Remembering Dr. Shapiro’s words about ending up alone and lonely, I reach over and fiddle with my phone. He’s probably already out doing something. Maybe if I had a car it’d be different. Sometimes it creeps me out to take the bus at night. Although I would never in a million years admit that to my mom. She’d stop letting me go anywhere. Tonight, I’m restless. I dial Curtis’s number. It rings and rings and then goes to voice mail. Damn. I pause and then hang up without saying anything. He’s probably at some place where the laughter and music are so loud he can’t even hear his phone ring — having fun like every other teenager on the planet is doing on this Friday night.
I close my eyes. A snapshot of that body bag going by me in the woods with the blue and red lights reflecting off the trees pops into my mind. My eyes snap open.
How did you die, Danielle? Did Raven have anything to do with it? Does he know how you died? Is he sad about your death? Does he miss you?
Does he like me?
Guilt fills me thinking this. When I think about him, I have such mixed feelings. At first, I remember him full of childish excitement about ravens and Flannery O’Connor’s short stories and I find it impossible to imagine him hurting another person. And then, I remember how quickly he became standoffish, even cold to me, in front of his place. I bet he wasn’t like that with Danielle. As I think this, an image of the two of them together bursts into my mind. They are holding hands and he kisses her long and hard before he holds his door open and leads her by the hand inside his place.
I grab my phone off my nightstand and punch in the message Danielle left for me, partly to hear her voice, but also to see if I can figure out what frightened her.
What was she afraid of? Raven? It sure didn’t seem like it. When I saw her, she was hanging on his arm, and looking up at him with a look I’d never seen on her face before. Not like a girl who was afraid. But I also remember her holding her finger up to her lips — warning me? Telling me to keep her secret for her? What secret was I keeping?
Her other friends knew she was hanging out with those gutterpunks. Beth and her had a falling out over it, after all.
So, what did that mean? Why did she put her finger up to her lips?
Everything keeps pointing to Raven. He must know something about why Danielle is dead. I’m going to find out what he knows.
I look at the clock. It’s only nine. Before I can talk myself out of it, I tug on some faded jeans and a vintage embroidered red and orange hippie blouse, tuck the book into my bag, and tromp down the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The sounds of people talking and laughing on Hennepin Avenue seem far away from where I am now, standing in the driveway of the bike shop in front of Raven’s place.
This late at night, the driveway is dark, painted in unfamiliar shadows. Although the night is warm, I shiver involuntarily.
What am I doing here? I dart a glance behind me, but there is nobody, or nothing, there. My fingers clench around the book in my hand — my feeble excuse to be here this late at night.
There is a small curtained rectangular window in the cement wall. I can see light inside the room, flickering as if it is coming from a candle. My hand clenches into a fist and I hold it a few inches from the door, ready to knock. My heart is racing, pounding in my ears and my hand is a little bit shaky when I finally rap the wooden door. Hard. It is louder than I expected and startles me.
I strain my ears but don’t hear any movement inside. Not that I would through the thick cement walls. He’s probably out. I half-heartedly knock once more and jump back when the door swings inward. Behind Raven’s silhouette, I see soft orange light and the sounds of quiet music filter out.
Raven blinks at me, blurry-eyed and runs his tattooed fingers through his hair, which is sticking up on one side. When he sees it is me, a slow smile spreads across his face.
“Hey.” The way he looks at me makes my face flush with heat.
“Hey. I brought this back.” I thrust the book at him. “I didn’t have your number to text first.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t take the book and my hand falls back by my side.
Then he reaches for my phone. “May I?”
I hand my phone to him. He types for a few seconds and hands it back.
“Now you have my number.”
We stand there awkwardly for a second. “Well, I didn’t know when you needed the book back,” I say.
He shoves his hands in his pocket. “It was a gift.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.” I start to turn.
“No, no,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry if I seem out of it. I was just taking a quick nap before I went out.”
Before he went out? It’s ten at night.
“Okay. I’ll see you later.” I turn and start to walk away.
“Wait.”
I pause, half turned towards him.
“Want to come in for a little bit? Maybe we can talk about the book.” It’s a lame excuse and I think it’s cute.
I smile, but don’t move closer.
He shoots me a look. “Or is it past your bedtime?”
I scoff.
“How old are you anyway?” He mutters the question.
“Seventeen.” Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so hung up on telling the truth. “Why? How old are you?”
“I’ll be eighteen in November.”
“Same as me then.”
He laughs. “Yeah. Same as you.”
I clutch my bag to my chest and look around. The room is surprisingly neat. Especially compared to the small glimpse of chaos I caught through the open door earlier. But there’s not much to it. A door leads to a small bathroom.
A thin black futon mattress is on the floor with a wadded-up Mexican-style blanket on one end. Candles cover the floor and a small table. Books are stacked two feet high against the wall near the bed. A purple milk crate has a stack of clothes. A black leather motorcycle jacket is on the bed, wadded up like it was being used as a pillow. His scruffy big black boots are lined up near the door. A tiny transistor radio is on the floor near the bed. The music stops and the announcer clues me in that we’re listening to Radio K, the local college alternative music station. I look around for some sign that Danielle was there. Some trace of her left here. But there is nothing.
