Dakota looked on from the window as Hannah pedaled away on her bike. She returned to the bathroom sink and opened the stopper, watching the unicorn blood swirl down the drain into nothing.
****
When Dakota heard the Range Rover round the drive, she positioned herself at the kitchen counter, an apple in her hand, and waited. “Get ready,” she warned Gus.
The door opened, and her mother gaped at her, holding the two reusable bags of organic groceries in her newly manicured fingers. Predictability was her mother’s weakness. Well, one of them anyway.
“What the hell did you do to yourself?”
“Chill, Mom. It’s summer. It’ll wash out before school starts.” She took a casual bite of the apple, chewing slowly. As if she had all the time in the world.
“Chill? Seriously? I think you’ve been spending too much time with Hannah. Did she do this to you? This ridiculous pink hair?”
Dakota shook her head, wondering why she felt insulted. She could misbehave perfectly well on her own. She didn’t need Hannah’s help. “It’s not pink. It’s rose gold.”
“You’re supposed to be grounded. That means no friends, no phone, and definitely no . . . whatever this is. I’m calling her mother.”
“Go ahead. Or maybe you should just ask Dad to talk to her. Since they’re obviously so close.”
She hadn’t planned to say that. Of all things. She knew she’d pushed too far. But sometimes too far was the only way. Because it had been days since she’d logged on to Shadow Snoops, and she was supposed to meet Grandpa Krandel tomorrow. And as of this moment, she was still a caged bird with her wings clipped.
“What did you say?” Her mom spun her around by the arm, those manicured nails—shiny red, of course—digging into her flesh.
“Ouch, Mom. You’re hurting me. I just meant Dad’s always at the hospital, always working. He’s barely even home anymore.”
Her mom let go, tears already glossing her eyes.
They both stared at Dakota’s arm, at the little red marks there. Those half-moons that might turn into fingertip bruises. Or not. Only time would tell.
“I . . . I’m sorry.” Her mother delivered the apology to a head of kale. She’d already turned away, wiping at her cheeks and busying herself with the groceries.
Wordlessly, Dakota helped. Almond milk in the fridge. Bananas in the wooden bowl on the counter. Paper towels on the rack.
Finally, with the bags emptied, she sat on a bar stool, sniffling herself, and said it. The words she hoped would get her un-grounded. But more than that, words to get her mom back on her team. Because lately, she’d never felt more alone.
“Tyler broke up with me.”
****
Hours later, the spots on Dakota’s arm had faded, but she had her phone back and her mother’s permission to bike to the library tomorrow. Still, it wasn’t a real victory. Because her mom had felt so guilty, she hadn’t even mounted a proper protest, retrieving the phone from the master bedroom and passing it to her, not meeting her eyes. They’d barely talked about Tyler at all. Dakota had tried, but her mom seemed distracted. Not like she used to, when they could chat for hours about nothing.
After, her mother just stayed in the bedroom with the door closed. If Dakota pressed her ear to the place where the wood panel met the side jamb, she could hear her crying, so she retreated to her own bedroom. Her usual hideout, beneath the covers, headphones stuck in her ears.
It only got worse when Hannah texted.
Check this out. Dickface liked ur photo.
Dakota clicked the link, and her face appeared on the screen. Well, it was sort of her face, the raw materials anyway. But Hannah had photoshopped her into someone she hardly recognized. Her lips, fuller and redder than they’d ever been in real life. Her skin, smooth and dewy. Even her nose looked different, more regal somehow. And her boobs, her boobs, well, she actually had boobs. No pushup bra required. The caption: Sugar and spice and all things . . . naughty. Who says pink is the color of innocence?
Dakota studied the picture, cataloguing all the things she wasn’t. A flame of rage licked up to the center of her chest and burned. Of course, Tyler had liked it.
What is this? she finally texted back. I told you not to post that one.
Come on, D. I made you beautiful. Ur already up to 1,000 likes.
Disgusted with herself, she balled her hands into tight fists and slammed them into the mattress, but it didn’t help. She felt stupid for ever listening to Hannah.
