Promise Me (23 page)

L
ivingston High School principal Amory Reid was dressed in Haggar slacks, an off-white short-sleeve dress shirt made of material flimsy enough to highlight the wife-beater tee beneath it, and thick-soled black shoes that might have been vinyl. Even when his tie was loosened, it looked as though it were strangling him.

“The school is, of course, very concerned.”

Reid’s hands were folded on his desk. On one hand he wore a college ring with a football insignia on it. He had uttered the line as though he’d been rehearsing in front of a mirror.

Myron sat on the right, Claire on the left. She was still dazed from the confirmation that her daughter, the one she knew and loved and trusted, had been pregnant for the past three months. At the same time there was a feeling akin to relief. It made sense. It explained recent behavior. It might provide an explanation for what had been, so far, inexplicable.

“You can, of course, check her locker,” the principal informed them. “I have a master key to all the locks.”

“We also want to talk to two of your teachers,” Claire said, “and a student.”

His eyes narrowed. He looked toward Myron, then back to Claire. “Which teachers?”

“Harry Davis and Drew Van Dyne,” Myron said.

“Mr. Van Dyne is already gone for the day. He leaves on Tuesdays at two p.m.”

“And Mr. Davis?”

Reid checked a schedule. “He’s in room B-202.”

Myron knew exactly where that was. After all these years. The halls were still lettered from A to E. Rooms beginning with 1 were on the first floor, 2 on the second floor. He remembered one exasperated teacher telling a tardy student that he wouldn’t know his E hall from his—get this—his A hall.

“I can see if I can pull Mr. D out of class. May I ask why you want to talk to these teachers?”

Claire and Myron exchanged a glance. Claire said, “We’d rather not say at this time.”

He accepted that. His job was political. If he knew something, he’d have to report it. Ignorance, for a little while, might just be bliss. Myron had nothing big on either teacher yet, just innuendo. Until he had more, there was no reason to inform the school principal.

“We’d also like to talk to Randy Wolf,” Claire said.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“Off school grounds, you can do whatever you want. But here, I would need to get parental permission.”

“Why?”

“That’s the rules.”

“If a kid is caught cutting class, you can talk to them.”

“I can, yes. But you can’t. And this isn’t a case of cutting class.” Reid shifted his gaze. “Furthermore, I’m a little confused why you, Mr. Bolitar, are here.”

“He’s my representative,” Claire said.

“I understand that. But that doesn’t give him much standing in terms of talking to a student—or, for that matter, a teacher. I can’t make Mr. Davis talk to you either, but I can at least bring him into this office. He’s an adult. I can’t do that with Randy Wolf.”

They started down the corridor to Aimee’s locker.

“There is one more thing,” Amory Reid said.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure it relates, but Aimee got into a bit of trouble recently.”

They stopped. Claire said, “How?”

“She was caught in the guidance office, using a computer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither did we. One of the guidance counselors found her in there. She was printing out a transcript. Turns out it was just her own.”

Myron thought about that. “Aren’t those computers password-protected?”

“They are.”

“So how did she get in?”

Reid spoke a little too carefully. “We’re not sure. But the theory is, someone in the administration made an error.”

“An error how?”

“Someone may have forgotten to sign out.”

“In other words, they were still logged on so she could gain access?”

“It’s a theory, yes.”

Pretty dumb one, Myron thought.

“Why wasn’t I informed?” Claire asked.

“It wasn’t really that big a deal.”

“Breaking into school transcripts isn’t a big deal?”

“She was printing out her own. Aimee, as you know, was an excellent student. She has never gotten in trouble before. We decided to let her go with a stern warning.”

And save yourself some embarrassment, Myron thought. It wouldn’t pay to let it out that a student had managed to break into the school computer system. More sweeping under the rug.

They arrived at the locker. Amory Reid used his master key to unlock it. When he opened the door, they all stood back for a moment. Myron was the first to step forward. Aimee’s locker was frighteningly personal. Photographs similar to the ones he’d seen in her room adorned the metallic surface. Again no Randy. There were images of her favorite guitar players. On one hanger was a black Green Day American Idiot tour T-shirt; on the other, a New York Liberty sweat-shirt. Aimee’s textbooks were piled on the bottom, covered in protective sleeves. There were hair ties on the top shelf, a brush, a mirror. Claire touched them tenderly.

But there was nothing in here that seemed to help. No smoking gun, no giant sign reading
THIS WAY TO FINDING AIMEE
.

Myron felt lost and empty, and staring into the locker, at something so Aimee—it just made her absence that much more obscene.

