“Thank you.”
“Was it cancer?”
“Cancer? What? No.”
“I guess everyone must be asking you how she died,” he said.
“It’s actually the first time anyone has asked me. People around here know.”
Though a few people had asked me how Talley’d done it, and I thought that was an awful question.
I told Adam without him asking: “She took a handful of pills,” I said. “We don’t know how she got them. But that’s what happened.”
“That’s awful,” Adam said. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t want to put that part in a text,” I told him. “I didn’t want to even tell you on text that she’d died, but I didn’t know how else to get you to write back—especially if you were trying to get in touch with her first. That’s what I would’ve done instead of calling back someone I’d never met before. But my dad already disconnected her line, so if you tried—”
“Hang on,” he cut me off. “I have to tell you—I didn’t know her. That’s why I figured you had the wrong number. But after that text, it seemed wrong to leave you hanging.”
“But . . . are you sure you didn’t know her? Her real first name was Natalie. Talley was a nickname.”
“I only know one Natalie, and I saw her in school yesterday,” Adam said. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you.”
“But maybe,” I started. “Maybe someone else at your same phone number knew Talley. Is it, like, a house line that you share with someone else?”
“It’s my cell.”
“Oh, right. You got my text. Of course. How long have you had it?”
“How long have I had my cell phone?”
“How long have you had this number?”
“Oh. Well, my parents gave me my first cell for my eleventh birthday, and I’ve had the same number the whole time. I’m seventeen now.”
So he was my age. He’d had his cell phone for six years, give or take a few months. Could the person who’d had it before him have been someone significant to Talley? Someone who she hadn’t spoken to in over half a decade, so she didn’t know the phone number had changed? That didn’t seem right.
But then, why would she have written down Adam’s number if she didn’t know him? Nothing made any sense.
I don’t understand the puzzle, Talley. I need another clue.
“Sloane?” Adam said.
“I’m still here,” I said. I gripped Juno’s hand. “I’m just trying to figure everything out. Your area code—650—that’s in the San Francisco Bay Area?”
“Yep. I’m in Menlo Park.”
I’d seen Menlo Park on the map I’d studied of every town within the 650 area code. It was in San Mateo County.
“You live there? You didn’t get the number and move somewhere else?”
“No, I’ve always lived in this town. I’ve even always lived in the same house.”
“Me too.”
“Out of curiosity,” Adam said. “Where is—I can’t remember the area code I dialed to call you. Where do you live?”
“I’m in Golden Valley, Minnesota,” I told him. “Area code 763. Have you ever been here?”
“No,” he said. “Maybe your sister wrote the number down wrong.”
“Yeah, but even so, she probably got the area code right. Plus there were all these California things on her list, besides your phone number, like the species name for California grizzlies, and Bel Air. That’s, like, several hundred miles from you, right? I looked it up on Google Maps.”
“The Bel Air in Los Angeles County is hours away. But I assumed she meant the arcade place on El Camino.”
“What’s El Camino?”
“It’s a street. If you drive on El Camino about ten minutes south of my house, you’ll hit the Bel Air Arcade. They have go-karts, mini golf, that sort of thing.”
Oh! Now we were getting somewhere. “And people hang out there late, like at midnight?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I never have. I actually haven’t been there in years. We used to have birthday parties there when we were little, but in the middle of the day. Which is not to say that they don’t have things going on late night. They totally could. I’ve just never heard about it.”
“There’s another Bel Air,” I said, and I gave Juno’s hand a squeeze. Poor Juno. My palms were sweating buckets, but she hadn’t let go.
Meanwhile, my head was spinning. Adam might not have known Talley, but he’d just cleared up one of the mysteries of the list. So even if his number was a wrong number, it was also a right one. I never would’ve figured out the Bel Air thing without speaking to him. Was that why Talley’d written down his number? What if I hadn’t called him, or he hadn’t called me back? It was terrifying to think about how easy it would have been to miss the connection I needed to make.
“Was there anything else on the list that you knew?” I asked.
“Mr. G’s—that’s a karaoke place in Belmont, which is also not that far from me.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look it up and call over there. Anything else?”
“Uh . . . what was on the list again?”
Reciting Talley’s list was like reciting my own phone number, or spelling out the letters of my name. I barely needed to think about it to say it.
“No, sorry,” Adam said when I’d finished. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Well, thanks,” I said. “It’s—”
“Wait,” he said. “Actually—maybe there’s one more. This is kind of a stretch, but that street I was telling you about, El Camino—it’s El Camino Real, which is Spanish for ‘royal road.’ Maybe Talley meant the El Camino Diner.”
“Do you mean a diner on El Camino, or is that the name of it?”
“Both,” Adam said. “The things you remember from kindergarten Spanish class.”
“I’ll call them, too,” I said. “I bet you’re right. Talley loved plays on words, and games like that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Just one more thing—I know you said you didn’t know Talley. But may I text you a picture of her, just in case? She could have told you a different name.” Talley used to do that, when we were younger. If we were in the mall, and a salesperson asked her name, she’d make up weird answers, like Tempest, or Fortune, or Ambrosia. “Maybe if you just see her—”
“I know what she looks like,” Adam said. “I googled her before I called you back. There wasn’t much about her online. I saw the obituary, but it didn’t say a cause of death, which is why I asked.”
