I backed away from him, unnerved by his serious face, by the quiet intimacy of this little porch with the rain falling beyond the railing. “Okay. I get it,” I said. “You should probably go somewhere and sober up now. . . .”
“Wait.” Nathan curled a gentle hand around my arm. “I’ve got something to show you.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an old Greyhound ticket, creased and worn. He held it up to show me.
“The first video we ever made for The District,” he said, “we took a bus with this friend of Cedric’s who was visiting her mom in prison. It had been like ten years since she’d seen her—you know, because DC doesn’t have a prison and people from there get sent all over the country. That was the first time I realized our videos could be important.”
I swallowed hard, tears welling in my eyes.
“Ever since he . . .” Nathan rubbed the ticket with his thumb. “I’ve been carrying it in my pocket. It’s like I need to have it with me, all the time.” He hooked one finger through my necklace and held up the button. “We’re not so different, you and I.” He ran his finger back and forth along the cord, brushing the side of my neck.
My breath caught in my throat. “Is this what you and Tyler used to do when I wasn’t around?” I swallowed hard. “Get smashed and hit on random girls?”
Nathan looked hurt. “You’re not random. Ever since the first time I met you, I thought you were—” He stopped himself. “And when he died, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, wondering if you were okay.”
I shook my head. “But I never met you before the funeral.”
“You don’t remember.” He looked around a bit dizzily. “Like I may not remember any of this.” His eyes focused again, and they focused on me. “But remembering is important. You’re right to fight for how he’ll be remembered.”
The silence stretched out between us for a moment. Finally Nathan spoke again, so quietly that I could hardly hear him.
“I think maybe it was my fault,” he said. “If I’d known what was going on at my own damn parties . . . if I’d paid more attention. I didn’t know about the drugs; I didn’t know Red was selling things to Park. Cedric mostly planned things, while I ran around like it was some big game. And now Red’s gone.”
His face crumpled, and tears mixed with the rain on his cheeks. In my mind’s eye, I could see him and Tyler together in my vision: their easy laughter, their sense of fun. My heart ached for him, and for myself, and for everything wrong about this that could never be put right. I couldn’t resist. I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my cheek on his chest.
“Thank you,” he said.
His voice rumbled through my body and sent a spike of sensation straight through me. I felt as drunk as he was. I wanted to run away. I wanted to lean into him. He shifted my arms up so that my wrists rested on his shoulders, and he began to sway, as though we were dancing. He sang softly, little whispered lines from “Fly Me to the Moon.”
I was swamped by that same overwhelming feeling I’d had at the underground, that urge to dive in, let go, cut loose. I pulled back slightly so I could see his face. His skin gleamed in the dim light, and the familiar landscape of his face made my wrists hurt with longing.
I grabbed his shirt in both my fists and kissed him.
He froze for a moment. Then he tightened his hold on my hips and pulled me close. His mouth was hot against mine, and he tasted of alcohol. I leaned forward, wanting more, wanting to lose myself in the feel of him against me, and he lost his balance, breaking the kiss.
Cool air hit my face. What was I doing? He hadn’t come here for this. Or had he? My mind spun, and I had a hazy image of Bobby standing above me at that party, laughing. Embarrassment churned in my stomach, and confusion, and I blinked back tears.
I backed a few steps away from Nathan, and he caught sight of the look on my face. “God, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“No, it was me. I made a mistake.” I felt wrung out, stiff, and brittle. “I should go.”
Nathan nodded and sagged down onto the steps.
I stopped at the door and turned, my heart twisted by his forlorn shape silhouetted against the streetlight. As I walked into the house, I pulled my phone out of my pocket.
“Eric,” I said when he answered, “I need a really big favor. Again.”
Ten minutes later, Eric loaded Nathan into his car while I watched from the front porch. Eric stopped to rub a kink out of his back before he walked across the grass to say good-bye.
