I seriously think I might stroke out. "What? I don't know what that is!"
"Oh my God, have you been studying the wrong handbook?"
I scrabble in my backpack. "I don't know!"
Maybe they gave you an out-of-date handbook. Oh, you are so screwed."
"Blake!" calls my mom.
"What is it?" I think I might cry. "Just tell me what it is." I grab my DMV handbook and peer at it frantically. "This is the one they gave me!"
"Okay." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Listen carefully. The Rule of Lug Nuts is ... whoever has the most lug nuts rules the road." He claps me on the shoulder and walks away, calling, "Good luck!"
***
Mom lets me drive home, my brand-new state-issued temporary driver's license resting in my wallet.
Except for turning too wide around a corner where some construction workers were tearing up the road with jackhammers, then swerving a little to avoid oncoming traffic ... I think it went well. Hey, I passed the test. Who cares about the score?
I stop at the grocery store, and Mom buys a chocolate cake, to celebrate.
When we get home, she makes chicken curry for dinner, with lots of side dishes in case Marissa doesn't like it.
But Marissa has a second helping during dinner, saying shyly, "This is really good. What kind of food did you say this was again?"
"Thanks, honey. It's called curry. Indian food. The rice is called biryani."
"Mm."
Garrett is sitting across from Marissa, looking bored. He's always kind of lost on Friday nights once football season ends. I haven't seen Cappie around here lately, either.
The phone rings and Dad glances at the caller ID. "Work," he says, going into the other room with the phone.
Garrett looks after him. "Dad's on call this weekend?"
"Yes," says Mom. "Do you want more carrots, Marissa?"
"No, thanks."
Dad walks back into the room. He hangs up the phone and sits down.
Garrett watches him.
"You're up, big guy," says Dad.
"YES!" Garrett actually jumps out of his chair and pumps his fist in the air. "When? Tonight?"
"No. It's getting kind of late in the day. We'll go in tomorrow."
"Man! I can't wait! Are you sure we can't go in tonight?"
It's hard to believe that these two are talking about cutting up a body; it sounds more like a movie premiere.
"You'll be fresher if you get some sleep tonight."
"How am I going to sleep?"
My dad beams: the proud papa of his cadaver-craving firstborn. "You know what? I'll have you go in early tomorrow to get started, just like I would with any other diener. I'll join you after you've had time to take some tissue samples."
Marissa looks from Garrett to my dad in puzzlement.
"Really?" Garrett may have to be sedated. "What have we got?"
My dad glances at Marissa and my mom.
"Russ," says my mom. "We don't need to hear—"
"They're talking about my dad's job," I explain to Marissa. "He's a medical examiner."
"Oh, right," she says. "It's okay. You can talk about it. I mean, you don't have to act different just because I'm here."
"Sure, Dad, go ahead," I say. "Why should we have normal dinner conversation just because we have company? "
My sarcasm flies right over his bushy head, and he says matter-of-factly, "It's a female gunshot victim."
"Errrgh," I groan.
"Wow!" says Garrett. You would think my dad just said, "It's a Ford GT 40, and it's all yours."
"Yep. Very similar to a case I had not long ago. The police, uh, delivered the fatal bullets. She was a transient. Probably a tweaker. They're claiming she threatened them and that they thought she was reaching for a weapon. Turned out to be a cell phone." My dad sighs and rubs his face. "Oh, and Marissa? This is confidential information."
I can hardly bring myself to look at her. My mind has crashed into that one word.
Tweaker.
I risk a glance. Marissa nods and sets down her fork. Her gaze moves to the window and her hands twist in her lap.
I widen my eyes at my mom. She looks distressed, too.
"Let's change the subject," she says. She must not have told my dad about Marissa's mom, or he wouldn't be talking about dead tweakers.
***
After dinner I load the dishes in the dishwasher while Marissa sits at the kitchen table working on my laptop. I can see that she's cropping photos and fixing stuff like color levels and sharpness.
"I'll be back in a minute," I say. I call Shannon from my room, and we chat for a little while. She's out with Dez and Ellie, but I think she likes the fact that I called, even though Marissa is here.
"My recital is at Sylvan Music tomorrow," she says. "Are you still coming?"
"What time does it start, again?"
Four."
"I'll be there. Well, unless my parents make me go somewhere with them."
"Okay. If I don't see you, I'll call you when it's over."
Okay, babe. Bye."
"Bye."
I wander back to the kitchen and find Marissa staring out the window again.
"How's it going?" I ask.
She turns to look at me, but she doesn't act like she sees me. "What?"
"I said how's it going?"
"Good." She focuses on the laptop again. A photo of flowers in buckets at the farmers' market fills the screen. It's not my kind of subject, but even I can see that it's beautiful; the colors are really rich, and the way some of the flowers are lit by the sun and others are in shade make it a nice layered shot. Marissa edits out someone's leg at the edge of the frame and says, "Blake?"
"Mm-hm?"
"How would someone find out, like a member of the public ... how would someone find out about that woman your dad was talking about?"
Marissa!"
"Blake," she says, her shoulders slumping. "I'm freaking out."
