I press a gloved finger to the bell and hold my breath. Smile, I remind myself. When the door opens, Will’s stepmother is in front of me in a black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline. I blink at her surgically enhanced cleavage, the two tan orbs of her breasts at my eye level, then beam a smile. Her pinched, puzzled face is framed by a swirl of black hair crowned with a diamond tiara.
“Anthem.” She air-kisses each of my cheeks, making no physical contact with me, then motions me inside. “Lovely to see you again,” she mumbles, approximating a smile as best as her lip injections allow.
“Hi, Lydia,” I say, pulling my gloves off and threading my fingers together, blowing into my hands to warm them up. “Sorry to show up like this. I should have called.”
“Will’s not here . . . he’s . . . got a school thing,” Lydia says lamely, shrugging her toned shoulders.
“Right.” I nod. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you and Rupert.”
“Oh.” Lydia frowns. “You’re lucky you caught us. We’re off to the opera.”
“It’ll just take a minute,” I say. She blinks at me, then runs off to get her husband, dashing through the sweeping great room in her bare feet and looking, from the back, like a much younger woman. As Rupert Hansen’s third wife, she might be closer to my age than to his.
In a few minutes, District Attorney (“Rupert, please! Ho ho, Anthem, been a few months since I’ve laid eyes on you, how is it you’ve grown even more beautiful?”) Hansen and Lydia and I are all standing awkwardly together at the entrance of the great room, the fireplace roaring, our shadows flickering on the velvet wallpaper. Rupert Hansen’s blond waves are gelled in a deep side part, his temples graying slightly, a small paunch in his belly mostly concealed by a cummerbund, his black bow tie drooping askew around his neck.
Lydia reaches out and straightens her husband’s tie. The fire pops and hisses. I clear my throat.
“I’m here because, as you probably know, Will and I are dating again—”
“We couldn’t be happier. William needs a girl like you to keep him grounded,” District Attorney Hansen cuts in, flashing a carnivorous smile my way. I have the distinct impression he’s ogling me, and I’m glad I’m still wearing my coat. I pull it tighter around my chest and take a breath. Bombs away.
“Anyway, I’m worried about him. He’s been acting strange lately, and I have reason to believe he’s . . .” I’ve practiced this part, locked inside my bathroom, staring at the mirror. My eyes fill with tears. It’s not a hard trick to master, since in my life there are a million good reasons to cry.
“What?” Lydia whispers, grabbing my hand. “Tell us, sweetie. It’s okay.”
I wipe a few tears away and feign struggling to get my voice under control. “I think Will is addicted to some kind of study drug.” I choke out the words as if I’m devastated, then stare down at the carpet, which is a lovely blue and green paisley.
“Will? Are you sure? He’s always gotten A’s, so I can’t see why he’d bother with all that,” District Attorney Hansen says.
“I know, that’s what’s so sad.” I sigh. “He doesn’t even need them. But I saw him buying a baggie a few days ago, and he’s been acting kind of . . . um . . .”
“He’s been acting like an ass,” Lydia says. We both look at her, and she shrugs. “Come on, Rupert. You know he’s never liked me. He’s a different person when you’re not around. And I agree, Anthem. Lately he’s been . . . hyper. Secretive. Angrier than usual.”
I nod and try to look sad, but inside I’m ecstatic. I’ve got an ally in Lydia—someone else who wants Will out of her hair.
“Well.” Lydia sighs, but I see her eyes dance with anticipation in the firelight. “Obviously we need to search his room.”
“Lydia!” the district attorney says. “This seems rather drastic. Let’s at least talk to him first.”
“He’d do anything to keep this from you,” I say gently. “He might need—”
“An intervention,” Lydia interrupts, practically licking her lips at the thought of it. “Rupert, this is not up for discussion. We need to find his . . . what’s the word, Anthem?”
I shrug, not wanting to appear too eager. “Stash?”
“Right.” She nods. “We need to find his stash.”
And then she marches down the hall, District Attorney Hansen trailing reluctantly behind her. I follow at a safe distance, then hover at the threshold of Will’s room, watching as Lydia directs her considerable energies to ransacking it. She digs through his possessions like a professional investigator.
