“Just fix me up with your first aid kit. No hospitals.”
“I can patch you up a little, but nothing in this kit is going to hide what happened to your face. They’ll see you in the morning, anyway.”
“I’ll deal with it in the morning. Let them sleep.”
“Did Brent do this?”
“Is that what Dacey told you? What else did he say?”
I’m slightly wounded that Marco’s reluctance to let Reginald drive me home had nothing to do with jealousy. He just didn’t want me to learn his secrets.
“He didn’t need to tell me. In fact, he wouldn’t tell me anything, though he clearly knows more than I do, which is kind of sad. He isn’t the one you’re dating,” I say, dabbing his bleeding lip with gauze.
“Ow, that hurts.”
“Sorry. Here, put this on your cheek to keep down the swelling,” I say, handing him one of those crush-to-activate cold packs. “Here’s another one for your hand. So it was the other two, from downtown, after the movie.”
“Those were just muggers.”
“Please. Did you forget who you’re talking to? They work for Brent, don’t they?”
“No, they don’t work for Brent, and I know exactly who I’m talking to and what you’ll do next. You’ll want to get involved, start an investigation, and you can’t.”
“Involved in what? You keep using that word but won’t tell me what it means.”
“It’s safer you not know.”
“Marco, I appreciate that you want to protect me from whatever is going on, but we’re together, and that means—”
“No, we’re not together. Not now.”
“What?”
“Chanti, I won’t let anyone hurt you. I can’t be the reason anything but good happens to you.”
Marco looks at me, right into me, and I know this is serious. Seriously bad, and his words have the exact opposite effect he was hoping for. Now I absolutely have to know what’s going and how I can help him.
“Look, we can get through this, whatever it is, together. And if it’s scary bad, I have my very own cop at my disposal, with the weight of the whole Denver PD—”
“No police. That’s the worst thing you can do. I need to work this out for myself. It’s time for you to go home now,” he says, getting out of the car.
He walks back to his house and up the porch steps like an old man carrying a far too heavy load. I watch him go inside before I pull away. You know those moments when it feels like the whole world as you know it has ended, and you know in your heart that even if everything around you looks the same, nothing ever will be again? This was one of those moments.
*
When I get home, I expect to find Lana in the living room waiting for me, and I’m surprised when she isn’t. At least I dodged that problem. I need to focus, try to make sense of everything that just happened. My bedroom looks the way I left it, the posters on my wall are the same, the outfit I wore to the game is still slung across the back of my desk chair, but I hardly recognize any of it. How could Marco say we aren’t us anymore?
Lana appears at my door. I guess she was awake, after all.
“Where were you?”
Before I can say anything, she answers for me.
“Let me guess. You snuck out to be with Marco.”
Lana’s holding my phone. I didn’t even realize I’d left it at home until now. She must have heard me leaving and found the phone on my nightstand before the five-minute auto-lock was set.
“I see you didn’t have to guess.”
“You tried to reach him, he didn’t respond, so you went looking for him.”
“That’s proof it isn’t what you think. I was worried about him. I didn’t sneak out ‘to be with him.’ I’m not you, and he isn’t my father. You told me that once, remember?”
“Then tell me what has you so worried and I won’t have to draw my own conclusions.”
“Not now, Mom.”
Lana backs down, which surprises me. Her tone is softer when she says, “Is Marco in some kind of trouble?”
That doesn’t surprise me, her ability to make truth out of thin air. She is a detective.
“No questions. I can’t handle any questions right now.”
“Later, then. But if you need to talk, or if he’s in some kind of trouble, let me help.”
“Okay.”
“And if it’s some real trouble, you’d better tell me, because his problems will surely pull you along.”
“I will, Mom,” I say, but I don’t mean it. Not yet, anyway. I just want her to leave, which she does. But now that she’s gone, I have to decipher all the stuff swirling in my head: Brent’s threats; the fight in the gym; the pretend-mugging; his face tonight; but mostly the words We’re not together.
Chapter 15
I went to sleep sad but woke up angry, and spent pretty much the whole weekend that way. At least Lana left me alone, not asking any questions though I know it’s just a matter of time. You’d think I’d be mad at whoever has scared Marco away, but no, I’m mad at Marco. What he said Friday night about only bringing good things to me was totally sweet, but it’s the sentiment behind it that got to me. Why is everyone hell bent on protecting me? Lana’s always been looking out for me, but I suppose that’s her job so I can cut her some slack. Then there’s my friend MJ, the last person who should be worried about me considering she’s got her own issues, like being an ex-con on probation. Even Cisco tried to get in on the act, though he did a really bad job of it and put me in more danger than I would have on my own.
Now Marco’s doing the whole “I need to protect you” game, too. I’m grateful there are people who have my back, but what makes them think I can’t take care of myself? Was it the theft ring I broke up, the mob hit I thwarted, or the gangster I sent to jail? Yeah, I got a little help from my friends, but clearly, I can handle my business and Marco is about to be reminded of that.
