“What chick?” Amelia says.
“That chick who keeps calling.” He flops onto the bed.
The answer breeds fire in Amelia’s eyes. “What chick keeps calling?”
Charlie rakes his fingers through his hair. “The one who’s always going off about all that stuff Rudy’s into? You know, the chile lady?”
“Oh, you mean Holly.” Amelia sounds relieved. “I thought he was screwing around.”
Charlie lets out a hoarse laugh. “Not with that bitch. She was having a fit. I didn’t see much, but I didn’t have any trouble hearing.”
“What were they talking about?” I ask, eyeing the envelope on the desk.
“Talking? Bitch, you’re crazy if you think they were talking.”
“My name’s Faith, not ‘Bitch,’ thank you very much, and talking is a euphemism for whatever they were doing. Shouting. Whatever.”
He stares at me, then turns to Amelia and laughs again. “Man, I like your friend. She’s funny. That’s some nice sounding talk. They were euphemizing about whatever that work is Rudy’s doing with those chiles.”
“Such as?”
“She was telling him he’d better watch his ass. I wouldn’t let no bitch”—his eyes stray back to me—“chick…threaten me, but man, she was wild. I’d be scared, too, if I was Rudy.”
“How was she threatening him?” I say, glancing at Amelia.
“Look, I ain’t no FBI. I’m only saying what I heard.”
“Which was?”
“She kept telling him to watch himself and that she wasn’t afraid of Ernie and his guards and shit. Then she leaves.”
“And that’s it? That’s all that happened?”
“Nah, man, there’s more.” He smirks, then laces his fingers behind his head and stretches out on the bed. He’s playing with us now, fully aware that he has information we want, and he’s going to enjoy stringing us along.
I don’t know anything really about Holly or threats or guards, but I do know Charlie just said he was scared of her, and I use that to my advantage. I sit down next to him. “So, you’re Rudy’s roommate?”
He nods.
“Holly’s pretty amped up about the chiles, huh?”
“Yeah, man. She’s crazy.”
“She’ll probably be back to talk to him then. Since he’s not here, I’m guessing she’ll want to talk to you and see if you know where he is, and like you said, she’s kind of crazy.”
Charlie cuts his eyes at me, trying not to look scared, but I got his attention.
“So if you tell us what you know, maybe we can find Rudy and tell him to come back so you don’t have to deal with Holly on your own.”
“You really think she’d mess with me?” he asks, turning from trained fighting dog to milktooth puppy.
I shrug and act casual, like I couldn’t care less.
“Okay, fine,” he says, sitting up, eager now to talk. “So I’m going back to sleep, thinking I can finally get me some shuteye when I hear another car. And this one ain’t Rudy’s. Big-ass, eight-cylinder-sounding thing. Nothing like Rudy’s girlie truck. And then someone starts pounding on the door, shouting Rudy’s name, but Rudy don’t answer, cause I’m guessing he took off after that Holly chick came around. I thought you were someone else coming around to mess with Rudy and keep me awake.”
I don’t comment on the fact it’s one o’clock in the afternoon. “So do you have any idea where he went?”
“Nah, man. But if you find him, tell him to hurry up and get back,” he says and then gets up and crosses the room. “Now I’m going to sleep.”
“It sounds like Holly scared Rudy off,” Amelia says when he’s gone, sounding strangely happy with this theory. “He’s probably hiding from her and will be back in a day or two. That woman’s a freak.”
“Maybe,” I say, not convinced. If I connect the transaction at the Farmers’ Market between Rudy and Bulldog with their little exchange at the party and the tire tracks outside—the kind of tracks made from a “big-ass, eight-cylinder thing” like the one Bulldog was driving— it seems more likely that Rudy’s running away because he’s a drug dealer and he ripped off his client, than he’s running away from an environmentalist who’s going to do what—throw compost in his face? And come to think of it, maybe it’s not just pot he was selling to Bulldog. Rudy was one of the guys who gave Mari beer. Maybe he’s the one dealing liquid gold. Maybe he’s the one who slipped it into her beer. Maybe he ran away because he put his girlfriend’s sister in the hospital.
