by Anne Pfeffer
Anyone going in or out can see me parked there in my bright red Beemer, but I’m just hoping I’ll see them first. I’ve brought some tennis magazines, but the articles are too basic to be interesting. Also, it’s hard to read when I’m looking up every five seconds.
An hour goes by. I shift around in the car seat and get out a couple of times to stretch my legs. Every once in a while a door opens to let someone out, but it’s never anyone I know. That’s when I realize I’m not even sure who I’m looking for. Chrissie’s gone. I don’t know what the manager looks like.
I can look for those two guys and talk to them again. Another half hour passes. The sun is straight overhead, baking me, and I have a dentist appointment.
I’m just about to leave, but when a van pulls up and a guy gets out. He’s short, carries a toolbox, and has a big circle of keys attached to his belt. Seeing him walk toward Apartment 101, I head him off.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for a forwarding address for Chrissie Fellars. It’s very important.”
He throws me a suspicious look. “Why you want Chreesie?” he demands.
“I need to reach her. I need to know where she went.”
He pulls his head back, looking even more suspicious. “Where she went? She don’ go nowhere.”
“What do you mean? I thought she moved out.”
“Nah, she no move out. You haf bad information!” He stomps off.
Thank God. I find myself with this huge, stupid grin on my face. She and the baby are still here. Until now, as relief floods me, I hadn’t realized how worried I really was.
Those two guys lied to me. I wonder why. What is Chrissie so scared of?
She’s obviously not going to answer the door for me. I’ll have to catch her coming or going. I’ll come back, and I’ll stake this place out until I find her.
Chapter 27
I get one A on my fall report card.
One. And a bunch of crummy B’s.
It’s just because you started studying so late, I tell myself. This semester I’ll stay caught up and learn the stuff as I go along.
I look down at the assignment sheet from my physics teacher, Mr. Simpson. It says: Your project will analyze the motion of an object with regard to displacement, velocity, work, force, power, and energy. Example of object: a billiard ball. I must approve your choice of object before you start.
Jonathan, Calvin, and I are going to research possible topics and present ideas to Mr. Simpson next week. I’m determined to walk into that meeting with a good idea.
I don’t know anything about physics, but I do know how to find things on the internet. I sit down at my computer. After checking for emails from Emily, I type into the search box: eleventh grade physics project: movement of objects.
Sweet. A whole list of project ideas pops up. Something catches my eye: golf clubs. When they’re not talking about physics, Calvin and Jonathan are talking about golf. Apparently, Calvin’s a fantastic player, and Jonathan’s just starting to learn. I’ve only played golf a couple of times, but these two are obsessed.
I read up on it for a while, then write an email.
Hi, you guys—
What about golf clubs? We could film both of your golf swings and do a frame-by-frame analysis. I have all the camera equipment and editing skills to do this. It would make a very cool video presentation.
I hit “Send,” hoping I haven’t missed anything really obvious. I don’t want to make an idiot out of myself.
• • •
I park in front of Chrissie’s building, prepared to camp out for a few hours if I have to. But I get lucky. After about half an hour, someone comes through a door with a plastic laundry basket full of clothes.
It’s Mr. Pink Shirt. I sneak up the stairs, follow him down the walkway, and come up behind him as he opens the door to his apartment.
“Excuse me.”
He jumps a foot in the air.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just want to talk to you.”
He tries to shut me out, but I step into the doorway.
“You said Chrissie moved out!” I cross my arms across my chest and glare at him.
This guy isn’t as smooth as his friend, who did all the talking last time. He is fanning himself with one hand and taking deep breaths. He has almost white blond hair and a bunch of rings on his fingers.
“I’ll call the police!” he yelps. From inside the guy’s apartment, I hear music—a bunch of woodwinds piping a New Age tune—and smell candles scented with orange and cinnamon.
I try to calm him down. “I just want to help Chrissie. Her baby’s father was my best friend.”
“You mean the guy who died?”
“Yeah. He and I grew up together.”
He looks me over. “You better not be making this up!”
I raise my hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“Hold on.” He disappears. The sound of whispered arguing drifts my way, then he reappears. “Jay’ll be here in a second. I’m Spencer.”
Jay comes out holding a baseball bat, looking as threatening as he can manage to be in a bathrobe and flip flops, his hair wet from the shower.
I put up both hands in a surrender position. “I come in peace.”
We all sit down, Jay continuing to hold the baseball bat, while I explain everything. I end by saying, “Michael was like my brother. I can’t let his kid just disappear.”
They look at each other. “It’s so sad,” Spencer says.
“Lemme get dressed,” Jay says.
A few minutes later, we walk over to 206. Spencer knocks. “Chrissie, honey?”
Chrissie opens the door, and I can tell from her face that she knows about me. Jay must have called her when he was changing.
“You got me,” she says flatly.
I’m so relieved to have found her that I almost can’t be mad. Her belly’s gotten bigger, and I’m glad to see she looks healthy. Her blond curls are piled up on top of her head, and her lips and cheeks have something pink on them.
Sweet. Michael’s kid is here and doing fine.
