The locker was empty.
A moment or two later, Tattoo Face stormed away. “That’s it,” Spoon said.
Ema stopped the tape.
“So now what?” I asked. “Do we show this to the cops?”
Spoon pushed the glasses up his nose. “You’re kidding, right?”
“This guy probably broke into the Kent household. We have video of his face.”
“Video I stole from the security room at school,” Spoon said. “How would we explain that? I don’t trust cops.” Spoon turned to Ema and puffed out his chest. “See, I have a police record. Is it true that chicks like dangerous men?”
“ Men maybe,” Ema said. “But he’s right, Mickey. You can’t go to the cops. Spoon here will get in trouble, for one, but also, hey, remember who’s police chief in this town.”
Troy’s father, Chief Taylor. Oh boy, did I remember. Not only did I have a problem with the Taylor clan, but clearly Uncle Myron didn’t get along with them either.
“Okay, so we don’t go to the cops,” I said. “So what do we do next?”
Ema clicked on the screen again. The video feed came up. She clicked an arrow and the feed started going backward in slow motion. She stopped it and then zoomed in so that we had a pretty clear look at the side of Tattoo Face’s cheek-the one with the tattoo.
“I have a thought,” Ema said, “but it’s probably a long shot.”
Spoon and I signaled that we were anxious to hear it.
“I know a guy. A tattoo artist named Agent. He did my stuff.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Anyway, the tattoo community is a pretty tight one. Everyone knows everyone. These guys are artists, and this looks like pretty special work. So what I’m thinking is, we show this photograph to Agent. Maybe he can tell us who the artist is.”
I looked at Spoon. He nodded that he liked the idea. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
“One problem,” Ema said. “There really is no public transportation to get there, and it’s too far to walk. We need to get someone to drive us.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
Ema frowned. “What does that mean?”
“I can drive us.”
“You’re not sixteen yet.”
“Don’t worry about that either,” I said. And then the bell rang.
Mrs. Friedman had a surprise for us in history class.
“We are going to do a project on the French Revolution,” she said. “Everyone will need a partner, so please choose one.”
I didn’t know anyone in the class, so I figured I would wait until the end and take whoever was left. Everyone else in the class moved in a flurry, joining up with friends, afraid to be left out. Everyone, that is, except Rachel Caldwell. She stared at me and smiled. Even though I was sitting, I felt my knees go a little weak. People tapped Rachel on the shoulder, called her name, tried to get her attention. She ignored them and continued to meet my gaze.
“Well?” she asked me.
“Well what?” I said.
I just keep stunning her with the great one-liners.
“Do you want to be history partners?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Mrs. Friedman clapped to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, people, if you have your partner, move your chair next to theirs so I can tell you the assignment.”
I rose and grabbed my chair. I stopped for a moment, feeling shy, but Rachel slid over and signaled for me to move next to her. I did. She smelled like, well, a beautiful girl. I started to feel warm. Rachel Caldwell gave Mrs. Friedman her undivided attention. She took lots of notes. Her notebook was pristine. I tried to pay attention-Mrs. Friedman was indeed giving us an assignment-but the words swam by in a murky haze.
When the bell rang, Rachel turned to me. “When do you want to meet up?”
“Soon,” I said.
“How about after school today?”
I remembered that we were going to visit Agent, the tattoo artist. “I can’t after school. Maybe tonight?”
“Sounds like a plan. Why don’t you call me?”
“Okay, sure.”
Rachel waited. I didn’t know what for. Then she said, “You don’t know my number.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You’re probably going to need it,” she said. “I mean, it’s going to be hard to call me without the phone number.”
I nodded sagely. “You make a good point,” I said.
She laughed. “Give me your phone.”
I did as she asked, handing over my cell phone. She started typing. “Here’s my number.”
“Thank you.”
“Talk to you later.” She handed me back the phone and started to leave.
“Bye.”
Five minutes later, I was at the lunch table with Ema. Ema studied my face and said, “What’s with the stupid grin?”
“What stupid grin?”
She frowned. “I called Agent. He can meet us after school.”
“Good.” Then I said, “You’re not even fifteen yet, are you?”
“So?”
“So how did you get tattoos? I thought you had to be eighteen.”
“You can be younger if you get your parents’ permission.”
“So that’s what you did?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ema said with a little edge in her voice. “How are you going to drive us there without a license?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, mimicking her tone.
Ema took a bite of her submarine sandwich. She finished chewing and tried to sound nonchalant. “How was your trip to Los Angeles?”
“Fine. But after you left the other day, I saw our friend from Bat Lady’s house.”
I told her about it. Ema was so good at zeroing in on me when I spoke, making it easier to talk, making the rest of the world sort of fade away. She didn’t just show you that she cared-you felt it.
When I finished, Ema said, “We have to go back to Bat Lady’s house.”
“I don’t know.”
“And they told you not to tell anyone, right?”
“Right.”
“Yet you told me.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. But wait, they said don’t tell anyone about us. You already knew about them.”
She smiled. “I like the way you find loopholes.”
Spoon came over and slammed his tray down next to us. “Every day in the United States, two hundred new jail cells are constructed. I don’t want one of them to have my name on it.”
“I told you,” I said. “We won’t go to the cops.”
He sat down and started eating. Two minutes later, I heard Spoon mutter, “Oh. My. God.” His eyes widened as if he were witnessing the dead being brought to life. I spun toward where he was gazing and saw Rachel Caldwell heading toward us. She was carrying a plate of cookies.
“Hi, guys,” Rachel said with a smile that didn’t just dazzle. It picked you up and shook you hard and then just dropped you back in your seat.
Ema frowned and crossed her arms. Spoon said, “Will you marry me?”
Rachel laughed. “You’re so adorable.”
A swoon. A Spoon swoon, if you will.
“I don’t want to bother you guys,” Rachel said, “but we were just having a cheerleader bake sale. Lame, right?”
“Very,” Ema said, arms still crossed. I shot her a look.
“Anyway, my cookies are pretty awful, so no one bought them, so I figured before I threw them out…”
“Thank you,” I said.
She quickly put them down on the table and shyly walked away.
“The future ex-Mrs. Spoon,” Spoon said. Then, thinking about it, “Or would she be Fork? I must work on that.”
“You do that,” I said. I picked up a chocolate chip cookie and took a bite. “Not bad,” I said.
Ema rolled her eyes into the back of her head. “Of course you like her cookies. They could be made from baby powder and wood shavings and you’d still like them.”
“No, seriously, try one.”