by Meg Cabot
Instead, I looked across the street, into Tasha Thompkins's bedroom window. The lights in her room were still on. She had probably heard the news about her brother by now. I wondered if she was stretched out on her bed, crying. That's where I'd be, if I found out either of my brothers had been killed. I felt a wave of grief for Tasha, and for her parents. I didn't know anything about gangs, but I thought that whoever had killed Nate couldn't have known him all that well, because he'd been a nice kid. Smart, too. It was a waste. A real waste.
After a while, the front door to the Hoadley—I mean, Thompkins—house opened, and Dr. Thompkins, looking much older than when I had seen him earlier that evening, came out, wearing his coat. He followed the sheriff's deputies to their squad cars, then got into one. I knew he was going to ID the body. At the front door, his wife stood watching him. I couldn't tell whether or not she was crying, but I suspected she was. Two people stood on either side of her. Nate's grandparents, I assumed.
Above them, I saw a curtain move. Tasha was standing in her window, looking down as the squad car with her father in it pulled away. I saw that Tasha's shoulders were shaking. Unlike her mother, she was definitely crying.
Poor, shy, yearbook-committee-and-Witchblade-loving Tasha. There was nothing I could do for her. I mean, if I had known when his father had come over that Nate was in trouble, I might have been able to find him. Maybe. But it was too late, now. Too late for me to help Nate, anyway.
But not too late, I realized, to help his sister. How I was going to do that, I hadn't the slightest idea.
All I could do was try.
Little did I know, of course, how my decision to help Tasha Thompkins was going to change my life. And the life of just about everybody in our entire town.
C H A P T E R
6
The next day, when Ruth told me some kid from her synagogue was missing, I didn't make the connection. I had a lot on my mind. I mean, there was the whole thing with Nate Thompkins, of course. I hadn't forgotten about my promise to myself that I was going to try to help Tasha, if I could.
There was something else, though. Something I'd dreamed about that had been, well, pretty disturbing. Not as disturbing as having your brother left for dead in a cornfield, but still wicked strange.
"Are you listening to me, Jess?" Ruth wanted to know. She had to talk pretty loudly to be heard over the Muzak in the mall. We were hitting the post-holiday sales. Hey, it was the Friday after Thanksgiving. There was nothing else to do.
"Sure," I said, fingering a pair of hoop earrings on a nearby display rack. And I don't even have pierced ears. That's how distracted I was.
"They found his bike," Ruth said. "And that's it. Just his bike. In the parking lot. No other sign of him. Not his book bag. Not his clarinet. Nothing."
"Maybe he ran away," I said. The earrings, I thought, wouldn't make a bad Christmas present for Ruth. I mean, Hanukkah present. Because Ruth was Jewish, of course.
"No way Seth Blumenthal is going to run away before his thirteenth birthday," Ruth said. "He's supposed to be having his bar mitzvah tomorrow, Jess. That's what he was doing at the synagogue in the first place. Having his last Hebrew lesson before the big ceremony on Saturday. The kid is due to rake it in. No way would he take off beforehand. And no way would he leave his bike behind."
This finally got my attention. Twelve-year-olds do not generally abandon their bikes. Not without a fight, anyway. And Ruth was right: She'd pulled in roughly twenty thousand dollars for her bat mitzvah. No way some kid was going to run away before making that kind of dough.
"You got a picture of him?" I asked Ruth, as she worked her way through a Cinnabon she was carrying around. "Seth, I mean."
"There's one in the temple directory," she said. "I mean, it's a shot of his whole family. But I can point him out for you, if you want."
"Okay," I said. "I'll take care of it."
"Soon," Ruth said to me. "You better take care of it soon. There's no telling what might have happened to him. I mean, that gang might have gotten him."
I rolled my eyes. I actually had to keep a eye out, because I'd spotted my mother and Great-aunt Rose—horror of horrors—going into JC Penney, and I wanted to be sure to avoid running into them. I was fairly certain that if Great-aunt Rose hadn't been visiting, there'd have been no way my mom would be at the mall the day after one of her neighbors found out their kid was dead. But I suspected since the neighbor in question was the Thompkinses, my mom hadn't dared risk a sympathy visit, since Great-aunt Rose would have insisted on coming along. And knowing Rose, she'd have started in about the darkies, or something equally appalling.