“What’s there to ‘maybe’ about?” Amelia snaps. “You heard Charlie. Holly was threatening Rudy. He probably ran off to get away from her. She’s been on his case since he started working for Ernie and she found out about those genetically modified chiles. She won’t shut up about it. She’ll scream at anyone who’ll listen. You’d think he was working on a nuke, not a piece of fruit.”
She opens his closet door and peeks inside as if Rudy might be hiding in there. While her back is turned, I slip the envelope labeled “Holly” into my bag.
Fourteen
JailTimeforRadicalActivist
JuliaMartinez,SantaFeNewMexican
April10,2009
TheproblemsstartedwiththeproposedSantaFeskiresortexpansion,anexpansionthatwouldmeanhackingintotheuntouchedslopesoftheSangredeCristoMountains,habitattoblackbearsandmountainlions.
Afteranenvironmental-impactstudywasconductedandgovernmentagenciesgavethegreenlighttotheproject,thingsstartedtogowrong.Surveyflagsdisappeared.Machinerywasvandalized.Whenthefirsttractorwassabotagedandthedrivernearlykilledconcernsgotserious.
HollyReddingandherradicalenvironmentalgroupUpsideDown!claimedresponsibilityfortheincidents,stating,“Ouractionsareinprotestoftherecklessdestructionofthenationalforest,landthatisprotectedforallspecies,notjustforcorporateprofit.”Ms.Reddingwassentencedandservedthreemonthsinjail.
“I remember when that happened,” says Clem, the renegade rule-breaker who has been sitting next to me on my bed since Amelia dropped me off, the papers from the Holly envelope spread between us. “My mom used to give money to that group, but she stopped after that.”
“So do you think Amelia could be right?” I stretch out on my stomach, chin in my hands. “Do you think Rudy could be running away from her?”
Clem folds his legs and leans back against the wall. “Your other idea sounds more likely. If he’s dealing liquid gold he’s got himself into some serious shit. Who knows what kind of people he’s messed up with? That guy you call Bulldog might not be his only buyer.”
He picks up another paper, this one a handwritten note.
Rudy, I’m watching you and I’m watching Ernie. There is no place for GMOs in New Mexico. We’ll take action if we have to.
Holly Redding
Founder UpSideDown!
We look at each other. “Then again,” Clem says. “That woman means business. Seems like Rudy was working up some kind of case against her.”
I pull out a third paper from the envelope, this one a flyer with the UpsideDown! logo above the heading: NO GENETICALLY MODIFIED ORGANISMS IN NEW MEXICO! and the following bullet points:
* GMOs are unhealthy
* GMOs contaminate
* GMOs increase herbicide use
We sit silently, contemplating the information. The documents tell a story, but what story exactly? That Holly and Rudy are at odds, or is there something else? She was at Rudy’s place last night when he went missing, and from what Charlie said she was pissed. Does Holly Redding have something to do with Rudy’s disappearance? She’s used radical tactics before, but never—what, kidnapping? Is Rudy really scared enough of her to run? Or did he take off because he’s dealing liquid gold, and he knew his drugs sent Mari to the ho
spital?
A scratching sound in the hall interrupts my thoughts. At first I think some nocturnal rodent is on the prowl and I ignore it, but the sound gets louder, and I realize it’s not a mouse on a mission. Someone’s tapping on the door.
I turn frantically to Clem. “Get in the closet!”
He stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“What if it’s Guadalupe?” I say in a loud whisper. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“There’s no closet,” he says, without moving and seeming, if anything, amused. “And I don’t think I’ll fit in the dresser.”
Normally I’m a rebel, an I-don’t-give-a-shit-do-it-my-own-way girl, but Guadalupe’s serious about the no opposite sex in the room—or sex in the room regardless of the gender coupling. I heard that Brian got a serious talking to, and Guadalupe threatened to send him home if she found him “cohabitating” with his boyfriend again.