I ease my way in. Chrissie’s place is the opposite of her dingy and depressing building. Sun pours in onto plants that sit on the windowsill. The crayon-yellow walls are covered with family photos and old posters from “I Love Lucy,” and a large bed in a corner has a green and blue patchwork quilt on it. Other than a tiny table by the kitchen, with two chairs, the only place to sit is on big floor pillows.
“I like your place,” I say, partly to warm her up a little and partly because I mean it.
“Thanks.” She nods to Jay and Spencer. “We’re okay.”
“You sure?” Jay looks like he wants to hang around, but Spencer pulls him off.
We sit on the two small chairs at the table, and I say, “Why’d you try to lose me, Chrissie? What did you think was going to happen?”
She suddenly blinks back tears. “Have you told Michael’s parents?”
I wasn’t expecting that one. “No.”
“Well, please don’t!”
“Chrissie, they’re the grandparents.”
“Just don’t.” Chrissie turns red as she says this, looking at me defiantly.
“You have to eventually. It’s not fair to them.”
“I don’t have to do anything! And don’t you dare tell ‘em yourself.” Chrissie frowns at me. “Don’t even think of doin’ that!”
“Chrissie, they could help you,” I say cautiously. “It’s hard to have a baby.”
“Not as hard as your life’s gonna be if you tell ‘em!” All of a sudden, she’s like a skyrocket with a lit fuse, ready to blow at any minute. “You came here lookin’ for me. You wanna see me again, then promise me you won’t tell!”
When I hesitate, she says it again. “Promise me, or I’ll really disappear!” Her cheeks flush bright pink.
If she wants to play stubborn, I can match her. I sit back, arms crossed. “I’ll promise, but you have to tell me why. And it better be good!”
<
br /> “All right.” Chrissie picks up a paper napkin on the table and begins to tear it in little pieces. “I’m afraid they’ll take my baby away from me!”
She has caught me by surprise. “What are you talking about?”
Her lips tremble. “People like them can do anythin’ they want to people like me.”
“You don’t know anything about them!”
“Yes, I do! I checked ‘em out.” Her eyes widen. “You can’t tell ‘em, Ryan!”
“What are you scared of?”
Her voice gets thin and high-pitched. “Fancy rich people like that, with their lawyers, they’ll tell a judge I’m nothin’ but white trailer trash. They’ll say I knew he was only sixteen. Which I didn’t! They’ll say I’m ignorant, that I’m a bad mother. And the judge’ll believe ‘em.”
Noticing my surprised look, she snaps, “I seen it happen.” Chrissie is shivering as if the room’s cold. “Back in South Carolina, my momma works for this family, the Mayfairs? Well, the son, Beau—he got a girl pregnant—a white trash girl from the South Side. I knew her a little. Judge Mayfair had the orders signed before that baby was even born.”
She gets up, takes a throw blanket off the bed, and wraps it around her shoulders.
“They took the baby out of her arms in the hospital, and it was all legal! There was nothin’ she could do. They said she was a druggie and an unfit mother. She came by the house to see her child, and the Judge got a restrainin’ order against her.”
No wonder she was afraid of me coming around.
I sit there for a moment, thinking. Finally, I say, “Chrissie, you’re not trailer trash,” although the truth is, I don’t know her at all. But I do know Nat and Yancy. I think again of them living it up in France while Michael recovered from his overdose.
“I won’t tell them,” I say, “but you have to promise to stay in touch with me.”
“I will.” Now that I’ve said I won’t tell, it’s like she feels she can relax a little, taking a deep breath, sitting down, and stretching her legs out in front of her.
“How are you doing? Do you need money?”
Her chin goes up. “I’m good. I have a cashiering job. SaveWell Pharmacy.”
“Cashiering,” I say. “Why d’you choose that?”
“Well,” she drawls, “I ‘s offered the lead in a film, but I said, no, my dream is to cashier at the SaveWell.”
Okay, so it was a dumb question. “Do you have any money saved up?”
“A hundred forty-nine bucks. I’ll be fine. I always am.”
Jeez. Chrissie’s in deep trouble, and she doesn’t even know it.
“Do you need any help?”
She nods her head. “My car blew out on me, and the mechanic says it’s not worth payin’ to fix. So I’m stuck takin’ the bus everywhere.”
As she talks, I realize how tired she looks. She has black stuff smeared around her eyes, like she didn’t have the energy to wash her face.
“It’s okay,” she goes on, “‘cept for my doctor’s appointments. It’s really hard for me to get to the medical clinic. It’s ‘bout twenty minutes from here by car, but an hour by bus, with two changes. And I have to walk six blocks from the bus stop to the clinic.”
“When do you have to go?”
“Once a month. The next appointment’s a Wednesday at four.”
“Wednesdays are bad for me…” I start to say. Actually, the truth is, I’m booked every day after school, since I’ve started driving Emily home in the afternoons. On Wednesdays, I stay late to get her after Songbirds rehearsal.
Chrissie droops. “Alright then,” she says. “Just thought I’d ask. Jay and Spencer would help me, but they have a conflict that day, too.”
I think fast. Chrissie needs the help. Emily will understand. She can catch a ride with her friend Chloe that day, the way she did before I came along.