It's not her."
"How do you know? Is there a way we can find out?"
I raise my hands up. "Mariss! Stop. It's not her. You are freaking out."
"Just tell me! Is there a way we can find out? Like, look at the name on the chart or something?"
"What, go down to the office and start looking through their files? Right! My dad said she was a transient. If she didn't have any ID, then she's a Jane Doe."
We frown at each other.
"Besides," I add, "your mom doesn't even have a cell phone, does she?"
"I don't know," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I have no idea. But it's possible."
And that's the thing. It is possible.
***
Even after my mom drives Marissa home, I can't stop thinking about what she said. She's infected me with her insanity.
It's not her, I think. Don't be stupid. There must be hundreds of homeless tweakers roaming the streets. What are the odds that it would be Marissa's mom?
I lie down on the bed to read. We're studying Huck Finn now. I open the book and read a few pages before I realize I'm not taking in any of the story.
She's gone missing before, I think. She must be able to take care of herself or she would have been dead a long time ago.
Shit. Maybe I should go with Garrett and Dad tomorrow.
I toss my book across the room and sit up. And then what? Say, "Guys! Do you mind if I check out this corpse before you cut her up? Thanks!"
Yeah. That would work.
Dad didn't say how old the victim was; for all we know, she's twenty years old. Or sixty!
Maybe we should call Marissa's grandmother.
No! I punch my pillow. I have to stop thinking like this. Just because Marissa is flipping her pixels doesn't mean we have to drag Grandma Mary into it.
I pull my blanket up over my shoulders. The dead woman in the cold room won't get out of my head.
***
"Garrett."
"Studly."
"Can I ask you something?"
He's so buzzed he's practically making honey. "Shoot." He's folding a shirt and setting it on top of a pair of jeans on his dresser. Ohmygod, he's picking out clothes for tomorrow, as if he's got a date.
"Is there a way—"
No."
No?"
"No, you can't borrow my car."
"What? No! I don't want to borrow your car. God! Not everything is about your car, Garrett."
"Good. Now that you've got your license, I'm just heading you off at the pass, pardner. There won't be any borrowing my car. So what do you want?" He tosses a pair of socks on top of the shirt.
I scowl at him. All of this heading me off at the pass has messed with my concentration. "I was trying to ask," I say, "If there's a way to find out how old someone is? Someone who's been brought into the morgue."
He adds a pair of underwear to the stack of clothes. "What do you mean? We determine the age during the exam."
I get a visual of rings on a tree stump, and shake my head. "No, I mean before."
Before what?"
Before the exam."
"Scrof, what the hell are you talking about?"
I exhale and say, "All right, look. That woman that Dad was talking about? The one that's your case tomorrow?"
"Yeah?"
"Is there a way to find out how old she is? Like, before you do anything to her?"
He stares at me.
"Because Marissa thinks—" I scrub both hands through my hair in frustration. "This is completely crazy, okay? But she thinks it might be—"
Garrett raises his eyebrows.
"Her mom."
Garrett squints at me, as if trying to judge whether or not I'm testing a new joke on him. After a long minute, he must be satisfied that I'm as serious as a heart attack, because he says, "Why would she think that?"
"Because her mom's a nut job. I mean, she has problems. Drug problems."
"Ah."
Wow, Garrett sounds just like Mom when he says that one syllable.
"Also, she's missing."
"Missing as in a missing person?"
"Well, yeah. But the police won't file a formal report, because of her history. She's disappeared before for, like, long periods of time."
I have Garrett's full attention now. "What's her poison?"
"Huh? Oh. Meth."
"How long has she been missing?" Now Garrett looks clinical, like Dad, asking questions in that matter-of-fact tone.
"I don't know. A few days? A week?"
"I see. And you want to find out how old the woman is so you can rule out Marissa's mother?"
"Yes."
He nods. "And what if she's the right age?"
I sit down on his bed.
"Anyway, it can't be done. After we do the exam, we'll know more about the case. And if Marissa has valid reasons for thinking it's her mom, she'll have to contact the police."
"Garrett, man."
"What?" he says, an edge to his voice.
"She's my friend! And she's so scared it's her stupid mom."
"Yeah, I get it. But what else can she do?"
I don't want to say it.
But I say it. "Maybe I should look at her."
His eyes bug out. "Who? The case?"
I can't say anything else. I can't even nod.
"Get out," he says, and opens the door to his room.
***
I feel bad for killing my brother's happy diener buzz.
I'm in my room, and I can hear him stomping around next door in his room.
It was a stupid idea. I don't want to look at a dead body, anyway! I probably wouldn't even recognize if it was Marissa's mother. Do faces collapse and get weird in death? I can't picture Marissa's mom right now. All I can remember about her is her bilge breath and her tattoos.
Wait. Her tattoos. I would remember those, wouldn't I? Didn't she have something on her neck? I think about scrolling through my photos, but then I remember all her tats were covered up when I took her picture at Marissa's. And what if she's gotten new tattoos over the old ones? Do people do that?
Why did Marissa have to come over tonight? I think. Why can't my dad talk about current events during dinner?
My bedroom door bangs open.
