by Diana Renn
“We?” I burst out. “Nobody asked me how I felt about it. I’m the host of the show. I’ve been the host for five years! Don’t I have a say in this?”
“Ratings have been down lately,” Kristen went on. “And given that GBCN is a prominent Chain Reaction sponsor, we feel this is a controversy we should steer clear of.”
“But this is totally undemocratic! Don’t I even get to defend myself? To explain?”
“Tessa,” my mom said, laying her hand gently on my arm. “Raising your voice won’t help. Let’s talk about this rationally. I’m sure we can find some compromise.”
“We really feel this is the best decision for all involved,” Kristen said smoothly.
I shrunk into the chair, teeth clenched. Sure, I had my frustrations with the show at times. True, lately it had nagged at me that I’d gotten the show because of my dad, who knew someone at GBCN. But KidVision was what I was known for. And now everyone would know why I’d gotten kicked off.
Turning to Kristen, I ventured a wild idea. “You know, I’m a huge fan of Watchdog, and I want to be an investigative journalist someday. Maybe I could work for Bianca Slade, as an intern?”
“That show?” My mom frowned. “It’s so negative, don’t you think? That’s a big turn from KidVision.”
I ignored this. “Could you help me work something out?” I pleaded with Kristen.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Kristen said, through the thinnest of smiles.
I knew, from her tone, that she wouldn’t help. I was radioactive. A teen star screwup.
“So how does someone recover from something like this?” my mom asked Kristen. “That footage is out there, for anyone to see, forever. Those college admissions committees, they Google kids now.”
College admissions committees. The least of my problems. But maybe Kristen had some idea of what I could do to make up for the mess I had caused. “I just want to make this right,” I said, fighting back tears. My mom nodded, assuming I was talking about bandit riding, but I was really thinking of the pileup and of Juan Carlos. “What can I do?”
Kristen pondered this, lips pursed, manicured nails tapping on her white pants. “Going to the opposite extreme to restore a good image might help.”
I leaned forward. “Okay. How?”
“Run a guerrilla campaign of community service. Visit sick kids in cancer hospitals. Do some cancer fundraising on your own. I’m sure you’ll find the right path.”
/////
AS SOON as Kristen left, I went up to my room to get my phone from the wall charger. I found three more messages from Jake, sent late last night, wondering why I wasn’t responding. Delete, delete, delete. I’d have to deal with him at some point, but right now wasn’t the time.
Suddenly a new text buzzed in. From that number with all the zeros again.
WHERE IS THE BIKE.
Fear zapped through my body, as a new message sent the phone vibrating again.
IT’S NOT IN YOUR GARAGE. WHERE ARE YOU KEEPING IT?
I dropped the phone onto my bed and stepped back, as if the thing might explode. This was no spambot. These texts, like the one yesterday accusing me of being a liar, were from the guy in the woods. The fence. He’d tracked me down. He’d broken into our garage.
The guy, the bike in the woods, yesterday’s creepy texts, the open garage door—all these things were linked. The fence must have memorized my name and number when he looked at my phone in the woods. From that information, maybe he could figure out where I lived.
But why would he think I had Juan Carlos’s bike?
I picked up the phone and typed back, with trembling fingers:
I don’t have that bike. I told you where I’d seen it.
The reply came fast.
NOT THERE. YOU MISDIRECTED ME. YOU WENT BACK AND REMOVED IT.
What? If this guy thought I’d deliberately set out to mess up his plan, he really was crazy!
I typed back, more boldly now:
You have the wrong person. I’m just a high school student. Please stop texting me.
There was a pause, then a text that I swear buzzed in with even more insistence:
YOU’RE NOT JUST A HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT.
YOU’RE IN THE MEDIA.
WE KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU.
We? So he wasn’t acting alone. And did he know I had some connection to Juan Carlos? Had he seen us talking on Great Marsh Road? Oh my God. Maybe that’s why he thought I had Juan Carlos’s bike—because we’d spoken, privately, just minutes before! And I’d been texting Juan Carlos just before the fence took my phone. Texting him about that bike. I’d even started to type something about arranging for someone to go pick it up.