There’s another knock. Clem doesn’t move, so I throw a blanket over him, then crack open the door and breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Dahlia, in a fluffy blue bathrobe and slippers, her hair a wild mass of red, is standing in the hall and grinning. “Hi! I saw the light on. I’m a night owl. I can never sleep before two.”
I glance down the hall over her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” she asks, following my eyes with her gaze. “Can I come in?”
“I’m fine. Hi. Sorry. Come in.” I move away from the door, so she can pass.
She slipper plods into the room and glances at the bed. “Oh, hey, Clem,” she says to the human-shaped blanket. “You cold?”
“No. I’m hiding,” says a flat, muffled voice. “Is it working?”
Dahlia raises her eyebrows and slowly nods. “Totally. If I were Guadalupe it would never have occurred to me that a boy was in here. I would’ve definitely thought Faith had gotten artsy and bought a sculpture she was protecting with the blanket.”
“Yeah, this is Santa Fe, right?” Clem, still under the blanket, says. “People are artsy around here.”
“Right. I mean who doesn’t have a sculpture on their bed?”
“Marble’s the new cool.”
They joke and tease until they’ve used up all their oh-so-hilarious remarks and Clem takes off the blanket and Dahlia plops onto the bed. Her eyes dart from Clem to me and then they widen. “Am I…interrupting something?” she asks. “I mean you guys weren’t…”
“No,” I blurt, saving any embarrassing implications about our late night tryst. “We were just...” If Clem were naked under the blanket what we were doing would be easier to explain than the whole Rudy-Mari-liquid-gold-Holly-thing. “I’m working on a project about GMOs at my internship,” I say.
“At one o’clock in the morning?” she asks, skeptically.
I hand her the flyer with the GMO bullet points as if to prove my case. “What do you think?” I ask, as much to get her opinion as to deflect our conversational trajectory.
“About what?”
“About genetically modified organisms. You work on an organic farm. You probably have an opinion.”
“Well, I’m definitely on the side of natural. I mean if nature made it how bad could it be?”
“Nature made smallpox and Ebola,” Clem chimes in. “I’d say they’re pretty bad.”
Not one to argue, Dahlia laughs and concedes that Clem has a point, but then she adds, “It just doesn’t seem right to mix genes from different species. We’re seriously messing with Mother Nature. Who knows what could happen? But I’ll leave you guys to your…research.” She gets up and goes to the door, but stops, and with a sly smile, says, “Remember, no glove no love!”
She darts out of the room before I can knock her out cold.
“So, that was awkward,” I say, hoping that admitting the awkwardness will make it less so. Before I have a chance to figure out just how awkward Clem feels, my phone buzzes. I scoot over to the bed and grab it, knowing that Jesse’s the only person who’d be Snapchatting me this late. I perch next to Clem, phone hugged to my chest, and tap open the red box on the screen to see a close-up of Jesse with a text bubble he’s drawn in and the words: “Nothing Compares To You—Sinead O’Connor.”
“That your boyfriend?” Clem asks.
I glance up as Jesse’s image fades away. I don’t say anything, but I guess my face reveals the answer. “How’d you know?”
He gives a shy smile and lowers his eyes. “Lucky guess or because you’ve resisted all my moves.”
“What moves?” I ask, wondering if I’m romantically autistic and missed some amorous cue.
He looks up. “All those romantic cafeteria dinners?”
“I didn’t realize baked macaroni was a move.”
We both laugh, but for me the laugh and the teasing have nothing to do with being amused and everything to do with being uncomfortable. I seriously suck at this kind of conversation, and even if I were good at it, I don’t have any answers. Liking Jesse plus liking Clem equals confusion with a coefficient of stupidity.
Clem rubs his bare foot along my bare leg, sending a bolt of lightning down my spine.
“So, you ‘like me like me’?” I ask, ruining the moment and any possibility of romantic spontaneity.