Abandoning the phone on her nightstand, she padded down the hallway to her parents’ bedroom and knocked softly. When the door cracked open and her father’s beleaguered face appeared, she nearly gasped. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him. Behind him, her mother sat on the bed, head buried in her knees.
“I didn’t hear you get home,” she said. “Is Mom okay?”
“Jeez, Dakota. You really did dye it pink. What’s going on with you lately? It’s like we don’t even know you.”
Spontaneous human combustion. That’s what Dakota thought of. Charles Dickens had written about it in Bleak House, one of the books she’d read for freshman AP English last fall. And she’d googled it, fascinated. She knew now there was no such thing. Because if a body could auto-ignite, hers would’ve caught fire right then and blown up, leaving a pile of ashes at her father’s feet.
Instead, she stood there, intact, until her mother whimpered, and her father closed the door in her face.
Chapter
Sixteen
(Sunday, July 24, 2016)
Dakota leaned her head against the Jeep’s warm window and closed her eyes as her mother piloted the streets of downtown Napa. Every few seconds, Gus popped up from the backseat and stuck his snout between them, wet against Dakota’s arm. Her mom had insisted on driving her to the library—it’s too hot to ride your bike, she’d said—which Dakota concluded meant one of three things in a twisted multiple-choice test. Either her mother didn’t trust her, or she wanted to talk. Or worse, all of the above.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to the dog park? Gus and I would love to have you. Wouldn’t you, boy?”
At the mention of his name, Gus pranced forward and zeroed in on her mom’s face, his long tongue like a heat-seeking missile. Dakota grabbed him by the collar and tugged him off.
“I already told you.” Her voice sounded hard as nails, so she started again. “It’s just that I want to get a head start on my summer reading list. I heard Mr. Ryan’s no joke.” That part was true, at least. Mr. Ryan, sophomore AP English, had the reputation of being a GPA crusher.
“Well, it’s good to hear you’re still a smarty pants.”
“Mom, I dyed my hair. I didn’t get a lobotomy.”
Unexpected as a summer rainstorm, her mom’s laughter surprised her, and Dakota found herself laughing too. It had been too long since they’d had fun together. “It’s really not that bad, I guess,” her mom said, tugging at a strand of Dakota’s hair.
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
The giggling between them slowly died, leaving a strange void. A dreary silence, the exact opposite of laughter. Even Gus slumped to the seat, laying his chin to his paws.
“Are you and Dad getting a divorce?”
Her mom pulled alongside the library’s entrance and sighed deeply. Which didn’t mean no. And probably meant yes. At best, a maybe. Another multiple choice for which she had no answer.
“Why would you ask that? Is this about Tyler? Are you still upset?” She fired off the questions so fast, Dakota hardly had a chance to be properly outraged. “You’re better off without that boy. He was too old for you anyway.”
“No. It’s not about Tyler. It’s about you and Dad. The two of you are always fighting. And you seem sad all the time.”
Dak
ota felt her own eyes well with tears, and she looked away, down the sidewalk where a little girl skipped with a book in one arm and her mother beside her. Dakota wanted to feel that buoyant. To feel so happy that skipping seemed like a reasonable thing to do.
“Honey, you know Dad’s been working hard lately. Doctor Samuels retires next year, and your father thinks he’s got a shot at being the next chief oncologist. It’s really important to him.”
“More important than you and me?”
“Of course not. Relationships are complicated. They ebb and flow. But no matter what happens between your father and me, we both love you very much. I’m sorry I haven’t told you that lately. I’ve been so . . .”
Dakota cracked the passenger door, suddenly eager to escape. As much as she wanted her mom to feel bad—so, so bad—she also couldn’t bear it when she did. “Biatchy? That’s what Hannah would say.”
“I was going to say distracted.” Another sudden shower of laughter, and it helped a little. Even if it wasn’t exactly skip-worthy. “But, yes. Biatchy.”
