Dangerous Destiny: A Night Sky novella

by Suzanne Brockmann

  I moved all the way to the back, where Mr. Jenkins had assigned me for the rest of the school year. Grimly, I pulled a tambourine, cymbals, and a triangle out of a huge plastic bin. Kim Riley, master of the bass drum, nodded her hello. I nodded back.

  “Okay, people,” Mr. Jenkins said, tapping a pencil on the side of his music stand. “Let’s get to work.”

  No one bothered to respond. Instead, the din of students became a tiny bit quieter as kids shifted their conversations into whispers.

  “Let’s have some quiet in here,” Mr. Jenkins said, his voice only slightly louder. He tapped his pencil again. Today, his comb-over was especially horrendous, sticking up haphazardly as though a strong wind had managed to rearrange his follicles into some unique bird’s nest.

  I would have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t taken me off clarinet and assigned me to the unbelievably super-duper lame task of playing percussion, comma, other.

  “Quiet down, people!” Mr. Jenkins said again, his tone now insistent. Unfortunately, his big-boy voice carried quite an easily imitated whine. Calvin could do a mean Mr. J. I looked across the room at him, but he was busy listening to something Garrett was whispering in his ear.

  As I watched, Calvin frowned and clenched his jaw before turning pointedly away from Garrett and rearranging the sheet music on his music stand.

  “Okay, guys,” Mr. Jenkins said, patting at his cumulonimbus hair. “I want to start off today with a new number: excerpts from Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto.”

  Of course he did. It was my favorite piece—provided I was playing the clarinet solo.

  “It’s an arrangement I found, perfect for the instruments in our band. So, let’s take it from the top. A one, two, three, four!”

  The class started to play, and I laughed out loud because the tempo Mr. Jenkins had set was that of a Sousa march.

  Even though the piece had a moderately fast tempo, lingering almost the entire time in a major key, it somehow still remained pensive—even melancholy. Leave it to Mozart.

  But leave it to Jenkins to suck the soul out of old Wolfgang. Come to think of it, Mr. J. conducted every piece we played as if it were a Sousa march.

  How on earth had he gotten the job of music teacher here? I’d had better musicality when I was six. Of course, when I was six, I was already playing the clarinet solo for this piece—which, in this arrangement, had been given to the trumpets.

  Garrett and Calvin both were struggling to keep up, even with the abridged version of the melody. I, however, had sheet music that was filled with brick-shaped rests. I skimmed forward five pages and spotted two eighth notes. Oh, goody. There was a chance I’d get to crash the cymbals at least twice before the class ended. I didn’t know whether to laugh or be horrified.

  But then someone poked me, and I whipped around, startled.

  Kim took her drumstick off my shoulder and used it to point to the classroom door.

  It was Mrs. Diaprollo, the school guidance counselor. A tired-looking man in an ill-fitting tan suit stood next to her.

  And they were pointing at me.

  Mr. Jenkins frowned but didn’t make any attempt to stop the band.

  Mrs. Diaprollo’s gesture to me was of the “Come with us, young lady” variety. So I set my cymbals on my seat before following them out of the room. As I shut the door, I could see Mr. Jenkins giving me the hawk eye. But the cymbals would have to wait.

  Out in the hallway, Mrs. Diaprollo cleared her throat. “Ms. Reid, I’m sorry to interrupt you in the middle of your class.” Her prim voice was authoritative and formal. It was the first time she had spoken directly to me since my first day at school. “But Detective Hughes needs to ask you some questions.”

  “Is this about Sasha?” I asked eagerly.

  Mrs. Diaprollo’s lips, pursed most of the time anyway, were puckered slits of pink. The creases in her face stood out deeply as she frowned and crossed her arms over her lace blouse. She looked to Detective Hughes, as if he might be better equipped to answer the question.

  But the man in the tan suit merely nodded as if he was too exhausted to speak, and my heart sank. This was the man in charge of finding Sasha?

  “This won’t take very long, Skylar.” Mrs. Diaprollo motioned for us to follow her down the hallway toward the teacher conference room, her sensible shoes clacking on the tile floor. I glanced over my shoulder at the detective, who trailed behind us. The man’s face was gray and swollen. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month.

