Standing out on the sidewalk, I stared at that closed door. I listened to the sounds of the birds, of the children I could hear playing somewhere nearby. I could still smell the burgers grilling, and something else: fresh-cut grass. Someone had taken advantage of the unseasonable warmth and mowed their lawn.
Nothing inside the house in front of me stirred. Not a blind Was lifted. Nothing.
But everything—everything I had ever known—was different now.
Because that kid was Sean Patrick O'Hanahan. I knew it as well as I knew my name, my brothers' names. That kid was Sean Patrick O'Hanahan.
And he was in trouble.
"Kid's a little young for you," I heard a voice behind me point out, "don't you think?"
I turned around. Rob was still straddling the motorcycle. He'd taken his helmet off, and was observing me with a perfectly impassive expression on his good-looking face.
"Takes all kinds, I guess," he said with a shrug. "Still, I didn't have you pegged for having a Boy Scout fixation."
I probably should have told him. I probably should have said right then, Look, I saw that kid on the back of a milk carton. Let's go get the police.
But I didn't. I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do.
I didn't understand what was happening to me.
"Well," Rob said. "We could stand around out here all night, if you want to. But the smell of those burgers is making me hungry. What do you say we go try to find some of our own?"
I gave the little brick house one last look. Sean, I thought to myself, I know that's you in there. What did they do to you? What did they do to you, to make you so afraid to admit your own name?
"Mastriani," Rob said.
I turned around and got back onto the bike.
He didn't ask me a single question. He just handed me my helmet, put his own on, waited until I said I was ready, and then he hit the gas.
We left Paoli.
It wasn't until we were doing ninety again that I perked up. It's hard to keep a speed freak down when she's doing ninety. Okay, I reasoned to myself as we cruised. You know what you have to do. You know what you have to do.
So after we'd pulled up to the burger place Rob had in mind—a Hell's Angels hangout called Chick's that I'd always wanted to go to, since we drove past it every January 5 on our way to the dump to get rid of the Christmas tree, only Mom would never let me—I did it.
I went to the pay phone by the ladies' room and dialed.
"1-800-WHERE-R-YOU," a woman's voice said after it had only rung twice. "This is Rosemary. How may I help you?"
I had to stick a finger in my other ear, the jukebox was pumping John Cougar Mellencamp so loudly.
"Hi, Rosemary," I shouted. "This is Jess."
"Hi, Jess," Rosemary said. She sounded like she might be black. I don't happen to know any black people—there aren't any in my town—but I have seen them in movies, and on TV and stuff. So that's how I knew. Rosemary sounded like an older black lady. "I can barely hear you."
"Yeah," I said. "Sorry about that. I'm in a … well, I'm in a bar."
Rosemary didn't sound too shaken to hear that. On the other hand, she had no way of knowing that I am only sixteen.
"What can I do for you today, Jess?" Rosemary asked.
"Well," I said. I took a deep breath.
"Listen, Rosemary," I said. "This is going to sound kind of weird, but there's this kid, Sean Patrick O'Hanahan. You guys have him on a milk carton. Anyway, I know where he is." And then I told her.
Rosemary kept going, "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." And then she said, "Honey, are you—"
Rob shouted my name. I looked toward him, and he held up two red plastic baskets. Our burgers were up.
I went, "Rosemary, I gotta go. But real quick. That Olivia Marie D'Amato? You guys'll be able to find her at—" And then I gave her a street address, a city in New Jersey, and a zip code, for good measure. "Okay? I gotta go. Bye!"
I hung up.
It was funny, but I felt relieved. Like I had gotten something off my chest. Isn't that weird? I mean, I know Sean had told me not to tell anyone.
Told me not to tell? He'd begged me.
But he had also looked so scared at being found out that I couldn't imagine whoever he was with could be any good for him. Not if they were making him lie about his name and stuff. What about his parents? He had to know they were missing him. He had to know they would protect him from whoever these people were who had him.
I had done the right thing, calling. I had to have. Otherwise, why would I have felt so good?
