Chasing Boys (10 page)

At lunchtime I call her. I smuggle my phone out of my locker into the bag with my lunch because we aren’t supposed to have phones at school.

I try Margot’s cell phone number then her home number but there’s no answer. I toy with the idea of calling Desi at home, but I don’t have many minutes left and should probably save them for an emergency. Why can’t I be on an unlimited plan like everyone else?

I take Angelique’s scrap of paper and add her information to my phone’s contacts list.

And I wonder for the fortieth time what I am going to wear on Friday night.

40.

B
efore I go to Angelique’s, Mom and I have a fight. I can’t find anything warm to wear that looks good, so I make do with a summer top and a scarf.

“Don’t be ridiculous, El,” she says, dumping groceries on the kitchen table. “You’re just getting over a cold.” Then she has a coughing fit.

“I don’t have anything else,” I say. “I’m warm enough.”

“Warm enough in here,” she agrees, then coughs again. She has only had one sick day off this week. Maybe she should have taken more. I have an image of her funeral and my heart begins to hammer in my chest.

Are you okay?

Are you really sick?

I don’t say these things.

Instead, Mom and I snap and bite at each other until finally Bella agrees to lend me her new jacket if we’ll just be quiet. She also lends me some money for the game and we both know that I’ll never pay it back. Mom disappears into her room and comes out all dressed up. She looks good. She’s wearing more makeup than I’ve seen on her for a long time. I’m dying to ask where she’s going—she hasn’t been out for so long—but I won’t give her the satisfaction of me talking first.

“I’m going out,” is all she says as she heads for the door. “Do you need a lift to work, Bella?”

Bella shakes her head. “Jackie’s picking me up.”

Jackie is Bella’s friend from our old life. She has lots of friends that she still sees, even after the BANKRUPT thing.

Bella gives Mom a quick hug and frowns at me as she passes by.

“I need a lift, Mom,” I say, then add, “Please.”

I give Mom the address and she seems to know how to get there, and I realize that it’s near our old Big House. I still don’t ask her where she’s going or who with. I don’t get a chance. She’s too busy giving me the third degree about who, what, when, and why. When she finds out this is Angelique’s house, the girl she met in the shoe store, she seems satisfied.

We finally pull up at a large white mansion with black wrought-iron gates flanked by white lions. Normally Mom would have something to say about this type of house design, but she just asks, “How are you getting home?”

“Angelique,” I say.

“Do you have your cell phone?” asks Mom. “Call me if you get stuck.”

“Thanks for the lift,” is all I say. Then I slam the door and don’t wait for her to drive away. I hear the car leave, its distinctive chugging loud in the still early evening as I press the doorbell. I’m feeling a little nervous, because I’m half an hour early. I hate to be late.

Chimes ring out five times before Angelique finally opens the door.

“Commin,” she says, slurring her words as she stands aside to let me in.

I’m embarrassed. Is Angelique drunk? She stumbles up the white hallway, which I think might be marble. I follow her into her bedroom, not knowing what else to do. I’d figured at least a couple of her friends might be hanging around, but the house is quiet.

Angelique has a large bed with a silk duvet cover and lots of pillows in shades of blue and white. In one corner of her room, which is about as big as my home, is a corner desk with a Mac laptop, printer, and scanner set up. A corkboard is dotted with pieces of paper: invitations, notes, a phone number. There’s a TV in another corner and a shaggy white rug in the middle of the room. There aren’t any posters on the wall. Maybe she isn’t allowed to have them.

“Are we still going—?”

Angelique cuts me off with a high-pitched giggle, which comes out of nowhere.

“Dad’s not home. We’re gonna have to catch a taxi.” She sways a little. “Oh, shit.” Then she crumples in a heap at my feet.

I think back to all the movies that I’ve ever watched with drunk people in them.

“Jelly beans,” whispers Angelique, and I think she’s lost it. “Jelly beans,” she insists, and points to her bedside table.

I open a couple of drawers and find a half-empty package of jelly beans. I hold them up. “These?” I ask.

She nods and I pop one into her mouth.

I fumble for my phone and dial 911. Then I ask her for Eric’s number.

“Don’t call Eric,” she pleads. “You can’t tell anyone.”

