When I get home, Ralph is gone and Dom starts yapping my head off about open door policies and having boys upstairs. “Remember what happened with the last boy you liked?” he says, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “Well do you?”
He means Steven Daniels. One day I crept up behind him on the blacktop and tackled him, and when he tried to get away I yanked him by his rattail until he held still, wincing, and let me kiss him. He ended up moving to Oregon and occasionally I still worry that my ritualistic rape-dance on the blacktop had something to do with it.
I kick at the carpet, feeling mortified and furious and antsy. Why did he have to bring up Steven? “I don’t like Davey.”
“My foot,” Dom snaps.
It doesn’t feel fair that he’s making this so embarrassing. He didn’t used to be like this. I mean, Dom was the one who talked me down about Steven Daniels for cripe’s sake. After the school called home about what I did on the blacktop, Dom was nice about it and even said I didn’t have to try so hard—that kissing was fine and natural but I was too young—and when I was old enough it would happen on its own, and I wouldn’t have to attack anybody. I took his advice and have never experienced physical contact with a boy since.
So why is he having such a heart attack and treating me like such a freak when I’m not even doing anything wrong? “It’s not cool of you to try and manipulate my insecurities,” I shout. Dom gives me a stern look and I groan. “Is this because I brought him upstairs where the beds are? It’s called being friends, okay?”
Dom rolls his eyes. “Why else would he come over and eat hot dogs with you if he didn’t have amorous intentions? Tell me that.”
“Because we’re hanging out, that’s all!” I shrug. “I remind him of her. I remind everyone of her.” My eyes feel hot. I hadn’t thought about it until I said it, but now I know it’s probably true—maybe the only reason Davey wants anything to do with me is because he misses Ruth.
“Kippy . . .” Dom opens and closes his mouth a couple times. “I’m worried about you. There, I said it.”
“Oh, like you haven’t said it a million times already in all sorts of ways. Geeze Louise.”
Dom wags his finger at me. “You know, Ralph feels the same way. He told me so before he left—and he doesn’t trust this Davey, no sir. We care about you, Kippy. I wish you’d talk to me—”
“What do you even know about grieving properly? You’re the one who went into your room after your wife died and couldn’t even take care of your own daughter.”
Dom looks disgusted. “It’s not like you to be mean.”
“Mean?” I throw my hands up. “Everyone else is mean, okay? Not me. I’m just some nice girl trying to be nice.”
He crosses his arms. “There’s a point here, and it’s that Davey is a lot older, Kippy Bushman—twenty-one, that’s a lot.” His face is splotchy and I can see sweat on his upper lip.
“Oh calm down—Ralph’s even a little older than that, and you’re, like, sixty.” Now I’m just listing ages.
“I’m forty-nine!”
“Whatever!”
“Don’t you get snippy with me, missy, I’ll tell you right now.” He wipes his forehead. “I don’t like it—any of it—yesterday you come home with a fully orange face and no explanation—no sir. Am I mad right now? You betcha.”
I roll my eyes. “I already told you the stuff on my face was paint from making posters.”
“Bull crap!” Dom explodes about Davey’s parents being out of town and my having a car and not enough monitoring, and how he doesn’t trust me, and even though he’s screaming and it should be emotional or something, I’m not really listening. He goes on and on, and then all of a sudden his face trembles and he looks pale and deflated. The only other time I saw him like this was after Mom’s funeral when Mr. and Mrs. Johnston used to come over to drag him out of his room.
“I don’t know how to handle this stage in your life,” he says. “I haven’t even ordered the right books yet.” His lips tremble. “I keep wishing your mother were here—”
“I wish she were here too,” I snap. “I’m sick of it just being you and me.”
LOOK OUT
The next morning I want to get an early start. So instead of driving to school, I pick up Davey and have him phone Principal Hannycack’s office, pretending to be my dad.
“She’s sick,” Davey says in a lower-than-usual voice. I mime explosive vomiting from the driver’s seat and gesture that it might be coming out the other end as well. “Lots of barfing and shitting,” he adds. “I mean, diarrhea. Yeah, it’s totally gross. Thank you. Good-bye, sir.” He hangs up and hands me back my phone.
I beam at him. “That was good.”
He shrugs. “What if your dad finds out? I want him to like me.”
“Forget him,” I snap, remembering last night. “Plus, it’s unavoidable. Plus, I’ve never missed school before or been irresponsible like ever, so it’s not like Hannycack will call him. Plus, we’re close to answers, I can feel it.” I start the van.
Davey cocks an eyebrow at me. “You’re getting bossy.”
My stomach burns because Ruth used to say that all the time when we were kids. “Sorry.”
He makes a face like whatever and rubs my arm gently with his knuckles. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “I like it.”
Davey waits in Rhonda while I slink around the back of Jim Steele’s building. I’ve got my cell phone on vibrate in my utility belt, and Davey’s supposed to call if he sees anything. It’s good to have a lookout.
Jim Steele’s doors are locked, but sure enough all the back windows are cracked, to let in autumn air, I guess. You’d think Jim Steele of all people—being from big bad New York City, or whatever—would have some kind of security system. But in Friendship I’m not sure they even sell those things—I mean, Mrs. Klitch had some gnarly stuff, but she probably had to send away for it.
I shove my way between two of the rabbit-shaped bushes, yank open one of the first-floor windows, and climb through, finding myself in a bathroom. I’ve got to be quick in case he comes home unexpectedly. So I duck into the hallway and race around the first floor, doing one preliminary investigative loop. Nothing really catches my eye; the whole thing’s empty—no furniture or anything—except for that stupid child’s desk and Jim Steele’s office and tons of terrifying taxidermied animals. There’re even raccoons flashing what I can only guess are gang symbols. I go through the secretary’s stuff and find a stopwatch, laxatives, and baby-scented perfume—nothing, in other words—then duck into Jim Steele’s office and riffle through one of his desk drawers: eye drops, lozenges . . . a mustache trimmer? All old-man stuff. The other drawers and file cabinets are locked, and his computer is password protected so I can’t search his email. I try guest, and password123—and Ruth and RuthFried and Ruthbaby and SexyRuth and I_want_to_kill_Ruth—but none of them work. This sucks.
My phone buzzes and it’s a text from Davey.
Davey F. (Mobile) Received @ 8:35 AM:
don’t 4get to check all floors.
To: Davey F. (Mobile):
Good thinking
I decide to do the basement next—the one that Ruth was so afraid of. I open the door and peek down the stairs; it smells wet down there and it’s dark and I really don’t want to do this. But somehow I force my legs onto the creaky steps, inching down into the darkness. After what feels like forever there’s cement under my sneakers. I can just make out a hanging lightbulb to my right. I tug the chain and it flickers on. There’s a giant freezer in one corner and a table crowded with bottles and various half-stuffed animals. Some of the stuffing is scattered on the floor. I touch it but it’s sawdust, not straw. I look at the freezer and swallow hard.