Found
Page 33
A few minutes later the teacher came out. By now the corridor was empty except for Mr. Casual. The teacher turned to me. “May I help you?”
I was going to ask him whether Jared Lowell had been to class, but I already knew the answer. If I asked where Jared was, well, hadn’t I learned my lesson about asking questions haphazardly? I said no thank you and moved on my way.
Now what?
When I stepped outside, I was struck anew by how spectacular this campus was. How cool it must be to go to school here. The campus’s green was one thing, but down the hill, the water sparkled in the sunlight. I wasn’t sure what waterway that was—the Atlantic Ocean maybe?—but students were in crew boats rowing in perfect symmetry. The whole place felt upper class and rich. I expected a foxhunt or polo match to start up.
Maybe Jared was sick today. He lived, I knew thanks to Spoon, on the second floor of Barna House. I could go and see if he was there. The other option was to . . . to what? I could go find Ema at the deli, but then it might be harder to come back on campus without a lot of questions.
Might as well give it a try. I didn’t see where there was much to lose.
Barna House had to be the newest building at Farnsworth. While the other buildings were all stately brick, this was sleek one-way glass. I tried the door. Locked. You needed a key card to get inside. I waited about ten seconds. A student opened the door from the inside. I smiled, held the door for him, and entered.
I’m a master at the art of the break-in.
Two boys were playing Ping-Pong on a Wii connected to a giant-screen TV. They still wore jackets and ties, though the ties were loosened to the point where they might serve better as belts. Groups of boys sat on either side of the combatants, cheering them on with a gusto I normally associated with live football games. There were oohs and ahhs and trash-talking.
I headed up to the second floor. I didn’t know the room number, but as it turned out, I didn’t need to. The names were right on the doors. I started down the corridor. I was surprised that all the rooms were singles. I had always pictured prep school students as having roommates.
The third door read JARED LOWELL and his graduation year. He was indeed a senior. I knocked on the door and waited.
“So who are you really?”
I turned to the voice. It was Blond Mop. He wore only a towel around his waist. The blond mop was wet and pasted to his forehead. I assumed that he had just gotten out of the shower.
He was waiting for my reply.
“My name is Mickey Bolitar. I’m looking for Jared. I don’t mean him any harm.”
“So why are you looking for him?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
He just stood there dripping in his towel and waited.
“You saw my friend,” I said.
“The goth girl?”
“Right. She’s a friend of his. Online friend anyway. He suddenly stopped communicating. She was worried about him.”
He frowned. “You came all this way for that?”
It did sound pretty lame, but I said, “Yes.”
“And you came with her because . . . ?”
“She’s my friend. I’m trying to help her.”
He stood there in his towel, no shirt, water dripping off the mop of hair. “Is she some kind of a cyberstalker or something?”
“No. Look, I just need to see him and make sure he’s okay.”
“Just because he stopped texting her back or whatever?”
“There’s more to it than that. But all I need to do is make sure he’s okay.”
“That’s weird,” the kid said. “You get that, right?”
“I do,” I said.
He took a deep breath. This was surreal, talking to this preppy boy just standing there in his towel. “Do you play basketball?” he asked me.
You get this question a lot when you’re six-four. “Yes.”
“Me too. My name is Tristan Wanatick. I’m the point guard on the team here. Jared and I are co-captains. Seniors. It’s our last year. We were supposed to have a great season.”
I felt a small chill. “Supposed to?”
“We still will,” Tristan said, trying to sound defiant but not quite getting there. “I mean, he said he’ll be back.”
“Jared?”
“Yeah.”
“So he’s not at school?”
Blond Mop shook his head.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Something happened.”
Another chill, bigger this time. “What?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of family emergency. He left school a few days ago. Right in the middle of the semester. More than that—right at the start of basketball season.”
“Where did he go?”
“Home.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“All I know is it was something sudden,” he said. “But if Jared is missing basketball, it has to be something really, really bad.”
Chapter 24
I promised Tristan I would let him know if I learned anything.
There was nothing more for us to do here. Ema and I caught the next bus back. I headed straight to school for basketball practice. It felt great, of course, to disappear in the sweat and strain and beauty. I sometimes wondered what my life would be without having the court as a place to escape.
When I got out, I was surprised to see a familiar car waiting for me.
Uncle Myron’s.
He lowered the window. “Get in,” he said.
“Something wrong?”
“You wanted to see your mother, right?”
“Right.”
“Get in.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I circled around and hopped into the front passenger seat. Myron pulled away.
“How did you get permission?”
“You said it was important.”
“It is.”
Myron nodded. “I explained that to Christine.”
Christine Shippee ran the Coddington Rehabilitation Center, where my mother was being treated for her addiction. Christine had told me in no uncertain terms that my mother would not be allowed any visitors, including her only child, for at least another two weeks.
“And she accepted that?” I asked.
“No. She said that you couldn’t come.”
“So how—?”
“Your mother isn’t in jail, Mickey. She’s in rehab. I told her that we were pulling her out of the program if she doesn’t let you see her.”