She was leaving on Sunday. Which might as well have been forever, it seemed so far away.
"If I get a piece of his clothing," Ruth was asking me, "could you do that thing? You know, that thing you did with Shane? And Claire? Where you smel—"
She broke off with a cry of pain as I reached up and seized her by the back of the neck. She was so surprised, a piece of Cinnabon fell out of her mouth.
"I told you not to talk about that, remember?" I hissed at her. Over at Santa's Workshop—the day after Thanksgiving was the day Santa arrived at our local mall—a bunch of moms looked our way, disapproving … probably because we were still young and weren't saddled down with three whiny brats, but whatever. "The Feds are still following me around, you know. I bumped into Cyrus just last night."
"Ow," Ruth said, shrugging off my hand. "Leggo, you freak."
"I mean it," I said. "Just be cool."
"You be cool." Ruth adjusted her shirt collar. "Or try just being normal for a change. What is the matter with you, anyway? You've been acting like a freak all day."
"Gee, I don't know, Ruth," I said, in my most sarcastic tone. "Maybe it's just because last night I saw the mutilated body of the guy who used to live across the street lying mangled in a cornfield."
Ruth curled her upper lip. "God," she said. "Be a little gross, why don't you?" Then Ruth looked at me a little closer. "Wait a minute. You aren't blaming yourself over Nate's death, are you?" When I didn't reply, she went, "Oh my God. You are. Jess, hello? You didn't kill him, okay? His little gang-bang buddies did."
"I knew he was missing," I said. Over at Santa's Workshop some kid was screaming his head off because he was afraid of the mechanical elves building toys in the fake snow. "And I didn't try to find him."
"You knew he'd gone out for whipped cream," Ruth corrected me. "And that he didn't come back right away. You didn't know he was being murdered. You couldn't have known. Come on, Jess. Give yourself a break. You can't be responsible for every single person on the planet who gets himself killed."
"I guess not," I said. I turned away from the sight of the mall Santa ho-ho-hoing. "Look, Ruth, let's go home. You can show me that picture. So maybe if the bar-mitzvah boy really is missing, I can find him before he becomes crow fodder, the way Nate did."
"Eew," Ruth said. "Graphic much?" But she started heading toward the nearest exit.
Only not soon enough, unfortunately.
"Jessica!"
I turned at the sound of the familiar voice … then blanched.
It was Mrs. Wilkins. And Rob.
Just about the last two people—with the exception of my mom and Great-aunt Rose—I'd wanted to run into. Not because I wasn't happy to see them. Let's face it, when have I ever been unhappy about seeing Rob? That would be like being unhappy about seeing the sun come out after forty days and nights of rain.
But knowing what I knew now … what I'd learned overnight, as I slept, without consciously meaning to, and all because of that stupid picture I'd seen on Rob's mother's bedroom wall. . . .
"Hi, you guys," I said, brightly, to cover up what I was really feeling, which was, Oh, shit. "Wow. Fancy meeting you here." Again, among the most toolish of things to say, but I was trying to think fast.
Rob looked about as uncomfortable as I had ever seen him. This was on account of the fact that:
&nbs
p; a)He was in a mall.
b)He was in a mall with his mom.
c)He had run into me there.
d)I was with Ruth.
Ruth and Rob are not among one another's favorite people. In fact, I had only recently convinced Ruth to stop referring to Rob as The Jerk on account of him never calling me. Rob thought Ruth was an elitist Townie snob who looked down on non-college-bound people such as himself. Which in fact she was. But that didn't make her a bad person, necessarily.
"Isn't this funny," Mrs. Wilkins said, with a happy smile. "I've been trying to convince Rob to let me take him to get measured for a tux for my brother's wedding since … well, forever, it seems like. And today, when he picked me up after work, he finally agreed. So here we are. And here you are! Isn't that funny?"