I hop nervously from foot to foot, praying I’m right. If I’m wrong, it’ll just about ruin me. My breath starts to hitch in my chest when I imagine the scene—Will coming home, his room a mess, his father telling him what I said, demanding to know the truth. Without evidence, he’ll weasel out of my accusation, then waste no more time making public the contents of that flash drive.
Lydia moves from the desk to Will’s sock drawer. She fishes out a metal box of Bruise-Aids and gives Rupert a meaningful look, her eyebrows raised.
“Just open it, Lydia.” Rupert sighs. Will has always said Rupert has a temper, that when he gets mad, he gets very mad, but all I see is a weary man sagging inside his tuxedo, hoping we’re wrong. Lydia pops open the metal box and looks inside. Nothing.
I edge my way into the room, looking desperately around me. If I were Will, where would I keep drugs? He was so good at hiding the camera in my room . . . they could be anywhere. Or nowhere. My eyes travel along the wall, wondering about the few framed pictures he has up—a photo of his favorite president, a framed certificate of excellence in student government, a picture of the cast of That’s My Gal, last year’s CDS musical, where he played the lead role of Sammy Stilts, a simple man who is molded into a powerful politician by his scheming wife. . . .
God, Will is such a square. Maybe I’m wrong about him.
But then my gaze lands on a shelf above his bed. There is an old-fashioned gumball machine. A bronzed pair of baby shoes. And four trophies, all lined up. Except for one, which sits at an angle.
That’s odd. Will is compulsively neat.
I move closer to the shelf as Lydia rummages around in Will’s sweater drawer and D.A. Hansen suggests, “Dear, maybe Anthem was wrong about this.”
The trophy is in the shape of a podium, with a small fake gold person leaning on it, speaking into a microphone. It says WILLIAM HANSEN, FIRST PLACE, JUNIOR DEBATE CHAMPIONSHIP.
Lydia comes over and notices the trophy that’s askew. When she picks it up, the little gold podium comes off the base, and the thing splits in two in her hands. A small plastic bag filled with fluorescent orange pills falls to the floor.
Lydia’s lips purse as she tries to suppress a smile. She might be only slightly less excited about this than I am.
Lydia reaches down and grabs it, wiggling the bag in the air between her two fingers. “Aha!” she exclaims. Then she shoots a look at Rupert. “Sorry, love. But at least now we can get him help.”
Rupert dumps a few of the pills into his palm, and we all peer at them. The orange pills are stamped with a black Z on each side. Zenithin. Exactly what Duffy Doolittle was hooked on. “Damn it,” Rupert mutters, kicking a loafer Will has left on his bedroom floor. The shoe hits the wall hard. “He could go to jail for possession if I decided to prosecute.”
“But you won’t,” Lydia says, putting a manicured hand on Rupert’s arm. He shakes it off.
“I need to make some calls,” he says gruffly. “I’m going to kill him.” Then he walks out of the room, leaving me and Lydia to stare at the little pile of pills.
An hour later, two gray-uniformed orderlies from Weepee Valley Psychiatric Rehab Unit are standing in the Hansens’ kitchen. Lydia is pouring tea for everyone, still in her cocktail dress and bare feet, her tiara askew on top of her head. I’ve slipped off my boots and perch nervously on the edge of one of the barstools. I’ve told my parents I’m at Will’s, and of co
urse they’re overjoyed and said to stay as long as I like. If only they knew why I was really here.
District Attorney Hansen has taken his tuxedo jacket off and paces around the living room in his cummerbund and shirt, the bow tie long since discarded somewhere in his bedroom. He has been on and off the phone with Lyndie Nye for the better part of an hour—apparently she works for the Hansens, too. My extrasensitive hearing has come in handy to piece together the chain of events—Lyndie called Weepee Valley for him, assuring him a dozen times that they would keep Will’s sixty-day stint in their rehab facility confidential.
Finally, at 9:20 P.M., we hear the front door open, the bass in Will’s headphones blasting a tinny beat into the silent foyer.