Talley’s obituary had been in our local paper, the Golden Valley Patch: Natalie “Talley” Weber, 22, died on Thursday. She is survived by her father, Garrett, and her sister, Sloane. Her mother, Dana, predeceased her.
“My dad asked them not to put in the cause of death,” I said.
“I found a couple pictures of her, too,” Adam said. “She was really pretty. I’m sorry if that comes off as stalkerish. What I’m trying to say is, if I’d met her, I would’ve remembered her. I know I didn’t meet her.” He paused. “And you can look me up, too, if you want. That way we’re even. My last name is Hadlock.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Adam!” I heard a call from the background.
“I know!” Adam yelled back. He didn’t cover the phone, which meant he was shouting in my ear, but then he lowered his voice again, speaking to me. “I don’t want to rush you, but I actually have to get going, or else it’s going to be a shit-slammer of a day.”
“Ok—” I started. “Wait. What did you say?”
“I said this day is going to kick my ass,” he said. “You take care of yourself, Sloane, okay? Bye now.”
There was a click, and I knew he’d ended the call. I lowered my phone from my ear.
“So,” Juno said. “It sounded like he was helpful even if he didn’t know Talley, right?”
“Yeah. But . . .”
“But what?”
“It’s
so weird, Ju. He just said ‘shit-slammer,’ which is a phrase I only ever heard Talley say. She said it that last day. The last conversation we ever had, she said it. And I’ve never heard anyone else say it but her.”
“I’ve never heard anyone say it, either,” Juno said. “So maybe he did know Talley?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think he did.”
Chapter Eleven
AS SOON AS ADAM AND I HUNG UP, I CALLED THE PLACES he’d identified on the list: the El Camino Diner, the Bel Air Arcade, and Mr. G’s Karaoke. Mr. G’s wasn’t yet open, so I tried again a couple hours later. But when I got someone on the phone, the answer was the same as the answers I’d been given at each of the other places: “No, I’ve never heard of your sister.”
The next day was Saturday. Juno was on Eddy duty. The one and only rule that Juno’s parents ever gave her was she had to watch her eight-year-old brother the first Saturday of every month. (Technically, Eddy was Juno’s half brother, but no one in her family ever pointed out that distinction.) Juno’s mom and stepdad, Amy and Randall, were incredibly lax about every single other thing. Their kids could eat whatever they wanted, in whatever room they wanted. No one cared if they cursed. Once Juno came home drunk and puked into Randall’s open hands. The next day her parents brought her hangover cures in bed.
I’m sure my dad thought if he parented that way, I’d end up running a brothel out of our basement while freebasing cocaine, or something like that. But Juno was one of the best people I’d ever known, and Eddy was totally adorable. Even if there wasn’t a rule about it, Juno would want to spend quality time with him. I never minded joining them.
But when I walked into their family room that Saturday, Juno was fuming. “I’m stuck at home while Audrey is sinking her claws deeper into Cooper,” she said. “Meanwhile, where is this kid I need to spend quality time with? Oh yeah, he’s too busy playing his video games to even care that I’m here, which is exactly what I told my parents would happen when I asked for the night off. And for the record, I’ve never, ever asked to skip a night with Eddy before. So, would a little consideration for my social life be out of line? I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so, either,” I told her. “But it’s not like you could do anything about Cooper and Audrey even if you didn’t have to watch Eddy tonight.”
“Ugh!” Juno said. “God, what does he see in her? What does she have that I don’t have?”
“A million things,” I said. “And none of them are good.”
“She’s like one of those female octopuses who strangle the males to death when they’re mating. Did you know they sometimes do that?”
“I did not.”
“I read it in one of Eddy’s animal-fact books.”
“The animal facts of life,” I said.
“Yep.”
“So Audrey has claws, and she’s an octopus?” I asked.
“She’s every awful creature you’ve ever heard of,” Juno said. “And yet, she has Cooper and I don’t. I thought . . .”
“What?”
“This is going to sound dumb. But I thought we’d be together forever.”
“It’s not dumb at all, Ju. It’s just, maybe, a little bit unrealistic.”
“But people do marry their high school sweethearts,” Juno said. “And now it could be him and Audrey.”
“Or they could break up tomorrow.”
“Audrey Davies,” she said. “It sounds wrong—the way both her first name and his last name end in an e sound. But Juno Davies, now that has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Personally, I’ve always liked Juno Kirkland,” I said. “You don’t have to change your last name when you get married. Your husband could even take your last name. There’s no law against it.”
I remember when Talley told me there wasn’t a law. “But why do ladies take men’s names if they don’t have to?” I’d asked.
“That’s what they call buying into the patriarchy, my little friend,” she’d said.
“I guess I’m a traditionalist at heart,” Juno said. “Hey, do you think it’s about these?” She knocked the heel of her hand to her ear.