****
Dakota wasted no time securing her computer and logging in. In exactly thirty minutes, Grandpa Krandel might show his face. And in one hour, her mom would be back from the dog park to pick her up, and she’d expect her to be holding a book from the summer reading list. Which left little time for Shadow Snoops and Chewie. Boyd. She thought of him as Boyd now.
Chewie: Long time, no talk, Birdie.
DocSherlock: It hasn’t been the same around here without you, Cagedbird. Chewie’s been sulking.
Chewie: Have not.
DocSherlock: Have so.
Chewie: Okay. Maybe a little. Where’ve you been?
Cagedbird18: Sleuthing, of course. I went to Lake Berryessa to see it for myself.
Jojo666: It’s hella freaky, right?
Cagedbird18: A little. The gopher snake didn’t help.
Jojo666: Yikes. I’d have probably dropped dead right there. The coppers would’ve thought I was #17.
Chewie: Gopher snakes are harmless, Jojo. They get a bad rap.
Jojo666: Seriously, Chewie? Are you gonna start defending Shadow Man too?
Chewie: Anyhoo . . . Birdie, I’ve been to Lake B a few times myself. I’m a local.
Dakota ignored the little zap of excitement at the base of her spine. So Boyd lived near the lake. Maybe in Napa. Maybe he even attended Napa Prep. She planned to scour her yearbook as soon as she got a chance.
DocSherlock: So did you find any clues, Cagedbird? Any bones left behind?
Dakota shuddered and rubbed her arms, chasing away her goosebumps.
Chewie: Yeah, have you shed any light on Shadow Man yet?
Chewie: *winks
Chewie: See what I did there.
Cagedbird18: No clues at the lake. Unless a creepy fisherman counts. But I watched the Donahue episode you sent. And yes, a master of puns you are.
Chewie: What’d you think?
Cagedbird18: *yawn
Cagedbird18: The 80s were so civilized.
Chewie: Hey, don’t hate. The 1980s only gave us the most epic film of all time . . .
Cagedbird18: E.T.?
Cagedbird18: Sixteen Candles?
Cagedbird18: Back to the Future?
She wondered, a little too late, if this counted as flirting.
Jojo666: Get a room, you two.
Apparently, it did.
Chewie has sent you a direct message.
Dakota opened her inbox and guffawed—then ducked to avoid the librarian’s glare—as The Empire Strikes Back movie poster loaded onto her screen. Boyd captioned it: The only sequel that’s ever outdone the original.
Beneath the picture, he’d written to her again.
Birdie,
Do you live in Napa too? I’ve been working on something—something big—and I’m dying to show someone. Well, not just anyone. You. Are you in?
Boyd (aka Chewie)
P.S. I’m not a serial killer. LOL.
Dakota logged off in a hurry, imagining her mother peering over her shoulder. She sat there, breathless, staring at her image reflected in the screen. Against the white background of the Shadow Seekers homepage, she was only a profile. A shadow herself. Behind her, the clock’s silhouette.
Frantic she’d missed it, she spun around. The hands reassured her. It was exactly one o’clock. Right on time.
Dakota left Storybook Corner and walked toward the sliding glass doors. They parted for her as she neared, and the warm air streamed in, thick and smelling of summer. It invited her, but she stepped back, and the doors closed again, sealing her inside the cold tomb of the library. She repeated the dance again, wondering why she felt so skittish. She’d wanted this, after all. Asked for it. Did her father feel this way too? One foot in one life, one foot in another.
As she stood there trying to decide—in or out, in or out—she spotted a pickup truck rumbling down the street. It didn’t belong there, with its rusted-out hood, its bald tires, and its two-tone shell, spattered with bird droppings. As if its parts had been salvaged like transplanted organs, pieced together and then left to die anyway. On the back window, someone had painted 4 SALE $500. Which seemed foolishly optimistic.
The truck slowed in front of the entrance but didn’t turn in. Even before she saw the driver—a blur of unruly gray hair and mottled skin—Dakota just knew. It had to be him.
