Silence

Page 19

There was only one thing missing, I concluded, as I checked over my reflection. My outfit needed an accessory. Jewelry. No, a scarf.
I pulled out my dresser drawer, a sick feeling sweeping through me when I saw the long black feather. I’d forgotten about it. It was probably dirty. I made a mental note to throw it away as soon as I got back from lunch, but there wasn’t much conviction behind the thought. I was wary of the feather—
but not enough to give it up just yet. First I wanted to know what kind of animal had shed it, and I wanted an explanation for why I felt like it was my responsibility to keep it safe. It was a ridiculous thought and didn’t make sense, but nothing had since I’d woken in the cemetery. Pushing the feather deeper to the back of the drawer, I grabbed the first scarf I saw.
Then I jogged downstairs, pocketed a ten-dollar Bill from the freshly stocked petty cash drawer, and folded myself behind the wheel of the Volkswagen. I had to bang my fist on the dash four times before the engine caught, but I told myself it wasn’t necessarily a sign of a lemon. It meant this car was aged like, well, fine cheese. This car had seen the world. Chances are, it had hauled around at least a few interesting people. It was seasoned and experienced and held all the charm of 1984.
Best of all, I hadn’t paid a cent for it.
After pumping a few dollars’ worth of gas into the tank, I motored over to Enzo’s. Tidying my hair in the storefront window, I let myself inside.
I took off my sunglasses, soaking in the impressive setting. Enzo’s had undergone a major makeover since I last remembered. A wide set of stairs led down to the front counter and a circular dining pit. Two catwalks spread out from either side of the hostess station, scattered with industrial aluminum tables that were part vintage, part chic. Big-band-style music played through the stereo system, and for a moment, I felt like I’d stumbled through time and landed in a speakeasy.
Vee was kneeling on her chair for height advantage, whipping her arm over her head like a propeller. “Babe! Over here!”
She met me halfway down the catwalk to my right and squeezed me into a hug. “I ordered iced mochas and a plate of sprinkled doughnuts for us. Man, we have so much to talk about. I wasn’t going to tell you, but the heck with surprises. I lost three pounds. Can you tell?” She twirled in front of me.
“You look amazing,” I told her, and I meant it. After all this time, we were finally together. She could have gained ten pounds, and I’d have thought she was absolutely beautiful.
“Self magazine said curves are a fall trend, so I’m feeling really confident,” she said, plopping down into her chair. We were at a table set for four, but instead of taking the chair across from Vee, I slipped into one directly beside her. “So,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “tell me about last night. Holy freak show. I can’t believe your mom and Hanky Panky.” I raised my eyebrows. “Hanky Panky?”
“We are so calling him Hanky Panky. It’s so accurate it hurts.”
“I think we should call him Frat Boy.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Vee said, slapping her palm down on the table. “How old do you think he is? Twenty-five? Maybe he’s really Marcie’s older brother. Maybe he has an Oedipus complex, and Marcie’s mom is his mom and his wife!”
I was laughing so hard I accidentally snorted. Which only sent us into deeper hysterics.
“Okay, stop,” I said, flattening my hands to my thighs and trying to muster a serious face. “This is mean. What if Marcie walked in and heard us?”
“What’s she going to do? Poison me with her secret stash of Ex-Lax?” Before I could respond, the two available chairs at our table scraped back, and Owen Seymour and Joseph Mancusi sat down. I knew both boys from school. Owen had been in Vee’s and my biology class last year. He was tall and wiry, and wore studious-looking black glasses and Ralph Lauren polos. In sixth grade he’d beaten me out as our grade’s representative in the citywide spelling bee. Not that I had hard feelings. I hadn’t had a class with Joseph, or Joey, in years, but we’d known each other since elementary school, and his dad was Coldwater’s only chiropractor.
Joey bleached his hair, wore flips-flops even in the winter, and played drums in the marching band. I knew for a fact that in junior high, Vee had a crush on him.
Owen pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled benignly. I braced myself for a barrage of questions concerning my kidnapping, but he simply said in a slightly nervous voice, “We saw you guys sitting over here and thought we’d, uh, amble over.”
“Gee, what a coincidence.” Vee’s curt tone startled me. Not typical for Vee, who was a self-proclaimed flirt, but maybe she was going for deadpan? “And what do you mean ‘amble over’? Who talks like that anymore?”
“Er, have any plans for the rest of the weekend?” Joey asked, folding his hands on the table, where they rested a few inches from Vee’s.
She drew back, stiffening her spine. “Plans that don’t include you.” Okay, not deadpan. I peeked sideways at her, trying to catch her eye long enough to nonverbally articulate, What’s wrong? but she was too busy evil-eyeing Owen.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, clearly implying that it was time for them to leave.
Owen and Joey exchanged brief, perplexed looks.