I want to call Mom, but Angelique is holding on to my hands like she is drowning. I ask her what I should do, but all she can say is, “Just stay. Just stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.

41.

I
’ve never ridden in an ambulance before. I’m sitting in the front and there’s an EMT guy in the back with Angelique. He’s setting up a drip or something and it’s all very
ER
. The driver quietly whistles as he steers through the traffic. He does this for a job, every day, saving people. I want to give him a medal for being so calm and together.

When we get to the hospital, they whisk Angelique away and I walk to the emergency room reception window and wait in line.

The carpet leading up to the reception desk has a well-worn track—a track made by thousands of hopeful, fearful, ill people before me. The scent hits me before I reach the woman behind the desk. The sweet smell of perfume—musk—barely masks the smell of antiseptic and stale air-conditioning. My stomach flips a warning and I hope I’m not going to puke.

“The doctor will be with you shortly.” The broad, starched desk guardian with the bristling mustache tells me. She sits in her glassed-in reception area safe from germs, vomit, and the stench of fear. The scent of musk is strongest here. I wonder if there was a special on, like maybe 80 percent off. Her skin has been scrubbed raw and it gleams pinkly under the harsh light. Pink piggy skin that has me thinking of a pork roast. Her blunt left hand strangles a pen.

I go back to my uncomfortable plastic seat in the waiting room.

A young guy opposite me gives a wan smile, his nose a smashed watermelon. No pits. An older man sitting with him catches my gaze.

“Football practice,” barks the older man, laughing. His nose also wanders over his face. His breath cuts through the musk, alcohol tainted, with an underlying smell of tobacco. The nicotine-stained fingers of his left hand drum a restless tattoo on the seat next to him. The sign opposite him says NO SMOKING.

“Christ, we’re gonna be in for it from the old duck.” He laughs, nudging his son in the ribs.

I’m guessing he’s talking about his wife. I wonder if she looks like a duck. I think it’s very rude of him to mention it. My mind seems to be wandering away from what’s really happening.

Somewhere in this concrete maze is Angelique. She is probably wearing one of those sterile white gowns that gapes at the back. Her army of followers has no idea where she is. And if they did, would they choose to be here? Would they revel in the drama? The tabloid throwaway-ness of it. Or would they just find another Angelique to leech on to?

Then I wonder if Eric’s basketball game has finished. Whether he has missed Angelique watching him from the sidelines. He’s probably frantic. I’m worried about him but don’t think it’s my place to call him. Angelique made that pretty clear.

Angelique is alone in this ants’ nest of nurses and doctors and aides and others all scurrying about their work. The halls are a maze of dead ends and closed doors. I can’t begin to guess where they have taken her.

The desk guardian glances at me, then continues her precise printing. Her glasses are a prop to glare over.

I did not pass her test when we first arrived. I gave her Angelique’s name and address. I fumbled for my phone and gave her Angelique’s cell number, but I couldn’t give a home number or her father’s first name. Luckily, Angelique’s details are in the computer. She’s been here before.

I close my eyes and images of Eric and Dylan and Margot tumble over one another—a waterfall of images that make no sense.

The smell of stale coffee nudges my senses and I make my way to the visitors’ cafe. Discarded stir sticks blaze a trail to the garbage can. Sugar encrusts the edge, and garbage is overflowing onto the beige carpet. Bad color choice. There are no cups in sight.

There is a drink-vending machine nearby and I feed in some coins. Nothing happens. I hit the button again and wait. That’s when I notice the handwritten sign that apologizes for the machine being out of order.

I kick the machine and it feels so good that I kick it again.

I make my way back to my seat. I have made my mark here with used tissues, an unread magazine, and a stray hair clip. Bella’s jacket lies abandoned on the seat as the heating turns on its tropical charm. I want to be in this seat when the guardian comes looking for me. If I stay here, everything will be all right.

The bright lights of the waiting room beat down. My head throbs and I close my eyes, just for a moment. The next thing I know I wake with a jerk. My mouth is dry and I hope that no one has seen me drooling or committing some other gross act. I check my phone—almost 9 p.m.

A woman nursing a bandaged finger has replaced the guy with the watermelon nose.

“The doctor will see you now.”