I should shut off my phone right now. That would stop these insane texts from coming. But it might not stop the fence. He’d already been to my house. I didn’t want to see him in person again.
I looked up at the signed 8×10 photo of my idol, Bianca Slade, taped to the wall above my desk. Bianca, in the photo, wore a black blazer as well as her game face: pursed lips, a gleam in her eye. Her glossy dark bobbed hair, with a silver streak on one side, was shellacked into obedience. She was the perfect mix of glamour and grit.
My eyes flicked to the printout from her blog. Qualities of Good Investigative Reporters #4: Never Stops Asking Questions. If you hit a dead end, find fresh questions.
A new text buzzed in.
WELL????
I texted back, trying to channel my inner Bianca Slade.
Who are you? I won’t write back unless you tell me your name.
After a pause, his reply came:
YOU CAN CALL ME DARWIN.
BRING THE BIKE TO THE MEMORIAL SHRINE ON GREAT MARSH ROAD BY 6:OO PM ON THURSDAY. ONE OF MY ASSOCIATES WILL BE WAITING FOR IT.
Memorial shrine? What was he talking about?
“Tessa?” My mom tapped at the door. “Ready to go see Dr. Ellis?”
“Um . . . yeah. Mom?” I had to tell her what was going on here. The police were coming later to check out our garage. I could show them these texts and tell them to go get this guy. They could look for footprints in our yard and the garage, and then find ones that matched in the woods in Cabot, connect them to my crazy texter, show up at the memorial, whatever that was, and haul him into custody.
“Yes, sweetie?”
I stared at my phone as one more message buzzed in.
DO NOT MENTION ME OR THE BIKE. NOT TO PARENTS, NOT TO THE MEDIA, NOT TO COPS. IF YOU DO, OR IF NO BIKE ON THURSDAY, YOUR MOM WON’T BE SITTING PRETTY IN THAT STUDIO OF HERS.
Then an image appeared: a photo of a kid who looked to be my age. The same guy I’d seen standing outside my mom’s studio door.
My grip tightened around the phone. Had Darwin—or some associate—been lurking around our house, with a camera? I rushed to my windows and slammed my shutters closed.
“Sweetie?” my mom said again, anxiously. She tapped at the door again. “You all right?”
“Uh, yeah. Just a sec.” I studied the picture Darwin had texted.
My mom was talking to the kid in the picture, but she’d been caught in a weird gesture, as if beckoning him inside. And winking. I knew it was totally innocent—my mom always squinted one eye when she smiled—but in the wrong context, it could look really bad. Like she was kind of coming on to this kid.
“Mom, did some guy come by your studio this morning to pick up a graduation portrait packet?” I called through the door.
“Not to pick up a packet. To ask about senior portrait prices for the fall.”
“Did you get his name or address or anything?”
“No, just gave him a brochure and a price list. Why?”
A text buzzed in.
SEE THIS KID? HE WORKS FOR US. HE LOOKED AROUND YOUR GARAGE BEFORE PAYING A VISIT TO YOUR MOM. HE’S NOW IN
A POSITION TO FILE A COMPLAINT AGAINST HER, ALLEGING MISCONDUCT WITH A MINOR. DON’T MAKE US ACTIVATE HIM.
Then the picture and the messages—my entire correspondence with Darwin—got wiped away. Erased. As if our whole conversation had never happened at all.
16
LATER THAT afternoon, after seeing Dr. Ellis, and after my mom returned to her studio, I paced in the living room, waiting for my friends. I kept the shades drawn tight and my phone turned off. Every few minutes, I peered out of the corner of the window shade, expecting to see shadowy figures darting in and out of the bushes with cameras. Every time I saw a car pass, I dropped the shade back in place with a sigh of relief.
When the Fingernail finally pulled into the drive, I limped out to the car as fast as I could, got in the backseat, and slammed the door. I sunk low in the seat so I wouldn’t be visible from the windows. If Darwin or someone was snapping incriminating pictures near our house, I didn’t need to be modeling for one.