“Megan,” he scolded, “you told me you weren’t into the whole superhero thing. And now here you go, behind my back—”
“What are you talking about? I am not superheroing behind your back.”
“Oh no? Your hair says otherwise.”
I ran my hand down the red streak, a smile tugging at my lips. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”
“Yes, I am,” he said. “And in exchange, you’re making me drive that sneak thief home for you.”
Regret fanged into me. “Yeah, about that . . .”
“Don’t worry, I let him know exactly what I think of him, in no uncertain terms.” Eric smiled proudly. “He said he didn’t do it, but, I mean, you’ve never seen anything in one of your visions that didn’t turn out to be true, right?” He shook his head. “Jerk.”
“I kind of forgot to mention . . . ,” I began.
“Mention what?”
“That he didn’t take the box?”
Eric’s face froze. “I thought you saw that in your vision?”
“Not exactly.”
“So you’re telling me you just assumed it was him?” Eric started pacing, covering the same few feet of porch over and over again. “Oh, god,” he said. “Oh, god. I called him a lying weasel!”
“Well, I didn’t force you to say that!” I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Nathan’s face through the passenger-side window. “I’m sorry—I saw the box in Bobby’s locker. I was going to tell you all about it on the way to the police station tomorrow.”
“Wait, what?” Eric’s jaw dropped. “You found out what happened to the box, and you didn’t call and tell me?”
“I guess it didn’t occur to me.”
“But it occurred to you to call me in the middle of the night to come help you out,” he said. “Twice in three days.”
“And I appreciate it,” I said, bewildered by how upset he seemed.
“I thought we were in this together.”
“Together? Well, you might be having fun on some kind of vicarious superhero adventure, but in case you forgot, I’m the one who lost my brother. I’m the one who’s grieving here.” My heart twisted in my chest. I wasn’t thinking, and as always when I wasn’t thinking, my blades cut.
Eric’s expression grew pinched, and he stepped away from me. “That’s right. Because I have no idea what it feels like to lose someone.” He had to collect himself before he could continue. “I think I need a break. Maybe we should give each other some space for a while.” He limped slightly as he made his way back to the car, holding one hand on his hip as he got in.
I watched the car drive off down the street, my stomach churning. That’s why Tyler kept trying to make you into someone else, I told myself. I walked up the porch stairs and dragged myself to my room with all the ease of walking through water. My phone was in my hand, and I was trying to come up with the best way of apologizing to Eric via text when a message came in.
It was from Nathan. No explanation, only a link. I clicked it, and it took me to a YouTube channel called The District.
I scanned the list of videos hungrily, clicking on title after title, too eager and nervous to watch any one all the way through. The videos were in lots of different formats: short newsy pieces, longer documentaries, silly ones where kids from DC, Maryland, and Virginia tried to understand one another’s slang.
Tyler had made a whole series of videos he called Luxury Tax, where he went into bedroo
ms and garages and basements in McLean and shot videos of these extravagant collections of stuff: paintings and liquor and books—I saw Kyle’s dad’s watch collection in there too. Then he tallied up the total worth of those objects and estimated what that money could do in real terms: pay a teacher’s salary for five years, add ten beds to a women’s shelter in Arlington, restore AP classes at three budget-cut DC schools.
But most of the videos the three guys had made together. There was one that started with a teenage girl standing in front of a parking lot in DC—a parking lot that used to be the housing complex where she grew up.
“The city promised us a new apartment,” she said. “Never delivered. Now they’re making money off people parking here?” The girl shook her head. “That’s just not right.” She pointed to the sign advertising monthly parking rates. “Wish I could find us a place for two hundred dollars a month.”
Then Tyler, Nathan, and Cedric sprang into action. The video cut to them pulling into the parking lot in a pickup filled with stuff. They unloaded it all into a single parking space: a fancy sofa and chairs, a coffee table, a couple of lamps. They set up false walls with wallpaper on them around three sides of the spot, and they put up a sign: The District Needs More Affordable Housing. Not More Affordable Parking. They invited the girl in and served her a drink in a fancy glass.