  “In here, please,” Mrs. Diaprollo announced, opening the door to the conference room with a flourish. Out of all the people in the world, the last person I would go to for advice was Mrs. Diaprollo. And yet she was the school’s only guidance counselor.

  “Skylar, you may take a seat,” she said as Detective Hughes tossed a manila folder onto the table. As I watched, he went to the far corner of the room and got a can of Diet Splash from the soda machine. Hands shaking, he then pulled a chair out from the conference room table and sat.

  I plopped down across from the detective. I was at least five feet away from him, but I swear I got a strong whiff of cigar smoke and stale booze. My stomach churned.

  Mrs. Diaprollo sat next to the detective, primly smoothing down her calf-length skirt and placing her hands atop her lap. It was clear she had no intention of leaving the room—and I was oddly glad for that. She looked toward the man and nodded.

  “Yes.” Detective Hughes cleared his phlegm-filled throat. “I’m here to ask you some questions about the disappearance of Sasha Rodriguez.” He rubbed his hands over his face and then opened his eyes wide, as if working to stay awake. His hands were large and callused, and all of his nails had been bitten to the quick. They were still shaking. It was a small movement, but it was undeniable. He cleared his throat again. “How long have you worked for the Rodriguezes?”

  “About five and a half months,” I said. “A little bit after my mom and I moved down here.”

  The detective nodded. “And how well would you say that you know the family?”

  I shrugged. “Pretty well. I mean, I babysit for Sasha every weekend.”

  Mrs. Diaprollo tucked a stray hair behind her ear and then folded her hands, watching us both like she was observing a tennis match.

  “Did you ever notice anything strange or unusual about Sasha?” Hughes asked, pulling a notepad out of his jacket pocket. He set it next to his soda can, but didn’t make any move to write anything down.

  Strange or unusual? “What do you mean?”

  “For example, would she sometimes get upset or cry?”

  I laughed once. “Well, yeah. I mean, she was nine. Nine-year-olds sometimes cry. You know?”

  Mrs. Diaprollo looked at the detective, who nodded and then reached inside the same jacket pocket and pulled out a small circle-shaped packet. He ripped it open and poured it into the soda can. It was Gas-B-Gone.

  The Diet Splash fizzled for a moment.

  “What about Mr. Rodriguez? Ever notice anything unusual about him?”

  “I…” I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  Hughes took a long gulp of his drink and set it down shakily on the table. Without any explanation or segue, the detective launched into another question. “Did you ever observe Mr. Rodriguez punishing Sasha?”

  “I guess,” I said. “I mean, when Sasha broke the rules, Mr. Rodriguez would send her to her room for a time-out.”

  “Did Mr. Rodriguez ever go into Sasha’s room with her?”

  Mrs. Diaprollo repositioned herself in her seat like she was starting to get uncomfortable.

  “Well, obviously. I mean, he’s her dad.” I shook my head, hoping I’d misunderstood. I felt my cheeks start to heat. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  Hughes didn’t bother looking up at me but simply plodded on with the questions, his voice almost mechanical. “When he went into Sasha’s room, did Mr. Rodriguez ever close the door?”

  “Oh, come on,” I
exclaimed. “Really?” I laughed, but it was a humorless sound. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Please answer the question,” Hughes replied.

  I tried to stay calm. “Yeah. And so did Carmen. And so did I.”

  “Did Mr. Rodriguez ever touch Sasha inappropriately?”

  “No!”

  “Did Mr. Rodriguez ever touch you inappropriately?”

  “What? Absolutely not!” I laughed my surprise again, then looked at Mrs. Diaprollo, but she was busy staring at the tops of her nails.

  “Did Mr. Rodriguez ever touch your leg?”

  Okay, now he was really pissing me off. “Seriously?” I asked.

  Hughes took another sip of his drink. “Please answer the question.”

  “No, he didn’t touch my leg.”

  “Did he ever touch you on the rear?”

  “My lord,” I said. “I know what inappropriate means. He didn’t touch me inappropriately. He didn’t touch me anywhere at all—ever!”

  Hughes nodded. “Did he ever touch your—?”