The mood was broken when Reid’s mobile phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened for a moment, and then he hung up.

“I found someone to cover Mr. Davis’s class. He’s waiting for you in the office.”

D
rew Van Dyne was thinking about Aimee and trying to figure out his next step when he arrived at Planet Music. Whenever he did that, whenever he got too confused by life and the poor choices he’d often made, Van Dyne either self-medicated or, as he was doing now, he turned to music.

The iPod ear buds were jammed deep into the canals. He was listening to Alejandro Escovedo’s “Gravity,” enjoying the sound, trying to put together how Escovedo had written the song. That was what Van Dyne liked to do. He’d tear a song down in the best way possible. He’d come up with a theory about the origin, how the idea had come, the first bit of inspiration. Was that first seed a guitar riff, the chorus, a specific stanza or lyric? Had the writer been heartbroken or sad or filled with joy—and why specifically had he been feeling that way? And where, after that first step, did he go with the song? Van Dyne could see the songwriter at the piano or strumming the guitar, taking notes, altering it, tweaking it, whatever.

Bliss, man. Pure, simple bliss. Figuring out a song. Even if. Even if there was always a small voice, deep in the background, saying, “It should have been you, Drew.”

You forget about the wife who looks at you like you’re a dog turd and now wants a divorce. You forget about your father, who abandoned you when you were still a kid. You forget about your mother, who tries now to make up for the fact that she didn’t give a rat’s ass for too many years. You forget the mind-numbing, regular-Joe teaching job you hate. You forget that the job is no longer something you’re doing while waiting for your big break. You forget that your big break, when you’re honest with yourself, will never come. You forget that you’re thirty-six years
old and that no matter how hard you try to kill it, your damn dream will not die—no, that would be too easy. Instead the dream stays and taunts and lets you know that it will never, ever, come true.

You escape into the music.

What the hell should he do now?

That was what Drew Van Dyne was thinking as he walked past the Bedroom Rendezvous. He saw one of the salesgirls whisper to another. Maybe they were talking about him, but he didn’t much care. He entered Planet Music, a place he both loved and loathed. He loved being surrounded by music. He loathed being reminded that none of it was his.

Jordy Deck, a younger, less talented version of himself, was behind the counter. Van Dyne could see from the young kid’s face that something was wrong.

“What?”

“A big dude,” the kid said. “He came in here looking for you.”

“What was his name?”

The kid shrugged.

“What did he want?”

“He was asking about Aimee.”

A lump of fear hardened in his chest. “What did you tell him?”

“That she comes in here a lot, but I think he already knew that. No big deal.”

Drew Van Dyne stepped closer. “Describe this guy.”

He did. Van Dyne thought about the warning call he’d received earlier today. It sounded like Myron Bolitar.

“Oh, one other thing,” the kid said.

“What?”

“When he left, I think he went to Bedroom Rendezvous.”

Claire and Myron decided to let Myron talk to Mr. Davis alone.

“Aimee Biel was one of my most gifted students,” Harry Davis said.

Davis was pale and shaking and didn’t have the same confident stride Myron had seen just that morning.

“Was?” Myron said.

“Pardon me?”

“You said ‘was.’ ‘Was one of my most gifted students.’ ”

His eyes went wide. “She isn’t in my class anymore.”

“I see.”

“That’s all I meant.”

“Right,” Myron said, trying to keep him on the defensive. “When exactly was she your student?”

“Last year.”

“Great.” Enough with the prelims. Straight for the knockout punch: “So if Aimee wasn’t your student anymore, what was she doing at your house Saturday night?”

Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead like plastic gophers in one of those arcade games. “What makes you think she was?”

“I dropped her off there.”

“That’s not possible.”

Myron sighed and crossed his legs. “There are two ways to play this, Mr. D. I can get the principal in here or you can tell me what you know.”

Silence.

“Why were you talking to Randy Wolf this morning?”

“He’s also a student of mine.”

“Is or was?”

“Is. I teach sophomores, juniors, and seniors.”

“I understand that the students here have voted you Teacher of the Year the past four years.”

He said nothing.

Myron said, “I went here.”

“Yes, I know.” There was a small smile on his lips. “It would be hard to miss the lingering presence of the legendary Myron Bolitar.”

“My point is, I know what an accomplishment winning Teacher of the Year is. To be that popular with your students.”

Davis liked the compliment. “Did you have a favorite teacher?” he asked.

“Mrs. Friedman. Modern European History.”

“She was here when I started.” He smiled. “I really liked her.”