"So are you saying you want to come with me tomorrow?"
I shake my head. "Nope. Never mind."
"Good." Garrett walks a few steps away and comes back to the doorway. "Because people can't just waltz into the state medical examiner's office and ogle the cadavers."
"I said never mind!"
He clomps downstairs.
I locate Huck Finn on the floor and decide the floor looks good enough for me. I flop down on my back and open the book. I manage to read a whole chapter before Garrett comes back.
"Dad would never let you."
"Jesus, I said never mind."
"It's the kind of thing we'd have to sneak in to do."
I close the book.
We lock eyes, Garrett staring down at me with a tight look on his face, me goggling up at him.
Finally I break the silence. "When?"
He paces. "You can't come with me tomorrow. Dad would find out and I'd—" He shakes his head and says, almost to himself, "I'd probably be banned from working at the ME's office."
"So then when would we—?"
"It would have to be tonight."
A weird little quiver starts in my legs and moves up my body. I sit up and cross my arms. "You know what? I really appreciate it, but you're probably right. We can't risk it."
"What? Now you don't want to?"
I shake my head. "I'm not sure I could positively ID her."
He throws up his hands. "Then why the hell did you bring it up in the first place?"
I'm sorry."
"What about your friend being so worried? What are you going to tell her?"
"I don't know. I can't think." I put my head in my hands. "Marissa would know if it was her mom, but—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Garrett pats the air in a STOP motion right above my head. "Stand on the brakes, man. Are you saying a third person would be involved?"
"No. Well, yes. If I can't ID her, then it would have to be someone close to her. We can't ask her grandma. It would have to be Marissa."
"You're on crack," he says, and leaves.
He doesn't come back this time.
As I crawl into bed later, I'm ashamed to realize I'm glad he said no.
***
"Blake."
Dark.
"Wake up, man." Someone is shaking my shoulder.
I jolt awake.
Garrett is standing next to my bed.
"What?" I mumble.
"Get up," he says, and the look on his face doesn't allow for questions.
I push back my covers and sit on the edge of the bed in my boxers, shivering. My mouth is gunky and dry. I need a drink of water.
"Get dressed. Meet me downstairs," he says, and leaves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Make your peace with waking up early. The early bird gets the good light.
Of course, so does the late afternoon bird, but why limit yourself
to beautiful slanting light once a day?
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography
I throw on my jeans and a sweatshirt. I grab a pair of sneaks and tiptoe down the stairs. It's dark. I don't know if it's midnight or four a.m. Where is Garrett? There's no light on anywhere. "Here, man."
I jump. I peer through the darkness and see Garrett standing by the front door.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"Five. Put your shoes on." He opens the front door. It's pitch-black outside, too, no porch light.
I stuff my feet into my shoes, and Garrett hands me my jacket.
"I put your cell in your pocket," he says.
"Okay." I step outside onto the porch, next to him, and he closes the door quietly.
"It's good that you're not asking a bunch of questions," he says
. "Because if I have to talk about this, I might change my mind."
I immediately want to ask a bunch of questions. What about Mom and Dad? They're going to wonder where we are when they wake up. What about Marissa? Are we actually going to the morgue?
Through some miracle I manage to clap a mental hand over my mouth and follow him out to the car.
He eases the car door open and indicates that I should get in. "Just crawl over to the passenger seat," he says. "I don't want to have to close more than one door. It'll be bad enough starting the engine. We just have to hope they don't hear it."
I do as he says.
He eases the door closed and turns the key in the ignition, wincing. The car starts, and he throws it into reverse and backs down the driveway. Usually he lets his baby warm up first.
"How do you get to your friend's house?"
"My friend's house? Oh! Marissa. Um, turn left at the corner."
I give Garrett directions. When we're halfway there, the predawn cold has woken me up enough to think, What are we doing? Is he really going to get Marissa so we can take her to the morgue? This is crazy! Marissa infected me, and now I've infected Garrett with her insanity! I plan my speech: "Garrett, man, never mind. I can't go through with it. Thanks, anyway. I don't know what I was thinking."
I stay silent. The mind-boggling stupidity of this idea is so obvious as we drive down the dark streets. But it's too late to stop now.
What I wouldn't give for a glass of water. And a TARDIS. I would go back in time and shut up about the possible identity of gunshot victims.
Garrett turns down Marissa's street and I point out the house. He drives past it and parks at the end of the street.
"Go get her," he says.
I sit there staring at him. "Go get her?" I repeat.
"I am not playing, Blake." Garrett using my given name gets me moving. He must be serious.
I get out of the car and walk down the street toward Marissa's house, trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do when I get there.
Wait. Maybe I should pretend I couldn't get her. Like, she didn't hear me calling her, or she's not there or something. Then I could tell Garrett we can abandon this deranged idea.
Next thing I know, I'm standing in front of the house trying to remember where Marissa's bedroom is. Upstairs, right? She's mentioned it's upstairs. But is it the bedroom in the front or the back? And how am I supposed to get to her? Break into the house? Throw pebbles at her window like some kind of Romeo? I put my hands on my hips, frowning.
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