"It sure is," I said, even though I didn't think it was funny at all. Especially since Rob hadn't said anything to me about having a wedding to attend. A wedding at which he might be expected to bring a date. Who by rights should be have been me. "I thought Earl was already married," I said, to cover up my inner rage over Rob having never mentioned this before.
"Oh, it's not Earl," Mrs. Wilkins said. "It's my little brother Randy. He and his fiancee are tying the knot on Christmas Eve. Have you ever heard of anything so romantic?"
Christmas Eve? A Christmas Eve wedding at which Rob would be wearing a tuxedo, and he hadn't said a word to me about it? I'd have gone with him, if he'd asked me. I'd have gone with him gladly. I'd have worn the green velvet sheath dress my mom had made me for last year's Lion's Club dinner in honor of Mike winning that scholarship. If my mom wasn't around, wearing the one she'd made herself that matched mine, it actually looked good on me.
But no. No, Rob hadn't even bothered to mention he'd been invited to this affair. Nothing. Not a word.
Suddenly I felt like blurting out what I had learned in my dreams last night about Rob's dad, right in front of everyone, just to get back at him for having purposefully left me out of this very important family event that I was now dying to go to more than I had ever wanted to go to anything before in my life.
"How nice," I said, with what I hoped was a frosty smile in Rob's direction. He was studiously avoiding my gaze. Or maybe he was just trying to avoid making eye contact with Ruth, who was pointedly returning the favor. Either way, he was a dead man.
"Oh, but, Jess!" Mrs. Wilkins's hand shot out, and she grasped my fingers, the smile wiped from her face. "Rob told me what happened to you two on your way back home last night. I'm so sorry! It must have been awful. I feel so terrible for the boy's parents. . . ."
"Yes," I said, my smile growing less frosty. "It was pretty bad."
"If there's anything I can do," Mrs. Wilkins said. "I mean, I can't imagine how I could help, but if you think those poor people could use some home cooking, or something, let me know. I do make a decent casserole. . . ."
"Sure thing, Mrs. Wilkins," I said. "I'll let you know. And thanks again for dinner last night."
"Oh, honey, it was nothing," Mrs. Wilkins said, squeezing my fingers one last time before letting them go. "I'm just so glad you could share it with us."
All that would have been bad enough. But a second later, the whole thing got about ten times worse. Just when I thought I was about to escape virtually unscathed—except for the whole not-having-been-asked-to-Rob's-uncle's-wedding thing—I heard a sound that caused the blood in my veins to curdle.
Which was Great-aunt Rose, calling my name.
"See, I told you it was Jessica," Great-aunt Rose said, hauling my mother up to us. Rose's blue eyes, which appeared rheumy, but which actually took in everything around them with uncanny clarity, crackled as she looked from Rob to me and then back again. "Who is your little friend, Jessica? Aren't you going to introduce us?"
The idea of Great-aunt Rose, a tiny shrimp of a woman, calling Rob "little" would have made me laugh at any other time. As it was, however, I merely longed for the floor of the mall to open up and swallow me as quickly and as painlessly as possible.
My mother, looking tired and distracted—and who wouldn't, having spent the day with Great-aunt Rose—put down the many bags she was holding and said, "Oh, Mary. It's you. How are you?" My mom knew Mrs. Wilkins from the restaurant, of course.
"Hi, Mrs. Mastriani," Mrs. Wilkins said with her sunny smile. "How are you today?"
"Fair," my mom said, "to middling." She looked at me and Ruth. "Hello, girls. Any luck with the sales?"
"I got a cashmere sweater at Benneton," Ruth said, holding up a bag like a triumphant hunter, "for only fifteen dollars."
"It's chartreuse," I reminded her, before she could get too cocky.
"I'm sure it's very flattering," my mother said, just to be polite, because anyone who saw Ruth's blonde hair and sallow complexion would know chartreuse would not be flattering on her at all.
"And you are?" Great-aunt Rose asked Rob, pointedly.
Rob, God love him, carefully wiped off his hand on his jeans before extending it toward my aunt and going, in his deep voice, "Rob Wilkins, ma'am. Very nice to meet you."
Great-aunt Rose merely lifted her nose at the sight of Rob's hand. "And what are your intentions toward my niece?" she demanded.