A nervous heat rising in my chest, I slip my shoes back on and jump down from the barstool, trailing behind the orderlies and the Hansens. I brace myself for yelling, for Will to lash out, for him to maybe even run. But there’s still one more thing I need to do before I leave here tonight . . .
“What’s going on?” I hear Will say. I linger in the doorway. “What is this?”
He stares down the orderlies, who stand on either side of him, keeping about a foot of distance, both of them outweighing him by at least fifty pounds. He hasn’t put it together yet. I can see it in his eyes—still confident, still prince in his own personal kingdom . . . until he spots me.
“You,” Will says, backing away, his eyes narrowed to slits. “What did you do?”
“Anthem came here because she cares about you,” Lydia says, tears flowing down her stretched cheeks. “You’ll thank her when this is all behind you.”
“When what, exactly, is all behind me?” The tenor of his voice rising, Will moves away from the orderlies in the direction of his room, but D.A. Hansen, silent until now, puts a fleshy hand on Will’s shoulder.
“No need to run and hide them, William,” he says, his voice even and cold.
“Hide what?” Will whirls around and faces us, the whites of his eyes red, his nostrils flared. His forehead glistens under the track lighting.
“Your drugs.” His father scowls. “Your drugs that you bought with my money. Money I earned trying to keep drugs off the streets. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s skip the denials,” D.A. Hansen says, shoving Will toward the orderlies harder than a father should. Will trips on the carpet, his eyes wild and flashing when they meet mine, then he rights himself, looking from me to his father. For a second, I feel a pang of sympathy for Will.
“Go ahead,” D.A. Hansen says. “We’ve scheduled you for sixty days of detox and therapy at Weepee Valley. You’ll clean yourself up, and then we will discuss what to do about all this.”
“Well, I’m not going,” Will squeaks. “Dad, I’m fine. Could not be better.”
“Maybe you didn’t understand me. We have had you committed. It’s not optional,” Rupert says.
Will’s eyes grow even wider. “Those pills aren’t even mine. Tell them, Anthem. Tell them the truth, or should I tell about where you’ve been going at night?”
The orderlies edge closer to Will now, ready to pack him off in a locked ambulance.
“I already did tell them the truth,” I say, stepping closer to him. “You need help, Will. You’re paranoid. It’s a side effect.”
I lean in to kiss his cheek and wrap my hands around his waist. I feel him start to shrug off my embrace, but then he leans into me a little in spite of himself, a part of him wanting to believe I care about him after everything. “It’s for your own good, sweetie.”
He pulls away from me, scowling, still focused on his father. “Dad, I swear, I don’t—”
“I don’t want to hear it, William. Everything you say to me from now on, I’m going to have to assume is a lie.”
Will pulls away from me, his eyes flashing with hatred. “She did this! She framed me, and she planted those pills!”
“I hardly think that’s true,” Lydia says. “You’ve been erratic lately. Filled with venom. Staying up till all hours. It’s a wonder we didn’t suspect it sooner.”
I turn around and walk toward D.A. Hansen, my eyes filled with tears. Check his pockets, I mouth.
The district attorney swings into action. “Let’s leave your things here, William. You won’t need them where you’re headed.” He nods to the orderlies, who immediately turn his pockets out. A pack of rollies, his wallet, his keys. The key chain fob—the flash drive with my life on it—nestled in the center of the pile like a jewel.
“No!” Will struggles, but the two orderlies are already pulling him out the door. He tries to wrench himself free. “She did this! She’s the one!” he screams.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, William,” his father says.
“Dad! Don’t do this! You’re making a mistake!” Will is screaming as the orderlies struggle to get him to let go of the door frame.
“Get ahold of yourself,” D.A. Hansen hisses, following Will down the front walk. “I will not have my career ruined by my own son. And I will not have a drug addict living under my roof.”
“But Dad, it’s not even habit-forming!” Will yells, his voice breaking as he thrashes down the walkway, the orderlies gripping each of his arms with both of theirs, barking at him to cooperate.