I stand in the doorway. I’m nervous but I have to ask. “If you’re only seventeen, are you a runaway?”
“Why don’t you sit down?” He pulls out a chair at a small table pushed up against the wall and sits down.
“Are the cops looking for you?” I’m not going to be put off that easy. I think back to the night they found Danielle’s body with him in the back of that cop car.
“Nope. Emancipated.” He stretches his arms above his head and then leans down to a small mini refrigerator. “Want something to drink?”
“No, thanks.” I don’t know what else to say. “This place is ... nice.”
He pops open a beer, takes a long gulp and grins. “Well, it looks better now.”
Now?
“I totally have to confess something to you,” he continues.
I hold my breath. What is he going to say? A trickle of fear runs through me.
“I didn’t want you to come in earlier today because it was a disaster. Food containers everywhere. Just gross. I’ve been letting it go. I had something sort of fucked up happen a few weeks ago and I just haven’t been able to get my shit together.”
A few weeks ago. Danielle’s death. He clears his throat and does that thing where he looks over my shoulder instead of at me. “Also, I wasn’t really sure about having a . . . girl in here . . . because of what happened.”
Now, my heart is really racing. I don’t know if I should be afraid. I realize that I’m slowly backing toward the door.
“What do you mean?”
He closes his eyes and rubs one side of his face with his palm as if trying to wipe something bad off. He opens his eyes and presses his lips together watching me.
&n
bsp; We stare at one another.
His eyes seem a little moist, but in the flickering candlelight, it’s hard to tell. He totally ignores my question. He moves toward me a little bit, keeping his eyes locked on mine and my heart skips a beat. His eyes are suddenly soft and I stare as he draws closer.
A knock on the door and hooting laughter startles us.
Was he going to tell me about Danielle? Was he going to kiss me? I hold my breath, but the pounding starts up again.
“Raven, man open up!” It’s a guy’s voice but I also hear shrill girl laughter.
Raven leans over and opens the door with one hand without taking his eyes off me. The couple I saw on the beach practically falls into the open door. The Mohawked kid is wearing giant shorts and a tank top. The tiny, sprite-like girl is clinging to his arm and falling down drunk. Her eyes nearly cross as she spots me.
“Who the fuck is that?” She slurs the words. The laughter stops. Her boyfriend holds up a palm as if to shush her. Up close, I can see the heart tattoo on his neck has a sword through it and throbs with his pulse. But my eyes are drawn past this drunken couple to the guy standing behind them.
That rat-faced kid from the beach stands motionless staring at me. He has on a black leather motorcycle jacket with pointy spikes sticking out in a skull pattern on one sleeve. He takes a swig off a bottle, watching me. I hear a low growl and realize his hand is clamped on a thick chain leash. At his knees, his dog snarls at me, lip curling, and hair sticking up. A clammy feeling falls across my shoulders. He doesn’t shush his dog, only runs his tongue across his teeth and then leans over and spits. The dog leans down and licks up the phlegm. I swallow my revulsion.
“Scrap, man? What’s up with that? Have some respect for my pad,” Raven says. “I just cleaned.”
The rat-raced kid turns on his heel and he and his dog are out the door before Raven is done speaking.
“Whoa, man, what the fuck is his problem?” The Mohawk guy says and giggles.
The girl purses her red lips and narrows her eyes at me, then turns to Raven.
“You coming to Twist’s party?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll catch up with you guys.” Raven seems distracted.
“We’re going to go grab a bite at the Hard Times first. Head on over about midnight.” She grabs her boyfriend’s hand and pulls him out the door behind her. He gives me a small smile and sheepish shrug before he disappears.
Raven runs his fingers through his hair again and paces the room.
“Guess you didn’t have time to introduce me to your friends?” I say, cutting my eyes at him.
“Sorry. I think it surprised them to see you here.”
“You think?” My voice is dripping sarcasm. I kneel down to scan his stack of books.
“The one with the Mohawk is Flip. The mouthy little one, his girlfriend, Jazz. Rude guy with the dog is Scrap.”
“And I’m sure those are their real names, too,” I say looking away. For some reason, I’m irritated.
“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you. It’s hard to explain. They are suspicious of ... outsiders. Like I said, you’re the first girl I brought here since ...”
An image of Danielle in his arms rolling around on the futon with him shoots into my mind.
“Since what? You didn’t say.” I’m irritated and nervous for some reason. “I asked what you meant, but you didn’t answer.” I turn and face him, daring him to tell me. Tell me about Danielle. Tell me that you didn’t hurt her. Or tell me that you did, says a smaller voice that makes me swallow hard. Maybe it was all an accident? But I know it wasn’t.
He blows air out that lifts his long bangs. And then nods. He reaches over and grabs his leather jacket. “I’ll walk you to the bus.”
I’m mad and sad and disappointed. He’s not going to tell me. I storm along behind him as we leave the driveway. He’s nice to me when we are alone, but if anyone else is around, even strangers, he acts weird. Apparently, I’m not invited to that party with his friends. Why not? Is he hiding something from me? Does he know how Danielle died? But all those thoughts disappear as we reach Lake Street and he reaches back and grabs my hand.