“That’s sweet, Mr. D, really, but there’s a girl missing.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Harry Davis looked down.

“Mr. D?”

He didn’t look up.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s all coming apart now. All of it. You know that, I think. Your life was one thing before we had this chat. It’s another thing now. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I won’t let go until I find out everything. No matter how bad it is. No matter how many people are hurt.”

“I don’t know anything,” he said. “Aimee has never been to my house.”

If asked right then, Myron would have said that he wasn’t all that mad. In hindsight, that was the problem: a lack of warning. He had been talking in a measured voice. The threat had been there, sure, but it wasn’t even worth checking. If he had felt it coming, he would have been able to prepare himself. But the fury just flooded in, snapping him into action.

Myron moved fast. He grabbed Davis from behind the neck, squeezed the pressure points near the base of the shoulders, and pulled him toward the window. Davis let out a little cry as Myron pushed his face hard against the one-way glass.

“Look out there, Mr. D.”

In the waiting area Claire sat upright. Her eyes were closed. She thought that no one was watching. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Myron pushed harder.

“Ow!”

“You see that, Mr. D?”

“Let go of me!”

Damn. The fury spread, diffused. Reason bled back in. As with Jake Wolf, Myron scolded his loss of temper and released his grip. Davis stood back and rubbed the back of his neck. His face was scarlet now.

“You come anywhere near me,” Davis said, “and I’ll sue you. Do you understand?”

Myron shook his head.

“What?”

“You’re done, Mr. D. You just don’t know it yet.”

D
rew Van Dyne headed back to Livingston High School.

How the hell had Myron Bolitar connected him to this mess? He was in full panic mode now. He had assumed that Harry Davis, Mr. Friggin’ Dedicated Teacher, wouldn’t say anything. That would have been better, would have left Van Dyne to handle whatever arose. But now, somehow, Bolitar had ended up at Planet Music. He had been asking about Aimee.

Someone had talked.

As he pulled up to the school, he saw Harry Davis burst out the door. Drew Van Dyne was no student of body language, but man, Davis did not look like himself. His fists were clenched, his shoulders slumped, his feet in a fast shuffle mode. Usually he walked with a smile and a wave, sometimes even whistling. Not today.

Van Dyne drove through the lot, pulling the car into Davis’s path. Davis saw him and veered to the right.

“Mr. D?”

“Leave me alone.”

“You and me, we need to have a little chat.”

Van Dyne was out of the car. Davis kept moving.

“You know what will happen if you talk to Bolitar, don’t you?”

“I haven’t talked,” Davis said, teeth clenched.

“Will you?”

“Get in your car, Drew. Leave me the hell alone.”

Drew Van Dyne shook his head. “Remember, Mr. D. You got a lot to lose here.”

“As you keep pointing out.”

“More than any of us.”

“No.” Davis had reached his car. He slid into the front seat and before he closed his door he said, “Aimee has the most to lose, wouldn’t you say?”

That made Van Dyne pause. He tilted his head. “What do you mean by that?”

“Think about it,” Davis said.

He closed the door and drove off. Drew Van Dyne took a deep breath and moved back to his car. Aimee had the most to lose. . . . It got him thinking. He started up the engine and began to pull out when he noticed the school’s side door open again.

Aimee’s mother came out the very same door that beloved educator Harry Davis had stormed out just minutes ago. And behind her was Myron Bolitar.

The voice on the phone, the one that had warned him earlier:
Don’t do anything stupid. It’s under control.

It didn’t feel under control. It didn’t feel that way at all.

Drew Van Dyne reached for the car radio as though he were underwater and it held oxygen. The CD feature was on, the latest from Cold-play. He drove away, letting Chris Martin’s gentle voice work on him.

The panic would not leave.

This, he knew, was where he usually made the wrong decision. This is where he usually messed up big-time. He knew that. He knew that he should just back up, think it through. But that was how he lived his life. It was like a car wreck in slow motion. You see what you’re heading for. You know there is going to be an ugly collision. You can’t stop or get out of the way.

You’re powerless.

In the end, Drew Van Dyne made the phone call.

“Hello?”

“We may have a problem,” Van Dyne said.

On other end of the phone, Drew Van Dyne heard Big Jake Wolf sigh.

“Tell me,” Big Jake said.

Myron dropped Claire off before heading to the Livingston Mall. He hoped to find Drew Van Dyne at Planet Music. No luck. The poncho
kid wouldn’t talk this time, but Sally Ann said that she’d seen Drew Van Dyne arrive, talk briefly to the poncho kid, and then sprint out. Myron had Van Dyne’s home number. He tried it, but there was no answer.