“Route 2 west,” I said to Kylie.
“What am I, a taxi?”
“I thought we were doing Kylie’s mock interview here,” Sarita added.
“We can mock on the road. Now go.”
I sprawled out in the backseat of the Fingernail, breathing in the familiar smell of mildew, vanilla air freshener, and the sour milk of a thousand spilled lattes. Once we got out of Cambridge, onto Route 2, I pulled myself back up to a sitting position and relaxed a little.
/////
“YOU HAVE to tell someone about this Darwin guy,” Kylie said when I’d finished explaining why I’d called her and Sarita in a panic, from our land line, as soon as I was home from the doctor’s appointment. “Your mom. Police. Tell someone.”
“No. He specifically told me not to. And now he could wreck my mom’s business by framing her for sexual misconduct with a juvenile. I’m not going to piss him off.”
“So is all this the reason I’m speeding down Route 2?” asked Kylie.
“If you can call going five miles above the speed limit speeding,” Sarita grumbled.
“I told you. I have to have a perfect driving record. My mom can’t afford our insurance going up.”
“I’d drive, but my leg hurts too much,” I said. “Look, the truth is, I have to go to Cabot. And I need your help. Three of us can search better than one.”
“Cabot?” Sarita twisted around to stare at me. “Where the bike thing was?”
“What are we searching for?” Kylie asked.
“I need to go to the woods where I found the bike and ran into Darwin. If I can at least get a lead on Juan Carlos’s stolen bike, and prove I had nothing to do with it, then he’ll leave me—and my mom’s business—alone.”
“You mean get a lead on Juan Carlos’s twice stolen bike, right?” said Kylie.
“Right,” I said.
“Wait, what?” said Sarita. “Twice stolen? Head spinning. Explain.”
“A thief took it from the team trailer to leave it for the fence,” I reminded her. “And then I think while Darwin was interrogating me in the woods, someone else found it and swiped it, screwing up his plan.”
“So after he let you go, you think he went to find the bike where you told him it was, and it was gone? And now he blames you?” Sarita asked.
“Exactly. And now he must think I’m hiding it somewhere or I know someone who is. That’s why he tracked down my house and went through the garage. And sent someone to my mom’s studio to set her up, as more ammo against me.”
“Maybe the original thief took it back,” said Sarita. “Like, to make a fast buck for himself and cut out the middleman.”
“Maybe. So then how could that bike still be in the woods, Tessa?” Kylie asked, as the speedometer needle inched up a notch. She was now seven miles over the limit. I could tell she was getting excited about all this, despite her skepticism
“Actually I’m pretty sure it’s not,” I said. “But maybe there’s some clue there. Something that might tell us who Darwin really is. Or something that would point to the person who messed up his plan and took the bike out from under him.”
“Or a clue that points to the original thief,” Sarita added.
“I don’t know,” said Kylie. “It’s not really our job, is it? It’s not like we’re trained forensics experts. And we probably shouldn’t tamper with a crime scene.”
Sarita sighed. “It’s not an official crime scene. There’s no ‘official’ crime. Nothing’s been reported. Come on, Kylie. Remember when we all used to read Nancy Drews? If we were in a Nancy Drew book, we wouldn’t even be debating this. We’d just go look.”
“If this were a Nancy Drew book,” said Kylie, “we wouldn’t have to poke around in the woods. The clues would be more obvious. Like a sign of a twisted candle or something.”
“Or the Inn of the Poison Oak,” Sarita said in a spooky voice.
“How about the Grove of the Poison Ivy?” I said. “There was a lot of that in the woods.”
“Great. That’s what we all need. Poison ivy,” grumbled Kylie.
But she shifted to the right lane, and took the exit to Cabot at ten miles per hour over the limit.
/////
IT WAS eerie, driving through Cabot again. The parking lot by the elementary school where Jake and I had parked yesterday was now completely empty. So was the middle school lot where the staging area had been. There were no banners, no sponsor signs, no discarded pamphlets. The only sign of a recent event was a flatbed truck pulling out with portable toilets.