I ended up having a good time. Rob, it turned out, had quite a few friends at Chick's. All of them were guys who were way older than he was, and, for the most part, they had really long hair and were heavily tattooed. Their tattoos said things like 1/31/68, which I remembered from World Civ was the day of the Tet Offensive in the Vietnam war. Rob's friends seemed strangely astonished to see me—although they were very nice—which led me to believe that either:
a) Rob had never brought a girl to Chick's before (unlikely), or
b) the girls he'd brought there had looked more like the girls who were hanging around the Hell's Angels—i.e., tall, blond, excessively made-up, named Teri or Charleen, and who probably never wore gingham in their lives (more likely).
Which might be why, every time I opened my mouth, the guys would all look at one another, until finally one of them said to Rob, "Where'd you get her?" to which I replied, because it was such a stupid question, "The girlfriend store."
Everybody but Teri and Charleen laughed at that one.
So, overall, when I got home that night, I was one happy camper. I had saved a kid's life—maybe even two kids' lives, although there was no way I was going all the way to Jersey to check Olivia D'Amato's situation. And I had spent the afternoon and part of the evening with a totally hot guy who liked going fast, and who, if I wasn't mistaken, seemed to like me, too. What could be better than that?
Not having my parents find out about it, that's what.
And there was no chance they were going to, either. Because the minute I walked in the door, around nine or so—I made Rob drop me off way down the street, so my folks wouldn't hear his bike—I saw that they hadn't even noticed I was gone. I had called, of course, from Chick's, and said band rehearsal was running long, but nobody had picked up. When I walked in, I saw why. My mom and dad were having a huge fight. Over Douglas. As usual.
"He's not ready!" my mom was screaming.
"The longer he waits," my dad said, "the harder it's going to be for him. He's got to start now."
"Do you want him to try it again?" my mom wanted to know. "Is that what you want, Joe?"
"Of course not," my dad said. "But it's different now. He's on the medication. Look, Toni, I think it would be good for him. He needs to get out of the house. All he does is lie up there, reading comic books."
"And you think slaving away in a hot restaurant kitchen is the cure for that?" My mom sounded very sarcastic.
"He needs to get out," my dad said. "And he needs to start earning his keep."
"He's sick!" my mom insisted.
"He's always going to be sick, Toni," my dad said. "But at least he's being treated now. And the treatments are working. The doctors said as long as he was taking his medication, there's no reason why he can't—" My dad broke off because he saw me in the doorway. "What do you want?" he asked, not rudely.
"Cereal," I said. "Sorry I missed dinner."
My dad waved at me. A whatever wave. I got down a box of Raisin Bran and a bowl.
"He's not ready," my mother said.
"Toni," my dad said. "He can't stay up there in his room forever. I mean, he's twenty years old, for Christ's sake. He's got to start getting out, seeing people his own age—"
"Oh, and back in the kitchen at Mastriani's, that's what he'll be doing. Getting out." My mom was being sarcastic again.
"Yes," my dad said. "With kids h
is own age. You know the crew back there. They'll be good for him."
My mother snorted. I ate my cereal, pretending to be very interested in the back of the milk carton, but really listening to their conversation.
"Next thing, you'll probably want to send him to one of those halfway houses," my mother said.
"Well, Toni," my dad said, "it might not be such a bad idea. He could meet other kids with his same problem, learn he's not alone in this—"
"I don't like it," my mother said. "I'm telling you, I don't like it."
My dad threw his hands in the air. "Of course you don't like it, Toni," he said. "You want to keep the kid wrapped up in cotton wool. But you can't do it, Toni. You can't protect him forever. And you can't watch him forever. He's going to find a way to do it again, whether you're keeping an eye on him or not."
"Dad's right," I said with my mouth full.
My mother glared at me. "Don't you have some place to be, young lady?"
I didn't, but I decided to go to my room to practice. Nobody bothered asking me why I was practicing after I'd just—supposedly—been at band practice for like six hours or something. That's just the way my family is.
Claire Lippman's not the only one who can hear me practicing. Ruth can hear me, too. As soon as I was done, the phone rang. It was Ruth, wanting to know all about my bike ride.
