working world is vicious.
I walk into our living room and find Moxie staring at a wall. She attacks an invisible prey, then walks away purring, her job done. Moxie doesn’t do higher-level thinking. We’re not real sure that my cat thinks at all.
After I shower off all the greasy gunk, I kiss Mom good-bye and drive downtown to where the ice rink is set up. Though it’s nearly nine, the party should still be in full swing.
I hear the Christmas music before I even shut off the car. Carrie Underwood sings about a winter wonderland. I shiver into my coat and find my friends.
“Bella!” Anna intercepts me as I pay for my skates. “Big news.”
“You were on America’s Most Wanted last night?”
Her scowl is filled with attitude. “Real cute. The charges were dropped.”
“Are you serious? That’s awesome.”
“They finally confirmed my alibi.”
“How?”
“Your brother took my laptop into the police station and was able to show them I was using the Wi-Fi at the Java Joint.”
“You mean Budge?”
“Yeah, I owe that boy. I mean, I knew we could prove I was there, but finding witnesses was going to take a while.”
“Who asked him to look at your laptop?”
“It was Luke Sullivan’s idea.”
“Really?” Why didn’t he mention it? “Um, I’m happy for you. I’m glad I didn’t go ahead and get you that nail file for Christmas.”
“You’re really cracking me up tonight, Kirkwood.”
I laugh at her sour tone and leave her to join Lindy and Matt.
“Hey, guys.” I sit down at a bistro table as Lindy and Matt sip hot chocolate. “How’s the rink?”
I peer over the edge to take it all in. Christmas trees stand all over the grounds. Chairs and tables sit under a row of canopies, with tiny white lights twinkling overhead. The oval rink glistens in front of us, and everyone from grandmothers to toddlers spin across the ice.
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