I’d half expected to see crime scene tape strung up everywhere. And a sign with my face on it: WANTED: CHARITY BIKE RIDE BANDIT. CAUSER OF MAYHEM.
But this wasn’t a crime scene, I reminded myself. No one knew a bike had been stolen. And no one knew—yet—that I’d made a stupid move on the route.
I clutched my seat belt as we passed the last place I’d seen Juan Carlos. “Stop here,” I said. “This is near the trail into the conservation land, where Jake and I went in.”
Sarita led the way into the woods, down the walking trail, with Kylie close behind. I lingered a moment, staring at the place where I’d last seen Juan Carlos. I knelt down and looked at the grass for signs of his footprints, anything he might have dropped, any physical memory I could hold on to. I found nothing. I held the cross in my hand, pulling at the chain until it cut into my skin, forcing me to remember what it had felt like to have him put it on me.
You will call? Please? It is very important.
“Tessa!” called Kylie, a note of panic in her voice. “Where are you?”
“Coming!” I stood up and hurried to catch up with my friends.
We spread out and looked around, off the trail, in other bushes, hoping some clue would turn up. A tire track. A footprint. I saw the bush where I’d found the bike, and the patch of poison ivy. No bike. And no sign of anyone having been there. No footprints, no trampled grass, no bike parts. Nothing. It was as if the woods had erased any secrets as swiftly as Darwin had erased all those texts.
/////
KYLIE CONTINUED driving down Great Marsh Road, heading back toward the highway. I cringed when we passed the place where Jake and I had joined the ride. We drove a little farther and I saw the SLOW DEAF CHILD sign ahead. “Can you pull over?” I asked.
Kylie did. “Whoa,” she said as we came over the hill. “Check that out.”
There was already a bike there, attached to the street sign, painted entirely white. The shrine had sprung up all around it. Flower bouquets. Flowers in vases. Living plants. Teddy bears. Angel figurines. Cycling jerseys. EcuaBars. Votive candles flickering softly in jars.
“Why’s the bike all white?” Kylie asked in a hushed voice. “It’s beautiful. But kind of haunting, don’t you think?”
“It’s supposed to be haunting. It’s a ghost bike,” I said. My voice was
hushed, too. Ghost bikes were things of beauty and dread. Reminders of cycling’s freedoms and dangers.
I’d seen a ghost bike once before, on a busy Boston street, where a college student had been hit by a truck. A sign at that memorial had explained how ghost bikes were constructed by mourners, bolted to signs or fences near where a cyclist had been killed. They were meant to raise awareness of the need for bike-friendly streets. My heart raced. This had to be the memorial shrine that Darwin had mentioned in his text message that morning. The place where an “associate” would expect me to hand over the bike on Thursday evening.
“I want to go see it close up,” I said.
“Do you want us to come, too?”
“No. That’s okay. I just need a moment.”
“Be careful,” Sarita urged as I got out. “There’s a lot of traffic here.”
I approached the shrine. I reached out and touched the bike. Then I knelt down for a closer look. What if this was Juan Carlos’s twice-stolen spare bike?
No. That would be too easy. And I could see, beneath the coat of white paint, that this was an older-model Cannondale, not a Cadence. Just something the Ghost Bikes organization had donated to the cause.
While I was kneeling down, I read personal notes and hand-painted signs, in both Spanish and English.
¡Eres un ángel más en el cielo ahora!
You ruled the roads, el Cóndor. Rest in peace.
Que descanses en paz.
I let my tears fall and wiped my nose on the back of my hand. I wished I’d brought something to leave for him there, some way to pay my respects.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. To Juan Carlos. Or the air. “I’m sorry for crashing and for making you crash. And I wish I knew what you wanted to talk to me about. After the race.”
Birds twittered. Traffic whooshed. I guess I’d been hoping for some kind of sign, an otherworldly communication. But Juan Carlos’s spirit didn’t speak to me, in any language.
I saw a dark brown streak on the pavement. I hugged myself and looked away. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and listened intently, as if the breeze or the rustling trees might send back a response, a reassurance.