  At this, Mrs. Diaprollo cut him off, slamming her hands down on the table with surprising force, as she sat up pin straight in her chair. “Detective, Skylar knows what inappropriate means, and her answer was no. I think this has been established.”

  And just like that, old stuffy Diaprollo earned some serious points in my book.

  There was a moment of brief silence. Hughes sat back just slightly and retrieved a manila folder from his pile of paperwork. He opened it and slid the contents across the table to me. Tapping his callused finger on the glossy paper, he looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed and serious.

  I looked down. It was a picture of Sasha, Edmund, and me. Carmen had taken it one evening, right before the two grown-ups left for the movies. Sasha and I had just come out of the pool, and we still had our bathing suits on. Mr. Rodriguez stood between us, his arms slung loosely around our shoulders. I remembered the moment clearly, because Carmen had told us all to make funny faces. We’d laughed the first time we’d seen the photo.

  I wasn’t laughing now.

  “Ms. Reid, can you please identify the people in this photograph?”

  I shook my head, because, again, I knew where he was going. Yes, in this picture, Edmund was touching me. “This is effed up.” Only I didn’t say effed. I used the full f-bomb.

  Mrs. Diaprollo groaned a little as if it had physically wounded her, but she kept her mouth shut.

  The detective began to repeat himself. “Can you please identify—”

  “I know what you’re trying to do.” I bit my lip. “You’re making Edmund look like a bad guy, but he’s not—”

  Hughes interrupted me. “Did Mr. Rodriguez request that you address him familiarly by using his first name?”

  I felt the room getting smaller and smaller. For everything I said to try to clear up the situation, the detective had a counter-question that made it sound ten times worse.

  This time, I thought before I spoke. “Both Carmen and Edmund said it was okay to call them by their first names,” I replied. “Ed…Mr. Rodriguez…is a nice man. He treated me like family.”

  Hughes finally took a pen out of his pocket and picked up his notepad. His chin was rough with stubble, and he scratched the side of his jaw with the closed pen before popping off the cap and scribbling something down. Then he rubbed his eyes and turned a page of his notepad. Throughout the entire string of questions, Hughes failed to make eye contact with me for more than a few seconds at a time.

  He didn’t care.

  He was too tired to care.

  I felt my face get hotter, and I swallowed hard.

  “Are you aware of any problems that Mr. Rodriguez has been having lately? With money or…?”

  “No!” I wanted to stop talking about Edmund! Sasha’s disappearance had nothing to do with him! She was still out there, somewhere, and this idiot was just wasting everyone’s time. “Why don’t you ask him about that? I’m sure if you just talked to him for two minutes, you’d see that—”

  “We’re unable to talk to him,” the detective informed me. “He’s been missing since Monday night.”

  “What?” Edmund was missing too? Monday was the night Sasha had vanished! “Maybe he’s with Sasha,” I said excitedly. “Maybe…”

  But my voice trailed off as Detective Hughes looked up at me. And I realized Hughes thought that Edmund had kidnapped Sasha. Or worse.

  “No,” I said. “That’s crazy.” My voice shook despite my attempt to stay calm. “Mr. Rodriguez loves his daughter. He would never do anything to hurt her.”

  Mrs. Diaprollo nodded, although I wasn’t sure if she was agreeing with me or simply urging the interview forward.

  Hughes clenched his jaw, deliberately not looking up at me. He scribbled something down and continued. “Did Sasha ever talk about monsters coming into her room late at night?”

  I thought about the image I saw in Sasha’s room, the night she turned up missing. And I thought about the nightmares that scared her—the ones that she talked about with me sometimes before I tucked her in. But I knew that wasn’t what he meant. “No.”

  “Did you ever observe Mr. Rodriguez touching Sasha?”

  Back to this again. I looked down at the picture of all of us making funny faces for Carmen. “Obviously, yes.”

  “Okay. That’s all the questions we have for now.”

  I was livid, because I knew he was going to use my statement, my yes, as some kind of twisted proof that Edmund had done terrible things to Sasha. “You know if you do this, if you blame Mr. Rodriguez, then the people who really kidnapped Sasha will go free. We’ll never find her, never get her back!”

