“By gum, that’s brilliant, Sweet Pea!” Before I could sit back down, Bizzy grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward her. She pulled so hard, I fell into her. Now, I was inches away from her face. Her eyes were clear and bright in the afternoon light.
“Tomorrow, soon as they let me out of this jailhouse, we’re gonna get started on your Drake Westfall specter,” Bizzy said, refusing to release my arm, growing more insistent. “It’s not your burden to carry alone, you hear me?”
“Okay,” I said, almost startled. Bizzy released me and I stumbled back into the chair.
“In the meantime, start gatherin’ every shred of information ya possibly can on that boy, pronto, okay? Nothin’ is too insignificant. Talk to people. Feel ’em out. You never can predict what turns out to be important in the end.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
“Okay.” I grabbed the Crabapple yearbook off her lap. Once I was packed up, I said good-bye.
“All this excitement’s made me tired,” she said, adjusting the bed with her remote so that it was flat again. She closed her eyes. I was about to leave when she spoke.
“Bizzy and Lizzy! The Die-namic Duo! Death Catchers till the end!” I looked back at her. My grandma still had her eyes closed. I chuckled a little. I still felt uneasy about it all, but one thing was certain: only Beatrice Mildred Mortimer could make me laugh at a time like this.
I pushed the hospital room door open. My hand came away from the door handle and I glimpsed Drake Westfall’s name inscribed on my wrist. I thought of the way he looked at me with his puzzled blue eyes from his truck, as I declined a ride to school. What did it mean that the death-specter I’d seen was about him?
The awful responsibility of carrying around someone’s life in the palm of my hand hit me head-on with the force of his shiny black pickup, driving full speed.
Would it ever be less overwhelming?
Irony
Normally, if Jodi accused me of having a crush on someone, I would probably go out of my way to prove I didn’t by ignoring that person. Now, I couldn’t ignore Drake. In fact, if I wanted to save his life, I’d have to do just the opposite. You’d probably call the whole situation ironic, Mrs. Tweedy. If you did, I think you’d be right.
Jodi and I had different class schedules, so I didn’t see her until lunch. We usually ate lunch behind the outdoor stage on a grassy area, enjoying the sun on days when it managed to conquer the fog. After the close call outside Miss Mora’s Market, I was anxious to talk with my best friend. I spotted her coming out of her history class. She was wearing a sparkling green headband, a pocket T-shirt, seersucker shorts, fishnets, and red Converse high-tops decorated with her own drawings.
As soon as we sat down, though, I started feeling guilty. Bizzy was insistent that I start gathering information on Drake as soon as possible. What if I had already missed seeing something critical? From behind the outdoor stage, I had no view of him.
“Mind if we eat over there today?” I pointed to the planter near the cluster of picnic tables, which was where most of the athletes sat. “It’s kind of hot. I think I need some shade.” For emphasis, I pulled up the sleeves of my hoodie to my elbows.
“Super idea. After my NDE,” Jodi said dramatically, “I’ve been having the urge to change things up.”
“Your NDE?”
“Near-death experience,” Jodi said, as if a duh was implied at the end. She laughed.
“Of course,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Speaking of NDEs, when does Bizzy get out of the hospital?”
“This afternoon,” I said.
We settled on the edge of the planter. I spotted Drake across the quad. He was eating a brown-bag lunch with the other boys from the water polo team. As I watched him, the first thing I noticed was that he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. He laughed along with the rest of the boys, but he didn’t seem to be talking much or telling any jokes of his own.
It was as if he was sad about something.
As I watched him, another thing occurred to me. Garrett Edmonds and Drake didn’t like one another. Garrett Edmonds was a senior and was captain last year before Drake returned. I’d heard Garrett had to change positions on the team to make room for Drake. They sat on opposite ends of the lunch table and never once looked each other in the eye.
“Earth to Lizzy …”
First I thought Jodi’s voice was just inside my head. The image of Jodi waving her hand in front of my face came into view. I’d completely zoned out.