“Your cochlear implants? What about them?”
“Do you think that’s why Cooper didn’t love me?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I told her. “Just because you have a little hearing issue—”
“It’s a profound hearing loss. That’s not little.”
“And you had surgery to fix it, so now you can hear basically the same as everyone else.”
“I don’t hear the same as everyone else, and it looks weird, too.”
“I don’t even notice them,” I said.
“You want not to notice them,” she said, “but you do notice them. Everyone does. And if I don’t wear them, I can’t hear a thing. Cooper can’t, like, whisper sexy things to me in the middle of the night, and what if he really wants to? I’ve been thinking about this, because it’s just so hard to understand. I still wear his shirts to sleep, so I can feel close to him. And that’s the thing—I felt closer to him, more connected, than I ever felt to another human—I mean, not counting you, of course.”
“Of course I am,” I said.
“But how is it possible that I felt a connection that strong to Cooper, but he’d rather shack up with the clawed octopus? Sometimes I worry that I’ll be Juno Kirkland forever.”
“Talley was planning to be Talley Weber forever,” I said. “She thought it was buying into the patriarchy to get married. She didn’t think she’d ever do it. I guess she was right about that.”
“Oh, Sloane,” Juno said. “I don’t want to ask you how you are all the time, because I know everyone asks you that. But I worry about you—about how you are.”
“I’m awful,” I admitted. “I don’t understand—how does the sun keep rising every morning, now that Talley is gone? How does the world keep turning without her? How come everything happens the same as always? Doesn’t the universe know how important she was?”
“Oh, my poor Sloane,” Juno said.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this. It’s only been sixteen days and she’s already getting too far away. The other day a lightbulb in the hall went out, and my dad put in a new one. Talley will never see the light from the new bulb. She’ll never be here for the new anything.” Now I was crying. “Even when I’m with other people, and they’re talking about something else, I want to listen, but really I’m just thinking about Talley. I can’t help it. And I’m obsessed with the whole Adam shit-slammer thing.”
Juno rubbed my arm. “I hate when cute guys turn out to be liars,” she said.
Naturally, we’d googled Adam, so we knew what he looked like. There was a baseball team photo online, and the names of the players were listed at the bottom. Adam was kneeling in the front row, but you could tell he was tall, because his shoulders came up past those of the other kneelers. Tall with dark hair. Maybe even tall enough to be a “large gentleman.”
I wiped my face. “You think he’s cute?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Oh, Sloane, that’s bull,” she said. “First of all, he’s totally your type, with that dark-haired, lopsided-grin thing that he’s got going on. And second, even if he wasn’t your type, he’s objectively a good-looking person. Saying you didn’t notice that is the same as saying you don’t notice my cochlear implants. You might not want to notice, and you might think it’s not important. But you noticed it all the same. He may even be cuter than Cooper.”
I mock-gasped.
“Look, I know that Cooper isn’t everyone’s type,” she said. “It doesn’t matter to me. I may be deaf, but love is blind.”
“Ugh, Juno,” I said.
“I know, I know,” she said. “I set off the cheese-whiz alarm.”
“Big time.”
“My point is—you noticed Adam is cute.”
“Fine, I noticed,” I said. “
But I prefer guys who aren’t pathological liars.”
“It’s possible he wasn’t lying,” Juno said. “‘Shit-slammer’ could be an expression people use in California, or Adam and Talley could have a friend in common who says it.”
“Maybe. Either way, I just need to get out there so I can do some thorough detective work, but my dad would say I need to get over it. To move on.”
“We’ll get you out there,” Juno said.
“I mean, just calling people up on the phone isn’t enough. There’s no guarantee that the people who pick up are the right people. Or, even if they are, that they know Talley’s name. Some people might only know her by face. I need to get out there and show everyone her picture. It’s the only way. It just seems like maybe . . . I don’t know. You know Talley and her puzzles. I think this is what she wanted me to do.”
Juno nodded. “We’ll get you there,” she said again.
“It’s over two thousand miles from here. It would take us about thirty hours in the car, not counting stops to sleep and pee.”
“I was thinking you should fly there. School’s almost over. Let’s book you a ticket.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “I’ll put your flight on my credit card. Your hotel, too.”
“Ju—”
“I know you’re going to say it costs too much, but it doesn’t,” Juno said. “Not to me.”
“Even if it wasn’t too much money, I have to be at the Hogans’ with you the Monday after next,” I reminded her.
“I can handle the first couple days on my own,” she said. “You’re my best friend. You’re going through the worst thing in the world right now. There’s nothing I can do to change that. But I can do this.” She paused. “I mean, if our roles were reversed right now, what would you want to do?”
“I’d want to do whatever I could to help you,” I said.
“You see?” she said. “Please. Let me do this.”
“I still need to tell my dad something,” I said. “There’s zero chance he’d let me go if he knew the real reason. He wouldn’t even drive me to Wayzata. I’m okay with lying to him. But I want him to at least know what state I’m in.”
“How about we make up a contest and say you won an all-expenses paid trip?”
The Survival List Page 6