  Hughes looked up at me, and for a fraction of a moment I saw something in his eyes—sorrow, or maybe sympathy or regret. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by that defeated fatigue. He took a business card out of his pocket and slid it across the table to me. Then he took the picture and placed it back in the manila folder. “If you think of anything else that pertains to this case, please call this number.”

  I couldn’t breathe. “You have to believe me,” I insisted. “Edmund didn’t kidnap Sasha! He would never hurt her!”

  Hughes glanced at me again with raised eyebrows. I had called Mr. Rodriguez Edmund again.

  This wasn’t fair! This wasn’t fair!

  And then, just like that, from atop the conference desk, Detective Hughes’s soda can launched into the air and exploded.

  Chapter Four

  “So let me get this straight,” Calvin said, taking a bite of his peanut butter and banana sandwich. “You actually witnessed the dickhead cop get super-soaked by a can of soda as Mrs. Disapproval shrieked and moaned?”

  I smiled wanly as I nodded. “More importantly, they haven’t found Sasha,” I said, picking at my granola bar, “and they’re making the most ridiculous assumptions.”

  The midday air was unseasonably cool. Calvin and I ate our lunch outside at picnic tables by the quad, our faces warmed by the sun overhead. Birds chirped in the trees.

  Calvin chewed and thought. “So according to Detective Inappropriate, Edmund is their main suspect.”

  I nodded. Calvin had special skills in finding the perfect nickname for just about everyone.

  “What if this whole thing is one big miscommunication?” he asked me. “I’m sure when they talk to Edmund, they’ll be able to clear this up.”

  “If they find him.” I shook my head miserably. “It’s like they’re hell-bent on framing him. MF-ers,” I added.

  I nibbled a little at the granola bar, but my appetite had vanished back when Hughes had asked, “Did he touch you on the rear?”

  Calvin somehow knew what I was thinking. “Did he touch you on the box? Did he touch you with a fox?”

  I laughed despite myself as Cal reached around and grabbed his backpack from where it hung on one arm of his wheelchair. He rummaged through it and grabbed a water bottle from the bottom
. Twisting the top, he took a sip, and then scrunched up his face.

  “Ugh,” Calvin said. “Lukewarm.” He smiled sweetly. “Sky, would you pretty please with a cherry on top get me a soda from the cafeteria? I’ll pay you back.”

  I dug in my back pocket for my debit card. “Yes, dear.”

  “Thank you kindly,” he said, and worked more on his sandwich.

  I trudged toward the lunchroom.

  Since my first day at Coconut Key Academy, I had managed to avoid eating lunch inside. I always brought my lunch from home—Mom’s crazy rule number 4008—and even on rainier days, I preferred sitting underneath the quad’s gazebo rather than dealing with the lunchtime mob. Calvin had always opted for an outside lunch seat as well, and that’s how we’d met on my first day last spring.

  So when I opened the door to the cafeteria to grab Calvin’s soda, I realized that this was the first time I had ever set foot in the crowded room.

  And boy, did it smell! Not just pizza, fish, hot peppers, grease, stale juice. But also gasoline, baby powder, chlorine bleach, sour milk, burning plastic… And that terrible, unmistakable smell that only came from a bug frying in a halogen lamp.

  The stenches bombarded me from all angles. I coughed a little, walking by tables filled with kids laughing and eating.

  The soda and snack machines were in the far corner. I spotted Kim from band class. She was sitting at the same table as Amanda Green, Calvin’s crush. Three other girls looked up at me as I walked by their table. They were all in similar garb…lots of eyeliner and piercings. The goths and misfits.

  Next to them were four scrawny-looking boys, complete with acne and glasses. Rather than eat, they were all poring over a textbook, conversing quietly. I noticed them look up at me for a moment before returning to their studying. A brute-looking boy walked by in a Coconut Key Tornadoes jersey. He flicked the smallest nerd in the back of the head and then took a bow for all of his friends who were watching and laughing.

  I turned to see who his friends were. The jocks. They were huddled together, a good fifteen or twenty of them, monopolizing the largest tables close to the windows. Every boy sitting there wore orange and black, the football team’s colors. Some of the girls wore cheerleader outfits, while others were decked out in denim miniskirts, polo shirts, and way too much jewelry. There was a lot of long, blond hair going on.