“Um, do you have anything you’d like to share with me, Lizster?” Jodi smirked.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know … maybe you’d like to confess to me that the real reason we moved over here was so that you can drool over Drake while he eats his ham sandwich.”
My face flushed.
One of the things I like best about Jodi is that she pays attention. I wanted to tell her everything, but how could I? As she took a peanut butter and banana sandwich out of her bag, Jodi eyed me curiously.
“What is it?”
Suddenly, Jodi dropped her sandwich right into the planter. Then, she grabbed my left hand. As soon as she did, I realized the huge mistake I’d made rolling up my sleeves earlier. Jodi had my wrist clamped between her fingers and she pulled it toward her eyes. There it was. DRAKE WESTFALL in tiny red letters on my wrist, as bright as ever.
Jodi dropped my hand.
“Mmmkay …,” Jodi said, lowering her voice. “I think it’s time to have an intervention.” Her eyebrows came together.
“It’s not what you think!” I sounded desperate. There was no way I could explain the actual truth to Jodi.
“Take a breath,” Jodi said.
“What?” I searched for a way to explain why Drake’s name was on my hand.
“It’s what my mom tells me to do when I’m about to flip out,” Jodi said sympathetically. “So take a breath and calm down. I’m not going to go blab to a million people about the fact that you’re carving Drake’s name on your hand—”
“I’m not carving his name on my hand.”
“Okaaay … writing his name in red ink on your hand. Whatever. People do all sorts of crazy stuff when they’re in love—”
“In what?” I interrupted.
This was not going well.
“Fine, fine, fine. I get it. You’re sensitive. You’re just ‘in like’ with Drake … you pretend you’re immune to human emotion and you can keep pretending like it’s some big secret that only you know, but I’m your best friend, Lizzy. If you don’t talk to me, who are you going to talk to?”
I didn’t say anything. So Jodi continued.
“First things first … a little friendly advice … you need to stop writing his name on your hand. It’s just a little bit freaky, you know? If someone-who’s-not-me sees that, you’ll never hear the end of it. You might as well write in the sky that you’re obsessed.”
Jodi had a point. I needed to come up with a foolproof method like Bizzy’s pearls to hide my hand. I vowed to buy a watch with a thick leather band. I would slide it over my wrist so that it would cover the writing. “Okay. I’m sorry.” I considered arguing that I wasn’t obsessed with Drake, but there was no other explanation that made sense—especially not the truth.
“You don’t have to say sorry to me,” Jodi said. She paused, pondering something. “I know no one ever believes it when someone says this … but you know you’re worth two Drake Westfalls combined, right?”
I didn’t believe her. But it was nice to hear.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Anyway,” Jodi continued, “the other day I was reading Dating for Dummies—”
“Dating for Dummies?” I interrupted, raising my eyebrows.
“It’s my mom’s,” Jodi explained. “Don’t you dare judge her for it. You try being a thirty-five-year-old single woman in Crabapple sometime. There are about two and a half eligible men here, so, yeah, she needs all
the help she can get.”
“No judgment here,” I said, with a half smile.
“Anyway, it says the way to form a connection with someone you’re attracted to is to strike up a conversation about shared interests.” Jodi looked at me, expecting me to react.
“Where are you going with all this?”
“I want to help, see?” Jodi explained. “We just need to find out what Drake’s interested in and maybe follow him around to see where he hangs out and then—”
“So, basically, you want to help me stalk Drake?”
Jodi began to laugh. “It’s not stalking if you have a good reason,” she defended.
“That’s the thing about stalking,” I said. “A stalker always thinks she has a good reason.”
“All right, then. Think of it as ‘researching’ Drake.” She stopped for a moment and grinned at me. “Look, Lizster … I’ll probably always think you’re better than Drake Westfall, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to help you get what you want. I mean, who doesn’t love a project!”
I shook my head, unable to refrain from laughing and marveling at the complete wonder that was Jodi Sanchez. Ironically (take note, Mrs. Tweedy), what I was so desperate to deny—that I was in love with Drake Westfall—was exactly what I needed to cop to in order to have a partner in crime. It was the kind of boost I needed to save Drake.
