Wanted

by Heidi Ayarbe

  The girls oooh and aaah. . . . “Okay. This is what you’ve got to do.”

  And it’s like Google information duplicated—with contradictions and tried-and-true techniques. The best tip I get out of it, though, is “Don’t hold your breath.” I wouldn’t have thought about that.

  “Let’s all meet up at the dance,” Marilyn says. Sadie and the gang all nod in unison. It’s kind of fun, this sense of solidarity. Maybe it’s a girl thing. We’ll all be uncomfortable in dresses together.

  Lillian’s gonna have a fit. Anything that has to do with high school dances she automatically relates to a sex fest and insta-pregnancy. As if wearing a corsage is like having unprotected sex. I sigh. Maybe she’ll have night duty at the clinic. Maybe she won’t even see me dressed up.

  Friday’s games are madness—Sweet Sixteen had more upsets than any other year. Saturday morning for Elite Eight bets, we have to leave Grandma Hattie’s because there are too many of us. We have to drive over to Fuji Park. This is getting ridiculous.

  Back at home, I call Leonard. “What are your totals for the U-Dub game?”

  “One hundred and seventy-five.”

  I nibble on my lip. They’re doing well, really well, on the road. And Ohio State is rocking. Neither team is playing a defensive strategy, but 175 is a pretty high score. “Eleven-to-ten odds?”

  “You got it.”

  We can double our money if we bet it all here. I think about it. “A thousand. Over.” Josh is gonna be fueled when I tell him about the extra money. “What else?” I ask.

  “I’ve got U-Dub as four-point-five favorites.”

  I smile. “I’ll take it. Four thousand.” We’ll win. I don’t doubt this. It’s like me saying I have two eyes and ears. A fact. We can’t lose.

  “You can cover this?” Leonard asks.

  “I’ve never not been able to cover a bet.”

  “You’re talking five grand here, Mike. That’s not something I’ll blow off.”

  “Leonard, you don’t blow off twenty bucks. What? You’re gonna break my legs?”

  “You think this is a joke?”

  “Since when have I ever considered any of this a joke?”

  We slip into one of those cliché movie silences, and I hope one of us will have something earth-shattering to say.

  “You want to be treated like a client, I’ll do that. So this is when I give you payment incentive, Mike. I’m not going to go after your grandma or family or any of that shit. That’s Italian Catholic Jersey Sopranos, and let’s get real. I’m a Norwegian Lutheran from North Dakota who spent half my life getting my ass kicked by those Italian kids. I eat lefsen, for God’s sake.”

  “So what’s the payment incentive, Leonard?” I ask, and am pretty intrigued.

  “Information, Mike. You never know how much somebody knows about you. And the information I’ve got about you and your little boyfriend is the kind of shit you don’t want everybody knowing about. So I expect payment.”

  I can feel the tectonic-plate movement and crevasses opening up in the world. Yep. Earth shattered. “I don’t know what—”

  “Don’t mess around, Mike. You’re a lousy liar. So?”

  “Uh-huh,” I croak.

  “You placing this bet?”

  I nod.

  “Mike?”

  “I’m here, Leonard.”

  “And?”

  “Place the over-under. One thousand. Over. Four thousand on the spread. Over. We’ve got it covered.” My whole body tingles. The stakes just got higher. We’re on the edge, ready to jump, and I can’t wait to feel the rush.

  Wanted: Outside to match inside. Please.

  Chapter 41

  THE REST OF SATURDAY FEELS

  like a time vacuum. Lillian gardens. She’s not leaving. She’ll be here when I get ready.

  Help!

  I need to talk to someone about going to a school dance. Like this would be a good time for Lillian to get all involved—just tell me I look nice. I don’t even know how to dance. I think about my mom. What would she be like? These past couple of months, it’s like the memory of her has invaded me. I want to know her, what she was like. What was her favorite color? Dessert? Did she peel her apples or eat them with the skin? Does it matter?

  I don’t know who to ask.

  I wish the school counselor could pass out a handbook of what to feel during which occasions—like a reference guide—because I feel like I’m soaring, then flailing. I can’t find solid ground.

  I start to get ready.