It meant leaving the house later and missing first period, but this morning I made a stop at the big office supply store along my bus route. Fortunately Lana had early stakeout duty so she was gone long before I normally leave. It was an extra bonus that I may have thrown off Golden by not being at the bus stop at my usual time. I haven’t seen her since that snowy morning, but it doesn’t mean she isn’t still watching me. Since I live with one, I’m well aware undercover cops make it their job to go unnoticed. You only know they’re around when they want you to, which is why I’m sure Golden was making a point that morning. I suspect I won’t have to wait much longer to find out what her point was.
At the supply store, I found exactly what I was looking for quickly enough to make the next bus. That’s where I am now, writing all kinds of incriminating stuff in my brand-new little black journal. Who am I trying to incriminate? No one really, but I hope it will confirm a suspicion I have.
Brent Carmody is in my study hall and I always notice him writing in a little black book exactly like this one. It’s nothing like any notebook kids carry around school, not a spiral or three-ring binder, but bound with a spine like a hardcover book. It’s distinctive enough for my little plan to work. I’m guessing it’s his client transaction list, whether he’s selling drugs or loans or something else altogether. I’m pretty sure it isn’t anything he wants the world to know about since he’s always hunched over it behind a wall of books he stacks on his study table. I’m also confident Brent and his thuggish friends are behind Marco’s beat-down. If they aren’t, that means Marco has a lot of enemies.
Speaking of, I expect my boyfriend—notice I didn’t say ex because I wasn’t hearing any of what Marco was talking last night—will be avoiding me all day, so I don’t even hang out by his locker when I arrive at Langdon just a few minutes before the end of first period. That’s cool by me. I need to get in a little investigating between classes today. Instead, I wait outside second period study hall so I can catch the teacher as soon as she walks in. She must have a planning period or something befo
re study hall, because she always gets here right after the bell. She doesn’t disappoint me today.
“Ms. Hemphill, I found this journal in study hall yesterday. I thought it might belong to a student in this class.”
“Thank you. Just leave it on the desk and I’ll ask about it after the bell,” she says without looking up. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for.
“I would have taken it to lost and found, but I was a little concerned with the contents, so . . .”
That does the trick. Ms. Hemphill looks up from grading papers, takes the notebook from me, and opens it. By the time I reach my study table, she already looks like she’s about to freak.
I pick a study table in the very back so I’ll be able to watch the show in which I’ve just cast Brent. He takes his usual seat at a table in the back row, right next to mine, but not before giving me the evil eye. Hmph—I ain’t scurred. Not much, anyway. I’m in the perfect spot to watch his reaction, and I don’t have to wait very long for it. Poor Ms. Hemphill can hardly hold out for the bell before she stands up in front of the class and holds up the book.
“Does this book belong to anyone?”
Brent looks confused at first, then as freaked out as Ms. Hemphill did a few minutes ago, and shoots his hand up immediately. What he doesn’t do is check his bag to make sure he hadn’t actually lost the book, as I’d hoped. That means he knew he didn’t have the book on him and I won’t get a chance to try to lift it while he leaves the room, because he and Ms. Hemphill will definitely be leaving the room in a second.
“I’d like to talk to you outside,” the teacher says, right on cue.
I’m thinking they’ll be gone a while since I wrote in the book that its owner had been crushing on Ms. Hemphill since ninth grade, that he fantasized about her every day during study hall when he should be doing homework, and how he’d finally decided to make his move and profess his love to her this week, right in the middle of study hall. My plan worked perfectly, but it is a waste all the same because Brent obviously doesn’t have his book on him.
That’s something I didn’t think about until now—why did he hold up his hand? If the book contains something really incriminating, he probably wouldn’t have admitted it was his. But he did look like he was about to burst a neck vein when Ms. Hemphill held it. If the book is a client list, my guess is Brent records the names and payments of customers in some kind of code only he understands in case he ever really loses it. It would be pretty old school, but maybe he doesn’t trust technology.
He had been texting when he walked into class, and I notice he left his phone on his desk. A secretive guy like Brent would definitely have it password-protected, so I have to move fast. There is nothing smooth about the way I lift his phone. Luckily, we’re the only ones in the back row. Apparently Brent is so scary, no one dares sit in the same row, even though that’s prime study hall real estate. I guess that’s why he gave me that look when he walked in and found me there. Or maybe he did it because he knows I’m Marco’s girlfriend. If he hates Marco so much, I imagine he hates me by association.
I’m able to get the phone before it times out into the security lock and send out a quick text. My plan is to scroll through his call log and texts, but the classroom door opens just as I delete my message from his sent history. I get Brent’s phone back onto his table just as he walks in, but I realize I didn’t send it to the locked screen. He was gone a couple of minutes, which I’m guessing is long enough for the phone to be locked by now. Oh, phone, please, please lock before he gets back here. Fortunately Ms. Hemphill keeps Brent at her desk a moment longer while she writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to him.
