Why then do I feel like I’ve crossed a line?
Billie snatches the papers from my hand before I have a chance to offer up some sort of half–hearted apology. “Is this true?” she barks at Ford, not bothering to hide her indignation. He nods weakly, keeping his eyes locked on the patch of floor by his dresser. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Ford shrugs at her blatant disapproval. I probably should have seen this coming. Billie’s never been very good at comforting. I doubt she even knows what the word “coddle” means.
Or at least that’s what I assume until she scurries to her feet, sitting with Ford on his bed, leaning her silvery head against his shoulder.
Maybe this is what I should have seen coming. It’s the ultimate payback, and Ford didn’t even have to lift a finger to pull it off.
“You should have told us,” Billie whispers into the seam of his t–shirt.
Ford’s on his feet in a flash, pushing the mattress off its railings with the force. “Why?” he growls, pacing the length of his room, storming in one direction before turning unpredictably in the other. His eyes are wild, a little crazy, the anger and frustration turned inward as his hands drive repetitively through his hair. “Why should I have told you any of it? It happened a long time ago. It’s like you said, Billie. Things are what they are.”
It’s as if something inside of Ford has snapped. I’ve taken my big, metal scissors and cut the rope that once prevented him from falling, and it’s only now both of us realize there’s no safety net below to catch him.
“You should have said something,” Billie echoes. “It could have helped us. Maybe it has something to do with what’s going on now.”
“It doesn’t,” he snaps.
“Ford, calm down and explain.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with whoever’s trying to kill me. It can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because Milo Kastanellos is dead.” His eyes remain unfocused. “He’s dead, okay?”
“How do you know that?”
He shakes his head and offers one low, bitter chuckle. “We were told by the police not long after I came to live with Gran. It doesn’t matter anyway. I didn’t care then, and I don’t care now. He already took everything from me when he decided to pull the trigger and shoot my dad. Here . . .” he says quietly, putting a finger to an imaginary bullet hole in his chest. “And here . . . .” Two more lower down on his abdomen.
“How did he die?” I finally decide to speak up. Even my voice sounds the slightest bit unsure. “Milo, I mean.”
He remains very still. “Prison fight. A brawl or something that got out of hand. They said it wasn’t even his fight. He just got in the way. And you know what? I’m glad. I used to pray every day for justice. I just hope it caused him as much pain as he caused me. Maybe even that would be too good for him.”
Billie looks like if she could cry, she would. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do! I’m the one who had to pick that creep out of a lineup when I was just a kid. I’m the one who had to relive the story of dad’s murder in court. I’m the one who has to think about it every day! The guy ruined my life, Billie. Don’t you get that? He. Ruined. My. Life. I’m allowed to hate him.”
“I know,” she says, standing slowly. “But I wish you wouldn’t.”
And before either Ford or I can move, she has her arms around him, holding him against her dimly glowing figure. He stiffens at first, almost resistant, as if he would rather be anywhere else than in the comforting arms of the dead.
The fight, however, disappears before my eyes as his shoulders sag with defeat. He crumples forward, clinging to Billie like she’s the last life vest on a sinking ship, and with her back turned to me I’m able to see his face over her shoulder. The morning sunlight reflects off two wet trails running down his cheeks. His eyes are closed, though his mouth falls into a soundless, wordless cry. No noise, no sound, just an image of complete and abject suffering.
I avert my eyes, unsure of where to look, or what to think. The inability to focus is almost painful. And for a single, uneasy moment, what I feel towards Ford isn’t anything resembling animosity or jealousy. It’s worse.
It’s pity.
Billie
“This has got to be the worst idea you’ve had so far.”
Ford’s already pallid face shines pearly white beneath a maze of faintly lit lampposts placed throughout North Chamberlain High School’s parking lot. So shimmering, so colorless that if I didn’t already know he had a pulse, I might have confused him for one of us.