  I look up at the bathroom ceiling. Water marked and stained. It’s hard to imagine Mrs. Mendez way up there, beyond. I’ll have to look for her when I’m not sitting on the toilet.

  Tears well in my eyes, and my chest aches. She’d know what to do—to help me with my hair. I probably should’ve gone to Marilyn’s. That would’ve been nice. Just to have some company.

  We’ve got another thousand for Moch’s family that we’re going to stuff in the mailbox after the dance. Tonight and tomorrow . . . we’re going to win big.

  Big.

  I swallow back the feeling of guilt I have because, in a way, it’s starting to feel like Babylonia and the stealing and the betting have become more for me than for justice, like my politics are secondary to the thrill.

  This is for Mrs. Mendez. For Moch. Luis. This is for Clinica Olé. Brain Food . . .

  I see it like a mantra. I say it until I almost believe it.

  I put on the dress, put on some makeup, and, as instructed by Marilyn, Sadie, and the others, pull my hair back, putting one of Lillian’s purple geraniums in it. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, which is not at all.

  I sit in the bathroom, my feet shoved into cute-but-not-too-casual flip-flops. Subtle, according a magazine article, sparkly silver nail polish on my fingers and toes.

  “Mike?” Lillian knocks on the bathroom door. “Josh is here.”

  “Coming.” But I feel like my butt has been cemented to the toilet.

  I peek out of the bathroom and around the corner. Josh is wearing a pair of khakis, brown sandals, and a bright-green Hawaiian shirt. His hair flops in front of his eyes, like the usual, but I can tell he’s used a little gel to keep the curls from going haywire.

  He’s sitting on the half-reclined rust-colored recliner. I hope there isn’t some greasy tuna-fish stain on it or something. He sips on diluted Kool-Aid.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Wow.” Josh stands up. “Wow.”

  “You’re lovely,” Lillian says.

  “I love the dress. It’s like a Monet—the water lilies. Wow.”

  “I really like your shirt.”

  I like your shirt? C’mon.

  Josh smiles, his crinkly-eyed, half-moon smile.

  “What’s going on tonight?” Lillian asks. She eyes my dress.

  “Hawaiian dance,” I say. “Just to do something different.”

  I can hear her brain screaming sperm, insemination, reproduction, condoms!

  She smiles—like for real—the kind when her eyes light up. I don’t see it very much around here and can’t help but smile back. Pretty soon we all look like a bunch of smiling nincompoops—goofy grins, shuffling feet, flushed cheeks.

  “Shall we?” Josh holds out his arm.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Wait . . . wait just a second, please!” Lillian grabs for her camera. “Last three pictures.”

  It’s a camera with actual film, which says a lot about the fact I haven’t given her ample photo ops.

  “Can I have a copy?” Josh asks.

  “I’ll bring this roll down to get developed tomorrow.”

  Part of me loves feeling humiliated by a parental figure—something I haven’t experienced on a regular basis before. Lillian wants a picture of us. Together.

  Lillian holds my hand in hers. “Estás preciosa. You look so much like your mother right now.”

  The words hit me, sucking the air out of me. I bite down on my lip.


  “What time?” Lillian asks as Josh escorts me to the door.

  “Midnight okay?” Josh asks.

  “Please,” I mouth to Lillian.

  She nods. “I’ll wait up.”

  “Thanks, Lillian.”

  After a kind of weird, not-sure-if-this-is-a-date Thai dinner in which I drop my fork three times and have an unfortunate flying-chopstick incident, we show up to the dance and take the obligatory posed picture with Josh’s arms wrapped around me, hugging me close to him. There’s a balmy seascape painted behind us—the art club’s project because, I can see in the sand, thousands of miniature skulls. I have to laugh.

  We walk into the gym followed by Nimrod and Medusa. Nimrod’s wearing a barely there loincloth. Medusa’s wearing a bikini top, a grass skirt, and an empty smile. She does this stiff, awkward, beauty-pageant elbow-elbow, wrist-wrist wave to some friends across the room. “That is a direct result of Toddlers and Tiaras. She could sue for the cerebral damage caused by excessive hair spray.”

  Josh’s shoulders shake from laughter. “She wasn’t—”

  “Yep. From the time she could wave, she’s been wearing a crown.”