People came by, laughed, and took pictures. Eventually the attendant tried to kick them out. “We rented this spot for the whole month,” Cedric said. “Do you want to talk to us about affordable housing, sir? Where do you live? What’s it costing you?”
I got it. In a way, the videos were the YouTube equivalent of the parties Nathan and Cedric had been throwing. They bridged the gap that separated one part of DC from another. They brought together people who might never have known one another and put them to work to achieve a common goal.
When I couldn’t keep my eyes open another minute, I crawled into bed with my phone, tucking it close to my chest. Clearly this political activism had been important to Tyler—the videos were passionate and partisan and carefully made. But why had he kept this whole project a secret? Maybe he didn’t want to tell Bobby, or the other guys from the team, but why hadn’t he felt he could share the videos with me, or with Mom and Dad? And how long had he been planning to go on pretending?
CHAPTER 15
THE FIFTH DISTRICT POLICE STATION HAD A STERILE, modern design, with tall vertical windows that bore an unfortunate resemblance to prison bars. The triangular patch of lawn out front might once have been green, but that color had faded badly, a fugitive pigment that didn’t stand the test of time.
I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the building and mentally preparing myself to talk to Detective Johnson. It had taken over an hour and a half to get here after my mom had dropped me off at school, including a painfully long Metro ride and a bus that took thirty minutes to go three miles. I felt frazzled and apprehensive and a little bit sick, and I wished Eric were here to walk through those doors with me. I’d texted him several times that morning to apologize, but so far, he hadn’t responded.
I took a deep breath, tugged at my clothes, and walked into the station. At the far end of a lobby scattered with blue plastic chairs, a clean-cut young officer sat behind a bulletproof glass window. He looked up politely when I approached.
“I’m here to see Detective Johnson.”
“Please sign in and—” He broke off and gestured behind me. “You have good timing. Here she is now.”
Detective Johnson walked through the station doors, followed by an Asian couple, a white guy in a pinstriped navy suit . . . and Nathan Lee.
Johnson’s eyes widened when she saw me, but I brushed past her to grab Nathan’s arm, my heart pinballing around in my chest.
“Oh my god, Nathan,” I said. “What is going on?”
All of Nathan’s vivid colors had lost their intensity. His face was blank, his voice emotionless. “They’re bringing me in for questioning in connection with Tyler’s death.” He winced, and I saw him dart a quick glance at the couple, who were obviously his parents. His mother looked sleek and polished, with sunglasses obscuring most of her face. She twisted a battered tissue around her fingers. His father, who was a full foot taller than she was, rested a hand on the small of her back. Nathan shifted uncomfortably, as though he was in pain. “They think I’ve been moving drugs back and forth between the DC crowd and the kids in McLean.”
Tears blurred my vision, and my throat clenched. I knew Detective Johnson had been looking for Tyler’s dealer; I should have guessed suspicion might fall on Nathan. “No,” I said hoarsely. “No, no, no.” I turned to Johnson. “You can’t do this to him.” My voice grew louder, echoing off the bare walls. “Please. He didn’t have anything to do with this.”
She rested a hand on my shoulder. “This is a routine part of the investigation. No one has been arrested. Mr. Lee has his parents and an attorney present.”
I held tight to Nathan’s hand and looked up into his face. “I know you didn’t want any of this to happen. And I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The glow I recognized returned to his eyes. He lifted his free hand and ran his fingers down the streak in my hair. “It’s okay, Red,” he said.
Another officer appeared through a door to my left and held it open for the Lees. Nathan’s parents went first, followed by their lawyer. Nathan held on to my hand for a few more seconds; then he let my fingers slip from his grasp and disappeared into the recesses of the police station.
Detective Johnson and I were left alone. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been sprinting down a dark alley after me, and I’d barely escaped. I searched her face for any sign that she had recognized me that night, but I found none. “Please don’t do this,” I said.