"It was okay," I said as I ran a cloth through the inside of my flute with this metal stick to clean out all the spit.
"Okay?" Ruth echoed. "Okay? What'd you do? Where did you go?"
"Just for a ride," I said. Don't ask me why, but I couldn't bring myself to tell Ruth about Sean. I hadn't even been able to tell Rob about Sean. In answer to his persistent questioning, I'd finally said, "He's my loan shark, okay?" which had gotten a hoot from Rob's friends.
"You went for a ride?" Ruth's voice rose incredulously. "To where? Chicago?"
"No. Just around. And then we went to Chick's."
"Chick's?" Ruth sounded close to spontaneous combustion. "That's a bar. A biker bar."
"Yeah," I said.
"And you didn't get carded?"
"No," I said. We didn't get carded because Rob knew the bartender.
"Did you drink?"
"Of course not," I said.
"Did he?"
"Duh, Ruth. Do you think I really would have gotten onto a bike with a guy who was drinking? We just had sodas."
"Oh. Well, did he kiss you?"
I didn't say anything. I was taking my flute apart, putting it into the little velvet compartments inside my case.
"Jeez," Ruth breathed. "He did. I can't believe he kissed you. Was there tongue?"
"Regrettably, no."
"Oh, my God," Ruth said. "Well, that's probably better. You shouldn't let him tongue you on a first date. He might think you're easy. So, are you going out again?"
"Maybe next weekend," I said, vaguely. He hadn't mentioned a thing, I realized now, about seeing me again. What did that mean? Did he not like me? Or was it just that it was my turn to ask him? Never having dated before, I was not sure how these things worked.
And there was no use asking Ruth. She was even more clueless than I was.
"I still can't believe," she was saying, "that you're seeing a Grit."
"You're such a snob," I said. "What does it matter? He's totally cool. And he knows everything about bikes."
"But he's not going to college, right? After he graduates?"
"No. He's going to work in his uncle's garage."
"Jeez," Ruth said. "Well, I guess it's okay if you just use him for sex and free bike rides."
"I'm hanging up now, Ruth," I said.
"Okay. You working tomorrow?"
"Is the Pope Catholic?"
"Okay. Wow. I can't believe he kissed you."
Actually, I couldn't, either. But I didn't tell Ruth that. Or about how, when he'd done it, I'd practically fallen off the back of his bike, I'd been so surprised. Just because I'm in detention a lot doesn't mean I'm experienced.
I hope it didn't show.
C H A P T E R
8
Every Saturday, and most Sundays after church, I have to work at one of my dad's restaurants. So does Michael. So did Douglas, before he went away to college, and got sick. I guess all kids whose parents own restaurants have to work in them at some point. It's supposed to teach us to have a work ethic, so we don't go around thinking everything just gets handed to you on a platter. Instead, we're the ones handling the platter. And the dishes. And the steam table. And the cash register. And the reservation book.
You name it, and if it has to do with food service, I've done it.
That particular Saturday, though, I was kind of spacing it with the cash register, so Pat, the manager, stuck me on busing. Hey, I had a lot on my mind. And no, it wasn't Rob Wilkins. It was the fact that, when I'd woken up that morning, I knew where Hadley Grant and Timothy Jonas Mills were.
My mom had thrown out the old milk carton, the one with Sean Patrick and Olivia Marie, and bought a new one. And I knew where the missing kids on the new one were, too.
It was freaking me out a little. I mean, where were these dreams coming from? It was so random to just wake up with all this information about a couple of total strangers in my head.
I wasn't going to call again. Once had been bad enough. But twice—well, that was pushing it. I mean, I didn't even know whether or not the information I'd given Rosemary had been accurate. What if it turned out to be totally bogus? What if, by some fluke, that really hadn't been Sean Patrick O'Hanahan? What if it had just been some random kid, and I'd totally freaked him out. . . .
No. It had been him. I remembered the way he'd gone so pale beneath those freckles. It had been Sean, all right.