  Josh stares down at me, running a fingertip across my collarbone. “You are so pretty,” he says. I’m glad the lights are low, because I think I might be melting.

  The music kind of sucks—no Johnny Cash, of course. We find a table way in the back corner, away from the crowd. The student council and dance committee do this weird choreographed dance number with Polynesian drums and lots of grunting. There’s a minute of silence for Caleb.

  Some girl thinks he died and starts to bawl until they explain to her it’s just to think about him getting better. Trinity chokes on a sob, then is held close by her new boyfriend. How she convinced a minor-league baseball player to come to a high school dance is beyond me.

  Just as the minute ends, Seth takes the microphone and says, “I’d like to say a few words about Luis Sanchez.” Seth takes out a piece of paper. “I didn’t know him. He was a freshman. But I talked to his family and they told me some things about him. He played clarinet. He loved baseball, especially the San Francisco Giants. His favorite player was Renteria.” Some kids start to whistle. Hiss. Seth clears his throat and says, “If anybody has any information regarding his beating, please contact the Carson City police.”

  I swallow.

  Why don’t I tell? Why didn’t I say anything almost a month ago?

  He finishes, saying, “That minute. I was thinking about Caleb. Yeah. I like Caleb and hope he gets better. But I was also thinking about Luis. Some kid I’ll never get a chance to know because somebody beat him up with a baseball bat. Think about it.”

  Seth—the school conscience. Maybe Seth should be a man of the cloth—do some missionary stuff and teach people what it’s like to have integrity, to walk the walk.

  I feel sticky-hot and realize I have way more fun when we’re just being us. Seth comes by, clicking pics on his camera. “Camera man, writer, editor—this is a one-man show,” he says.

  “Thanks for saying that about Luis,” I say. “That took guts.”

  He sits next to us. His date, Jeanne, pulls up a chair, too. “What you said the other day in Creative Writing. That took guts.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what I said.” Everything’s kind of blurry these past few weeks—memoirs and Mrs. B, Babylonia and PB & J.

  “‘Distorted mirrors. Filtered memories. Everyone’s guilty.’ It got me thinking, you know. How I write this stuff but, I dunno. Like it’s not enough. I’ve got to get loud—like Babylonia loud.”

  I nod. “So now you’re doing the paparazzi red-carpet thing?” I try to laugh. Keep it light. I can feel Josh tense next to me; his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Seth shrugs. “The superficiality of it all kills me. But I need more funds. This sells.”

  “Loincloths sell?” I ask. “Hardly PB & J material.”

  “Yes. The problem of the press—needing money to get loud.”

  Jeanne leans over and says, “Well, I like to check out what everyone’s wearing.”

  Seth groans.

  “Call me superficial. Mike, I love your bracelet. Are those dice? Wow, and your dress! You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks.” Seth takes a picture of Jeanne looking at my bracelet.

  They move on, walk through the crowd, take pics. The DJ puts on the chicken dance.

  “You ready to go?” Josh asks.

  “Yes.” I exhale. “Anywhere.”

  Josh smiles. “I’ve got a surprise. C’mon.” Marilyn and Sadie oooh and aah at us while we’re trying to make our big escape. We manage to get into about a half dozen photos and avoid being pulled onto the dance floor to flap our arms like wings.

  “I thought we’d never get out of there,” Josh says, opening the car door for me. I slip into the passenger seat and feel butterflies rise up my belly.

  “I’ve never actually gone to a dance before. It was kind of—”

  “Lame. Yeah.” Josh laughs. “But it’s an excuse to get dressed up, do something different. We kind of have a pattern of, well, activities. Nice to break from tradition. For a bit.” He winks.

  “It is,” I say. Even I believe I’m pretty tonight.

  As soon as we drive up to the house, I know what we were going to do. The familiar buzz of excitement fills my chest, making me feel like me again—not the Michal everybody else sees. Everybody except for Josh. I feel a tinge of disappointment until Josh pulls out cotton gloves instead of the typical surgical ones. “Mrs. Brady spends the weekends up in Tahoe. Every weekend. The place is ours. Let’s steal in style tonight.”