“I’m just doing my job. We’ve gotten reports of illegal activities at these parties—drugs are only part of that. We need to identify the person at the heart of that activity and figure out whether they’re connected in some way to Tyler’s death.” She paused to consider me. “Why are you here, Megan?”
My answer stuck in my throat. I couldn’t decide what to do. Should I go through with my plan to tell her about the stealing? Would that make things look better for Nathan, since he wasn’t involved? But Tyler and Bobby had been selling stuff at the parties, and Nathan was responsible for the parties. With Johnson already investigating Nathan, would he come under suspicion for those crimes too? I grabbed a fistful of my own hair, tugging on it until my scalp hurt.
“I’m here to tell you,” I said at last, “that Nathan had nothing to do with Tyler’s death, and you should let him go.”
Detective Johnson sighed and rubbed a hand over her face. “Okay. Why don’t you sit here for a little while? I need to deal with the Lees, and then I’ll come back and find you. We can talk.” She pointed to the chairs. “Wait. I’ll be back soon.”
She gestured to the officer behind the glass, and he buzzed her through the same door Nathan’s family had used. Her face was sympathetic but serious as she left, closing the door behind her.
I collapsed into a blue plastic chair. Had I made the right decision? What should I do now? I couldn’t bear the thought of Nathan being put through the police machine, but how could I help him? Guilt twisted my stomach, even though I wasn’t sure how any of this was my fault.
My phone rang, and I fished it out of my bag. Dr. Brightman’s name came up on the display. I hesitated, staring blankly at it for a few seconds before I answered. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Ms. Charleston, Dr. Brightman’s assistant.”
My brain spun, struggling to shift gears from my confrontation with Detective Johnson. I stood and walked around the lobby, hoping to clear my head. “Yes?”
“Dr. Brightman would like you to meet him at Ford’s Theatre on Thursday at ten a.m.”
Dr. Brightman was clearly not used to dealing with teenagers. “Well, I’ve got this little thing called school. . . .”
Ms. Charleston didn’t miss a beat. “Shall we look for a more convenient time?”
Did I even want to see Dr. Brightman again? I pushed open the door of the station and walked outside. I blinked, overwhelmed by the blazing sunlight and the pure ultramarine sky. The air smelled of diesel exhaust and freedom. I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in that police station for one more second. And I hadn’t been able to see any memories for days, not since the night of the party. Maybe Dr. Brightman could help with that. “How about right now?” I asked. “Is he available right now? I can be there soon.”
“Let me check his schedule and get back to you.”
I tapped my phone against my lips, considering. I didn’t know what would happen when I met with Dr. Brightman. It could be good; it could be bad. The wild, self-destructive voice in my head whispered that maybe bad was better. My phone rang again. “Yes?”
“Dr. Brightman can meet you in an hour,” his assistant said. “He’ll wait for you in the museum at Ford’s Theatre.”
“Did he say what he wants to see me about?”
“I’m not privy to that kind of client information. But I’ll tell him you’re on your way.” The line went dead. I pulled out my wallet. I had to dig through every pocket and sleeve until I found the emergency credit card that my parents insisted I carry. I had never used it, but at this point, I had skipped school and spent hours getting to the police station for nothing. If I was going to get busted anyway, I might as well go down big.
I took one last look over my shoulder at the police station. Then I called a cab.
I asked the driver to drop me off a block away from Ford’s Theatre. My mother’s office window overlooked the street, so I shielded my face as I walked down Tenth Street, just in case. A school group was gathering outside, field trippers piling off the bus. I made my way to the center of the crowd and tried to blend in as they walked through the lobby and down to the museum.
I didn’t see Dr. Brightman, so I wandered around the exhibits, pausing in front of a nearly life-size bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln. His clothes were rumpled, as though he’d been up half the night writing speeches and charting the future course of the republic. The museum lights cast his face in shadow, but his lips curled in a tiny smile, as though someone had promised to tell him a really great joke.
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