“Well, okay,” I said. “Thank you, Jodi.”
“No prob,” Jodi said. “But I’m only going to help you if you promise me something.”
“Name it.”
“When we finally do make Drake fall madly in love with you, you have to swear you won’t turn into a whiny, lovesick girl and completely ditch me. I don’t want to have to go to the trouble of finding a new best friend.” Jodi stuck out her hand, wanting to shake on it. “Deal?’
“Deal,” I said.
Knowing full well there was no chance Drake was going to fall for a law-abiding truant he barely knew, I figured it was one of the few promises I could be sure I wouldn’t have to keep.
“Good. We’re all set,” Jodi said as the lunch bell rang. “Let the stalking begin!”
Alliteration
Jodi informed me that the first stop on the quest for Drake “research” was Mickey’s Music. Mickey’s Music is right next to Billy’s Books on Ocean Avenue. Both are owned by Mickey himself, who didn’t want to name the bookstore part of his retail empire Mickey’s Books because he has a thing for alliteration, just like you, Mrs. Tweedy (how many handouts have you made with the title Tweedy’s Tips or Tweedy’s Tidbits, after all?). Needless to say, Mickey is very envious of Miss Mora’s Market.
A large open doorway unites the two stores. The bookstore side has books crammed in holes, shelves, nooks, and crannies up to the ceiling. The books are sorted, not according to title or author or even subject, but according to mood. If you go to the “Restless” section of the bookstore, you’ll find a variety of travel books along with other books like Roughing It, by Mark Twain, and the self-help book Who Moved My Cheese? Needless to say, it is Mom’s absolute favorite store in Crabapple. Most everyone else complains that there is neither rhyme nor reason to how anything in the store is arranged, but Mom has declared it to be a “lovely” way of organizing a bookstore.
Fortunately, Mickey knows where everything is, so all you have to do is ask him. Mickey is an older guy, about forty, with thick-rimmed glasses and straggly hair down to his shoulders. He usually wears a white shirt and khaki pants. He surfs every morning. Also, I think he may be secretly in love with Mom. Or at least, he and Mom flirt with each other shamelessly, bonding over things like which volume of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time is best. They do have a special connection—Mom is the only person in Crabapple who knows more about books than Mickey does.
“Hey, girls,” Mickey greeted us. “How’s it going?” Most other people in Crabapple would’ve asked Jodi and me why we weren’t in school, but Mickey didn’t care about those things. In truth, he was almost as big a fan of Jodi as he was of Mom. Mickey’s two loves were music and books; and Jodi, a music nut herself, would get in long debates with Mickey about things like the evolution of shoegaze pop into nu-gaze pop. Half the time, I had no idea what they were talking about.
“Everything’s good,” I responded, smiling at Mickey.
“Looking for anything in particular today?” he asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Do you know Drake Westfall?” Jodi said. I tried not to let any surprise show on my face. Clearly Jodi’s detective style was not going to be subtle.
“Crabapple’s all-American water polo star? Sure,” Mickey said, smiling. “He comes in here a decent amount.”
“What do you think of him?” I asked, before realizing what a clumsy question it was.
“Drake’s a good kid. His dad’s a real jerk, though.”
“No kidding,” Jodi said, pushing me behind her so I couldn’t ask any more questions. Apparently she wasn’t a fan of my detective style, either.
“Yeah, one day he found Drake in here and pulled him out by the ear, yelling at him about wasting his time.”
“Total jerk,” Jodi repeated, nodding her head in enthusiastic agreement. I thought she was overdoing it, but Mickey seemed to be buying it. “Well, Drake’s a good friend of ours and his birthday is coming up … so we were kind of wondering if you could clue us in as to what he’s been buying lately. You know, so we could surprise him with something he’ll like.”
