“We all run,” I shouted again to the girls. “All of us at the same time.”
And then a voice—a voice with that horrible little lisp, a voice that chilled me like no other—said, “Oh, I don’t think so.”
Everything stopped then. Nobody moved. It was as if the very buildings—this very alley—were suddenly holding their breath. I broke through the paralysis. I let go of the door and swiveled my head to the left.
Buddy Ray had a knife on Ema.
My heart leaped to my throat. The sirens were getting closer.
“Let her go,” I said.
Buddy Ray just smiled at me. If the cracked teeth or blood was bothering him, he didn’t show it. The smile had nothing behind it. No mirth, no joy, no soul. It was the scariest smile I had ever seen.
“The cops are on their way,” I said. “They’ll go easier on you if you let her go.”
Buddy Ray laughed. “Who said I wanted it easier?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was too far away to make a move. He put the knife on Ema’s neck. Ema closed her eyes. Tears ran down her cheek. “Please . . . ,” she said.
“You took something that belonged to me,” Buddy Ray said, looking directly at me. “Now I’m going to take something that belongs to you.”
“Don’t,” I said, my voice sounding so weak, so defeated. “If you want to get back at someone, get back at me.” I raised my hands and walked toward him. “Take me instead.”
I risked another step. I was still at least ten yards away. We locked eyes, Buddy Ray and me, and when I saw them, when I really took a good hard look into his eyes, my heart crumbled to dust.
Ema was doomed.
There was no reasoning here. There was no action I could take. It didn’t matter that the cops were bearing down on him. For a moment, there was only him and me—and I had no doubt what he’d do next.
He was going to kill Ema.
He was going to kill her just to see my face when he did it. I couldn’t talk him out of it. I couldn’t reach him in time. I was here, on the edge of victory, and so he would take Ema away from me.
It was like Buddy Ray knew it all already. I had lost my father. I was losing my mother. And now, when I finally found a real friend, I would lose her too.
He moved the knife closer to her throat. Ema squirmed, but he held her firm.
“Say good-bye,” Buddy Ray said.
And then, when all hope seemed lost, with my eyes locked on Buddy Ray’s—boom, a small truck plowed into Buddy Ray.
My mouth dropped open.
One moment Buddy Ray was standing there with a knife in his hand. The next, he was flying across the alley on the hood of a small truck.
A familiar truck.
One I’d seen once before.
A small truck with a crossed mop-head logo on the side.
As the sirens surrounded us, as the cop cars came braking to a halt, the driver’s door opened, and Spoon emerged.
He pushed up his glasses, looked at the still man on the hood of the truck, and said, “Man, I really gotta learn how to drive.”
Ema had called Spoon when she couldn’t reach me.
“I figured maybe he could at least pick us up,” she said.
I hugged her for a very long time. Rachel came over and joined us. Spoon came over too.
Police cars kept pouring in. I saw Tyrell’s father arrive. My uncle Myron was there too. The Ford Taurus, I remembered now, had a GPS unit in it. Myron was able to get the coordinates. He just got them a little too late.
An ambulance came for Buddy Ray. He would live, but the girls were all talking to the police now. There would be charges. He wouldn’t be free for a very long time.
With Rachel on my right and Ema on my left, I looked down the block and spotted Ashley in the distance. She was getting into Juan’s van. Juan held the door open for her. Ashley looked back at me one last time and smiled. I smiled back, but there was no joy in it. Juan nodded at me. Ashley vanished into the back of the van, and as she did, I think that we both realized that we would never see each other again.
At least, that was how it felt.
I looked at Rachel. She nodded at me. Ema gave me a brave smile. Spoon wasn’t sure what to do. We shared looks. My friends, I thought. The only real friends I’ve ever had. And yet, somehow, I knew that they were much more, that this would not be the last time we would stand together like this.
I felt overwhelmed. We all moved closer together in an almost protective cluster, looking out now as one.
“Guess what,” Spoon said to me.
I swallowed hard. “What, Spoon?”
“George Washington was sterile.”
chapter 26
HOURS LATER, after my leg got treated for the bite, after the police were satisfied, Uncle Myron drove me home. I expected a full-fledged grilling or a lecture, but he went easy on me. He seemed somewhat lost in his thoughts.
“You took something of a beating,” he said.
I nodded.
He gripped the wheel tighter. “Is this the first time you’ve been hurt like this?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I went with the truth. “Yes.”
“It will be worse in the morning. A lot worse. I have some painkillers that might help.”
“Thanks.”
Myron made a turn, keeping his eyes on the road. “Basketball tryouts are coming up soon.”
“I know.”
We fell into an uncomfortable silence. I was the one who broke it this time. “The other night, I saw you video-chatting with a woman on the computer.”
Myron cleared his throat. “Oh.”
“Who is she?”
“My fiancée.”
That surprised me.
“She lives far away,” he said. “Overseas.”
“You were supposed to go to her.”
Myron said nothing.
“You stayed behind,” I said, “because of me.”
“Don’t worry about it. It will all work out.”
More silence.
“Can I ask you something else?” I said.
“Okay.”
“What’s the deal with you and Chief Taylor?”
Myron grinned. “Chief Taylor,” he said, “is a power tool.”
“His son is captain of the basketball team.”
“So was he,” Myron said. “Years ago. He was the senior captain when I was a sophomore.”
Talk about history repeating itself. “So what happened between you two?”
Myron seemed to mull it over before he shook his head. “I’ll tell you about it another time. Right now I think it’s time we took care of some of your wounds.”
Myron was right.
When I woke up the next day, my entire body screamed in agony. It took me ten minutes to sit up and get off the bed. My temples pulsed. My head throbbed. My ribs were so tender that breathing became a new adventure in spiked pain.
There were two pills on the nightstand next to my bed. I swallowed them down. That helped. Myron had taken the extra Ford Taurus into the shop to get the window Derrick smashed fixed. That meant I’d have to walk. The police, I figured, were still looking for Derrick. I didn’t want to tell them not to waste their time.
A few hours later, I finished my walk to the Coddington Rehabilitation Institute. Christine Shippee greeted me with her arms folded across her chest.
“I told you,” she said. “You can’t see your mother yet.”
I thought about everything. I thought about the Abeona Shelter and the work my parents clearly did for them. I thought about my dad’s letter to Juan, how he wanted to give me a chance at normalcy. I thought about moving back to the United States, that drive down to San Diego, the crash of the car. I thought about that ambulance driver, the one with the sandy hair and green eyes. I thought about the way the expression on his face told me that my life was over, how I knew right then and there that even he, this stranger with sandy hair and green eyes, knew my future better than I did.
I thought about my mom’s face when she first heard that my dad was dead, how she had died on that day too. I thought about how I tried to help her—enabled, I guess—how I kept her on life support, how she clung to me, how she lied and even manipulated her only son. I thought about the spaghetti and meatballs dinner we never had. I thought about the garlic bread.