“I’ll do it,” I tell her.
“Really? Thanks!” She sounds so grateful that I’m glad I said yes. Her next appointment is in twelve days. But there’s something I have to tell her first.
I say it very smoothly and casually. “Just so you know, I have a girlfriend.”
Chrissie bursts into laughter. In fact, she laughs so much that I’m a little put off.
“Lordy!” she says, wiping her eyes. “Who is it? That one little girl I met who was just a teensy bit jealous?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, maintaining my dignity.
“Honey, tell her don’t worry. I don’t pick apples off other girls’ trees. Besides, you’re too young for me.”
Michael wasn’t.
She reads my mind. “Don’t even start with me. He said he was eighteen.”
“Okay, then, I’ll see you next Wednesday.”
As I leave, in spite of my new problems and worries, I feel like a giant load’s been lifted off my shoulders.
Chapter 28
“I can’t believe you did this, Ryan.”
Emily and I are having dinner at Afterworld. It’s one of those pretentious restaurants on Melrose Avenue that I usually avoid, except that I tolerate this place because the food’s great. They know my dad and were willing to reserve me a nice private table by the window. Just what I wanted for tonight.
Emily looks at the necklace in the aqua Tiffany’s box. My card lies on the tablecloth next to it. She’s put her hair up on one side with something sparkly, and her lips are a shiny red. She’s the hottest girl in the whole place, and she’s with me.
I’ve already decided that this is not the time to tell her that I’ve located Chrissie, and that she’s going to have to find another ride home next Wednesday. Luckily, I know she’s got Chloe as a back-up.
A waiter comes with our desserts and takes several lifetimes to scrape the crumbs off the tablecloth and refill the water glasses before he finally goes away. I pleat my napkin over and over, waiting for him to leave.
“Nice, girlfriend!” he says to Emily, nodding at the Tiffany’s box before he sweeps off.
“Do you like it?”
She reaches out and touches it. “I love it. It’s incredible.” Her forehead creases. “It’s just that—Ryan, it must have been so expensive!”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s for you.”
“Did you mean what you wrote in the card?”
“What, that you’re a good influence on me?” I’m stalling for time. What if she doesn’t love me back?
“No, you said you loved me. Did you mean that?”
“Yeah. I meant it. That’s what the necklace is for. To tell you that.” I take a sip of water, set the glass down, then pick it up and take another sip.
She puts it on, latching it and letting it fall on her neck. It sparkles like the thing in her hair and lights up her skin and eyes.
“Wow.” I stare at her. “You look amazing.”
I’m trying to read her expression, waiting for the response I want. As usually happens in places that are full of themselves, they’ve cranked down the lights so low that we’re basically functioning on candles. She reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“Ryan, this is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
I wait.
“I love you, too.”
“You’re not just saying it because I bought you a necklace?”
“No. I love you, Ryan. I really do.”
She loves me. This beautiful, incredible girl loves me.
I’m a stud. I have total game.
Hah! In your face, Derek Masters!
We hold hands across the table, while I fight off guilt, reminding myself: you’re allowed to have a life.
“I have something exciting to tell you,” she says. “Remember the summer program in England? The one I was interested in?”
I nod.
“Well, I can go after all!” She waits for my reaction, looking at me closely.
My brain slowly creaks into gear. Emily’s going away this summer? “How come?”
“Aunt Lid
dy offered again to pay, and this time my mom twisted Dad’s arm until he said yes.”
That must have gone over well with The Man of the Family. From what I know about him, it must have felt like losing his left nut.
“So you want to go?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Yes, but Ryan, they have space in the program.” Emily traces a finger along my wrist as she waits for me to speak. “If you’re interested.”
“Are you inviting me to go with you?”
“I guess I am.”
I put a credit card on the bill and lay it on the edge of the table for the waiter. “What kind of program is it?”
“You study English history and travel around, visiting all these historical sites.”
Visiting castles and reading about wars and royal proclamations—I don’t think so. On the other hand, a summer traveling around with Emily in England could be major. And those summer programs are usually pretty chill. I’ll bet I could slide by without learning any actual history.
Michael’s baby would be born by then, so I’d be all done with my job of taking Chrissie to the doctor. It wouldn’t be uncool or anything if I left town.
“Where would we stay?”
“In student housing.” She meets my gaze head on.
Meaning frequent access to Emily with no parents around.
“Sounds like a really interesting program,” I say.
She clasps her hands together. “I hope you can go!”
“I’ll talk to my folks.” I know my parents would let me, once they got over their shock that I, their son, would be willing to give up a summer of beach and boogey boarding to study history in England.
I squeeze her hand. “They should be okay with it.”
“Really? You’ll go?”
When I nod, she says, “Ryan, it’ll be so great!”
I can hardly believe my luck. Emily loves me, and I’m going to England with her. But a thrill of fear runs through me. I wonder how many good deeds I’ll have to do to repay the karma gods for a summer of love and lust in England with Emily. I’m not sure there are that many good deeds in the entire world.
• • •
Jonathan and Calvin reject my golf club idea. We are standing outside Mr. Simpson’s office, waiting to see him.