And if I'd been right about Sean …
The first break I got, I was on the pay phone by the ladies' room, on hold with 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU. I couldn't believe they'd put me on hold. How many people could be calling in on a Saturday afternoon? Jeesh. I only got a five-minute break, and I hadn't even gone to the bathroom yet. The minutes were ticking by, and a family had come in and sat down at one of the tables I hadn't bused yet. They were sitting there, pushing all the empty glasses and used plates into this big, precarious pile. I swear to God, people do not know how to act.
Finally, this woman picked up and asked how she could help me. I went, "Rosemary?"
"No," the woman said. She was white and Southern, I could tell. "Rosemary's not in today. This is Judith. How may I help you?"
I said, "Oh, well, I think I know where these two kids are. Um, Hadley Grant and Timothy Jonas Mills?"
Judith went, "Oh?" in this way suspicious voice.
"Yeah," I said. The family at the table I still hadn't bused was starting to look around in an angry way. One of their kids had tried to drink the leftover ice in one of the used glasses. "Look, Hadley's at—" And I gave her the exact address, which happened to be in Florida. "—and Timothy's in Kansas." I gave her the street address. "Did you get all that?"
"Excuse me, miss," Judith said. "Are you the—"
I said, "Sorry, gotta go," and hung up, mostly because the family was starting to pile the dirty plates on a table that had just opened up beside theirs, but also because I thought Judith had been about to yell at me about Sean and Olivia, and that I did not need.
But after I hung up, I felt better. Just like yesterday. I felt like a weight had been lifted off me.
At least until Pat told me I couldn't bus anymore, and sent me in the back to wash dishes.
The rest of the weekend passed pretty much without incident. On Saturday night, Ruth came over, and this time she actually brought her cello. We played a concerto, then watched some videos she'd rented. Mike came down for a little while and teased us about our taste in movies. Ruth only likes movies that have a beauty makeover in them. Like Pretty Woman, when Julia Roberts gets all the clothes. I tend to like movies with explosions. There's only a few movies that have both. Point
of No Return, with Bridget Fonda, is about the only one. We've seen that movie nine times.
Douglas popped in, too, for a few minutes, on his way to the kitchen to dump off some cereal bowls that had been in his room for a few weeks. He watched the movie for a little while, but then my mom caught him, and started asking if he felt all right. So he had to run back upstairs and hide.
Around eleven o'clock, I could have sworn I heard the purr of Rob Wilkins's Indian outside our house. But when I looked out the window, there was no one there. Wishful thinking, I guess. He was probably totally freaked-out by what an inexperienced kisser I am, and would never ask me out again.
Oh, well. His loss.
Sunday, after church, my dad dumped us off at Mastriani's to help with the brunch crowd. Well, me and Mike, anyway. Douglas doesn't have to go to church anymore. Instead, he stays home and reads comic books. I know Douglas is sick and all, but I wouldn't mind staying home on Sunday morning and reading comic books. Or watching TV, even. But I never tried to kill myself, so I have to go to church. And I have to go in a dress that matches my mother's.
It's enough to make a girl think there might not actually be a God.
The only thing that happened on Sunday was that we ran out of milk, and my mom sent me and Mike to the store to buy some. Mike let me drive on the way there, but then, on the way back, he totally wouldn't let me near the wheel. But you know, I think speed limits are really just suggestions. If there's nobody else on the road, you should be able to go as fast as you want. Unfortunately, Mike—and your friends at the Department of Motor Vehicles, who keep refusing to give me a license—disagree.
At the grocery store, I picked out a milk carton that had some kids on it I hadn't seen already, just as a kind of experiment. It was slotted to expire in two days, but the way Douglas chows, I knew we'd need more by tomorrow, anyway. Douglas can eat an entire family-size box of Cheerios in one sitting. It's a wonder he isn't fat. But he's always had a very high metabolism, like Mr. Goodhart.
Also at the grocery store, we ran into Claire Lippman. She was standing by the magazine rack, reading Cosmo, while her mom was rooting through the corn in the vegetable section. Mike stared at her longingly for a while. Finally I got sick of it, and poked him and said, "Just go talk to her, for God's sake."
When Lightning Strikes Page 6