She followed the truck with her eyes as it lumbered on, and then her feet, stumbling across the threshold and into the lot, where she stood motionless, with the heat of the asphalt radiating through the soles of her sandals. The truck and its old-man driver U-turned at the end of the street and parked one block down.
Dakota inched out further into the lot, ducking behind an SUV. The truck’s front window regarded her like the eye of a beast, grimy and cracked down the middle. In its belly, the old man. He hunkered down in his seat, watchful, his head pointed toward the library doors.
She took another step forward, revealing herself, and then another, until she came to a stop on the sidewalk and lifted her hand to wave. Still as a scarecrow, he made no moves, no sign he’d spotted her. And then, she had an awful thought.
My pink hair. What if he doesn’t recognize me?
Dakota waved again, more enthusiastically this time. Big and bold and smiling, the way she had every morning when her mom dropped her off at her kindergarten classroom. But he responded like her too-cool, high-school self, averting his eyes and ignoring her.
She approached the truck with caution, as if the sidewalk cracks were trip wires blocking the path. Her heart thumped, impossibly loud, in her ears. Like the bang of war drums. Still, it couldn’t muffle the drone of the radio announcer, his sharp voice carrying out of the truck’s open window. Her grandfather’s arm hung there too, bare fist balled tight. The rest of it, clad in the sleeve of a camouflage jacket.
In other military news around the world, thousands of Japanese citizens are protesting the presence of the United States military on the island of Okinawa, in the wake of allegations that an American contractor and former Marine raped and murdered a local woman . . .
The old man pounded the side of the truck, and Dakota startled.
“Goddamn Japs,” he muttered. “Ain’t no better than Charlie. They been on our asses since we dropped the A-bomb.”
She winced at the raw hate in his words. It contorted his face, shaped his mouth into an animal’s.
“Are you Victor Krandel?” Though who else could this be? This man who sounded as unhinged as her mother had promised. In his voice, wild and alien, she heard something familiar, and it scared her more than she wanted to admit.
“Hirohito didn’t know what hit him, did he, Mol?”
Mol? Is this a test? But his eyes were somewhere else. Far, far away.
�
��Grandpa? It’s me. Dakota.”
He looked at her, then. Intently. As if seeing her for the first time.
“Dakota. Well, hot damn. It is you. And right on time. You look just like your mama. But she never had pink hair. I can’t believe she let you get away with that.”
“She doesn’t like it.”
“I ain’t surprised. She can get a real stick up her ass sometimes, can’t she?”
Dakota laughed, but it didn’t quite reach her insides.
“I always told your mama that Dakota would be a pretty name for a little girl. Thought it might be too hippy-dippy for her though. We used to go up to Badlands every summer. And I’d take your mama and grandma fossil hunting. One time, over in Cedar Pass, we found a thirty-million-year-old skull with these teeny tiny teeth.”
When he told her, he bared his own, as mucky and cracked as his windshield, and she steadied herself to not shrink away.
“That sounds neat.” She couldn’t imagine her mother anywhere near this man. But it must be true. Because her mom had told her the same story when they’d visited the Petrified Forest. “So I was hoping we could—”
“Who the hell is that?”
She followed Victor’s panicked gaze back to the parking lot. To the black sedan with tinted windows that idled near the entrance.
“I don’t know. Probably somebody going to the library.” Duh. That’s what she would’ve said if it hadn’t been him asking, spittle on his lips, each word hard as a nail. If he hadn’t clutched at the waist of his camo pants, where he wore a gun affixed to his belt. Dakota ate her sarcasm in one sour lump.
“Son of a bitch. I knew he’d find me. He’s gonna make me pay for what I did. He’ll take me back there.”
Dakota gaped at her grandfather as he jerked the truck into gear.
“Back where?” Her voice, half-squeak, half-whisper.
“To Nam.” He backed up so fast, he rammed the front bumper of the car behind him, setting off the alarm.
“Wait,” she pleaded. “It’s okay. It’s no one.”
But he’d already pulled out, tires squealing. A plume of white smoke erupting from his tailpipe.
Shadows Among Us Page 19
