“Ouch.”
“Well you’re the one who said so and I’m sorry but it’s not like I’m some kind of professional survivor or something.” I turn away to hide my blush, which you probably can’t even see behind my orange face.
“Listen, I’m sorry,” Davey says. “It’s just that, with war, you go into it knowing that sort of thing is going to happen so you’re sort of braced for it and . . . I mean it sucks but . . . Anyway I just thought maybe you could give me some insight into the timetable, or—”
“Draw from your own frigging experiences,” I blurt and cover my face with the ice pack. I have no right to be mad at Davey. He basically just came and rescued me, and also I’m never this testy with people I don’t know—I was never even sassy with Ruth, really. In our animal rapport, I always played beta dog. It’s just that I hate talking about Mom, I guess—like ever, basically. At least to anyone but Dom. Because when he and I say stuff about her, it’s stuff like, “Hey Dom, remember that time that Mom caught you shaving your shoulders in the bathroom?” Or, “Remember when Mom chased raccoons off the porch with a spatula?” Like she’s gone on vacation and we’re just passing the time. With anyone else, it comes off sounding like a book report. Like she was never real and I’m just making stuff up and trying to get a good grade.
Luckily, my eyes are too dry from the bear spray to make any tears.
“I said I’m sorry,” Davey pleads.
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. Don’t be sorry, okay?” I don’t want to look at him because now I’m embarrassed about my face again. So I grope blindly for his shoulder in order to pat it reassuringly. “I just don’t know what to say, that’s all.”
If I were honest, I’d say it only sort of gets better. That there’s always this part of you that got carved out. It’s a physical thing, I swear to God, and it’s the part that swells right before you cry. Eventually you stop hoping and start to fill it up with memories.
“It’d probably really help, actually, if you could tell me about those people you knew in Afghanistan,” I offer, trying to change the subject. “I mean the guys who got all violent, or whatever, and creeped you out.” I reach for my pen. “Maybe it’d help us think of suspicious people around here?”
“Shit, I don’t know,” Davey says quietly. “I have trouble remembering that stuff. It gets lost in the noise.”
I slap him in the arm with my ice pack.
“Ow!”
“You said you had all this experience, which made you some kind of expert,” I snap. “And you said that’s why you knew Colt didn’t do it—and also just now you said Libby couldn’t have done it because—”
“Okay, fine! Geeze, Kippy—did you ever think maybe I just don’t want to talk about it?”
“Under any other circumstance I would be respectful of your psychological triggers, but we’ve got a killer to find.” I tap the pen on my leg. “So what are they like, these wacko murderer types?”
“I don’t know . . . Hyper. Angry. Sort of thrilled by the sight of their own blood . . Wait.” Davey gapes at me. “Is that . . . are you wearing a special belt for notebooks?”
“Eyes on the road—anyway I still think we should investigate Libby.”
“Well sure, that girl’s awful.” Davey raises his eyebrows. “But like I said, I’m not sure a girl could do what was done to my sister.”
“Hm.” I think about Libby’s strong grip in the hallway—and the way I saw her hoist another girl onto her shoulders with such ease at last month’s pep rally. I want to tell Davey this is no time to be sexist—but he gets there first.
“I’m not being sexist,” he says. “If you want me to extrapolate from my experiences, I’ll tell you right now that a girl didn’t do this shit.” It’s quiet for a second. “So where’s your car?”
“School . . . but—”
“Do you want to drive some more before I take you to it?”
“Yes.”
We don’t say anything—just drive around making unnecessary turns. I watch the digital clock on the dash. “I told Dom I’d be home for dinner,” I say finally. “Twenty minutes.”
“Gotcha.” Davey veers right, heading back toward school. “What are you going to tell him about your face?”
“Um.” I slap down the vanity mirror again. “I have no idea. Maybe that I went tanning? Girls do that right?”
“I don’t know. It’s not that bad. It looks fine, sort of. . . .”
“I’ll just tell him I was crying. He’ll like that.” I scrub my face with the ice pack, trying to wipe away the orange. “He wants me to start going through the stages of grief in order, I think.”
“I never cry about her,” Davey announces. He pulls into the school parking lot. “Well. Except for at the memorial service, but it was, like, contagious there.” He sighs. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“I think it’s normal. Hey, listen. There’s something I have to say.” I stare between my feet at my backpack and tell him about the Jim Steele thing. My appointment tomorrow.
“What?” he says, like he’s about to throw up. “What do you mean, sex relationship?” He shakes his head. “Who says sex relationship?”
“Well,” I say, sounding parental. “That’s what it was. I told Staake and he said she was eighteen and—”
“Jesus!” Davey starts punching the steering wheel and I pull my backpack into my lap for a hug. “He’s an idiot—they’re all idiots!”
“I know,” I say, squeezing my own fingers.
He pulls up alongside Rhonda and parks, slapping the wheel one more time. “I’ll go with you tomorrow but I’ve got to wait in the car or else I’ll kill the guy. I will fucking kill him.”
“You’re coming?” I fiddle with one of the zippers on the backpack.
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Really?”
“You’re not going alone!” He looks legitimately pissed. “I already said I’d protect you and that’s what this is, okay?” He crosses his arms. “Besides, I’ve got a certain amount of expertise when it comes to stakeouts. You should know that about me. You’ll need a wingman.”
I shrug, trying to look laid back about the fact that he’s just agreed to be my sidekick. I don’t have to be alone. “Okay, I’ll pick you up after school.” I prod my utility belt, wondering how to say good-bye. Do we hug? “So do you think this is really dorky?” I jiggle the belt.
Davey glances at my waist, then stares at me, looking stern. “Preparedness is never uncool.”
I want to throw my arms around him, but instead I reach out for a handshake—totally forgetting that he’s got the bandage. “Oh.” I wave instead and duck out of the car, hitting the back of my head on the way out. “See you soon, okay? I mean, I will, because we already planned on it. ’Kay, bye!”
BATS AND SNAKES
“Oh my God! Hey!” Jim Steele’s secretary lets me in the side door of Jim Steele’s four-story Victorian. It’s surrounded by giant, animal-shaped bushes. Everyone called Mrs. Klitch a witch for her sculptures, but for some reason no one makes fun of Jim Steele. What would you even call him—a wizard?
“Sorry, but Uncle Jimmy doesn’t like clients coming in the front for some reason,” she says. She smiles. I recognize her from school. I’m pretty sure she graduated two years ago and used to be on the cheerleading squad.
“That’s okay,” I tell her.
“So, wow,” she says. “You’re like, that dead girl’s friend, right? What was she really like? Never mind, don’t tell me, it’s probably better in my head.” She leans against the doorframe. “Isn’t this a sweet job, by the way? Jealous, right? Like, I barely just graduated and already I’ve got a profession—in this economy? Please.” She flips her brown, curly hair over one shoulder. I never noticed it before, but she kind of looks like Ruth. I wonder if that’s why Jim Steele hired her.