“I’m not sure. How’s that different from just liking you?”
“Like, more than friends?” I say, feeling my cheeks burn.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” Nice, Faith. Put him on the spot and then grill him. Way to win over a boy.
“You really want me to explain?”
Now that the moment’s already ruined, I realize that, yes. I do want to know. A boy like Clem, Mr. Equilibrium—everything in perfect balance, looks, manners, talent— could have any girl. So why me?
He looks uncomfortable as he rakes a hand through his hair. I consider telling him he doesn’t have to explain, but then he begins. “When I saw you the first day here I could tell you were an outcast.”
“Wow. Not the answer I was expecting. Thanks.”
“No. Not in a bad way,” he quickly adds.
“There’s a good way to be an outcast?”
He looks even more uncomfortable than before, but at the same time, determined to get out the words. “You were sitting by yourself, and you looked so thoughtful and alone. Then I looked around at everyone else. All these smiling kids talking to each other so comfortably like they’d never felt out of place in their life. I’ve spent most of my life being in rooms where nobody looks like me. Orchestras. Summer music camps.” He lowers his voice and fidgets with the papers. “Maybe it’s weird, but I just got this feeling I could relate to you. I wanted to know what you were thinking. And then I found out and you’re just so…yourself.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“It’s the only thing.” Our eyes meet. We hold the contact for a minute, but it’s hard to maintain that much honesty, and I look away. “But you said there’s another guy…so I guess a ‘thing’ between us is out.”
“YesNo,” I blurt. The words come out so quickly they sound like sno. “I like you, too. You’re…awesome.” Okay that was dumb. “Really awesome,” I add, as if that helps. “It’s just…do we have to do anything about it right now? I mean I don’t want to not do anything about it, but can we just like each other and see how that feels?”
“You mean be platonic girlfriend-boyfriend?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
I shrug and mumble yeah while I wait for him to laugh away the suggestion.
He smiles a little and then says, “Why not? I should go, though. We’ve gone far enough already. We should take things slowly. You already told me about your father and your family—that was like platonic first base or maybe even second. Platonic third base would be like…emotional stripping.”
“Totally. I don’t want to even think about a plato
nic home run.”
He gets up to leave. As he crosses the room I think back to how the night started, the Holly papers and the reason I shared all this stuff with Clem in the first place. Not because of Rudy. Because of Mari. I have to find out who gave her the liquid gold.
“So, platonic boyfriend,” I say, batting my eyelashes in mock flirtation. “I want to talk to that guy, Thomas, from the party after work tomorrow. Want to come with me?”
“I’ll pick you up at work at five.”
“Great,” I say, and we hug, because even in platonic relationships, hugging is allowed.
Fifteen
My thoughts keep me tossing and turning all night, and at first light, I give up trying to sleep. I mope around my room for a while then head to work early. I’m thinking I’ll be the first one there and need to use my key, but the door’s already unlocked, the lab open. Esha’s at her desk, messy-meet-chic ponytail—more messy than chic—some supersized Starbucks drink and a newspaper in front of her.
“You’re early,” she says.
“You too,” I say, though I have no idea, maybe she always comes this early.
She stares off with an unfocused look in her eye like she’s not seeing anything, tracing her fingers absently around the cup. “I have to run a meeting this morning. I needed some time to get prepared.”
I nod, remembering the memo about a seven forty-five meeting, and head to my cubicle. As I pass by her desk, though, I notice the newspaper headline and stop: Local Girl Dies of a Liquid Gold Overdose.
“Oh my God!” I utter and grab the paper, thinking I’m not real family so nobody told me Mari died. I can hardly breathe as I read the first line, can hardly read the words blurred across the page. Then I see it: Eslee Dominguez of Santa Ana Pueblo, age 17, died.
I drop the paper, collapse into the closest chair, and cover my face with my hands. The overwhelming surge of relief that Mari’s not dead mixes with the horrible news that someone else is. Someone died from a liquid gold overdose.
Code Red Page 11