  He hands me a gorgeous Mardi Gras–type mask and boosts me through the laundry-room window. He spray-paints cameras as we go through each room.

  We take our time.

  He throws down a blanket and brings out soft, gummy cheese from the refrigerator, spreading it on thick-crust French bread. We eat on the floor in the glittering dining room—a palace just for us.

  I’m not sure what’s worse, though—the weird cheese or awful wine. I attempt to swallow them down, bite by bite.

  “Maybe we can go have breakfast at Denny’s after this,” Josh suggests, tossing his bread into a plastic bag he brought. “We don’t want to leave our DNA here.” He laughs, holds my hand; and we wander through the shadows of the house—sparkling chandeliers winking in moonlight, inaudible footsteps moving across thick carpet. My water-lily dress swishes, the hem sweeping across the floor. I listen to the house embrace us. We become the sounds of the house—the way it breathes, the way it lives.

  “Close your eyes,” he says, guiding me into a room. It smells musty—familiar. “Now!” I open my eyes. We’re standing in the middle of a giant library. It doesn’t take long to find a stash of money in a hollowed-out Bible. It’s the only religious book in the office and the only one that looks like it doesn’t have an inch-thick coating of dust on it. We don’t trash the place. It’s like we know exactly where to look—like the house is leading us to its treasure.

  Josh slips a CD into the stereo and turns it on. Gavin DeGraw’s “Belief.” He lights candles, turning the library into what could potentially be considered Carson City’s biggest fire hazard.

  “May I have this dance?” Josh bows and holds out his hand.

  I slip my hand in Josh’s. We’ve taken off our shoes. He pulls me close and we sway with the music. I lean my head against his chest and inhale the pine-fresh scent. He’s wearing a little cologne today. Not too much. Undertones of cedar and nutmeg. He pulls me closer and I listen to the rhythmic thudding of his heart instead of the whispers of the house.

  That’s why I don’t hear the footsteps in the hallway, the turn of a doorknob, the click of the hammer of a gun being cocked.

  Chapter 42

  “DON’T MOVE.” HER FRAIL

  arms hold the gun up, pointing at me.

  Obviously.

  I’m an easier target.<
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  Every sense of mine is on hyperdrive. I smell Josh’s cedar-nutmeg cologne, now becoming sour with sweat. I smell dusty book covers and moldy paper, peach-scented cream and hair spray.

  Outside the wind picks up. The house wheezes with the howl of the wind; windows chatter; shingles screech as they’re being ripped off the roof. This is the kind of house I love, and for a moment it was mine. It’s the kind of home that screams back at the weather—comes to life with anger and defiance. Branches from a tree claw across the siding. Thick desert raindrops pound at the windows.

  I hear shrieking now—all sounds coming from the old woman’s mouth. “I know who you are, you little bastards!”

  “Please,” Josh says, his voice wavering. “Please don’t shoot.”

  “You sit down. You don’t move. I’m calling the police.” She pauses, staring at Josh. Her cloudy blue eyes squint from behind thick glasses. “Are you that kid? That Ellison kid? Is that who you are?”

  Josh’s hands tremble.

  “You little shit—eating dinner at my house, asking for a grand tour. Shame on you.” She looks down at the empty Bible. Her voice trembles. “Shame on you. I don’t ever forget a voice.”

  She moves toward the phone on the desk, picking it up from its cradle with quaking hands. Just as she looks down to dial, Josh plows into her, knocking her against the bookshelves behind the desk. An avalanche of two-hundred-year-old encyclopedias rains down on them. Josh stands up, knocking his forehead on a shelf.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Is she okay?”

  Her crumpled body lies in a heap on the floor like a biology classroom skeleton. I push books aside and lean my head against her chest—rattling with uneven breaths.

  “Oh my God.”

  A thick pool of blood forms below her head from where she bashed it against the corner of a sticking-out world almanac. Josh brings me a towel from the bathroom, and we prop her head up on a pillow on a pile of ice.

  “What else do we do?” I ask.

  A welt runs across Josh’s forehead. He sits across from me. “Does she need CPR? Oh God. I panicked. She knew who I was. She was dialing nine-one-one. Like what was I supposed to do?”