I jump out of my seat, but the guardian is talking to the woman with the bandaged finger. I feel slightly dizzy and realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. It hasn’t even been half a day since Mom dropped me off at Angelique’s house, but it may as well have been a lifetime.

I miss my dad. I suddenly want to see his face, climb into his arms, and have him hold me steady so I won’t fall.

I want to call someone. Bella’s at work. Mom’s out—God knows where or with who. A date? I file that thought away for later inspection. I know they would come if I called, but it seems selfish to ask.

I flip open my phone and scroll through my contact list. It is surprisingly short. Desi would be a welcome sight, but she is entirely unpredictable. Besides, she’s sick. Margot? Well . . .

I scroll down further, and then back up again.

“Hey, you can’t use that here.”

It’s a young kid with chubby cheeks. Those cheeks are so perfect and plump that I want to pinch one so that it leaves a red mark. He’s pointing to my phone like it’s a loaded weapon. Then he points to a sign that shows a cell phone and a large red line through it.

I stick my tongue out at him and press the “dial” button. After a lifetime of rings, someone answers.

“Hello?”

Then I break my promise to Angelique.

“Dylan,” I say. “It’s El.”

42.

I
t seems like forever, but Dylan finally arrives and marches straight over to me.

“Tell me again,” he demands.

He looks out of place, like a wild animal in a public park.

I give him a quick explanation as he slouches in the seat across from me. He doesn’t seem surprised.

“Has this happened before?” I ask.

“She’s diabetic,” he says. “So where is she?”

“I’m not really sure,” I say.

But Dylan’s already out of his seat. He’s walked over to the reception area to talk to the woman behind the glass. He moves like a jungle cat. I want to warn him that it’s useless but watch in amazement as she gives him her version of a smile. He nods a couple of times then comes back to me.

“Angelique’s under observation in one of the emergency cubicles.”

“Can we see her?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says.

I gather my stuff and stand up to go, but Dylan isn’t moving. He’s watching the desk guardian.

“Hello?” I say. “Can we go?”

The automatic entrance doors open and a woman and young boy rush up to the desk. The boy is crying and the woman raps on the reception window for attention. The desk guardian is trying to calm them down when Dylan says, “Now,” and disappears up the hallway.

When he pushes open some unmarked double doors I’m right behind him.

“We’re not allowed to see her, are we?” I pull on Dylan’s arm.

“It’s a free country,” he says.

“How do you know where to go?”

“I’ve been here before,” he says, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the scar on his face.

There’s a nurses’ station and a line of curtained cubicles—some pulled shut, some open. I think I see the lady with the cut finger, who is sitting on the edge of a hospital bed with her arm in a sling.

People in white coats and pastel-colored uniforms are bustling around. No one bothers to ask us why we are here.

“Angie!” Dylan calls out.

I swear we are going to end up in jail and I’m going to have to explain the whole thing to my mother.

“Angelique!” Dylan calls out again.

A cubicle curtain nearby pulls back. Angelique pokes her head out.

Dylan and I hurry over and shut the curtain behind us.

“Hi,” says Angelique, like we’re at a party.

Dylan just mumbles and sits on the one plastic seat near the bed. Angelique sits back on the bed and I’m left standing.

“El, I’m sorry about tonight. I really messed up.”

“Don’t be,” I say. “They had your dad’s number.”

“I guess he had to know.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s going to lose it.”

“Has this happened before?” I ask.

Angelique nods. “Once or twice,” she says. “It happens when I don’t eat properly—when I don’t take care of myself.”

“Do you want me to call Eric?” I ask, ignoring Dylan’s snort from the chair.

Angelique shakes her head. “It’s a big night for him. This game’s really important.”

“It’s just a stupid basketball game,” I say. “He’d want to be here, I know it.”

I’m angry but I’m not sure who with. Angelique?

Eric?

“There’s a party afterward—” Angelique is cut off as the curtain twitches back to reveal a tall man in a leather jacket. His dark hair is threaded with gray and his skin looks suntanned. For some reason, it’s his hands that I notice the most. His hands are slim and his fingers are long but blunt at the ends, with clean, pale fingernails. They’re pulling at his jacket collar like it’s digging into his neck.