Mrs. Wilkins looked startled. My mother looked confused. Ruth looked delighted. I am sure I looked like I had just swallowed a cactus. Only Rob remained calm, as he replied, in the same polite tone, "I have no intentions toward her at all, ma'am."
Which is exactly the problem.
I saw my mother's eyes narrow as she looked at Rob. I knew what she was going to say a second before it was out of her mouth.
"Wait a minute," she said. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"
The sad part was, she did. But I wasn't about to let her stick around to figure out where. Because where she knew Rob from was the police station, the last time I'd been hauled in there for questioning … a connection I did not want my mother making just then.
"I'm sure you've just seen him around, Mom," I said, taking her by the arm and propelling her toward Santa's Workshop. "Hey, look, Santa's back! Don't you want to take my picture sitting on his lap?"
My mom looked down at me with mild amusement. "Not exactly," she said. "Considering you're no longer five years old."
Ruth, for once in her life, did something helpful, and came up on my mom's other side, saying, "Aw, come on, Mrs. M. It would be so funny. My parents would crack up if they saw a picture of me and Jess on Santa's lap. And to get her back, I'll make Jess come to temple and sit on Hanukkah Harry's lap next week. Come on."
My mom looked helplessly at Mrs. Wilkins, who fortunately didn't seem aware that anything unusual—such as the fact that her son's supposed girlfriend was doing everything in her power to keep her mother from actually meeting him—was going on.
"Oh, go on," Mrs. Wilkins said, laughingly, to my mom. "It'll be a hoot."
My mom, shaking her head, let us steer her into the line to see Santa. It was only when I came back to say good-bye to Mrs. Wilkins—I was ignoring Rob—and to get the bags my mom had set down that I overheard Great-aunt Rose hiss at Rob, "Watch yourself, young man. I've seen your type before, and I'm warning you: Don't you even think about laying a finger on my niece. Not if you know what's good for you."
I glared at Great-aunt Rose. Just what I needed, for her to give Rob yet another excuse why he couldn't go out with me.
Rob seemed hardly to have heard her, however. Instead, he only looked at me, those smokey gray eyes unreadable. . . .
Almost. I was pretty sure I read something in the set of his square jaw. And that something said, Thanks for nothing.
It was only then that I realized I'd had a perfect chance finally to introduce him to my mother, and that, in my panic, I'd blown it.
But hey, who'd had the perfect chance to ask me to be his escort at his uncle Randy's Christmas Eve wedding, and blown that?
When I returned to the line to see Santa, with my mom's bags and Great-aunt Rose in tow
, it was only to hear Ruth whisper in a low voice, "You owe me." It took me a minute to realize what Ruth meant. I heard snickering. Looking past the cottony field of fake snow that surrounded us, I saw Karen Sue Hankey and some of her cronies pointing at us and laughing their heads off.
I really don't think my mom should have gotten so mad over the gesture I made at them, despite the fact that there were small children around. They probably didn't even know what it meant. Great-aunt Rose sure didn't.
"No, Jessica," she informed me acidly, a second later. "The peace sign is with two fingers, not one. Don't they teach you children anything in school these days?"
C H A P T E R
7
There were more cars than ever outside the Hoadley—I mean Thompkins—house when we got home from the mall later that afternoon.
I was surprised the Thompkinses were acquainted with that many people. For being so new in town, they were pretty popular.
"Look," Ruth said, as I got out of her car. "Coach Albright's there."
Sure enough, I recognized the coach's Dodge Plymouth. It was hard not to, as he'd had the car custom painted in the Ernie Pyle High School colors of purple and white.
"God," Ruth said, sympathetically, as I climbed out of her car. "Poor Tasha. Can you imagine having that blowhard in your living room the day after your brother got murdered? That has to be one of those circles of hell Dante was going on about." We are doing Dante's Inferno in English. Well, everyone else is. I am mainly playing Tetris on my Gameboy in the back row with the sound off.
"Come over later with that picture," I said. "I mean, if the kid from your synagogue is still missing when you get home."
"He will be," Ruth said, bleakly. "This appears to be a day destined for human tragedy. I mean, look at my new sweater."
