High and Dry
Authors: Sarah Skilton
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Skilton, Sarah.
High and dry / by Sarah Skilton.
pages cm
Summary: Framed for a stranger's near-fatal overdose at a party, blackmailed into finding a mysterious flash drive everyone in school seems anxious to suppress, and pressured by his shady best friend to throw an upcoming game, high school soccer player Charlie Dixon spends a frantic week trying to clear his name, win back the girl of his dreams, and escape a past that may be responsible for all his current problems.
ISBN 978-1-4197-0929-6
[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Mojave DesertâFiction. 3. CaliforniaâFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S6267Hi 2014
[Fic]âdc23
2013025535
Text copyright © 2014 Sarah Skilton
Art copyright © 2014 The Heads of State
Book design by Jessie Gang
Published in 2014 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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FOR JOE AND ELLIOT
CONTENTS
THERE ARE NO PALM TREES IN PALM VALLEY
BLACKMAILERS DON'T DO HOMEWORK
THE EX BEFORE THE EX
I WASN'T INVITED, BUT I SHOWED UP TO THE PARTY ANYWAY
so I could talk to Ellie Chen and find out why she dumped me two weeks ago. It was a choir party at Maria Posey's place, in celebration for killing it at the state qualifier yesterday, so I figured Ellie and her songbird friends would be there.
I didn't figure they'd be mixing it up with my new crowd from soccer and my old crowd from, well, whatever it is Ryder does these days.
I parked a few blocks away and walked up the hill, shivering. It might've been cold outside, and it might not have been. I couldn't tell anymore. Palm Valley, California, is just another place that disregards the seasons. It was January, but that didn't mean anything.
I was only cold because I remembered what it was like to be warm; the year I'd spent with Ellie was the warmest of my life.
When she moved here from New York, I could tell right away she was different. She was smart in a way that didn't make you feel stupid, and beautiful in a way that didn't make you feel ugly. It was like by having those things, and being that way, she made everyone around her believe they were more and better, too.
Now I drank to keep warm.
For Christmas, Granddad had given me his antique flask. The real present was inside, refillable every time I visited him at the hospital. He didn't need to bribe me with booze, though. I liked the old guy and I would've shown up every week no matter what. I liked his vintage magazines and I liked sitting and talking with him at Lancaster Medical while he recovered from pneumonia. Sometimes we'd just play cards and let the hours pass. Unlike my parents, he talked
to
me instead of over me.
The conversations I had with my parents didn't seem to require my presence.
Outside Maria Posey's million-dollar tract home on Western Avenue, I toasted Granddad and sipped my Christmas gift, wincing at the taste. The San Gabriel Mountains were oppressive dark outlines against a gray, smog-choked sky. They practically disappeared on nights like this, but I could still feel them there, separating me from Los Angeles and Pasadena and all the other places that might've been worth living in.
I'd just stumbled through Maria's doorway when my first ex, the ex before Ellie, slithered toward me out of nowhere and looped her arm around mine.
“It's been a month, Dix. You gotta let it go,” Bridget said.
“Two weeks and four days,” I corrected her, scanning the crowded living room for Ellie. The air was charged, and a few sets of eyes found mine and squinted in curiosity or disapproval. It was hard to tell which.
“It's not that kind of party,” Bridget said, wrapping her fingers around my flask and lowering it out of sight between our bodies.
“It is for me,” I said.
The hallway and kitchen were packed, too, and I considered mosh-pitting my way through, but Bridget tightened her noose of an arm around mine.
“Don't make a scene. Hang out with me instead,” she said. Her large green eyes were like emerald caves, so huge a guy could stroll right into them and stay forever if he didn't mind giving up his own mind. According to Ellie, emeralds had a tranquilizing effect. Screw the RamonesâI didn't want to be sedated.
Bridget leaned against me and I glanced down to where her curves seemed to be inviting my hands on a date. I kept my expression neutral and forced my gaze back up to her lips, which were full and dark and red. Her strawberry blonde hair fell in loose curls over her shoulders, and she smelled like a dream, lush and harmless, but I knew better.
Whoever coined the phrase “girl next door,” intending it to mean sweet or innocent, never met Bridget. We used to be tight, but she hadn't given me the time of day in years. Her sudden affection made me suspicious. Just like her emerald eyes, it was too good to be true. You can always spot a fake because it has no imperfections.
I shook her loose and staggered through the living room, dodging couples perched on couches or sprawled on the floor. The room swayed, like the house had become unmoored. I half expected to look out the window and discover a black ocean because we'd
all been transported to Semester at Sea. But the floor moved only for me.
Everybody was talking about college admissions, scholarships, essays, and financial aid. Maybe that's why I hadn't been invited: my future was set, while theirs were still in flux.
I fought for balance and caught snippets of deadline-this and deadline-that, all while scanning, scanning, scanning for Ellie.
A couple of my soccer teammates (Patrick and Josh) gave me the nod, or maybe they were indicating heads-up, because suddenly Maria Posey, hostess and head songbird, stepped into my path and scowled.
“Why are
you
here,
Charlie Dixon
?” She threw her words like darts, apparently believing people's names could be used as insults. Or maybe just mine could.
“The beckhams are here, Ellie's here. I'm the epicenter of that Venn diagram,” I slurred, and poked her on the shoulder to make my point.
She was disgusted, either by my breath or by the fact that I'd brought math to the party.
“Are you drunk?” she demanded. “I don't want you vomming all over my parents' carpet.”
I didn't dignify that with a response. “I just want to say hi to Ellie, okay?”
With a last name like Posey, the pressure was on, but as always, Maria met the challenge. She struck a good one: hip cocked, hand out, eyebrow raised. It was quite a balancing act. I wondered if
she'd practiced it in front of the mirror before guests arrived. The Velvet Rope, she could call it.
“Invite?” she demanded again.
“Must've gotten caught in my spam folder.”