Tuck rightly decided it might best for Ford to spend his Friday out of school. He feigns a mysterious illness, and Fay allows him to waste his day in bed recovering. I have to admit, a day of playing hooky works wonders on all three of us. Ford seems fragile but stable, at least for the time being. The sooner he can put all of this behind him, the more likely his scars will heal. Tuck, too, is back to his lovely, sardonic self, sauntering up the steps behind me as the three of us make our way the front doors of the school. The fluorescent parking lights dance off the darkened glass panes, bouncing back the image of Ford, walking alone toward the school. But he isn’t alone. Tuck and I are there with him, for better or worse.
“You’re the one who said we should do a little investigating,” I call back over my shoulder, pulling on the glass doors. Locked, of course. “Since you’re so sure Milo Kastanellos isn’t a suspect.”
“Of course he’s not a suspect,” Ford hisses. “He’s dead!”
“Well, that leaves Mr. Cartwright as our only lead, now doesn’t it? You two say Logan was hanging around the school before you found Ford’s locker vandalized, right?” They both nod. “Not to mention he was at Fairway’s the night you were almost run over. One awfully big coincidence if you ask me.” I cup my hands to peer through the tinted doors. “So just calm down, okay? It’ll be over before you know it.”
It’s amazing how Ford’s sigh can sound both frustrated and resigned at the same time. He must practice in his spare time. “Fine,” he grumbles, keeping his voice at a low hiss. “I just thought when I suggested we check him out, that we would be doing it . . . you know . . . legally. I didn’t think it would involve several misdemeanors and a felony or two.”
I take a single, sharp glance back at the deserted parking lot. “Okay, here’s the plan. Tuck, you go check out the building. Do a perimeter search. See if anyone else is around. Scope the place out, got it?”
His response is to jam is hands in his pockets and stare at me. “Scope the place out? This is an upper–middle–class, suburbanite high school, Billie. Not a den for organized crime.”
“Just do it, will you? Jeez, you guys are such babies!”
“Why do I have the sneaking suspicion she’s done this before?” Ford asks, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
I decide to ignore them both. “I’ll dismantle the security alarm. Ford, you wait here until I come back and unlock the doors from the inside, okay?”
“Sure thing, Colonel Kurtz. And if the police happen to come by while I’m waiting?”
“Oh, I think the ski mask and crowbar you decided to bring along will tell them just about everything they need to know.”
I phase on the fly, landing inside a second later. The school’s interior is like the setting to a bad horror flick, unnatural and concealed by shadow, complete with mysteriously banging pipes and deserted hallways. Perfect for a hot blonde to be killed by some psychotic, axe–wielding janitor.
Well, the joke’s on you, pal. This hot blonde’s already dead.
I find and disable the alarm system quickly, a trick I learned long ago and could probably do with my eyes closed. Back at the front doors, Ford jumps at the sound of the latch turning.
“Relax,” I laugh, ushering him inside. At my instruction, he leaves his burglary equipment behind a potted plant outside the front door. The last thing we need now is for Ford to get caught by a teacher who gets his kicks by lurkin
g the halls at night like some insomniac vampire.
“This way,” Ford hisses, motioning me forward with his hand. I don’t bother to inform him that I already know where the administrative office is. You pick up on those things when you spend almost every day in a high school you don’t legally have to attend. Being back is like walking into a parallel universe, one you think you know but is overrun with tiny, definitive changes that make it no longer recognizable. My head swims with memories of my old school, the hallways, the sounds, the smells, gliding through the empty dark corridors, happy in their forgotten existence. Maya’s giggle echoes from her locker, my sister shoots me a timid wave, and from a distance, I catch Austin’s brilliant smile flashing above the heads of our classmates. I close my eyes to banish my ghosts, and when I open them again, they’re gone.