In all the commotion, nobody notices when I pocket Will’s keys.
CHAPTER 35
The day after Will is carted away to Weepee Valley, Ford asks me to meet him somewhere new—a place called Floyd Sherman Field—for one final training session.
I’ve been using the upcoming Giselle performance as an excuse for not meeting him on nights I’ve been busy tracking and tying up Rosie’s goons, but ever since that “return of the Hope” article in the Dilemma, I’ve been spooked. I’m lucky nobody gave me away after the night on the Bridge to Nowhere. Next time, I might not be so lucky.
Why not Jimmy’s? I write back.
But all I get is a cryptic You’ll see.
I have to check the location a few times on my computer before I figure out how to get there—it’s about a mile outside the industrial ring that marks the city’s borders. Serge is driving my parents to a charity event tonight, so I’ll have to travel on foot.
It takes me nearly forty-five minutes to run there, even with my supercharged legs. When I arrive, I find Floyd Sherman Field is an abandoned airport built a hundred years ago, back when Bedlam was a much smaller city. The runways are choked with weeds, the terminals demolished into shattered cement ruins. But a few of the hangars still stand, and one of them glows with a faint light. I move toward it, still puzzled by Ford’s choice of venue.
The hangar is a huge A-frame structure, kudzu crawling up the walls, many of its antique windows shattered. Still breathing hard from my run, I duck inside the huge door and press my hands together for warmth. Inside, two working Klieg lights are clipped to the rafters, illuminating Ford’s back as he sets up a pyramid of empty beer cans on top of a wide log positioned with the flat part facing up.
“Hey,” I say. My voice echoes in the cavernous space.
Ford finishes his pyramid, placing the last Buzz Beer can on top, then waves and walks toward me.
He claps the sides of my arms with his hands and flashes his usual warm smile. “Find the place okay?”
I nod. My stomach hurts. It’s time for target practice. “Do we have to do this? I don’t think I want to do this.”
“Do what? Kill a couple of cans?” Ford shrugs. “It’s easy, Green. And you need to be prepared.”
“Last time I held a gun at someone, I froze. And Gavin died because of it.” I stare down at the cracked cement floor, ancient oil stains reminding me of the inkblot tests they use at school to give the annual anxiety assessments. If Bang had gotten her way last month and made me take another one, I’m sure I would have failed. Luckily, she dropped her crusade after I caught up on all my work.
“That’s exactly why we should do
this,” Ford says gently. “I’ve taught you all the fighting strategies I know. You’re strong, Anthem. Getting stronger every day, I’m guessing. But if someone holds a gun to your head, you need to know how to handle it.”
A shiver passes through me. I hate guns. They’re what ruined this city, where anyone at all can get their hands on one if they have enough cash. But I’m already here, and Ford is right. Even if I never bring a gun with me, I should still know what to do if faced with one.
“Fine.” I nod, walking to the center of the hangar and turning to face the pyramid. “Let’s kill some beer cans.”
Ford kneels down on one knee and fishes a gun out of his high-top sneaker. It’s grape-juice purple, constructed of the same matte plastic they make toy cars out of. It looks so much like a toy that for a minute I think it is one.
“Looks pretend, right?” he says, reading my mind. “But it’s real.”
“Purple?” I raise one eyebrow, ribbing him a little. “Interesting choice.”
“It’s just a loaner,” Ford says, blushing as he walks toward me. “It was all my guy was willing to part with.”
“Your guy?” Ford has a whole network of people around him that I know nothing about, I realize. I don’t even know where he lives. Suddenly, this strikes me as incredibly weird.
“Fred. His name is Fred. Let’s concentrate, okay?” And then Ford puts the gun in my hand. I fight the urge to set it on the floor and walk away, instead focusing on the weight of it (heavier than it seems it should be), the texture (smooth on the flank, scored in a diamond pattern on the handle), the size (bigger than Miss Roach’s pearl pistol, smaller than the last gun I held, the black one I kicked out of Smitty’s hands). My palms are suddenly sweaty, and I wipe first my left and then my right hand on my jeans.
The Brokenhearted Page 21