He called Win. “We need to find this guy.”

“We’re spread a little thin right now.”

“Who can we get to watch Van Dyne’s house?”

Win said, “How about Zorra?”

Zorra was a former Mossad spy, an assassin for the Israelis, and a transvestite who wore stiletto heels—literally. Many transvestites are lovely. Zorra was not one of them.

“I’m not sure she’ll blend into the suburbs, are you?”

“Zorra knows how to blend.”

“Fine, whatever you think.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Chang’s Dry Cleaning. I need to talk to Roger.”

“I’ll call Zorra.”

Business was brisk at Chang’s. Maxine saw Myron enter and gestured with her head for him to come forward. Myron moved ahead of the line and followed her into the back. The smell of chemicals and lint was cloying. It felt like dust particles were clinging to his lungs. He was relieved when she opened the back door.

Roger sat on a crate in the alley. His head was down. Maxine folded her arms and said, “Roger, do you have something to say to Mr. Bolitar?”

Roger was a skinny kid. His arms were reeds with absolutely no definition. He did not look up as she spoke.

“I’m sorry I made those phone calls,” he said.

It was like he was a kid who’d broken a neighbor’s window with an errant baseball and his mother had dragged him across the street to apologize. Myron did not need this. He turned to Maxine. “I want to talk to him alone.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Then I go to the police.”

First Joan Rochester, now Maxine Chang—Myron was getting damn good at threatening terrified mothers. Maybe he’d start slapping them around too, really feel like a big man.

But Myron did not blink. Maxine Chang did. “I will be right inside.”

“Thank you.”

The alley reeked, as all alleys do, of past garbage and dried urine. Myron waited for Roger to look up at him. Roger didn’t.

“You didn’t just call me,” Myron said. “You called Aimee Biel, right?”

He nodded, still not looking up.

“Why?”

“I was calling her back.”

Myron made a skeptical face. Since the kid’s head was still down, the effort was a bit of a waste. “Look at me, Roger.”

He slowly raised his eyes.

“Are you telling me that Aimee Biel called you first?”

“I saw her in school. She said we needed to talk.”

“About what?”

He shrugged. “She just said we needed to talk.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t we what?”

“Talk. Right then and there.”

“We were in the hall. There were people all around. She wanted to talk privately.”

“I see. So you called her?”

“Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

“It was weird. She wanted to know about my grades and extracurricular activities. It was more like she wanted to confirm them. I mean, we know each other a little. And everyone talks. So she already knew most of that stuff.”

“That’s it?”

“We only talked for, like, two minutes. She said she had to go. But she also said she was sorry.”

“About?”

“About my not making Duke.” He put his head down again.

“You got a lot of anger stored up, Roger.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Tell me then.”

“Forget it.”

“I wish I could, but see, you called me.”

Roger Chang studied the alley as though he’d never really seen it before. His nose twitched, and his face twisted in disgust. Finally he found Myron’s face. “I’m always the Asian geek, you know? I was born in this country. I’m not an immigrant. When I talk, half the time people expect me to sound like an old Charlie Chan movie. And in this town, if you don’t have money or you’re not good at sports . . . I see my mother sacrifice. I see how hard she works. And I think to myself: If I can just stick it out. If I can just work hard in high school, not worry about all that stuff I’m missing, just work hard, make the sacrifice, it will all be okay. I’ll be able to move out of here. I don’t know why I focused on Duke. But I did. It was, like, my one goal. Once I made it, I could relax a little. I’d be away from this store. . . .”

His voice drifted off.

“I wish you’d have said something to me,” Myron said.

“I’m not good at asking for help.”

Myron wanted to tell him he should do more than that, maybe get some therapy to deal with the anger, but he hadn’t walked a mile in the kid’s shoes. He didn’t have the time either.

“Are you going to report me?” Roger asked.

“No.” Then: “You could still get in on wait-list.”

“They’ve already cleared it.”

“Oh,” Myron said. “Look, I know it seems like life and death now, but what school you make isn’t that important. I bet you’ll love Rutgers.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He didn’t sound convinced. Part of Myron was angry, but another part—a growing part—remembered Maxine’s accusation. There was a chance, a decent chance, that by helping Aimee, Myron had destroyed this young man’s dream. He couldn’t just walk away from that, could he?

“If you want to transfer after a year,” Myron said, “I’ll write a letter.”

He waited for Roger to react. He didn’t. So Myron left him alone in the stench of the alley behind his mother’s dry cleaning store.