We head up a short flight of stairs and into the back room, a tiny, forgotten closet where filing cabinets stand stacked on one another to make space for obsolete workplace equipment, copiers that don’t copy, fax machines that jam. I even see an old fashioned typewriter sitting rather sadly in the back corner. It’s like the Island of Lost Office Supplies, and quite frankly, it gives me the creeps.
“So what’s the plan again?” Ford whispers as we skulk around the abandoned equipment.
“We find Logan’s student file, get his address, and then stalk him until we catch him doing something suspicious.”
“You mean like using a poster of me as target practice at the rifle range?”
“Yeah, Ford. That would be the definition of suspicious.”
We each pick a cabinet and begin searching through row upon row of folders, none of which are as detailed or in depth as the file Tuck stole on Ford. But what can you expect from amateurs?
“Got it!” Ford hisses triumphantly after a few minutes, pulling out a beige folder, and quietly closing the drawer. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Man, this chick has some serious issues!” I laugh, still absorbed with reading the file in my hands. “Promise me, Ford, that if you ever muster up the stones to talk to an actual girl, you’ll stay away from Sally Schizoid here.”
“Come on!” He snatches the folder away, shoving it haphazardly back in its drawer before taking me by the hand and pulling me from the supply closet. I make sure to lock the door from the inside on our way out. Even if Ford does get caught, there’s no way for anyone to prove anything. How could he possibly have gotten through not only a silent security alarm, but two locked doors?
I crane my neck for signs of Tuck, hoping to find my partner around each corner. I’m often unnerved by how much I miss his company when he’s gone, and how relieved I am each time he comes back.
I’m just beginning to think we might make it home free when Ford turns to me at the bottom of the staircase. “I have an idea,” he whispers, a rather Peter Pan–ish grin stretching across his face.
“No,” I immediately respond.
“You haven’t even heard it yet!”
“Doesn’t matter. Answer’s still no.”
He grabs my hand and begins leading me further into the school. “Relax, remember?” he smirks, turning down yet another pitch black corridor. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. It seems as though he’s constructed some elaborate Bonnie and Clyde fantasy in his head. But while this might have seemed like a good plan to start out with, it’s slowly transforming into more of a potential Escape from Alcatraz nightmare than I’d intended.
“Where are we going?” I call after another minute or so. As far as I can tell, we’re at the west end of the school near the Fine Arts wing.
“Here,” Ford answers, coming to a halt in front of a wall of metal lockers. He takes me by the shoulders and shepherds me toward a single, unexceptional door in the line.
“It’s just what I always wanted.”
“It’s Logan’s,” he explains. “I thought getting a look at his locker might be a good idea. The guy probably keeps a day planner. You know, so he can pencil in when he’s free to try to kill me next.”
“It’s probably locked.” is the only response I can come up with. Truth be told, it is a good idea, and I’m a little disappointed I didn’t think of it first.
He grins smugly. “Well, it’s a good thing I got me an expert locksmith then, isn’t it?”
“You really know how to flatter a girl.”
“Are you kidding? You’re lucky I haven’t passed out on you yet.”
It takes less than a minute to break inside Logan’s locker, though the result is hardly worth the minimal effort. There’s nothing incriminating, no photos of Ford with X’s drawn through them, not even a half–empty can of spray paint, which I thought for sure would be enough evidence to prove he was the one who defaced Ford’s locker.
Instead there’s a shelf of neatly stacked school books, a black and white binder resting against the bottom, and what looks like a navy blazer hanging from a hook in the back.
“Are you sure this is the right locker?” I ask, completely thrown for a loop.
He nods, spilling hair around his face. “I’m positive.” He reaches for one of the books up on the top shelf, opening it and reading aloud. “Book 009642: issued to Logan Reginald—”
“Reginald?” I snort.
“Logan Reginald Cartwright.”
“So what’s with the jacket?” I ask, lifting the blazer from its small hook. “Looks like something they wear at a PGA tournament. Not exactly apropos for a guy who makes a pretty convincing Rambo on Halloween.”