When she dismisses him, Brent turns to the class. All eyes are on him, even the kids in the study rooms have gotten out of their seats to see what’s going on. He looks around the entire classroom, making every pair of eyes watching him so closely just seconds ago turn away, pretending to be reading textbooks and papers. Every pair but mine. I was so busy watching his reaction, I forgot to hide my own. Brent and I lock eyes. I’m cute but I think he’s staring me down for a whole different reason. Dude looks pissed. I’m certain he didn’t catch me with his phone, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to stare me to death.
*
As soon as last bell rings, I make a quick trip to my locker before heading to the library. When I turn the corner of the shelves in the 600 section, I can tell Marco is surprised to see me. I register a whole range of emotions on his face before he says a word: surprise, confusion, relief, anger.
“I should have known it wasn’t Brent. He would never ask to meet in the library.”
“I thought you’d only meet him if it was somewhere private, but not too private. Clever how I specified the table near section 620, huh? Memorizing the Dewey Decimal system in fifth grade finally paid off.”
“This isn’t a game,” Marco says, taking the seat across from me.
“I worried it might give me away, but I figured that would be the last thing on your mind considering it was Brent demanding a meeting.”
“Except it wasn’t Brent who texted me. How did you get access to his phone?”
I smile at him and place my hands over his. “You know how I do.”
“Do you hear me, Chanti? This isn’t a game. You have no idea.”
“So enlighten me. You keep saying you’re not into something with Brent, but this proves you are.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I need to decide . . . don’t you ever wish for a do-over? That’s what I need, a do-over. Unless you know a way to turn back time, you can’t help me.”
“Maybe I can, even without a time machine, if you’d just let me in. That’s why I’m here, to find out the truth, why you’re willing to meet a guy who hurt you the way Brent did.”
“I was serious about what I said last night,” Marco says, rising from the table.
I grab his arm.
“You being here now tells me that whatever’s going on with Brent is important enough for you to continue engaging with him despite that black eye you’re wearing.”
Marco gives up on leaving and sits again, putting both hands flat on the table. He’s calm for the first time since he saw me waiting for him instead of Brent. He says nothing, just looks down at his hands. The gesture makes me think he’s about to open up, that he may be thinking of the right words to say, so I continue, hoping to help him along.
“But it’s also bad enough to keep you from wanting anyone else to know about it, including me. It’s not a big deal that Brent loaned you money for your car. If he’s charging crazy interest, that’s all the more reason to let me help you pay it back. Otherwise, he’ll keep beating you until he gets his money.”
“It isn’t about the money. Like I said last night, I’m not keeping the truth from you because it’s a big dark secret. I’m doing it to protect—”
“Protect me, I know. Maybe I don’t need or want to be protected. Maybe what I want is to help you out of whatever this is. Because if your life is screwed up, mine is, too. And if this thing keeps you from me, then it’s as much my problem as yours.”
“It isn’t anyone’s problem but mine, and I’ll fix it myself,” Marco says, standing so fast he knocks the chair over behind him, and doesn’t bother to pick it up. “I’m warning you, Chanti. Stay the hell out of it.”
When the librarian comes to see what’s up with the angry, raving guy who used to be my sweet and perfect boyfriend, he accidentally knocks her in the shoulder trying to get through the narrow stacks and away from me. He doesn’t bother to apologize, either. I pick up the chair and apologize for him.
“Sorry about all the fuss, ma’am.”
“What’s going on back here?”
“I think my boyfriend just broke up with me, for real this time.”
“Well, if that little display was any indication, I’d say he did you a favor. Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine. He’s just upset, b
ut he’s really a great guy.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. At least one other person would agree with me considering what they did to his face. I might have Headmistress Smythe talk with him. What’s his name?”
“No, please, Ms. Woodson. Everything’s fine, really,” I say, hoping my lie does a better job convincing her than it is convincing me.
Chapter 16
I wasn’t getting anywhere pushing Marco to tell me the truth, so I gave him a day off from questioning. As he asked—more like demanded—in the library yesterday, I’ve stayed away. When I passed him in the hall between fifth and sixth, I caught him watching me and I knew the last thing he wanted was for us to be apart. He even paused for just a second, like he was going to stop, grab me, and not let go, but he didn’t. It’s okay. Hopefully I’ve convinced him I’m going to lie low when I plan to do anything but.
When I get off the bus on Center Street, I’m so into thinking up my plan that I don’t notice the man sitting inside the bus shelter. He whistles and I assume it’s a loser trying to make some play. Normally I just ignore these guys. They’re always old enough to be my father and never, ever a cute boy—not that I’m on the market for a cute boy since I already have one, even if he is up to no good and lying to me about it. But I’m in a mood, ready to curse out whoever is foolish enough to mess with me today. When I turn around to give this dude a piece of my mind, I’m the one who gets a fright.
“Cisco?”
“Long time no see, Chanti.”
“Not because of me,” I say, joining him in the shelter. “You’re the one who went running off in the middle of a conversation, not to be seen or heard from in months. But I knew you were back.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Everyone thinks you’re in jail, but of course, I know who you really are.”
When a guy looks like he’s about to enter the shelter, Cisco gives him a look that makes him keep walking to the stop on the next block.
Guys, Lies & Alibis Page 8