“Remember when we had PE together in seventh grade?” Joey asked Vee. “You were my badminton partner. You totally rocked at badminton. If memory serves, we won the class tournament.” He raised his hand to give her a high five.
“Not in the mood to stroll down memory lane.”
Joey slowly dropped his hand beneath the table. “Er, right. Uh, you sure you don’t want us to buy you guys a lemonade or something?”
“So you can spike it with GHB? Pass. Besides, we’ve already got drinks, something you might have noticed if you were actually looking higher than our chests.” She rattled her iced mocha in his face.
“Vee,” I said under my breath. First of all, neither Owen nor Joey had been looking anywhere remotely close to where Vee insinuated, and second of all, what was the matter with her?
“Um … okay … sorry to bother,” Owen said, rising awkwardly to his feet. “We just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Vee snapped. “Whatever evil schemes you two have in mind? Ain’t gonna happen.”
“Evil what?” Owen repeated, pushing up his glasses again and blinking owlishly.
“We get it,” Joey said. “We shouldn’t have butted in. Private girl conversation. I have sisters,” he said knowingly. “Next time we’lll, uh, ask first?”
“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Vee said. “Consider Nora and me”—she jerked her thumb between the two of us—“closed to your business.”
I cleared my throat, trying but failing to figure out how to salvage this long enough to end on a positive note. Clean out of ideas, I did the only thing I could. With an apologetic smile, I told Owen and Joey, “Um, thanks, guys. Have a nice day.” It sounded like a question.
“Yeah, thanks for nothing,” Vee called after them as they backed away, their whole faces screwed up in bewilderment.
When they were out of hearing range, she said, “What is up with guys today? They think they can just stroll over, flash a pretty smile, and we’ll melt in their hands? Uh-uh. No way. Not us. We’re wiser than that. They can take their romance scam somewhere else, thank you very much.” I cleared my throat. “Wow.”
“Don’t wow me. I know you saw right through those guys too.” I scratched my eyebrow. “Personally, I think they were just making conversation … but what do I know,” I quickly added when she cast a withering glare at me.
“When a guy shows up out of nowhere and instantly turns on the charm, it’s a front. There’s always a deeper motive. This much I know.”
I sucked on my straw. I wasn’t sure what else to say. I’d never be able to look Owen or Joey in the eye again, but maybe Vee was having a day. Maybe she was in a mood. When I watched Lifetime original movies, it took me a day or two to get over the idea that the cute boy next door is actually a serial killer. Maybe Vee was going through a similar fade-back-to-reality phase.
I was about to ask her directly, when my cell phone chirped.
“Let me guess,” Vee said. “That would be your mom checking up on you. I was surprised she let you out of the house. It’s no secret she doesn’t like me. For a while there, I think she even thought I was somehow mixed up in your disappearance.” She made a grunt of contempt.
“She likes you, she just doesn’t understand you,” I said, opening what appeared to be a text message from none other than Marcie Mill ar.
BTW, THE NECKLACE IS A MAN’S SILVER CHAIN. DID U FIND IT?
“Give it a rest,” I muttered out loud.
“Well?” Vee said. “What lame excuse did that woman give to drag you home?” HOW DID U GET MY NUMBER? I texted Marcie.
OUR PARENTS SWAP MORE THAN SPIT, DUMB-A.
Right back at you, I thought.
I shut my phone and gave my attention back to Vee. “Can I ask a stupid question?”
“My favorite kind.”
“Did I go to a party at Marcie’s over the summer?”
I braced myself for a round of over-the-top laughter, but Vee simply chewed off a bite of doughnut and said, “Yeah, I remember that. You dragged me along too. You still owe me for that, by the way.” Not the response I’d anticipated. “Weirder question. Was I”—here goes nothing—“friends with Marcie?”
Now came the reaction I’d been expecting. Vee nearly coughed her doughnut onto the table. “You and the ho, friends. Did I hear that right? I know you’ve got the whole temporary memory loss thing going on, but how could you forget eleven years’ worth of Little Miss Pain in the You Know What?” Now we were getting somewhere. “What am I missing? If we weren’t friends, why did she invite me to her party?”
“She invited everybody. She was fund-raising for new cheerleading costumes. She wanted twenty bucks from us at the door,” Vee explained. “We almost left right then, but you just had to spy on—” She snapped her mouth shut.
“Spy on who?” I prodded.
“Marcie. We went to spy on Marcie. That’s how it was.” She was nodding a little too vigorously.
“And?”
“We wanted to nab her diary,” Vee said. “We were going to print all the juicy parts in the eZine.
Pretty epic, right?”
I observed her, knowing something was wrong with this picture, but failing to figure out what. “You realize how made-up that sounds, right? We’d never get permission to publish her diary.”
“Never hurts to try.”
I pointed a finger at her. “I know you’re keeping something from me.”
“Who, me?”
“Spil it, Vee. You promised not to hold out on me again,” I reminded her.