“Well, we’ve still got his file,” Ford says, holding the folder up to his face. “I guess that’ll just have to be enough.”
I’m just about to hang the blazer back in its rightful place when a blinding light falls over us. I raise a hand to my eyes.
“Don’t move” a deep voice rings out, startling Ford. The file plummets to the floor. A few stray papers lay splayed across the tile. A lone figure steps forward through the brightness, brandishing his flashlight like a loaded gun. “I said don’t move!”
I groan loudly. The voice belongs to Officer Barnes, one of the school’s security guards.
No need to scope the place out, my ass. I’m going to kill Tuck!
“Put your hands where I can see them,” he calls, taking another step forward. “Do it!”
Ford doesn’t so much as blink. “You told me not to move.”
“Don’t get smart with me. Now raise ‘em up!”
The guy’s obviously seen one too many episodes of Law and Order, though he may as well be the school librarian for all his grand qualifications. He’s easily twenty or so pounds overweight, and the pathetic display of thinning, gray hair suggests he’s not exactly in his prime.
Ford slowly raises his hands over his head. I, of course, do nothing.
“Just what do you think you’re doing here?”
“I was . . . I . . . didn’t . . . I . . .”
“This is a serious offense, young man,” the rotund officer drawls. “Breaking and entering, trespassing. You’re looking at hard time.”
“Trespassing?” Ford asks, his voice quaking. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake. You see, this is my locker.”
If it were possible, my neck might snap from the speed with which it whips around to look at Ford. Telling a bald faced lie? To an authority figure?
He goes on without being prompted. “I know I really shouldn’t be here, but it was an emergency. I left my . . . French book here on accident, you see, and I’ve got a really big test on Monday.”
“Oh yeah?” Barney Fife queries, raising a salt and pepper eyebrow while lowering his mag light.
Ford drops his arms in sync with the flashlight. “My name is Logan Cartwright. This is my locker.”
“Well . . . uh . . .” Officer Barnes stammers, obviously disappointed at the lack of opposition. “I’m going to need to see some I.D.”
“Of course. It’s just in my folder here,” Ford stoops to pick up Logan’s file
from the floor.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, placing my tennis shoe over the edge of the manila folder, pinning it to the ground. “You don’t have any I.D.!”
Ford slides my foot to the side and flashes me a roguish wink.
“You see, Officer,” he says, rising to his feet. “My friend Tyler thought it would be okay if we snuck in, got my book and left. It’s true. You can ask him. He and Charlie are around here somewhere.”
Officer Barnes eyes grow wide. “There are more of you?”
I may as well not reiterate just how sad it is to see a grown man with a night stick shake at the idea of being confronted with three teenage boys, two of which happen to be imaginary.
“Yeah,” Ford nods, clutching the file to his side. “Tyler!” he calls down the empty hallway. “Charlie! Come on, you guys!”
The sad sack security guard whirls on the spot, pointing his flashlight in the direction of Ford’s shouts. “Come on out, boys!” He takes two steps toward the far end of the corridor. “Let’s move it!”
There is of course no sound other than my own snickering which, fortunately, is heard only by the boy standing next to me.
“Get ready,” he whispers out the side of his mouth.
Officer Barnes shuffles another few feet down the hall. “I don’t want to have to ask again! Let’s go, boys!”
That’s all it takes for Ford to see his small but distinct window of escape. The instant his back is turned, we’re off, sprinting through the shadow–masked hallways like we’re running from the devil himself.
“Get back here!” the disgruntled security cop shouts after Ford’s hastily retreating figure.
I laugh at the silliness of it all, allowing Ford to take my hand in his as we dart around corner after corner, deeper into the labyrinth of lockers and locked doors. The sound of heavy, lumbering footsteps grow and fade, never once giving up their pursuit. I have to hand it to Officer Barnes. He may not have passed the police academy physical, but he certainly is persistent.
Be the Death of Me Page 14