Instead of feeling awkward, it feels amazing and exciting to hold his hand. But it’s over quickly He let’s go as we get to the bus stop. He lights a cigarette.
“You don’t have to wait.” It sounds lame coming out of my mouth.
“Sure, I do.”
When the bus comes, he says goodbye without meeting my eyes. As the bus pulls away I watch his back as he heads down the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next morning I’m up early vacuuming and dusting my room. I’ve washed and dried two loads of laundry before nine. I spend too much time trying to fold my shirts just so. When the collars don’t sit exactly in the middle, I shake them out and try again until it looks right.
After all my things, including my underwear, are neatly folded and put away, I sink onto my bed. I lean over and grab my bag and rummage around until I find that picture of Danielle and me. I study it for a long moment.
Danielle was the one who was destined for the good things in life. You can see it on her face. She was already pretty, popular, confident. All the things I wasn’t.
I’ll never forget the day we were at the Lake Harriet beach. We must’ve been fourteen. We were lying on our towels. Her towel had something cool on it, like the Red Hot Chili Peppers logo or something. Mine had a colorful fish on it, like a little kid’s towel.
We were eating chips and slurping sodas when a group of older guys walked by, headed for the volleyball court down the beach. They were shirtless and wore board shorts. One was carrying a volleyball.
“Hey, ladies,” said one deeply tanned kid with blond hair as he flopped down on the edge of Danielle’s towel. She was lying on her back and wore dark sunglasses. You couldn’t see if her eyes were open or closed.
“Hey, you in the pink bikini? Hello! You sleeping or what? You’re going to get a sunburn falling asleep in the sun like that.”
She ignored him.
I laughed a little, but I was invisible with my flat chest, thick legs and navy blue one piece. All eyes were concentrating on Danielle, who wasn’t moving.
The kid smiled and winking at his friends, cracked open a water bottle with condensation dripping from it. He held it over Danielle’s bare belly and let a few drops of the icy liquid drip onto her skin.
She sat up squealing and laughing.
“Making sure you’re paying attention,” he said. “What’s your name?”
In one lithe movement, she flipped onto her stomach ignoring his question. Reaching over, she grabbed her suntan lotion and handed it to the guy. “Do you mind?”
Her voice was low and purring. I’d never heard it like that.
Suddenly, the guy seemed embarrassed. His friends were hooting and hollering, but Danielle yawned and propped her chin on her hands. With hands slightly shaking, the kid leaned over her on his knees and spread the suntan lotion across Danielle’s shoulders, then down her back. He ignored his friends and concentrated. She gave a small sound of approval and his cheeks flushed pink against his tan.
I sat there, astonished.
After a few minutes, the other guys grew bored and headed down to the volleyball net. “Catch you later, Jack. Don’t be too long. Game’s in ten minutes,” one guy said, snickering.
When he was done smoothing the lotion, the guy put the cap back on and stuck the bottle into the sand right at the edge of Danielle’s towel where her head faced.
“That was amazing,” she said, sitting up and stretching. “Give me your phone.”
He reached into his back pocket and handed her his phone with an inquisitive look.
She punched in something and handed it back. “My number’s under D — for Danielle.” Then she flopped back onto her stomach and turned her head away from him.
“Okay,” he said hesitantly. “I’ll give you a call.”
Sh
e didn’t answer or look up. He seemed flustered and without saying anything stood up and headed for his friends, casting one last look behind him, but Danielle stayed as still as a statue.
I lay back down, still stunned by the entire ten-minute encounter with this older guy.
“Danielle, what do you think you’re doing? That guy is probably sixteen or seventeen!”
“So,” she said lazily. “He was cute.”
“Your mom won’t even let you go on a date yet. What are you going to tell him if he asks you for a date?”
“I’m not worried about what my mom says,” Danielle said, sitting up and taking a huge gulp of her soda. “She and I have different ideas when it comes to what I’m supposed to and not supposed to do.”
I was jolted from my memory by my mom calling me down to pancakes.
What was I thinking, imagining I could find out something from a boy Danielle dated? I was nothing like Danielle. I never would be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After my pancakes, Sunday stretches before me in all its unending boredom. I’m sick of sitting in my room reading. My mom picked up a sick coworker’s shift so the house is quiet and empty.
I take the bus to Uptown and wander around the library there for a few hours, holing up in a corner chair with some books about ravens. I check out one: Ravens: Friends or Foe by Wayne Lockgood.
I stop on one passage, running my finger under the words:
Upon death, a raven brings a person’s soul to the underworld, the land of the dead. But if the death was premature then the raven is able to carry the soul back to the living so the soul can avenge its own murder.
As I read this, I’m suddenly cold and pull my hoodie around me tighter.
Was Danielle murdered? Will she come back to avenge her death?
Later in the book it talks about how ravens are omens of death. Everything I read about ravens talks about darkness and omens and dying. And this boy is named Raven. Is that a warning for me to stay away from him?
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