Whoa, I thought. “What did Christine say to that?”
I was going to ask him whether Jared Lowell had been to class, but I already knew the answer. If I asked where Jared was, well, hadn’t I learned my lesson about asking questions haphazardly? I said no thank you and moved on my way.
Now what?
When I stepped outside, I was struck anew by how spectacular this campus was. How cool it must be to go to school here. The campus’s green was one thing, but down the hill, the water sparkled in the sunlight. I wasn’t sure what waterway that was—the Atlantic Ocean maybe?—but students were in crew boats rowing in perfect symmetry. The whole place felt upper class and rich. I expected a foxhunt or polo match to start up.
Maybe Jared was sick today. He lived, I knew thanks to Spoon, on the second floor of Barna House. I could go and see if he was there. The other option was to . . . to what? I could go find Ema at the deli, but then it might be harder to come back on campus without a lot of questions.
Might as well give it a try. I didn’t see where there was much to lose.
Barna House had to be the newest building at Farnsworth. While the other buildings were all stately brick, this was sleek one-way glass. I tried the door. Locked. You needed a key card to get inside. I waited about ten seconds. A student opened the door from the inside. I smiled, held the door for him, and entered.
I’m a master at the art of the break-in.
Two boys were playing Ping-Pong on a Wii connected to a giant-screen TV. They still wore jackets and ties, though the ties were loosened to the point where they might serve better as belts. Groups of boys sat on either side of the combatants, cheering them on with a gusto I normally associated with live football games. There were oohs and ahhs and trash-talking.
I headed up to the second floor. I didn’t know the room number, but as it turned out, I didn’t need to. The names were right on the doors. I started down the corridor. I was surprised that all the rooms were singles. I had always pictured prep school students as having roommates.
The third door read JARED LOWELL and his graduation year. He was indeed a senior. I knocked on the door and waited.
“So who are you really?”
I turned to the voice. It was Blond Mop. He wore only a towel around his waist. The blond mop was wet and pasted to his forehead. I assumed that he had just gotten out of the shower.
He was waiting for my reply.
“My name is Mickey Bolitar. I’m looking for Jared. I don’t mean him any harm.”
“So why are you looking for him?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
He just stood there dripping in his towel and waited.
“You saw my friend,” I said.
“The goth girl?”
“Right. She’s a friend of his. Online friend anyway. He suddenly stopped communicating. She was worried about him.”
He frowned. “You came all this way for that?”
It did sound pretty lame, but I said, “Yes.”
“And you came with her because . . . ?”
“She’s my friend. I’m trying to help her.”
He stood there in his towel, no shirt, water dripping off the mop of hair. “Is she some kind of a cyberstalker or something?”
“No. Look, I just need to see him and make sure he’s okay.”
“Just because he stopped texting her back or whatever?”
“There’s more to it than that. But all I need to do is make sure he’s okay.”
“That’s weird,” the kid said. “You get that, right?”
“I do,” I said.
He took a deep breath. This was surreal, talking to this preppy boy just standing there in his towel. “Do you play basketball?” he asked me.
You get this question a lot when you’re six-four. “Yes.”
“Me too. My name is Tristan Wanatick. I’m the point guard on the team here. Jared and I are co-captains. Seniors. It’s our last year. We were supposed to have a great season.”
I felt a small chill. “Supposed to?”
“We still will,” Tristan said, trying to sound defiant but not quite getting there. “I mean, he said he’ll be back.”
“Jared?”
“Yeah.”
“So he’s not at school?”
Blond Mop shook his head.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Something happened.”
Another chill, bigger this time. “What?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of family emergency. He left school a few days ago. Right in the middle of the semester. More than that—right at the start of basketball season.”
“Where did he go?”
“Home.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“All I know is it was something sudden,” he said. “But if Jared is missing basketball, it has to be something really, really bad.”
Chapter 24
I promised Tristan I would let him know if I learned anything.
There was nothing more for us to do here. Ema and I caught the next bus back. I headed straight to school for basketball practice. It felt great, of course, to disappear in the sweat and strain and beauty. I sometimes wondered what my life would be without having the court as a place to escape.
When I got out, I was surprised to see a familiar car waiting for me.
Uncle Myron’s.
He lowered the window. “Get in,” he said.
“Something wrong?”
“You wanted to see your mother, right?”
“Right.”
“Get in.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I circled around and hopped into the front passenger seat. Myron pulled away.
“How did you get permission?”
“You said it was important.”
“It is.”
Myron nodded. “I explained that to Christine.”
Christine Shippee ran the Coddington Rehabilitation Center, where my mother was being treated for her addiction. Christine had told me in no uncertain terms that my mother would not be allowed any visitors, including her only child, for at least another two weeks.
“And she accepted that?” I asked.
“No. She said that you couldn’t come.”
“So how—?”
“Your mother isn’t in jail, Mickey. She’s in rehab. I told her that we were pulling her out of the program if she doesn’t let you see her.”
Whoa, I thought. “What did Christine say to that?”