“Ahhh,” Mickey said, smiling impishly at us. He put his index finger to his unshaven chin. “Let’s see now … if I’m remembering correctly, I think Drake picked up a copy of Irving Stone’s The Agony and the Ecstasy the last time he was in here.”
“What is that?” Jodi asked.
“It’s a biographical novel of Michelangelo. A great one. For something in that vein, I’d go check out the ‘Tortured and/or Brooding’ section … third shelf up from the bottom on the far wall.”
“Cool, thanks,” Jodi replied. “What about music?”
“Hmmm,” Mickey said, visibly thinking. “Oh yeah! Drake’s been into Op Ivy, Sublime, the Slackers, and that kind of stuff lately.” Mickey paused thoughtfully. “Remain in Light by the Talking Heads is something I bet he would like if he doesn’t already have it. That record still blows me away.”
“Perfect, thanks so much, Mickey,” Jodi said. “We owe you one. I’m going to go find Remain in Light … why don’t you pick out a book for Drake and then we’ll be set.”
“All right,” I said, agreeing to Jodi’s division of labor. Jodi turned away and headed into Mickey’s Music. I was moving toward the “Tortured and/or Brooding” section of Billy’s when I had a thought.
“Hey, Mickey,” I said, “do you have anything here about King Arthur?”
Mickey raised his eyebrows. “On an Arthurian kick, huh? What have you read so far?”
“Ever heard of The Last Descendant?” I asked.
Mickey paused for a moment and brought his finger to his chin once again. “I’m not familiar with that one. Who wrote it?”
“Merlin Ambrosius,” I said, unsure of myself.
“I don’t think I know it. But if you’re just starting out, you can’t go wrong with Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, which is a definitive version of the story. Or more currently, T. H. White’s The Once and Future King is as solid as they come.”
“I’ll take both those, please,” I said.
“All right, but I’ve got to warn you. It’s not a happy story. And the person who you think is the heroine of the story, Guinevere, kinda turns out to be a villain in the end. Her betrayal of Arthur ends up bringing down his whole kingdom.”
I had to stop myself from telling him he had it all wrong. But I only responded, “I consider myself warned.”
“I’m also looking for anything you have by Emily Dickinson,” I said.
“Ahhh,” Mickey said. “Beginning to ponder death and immortal
ity?”
“It’s for school,” I lied.
“Well, either way, there’s no better source of poetry for those deep life questions,” Mickey said. “You should probably start with The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson in the ‘Reclusive’ section. Wait, it’ll be faster if I just go grab it for you.”
“Thanks, Mickey,” I said.
I bought it without so much as leafing through it.
Mickey ended up picking out another book for me as Drake’s “present”—Irving Stone’s Lust for Life about Vincent van Gogh. After he helped Jodi with her purchase, he rang up the four books. We thanked Mickey for all his help.
“My pleasure,” he said, placing Le Morte d’Arthur and The Once and Future King in a bag with the novel and the book of poems. “Oh, and tell your mom that I know she thinks it’s juvenile, but she needs to give Catch-22 another chance. It’s a comic masterpiece.”
“I’ll deliver the message.” Mickey waved good-bye to us as we headed out the door.
Jodi waited till we were outside Mickey’s before she spoke. We were climbing up Delores Avenue, me on my fifteen-speed and Jodi on her fixie.
“Since when are you interested in King Arthur?” she asked curiously as she labored up the hill.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“And Emily Dickinson?” she asked. “Since when are you interested in poetry?”
“Since now.” The truth was that ever since Bizzy had written that Emily had known about “us” in her hospital note, I had developed a deep curiosity about her. For some reason, I thought there must be secrets in her poems that would help me understand being a Hand of Fate.
“You’re kind of strange,” Jodi said, grinning.
“Oh, and you’re not?”
Jodi charged up the hill, past Almost There, where the Coles lived, pedaling faster and faster, almost daring me to catch her. I threw more gears on my bike and gave it everything I had left. Jodi turned her head and laughed as she saw me struggle. When the hill leveled off, Jodi had enough air in her lungs to speak again.
The Death Catchers Page 10
