Rebel, Bully, Geek, Pariah (28 page)

“Sit.”

Boston and York hustled to share a length of log, but I didn't move.

“Where is she?” I asked, grateful that my voice was steady.

The smiling face turned quizzical.

“Do I know you?” he said.

I know you
, I thought.

I was kicking myself for not probing deeper for the memory before. But seeing a familiar face in uniform, I just assumed . . .

He used the business end of his pistol to scratch his chin, and I found myself willing the gun to accidentally go off.

“I do,” he said. “I know you from somewhere. Did I sell you something?”

“I'm not one of your clients,” I said with venom. “And you're no cop.”

 

37

THE FAMILIAR FACE laughed. “Who said I was a cop?”

I reached a hand back toward the boat, and he steadied his gun, aiming straight at my chest. “Careful now,” he said.

Slowly, I lifted my hand, and gripped in my fist was the shirt half of the officer's uniform. “You were wearing this. In the park.”

Now the other two guys were laughing. I noticed that neither of them had guns—not in their hands, and nowhere else I could see on their bodies, which was pretty much everywhere, since they were both in jeans and dirty tank tops.

“We ain't no pigs,” one of them said. “But those
are
kind of our uniforms.”

“You kids thought we were the real deal? This whole time?” The leader lowered his gun but kept a tight grip on it. “She didn't tell you.”

She who?

“My mom?” I asked, at the same time York said, “Tell us what?”

The gun lifted again.

“Whoa, whoa. I'll be asking the questions here. What's this about your mom?” He leveled the gun at me. “Did you go crying to your mommy about all this?”

“I don't cry,” I said through gritted teeth. “And you already know my mom.”

“You know him?” York said, gaping at me. Next to him, Boston was whimpering.

“I recognized him. I thought he was a cop who arrested my mom.”

“Well, now I'm curious,” the creep said, stepping closer to me. “Who is your mom?”

I didn't hesitate. “Melissa Cherie. And you were her dealer.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “I don't deal anymore.” He spread his arms to indicate the campsite, smiling as he lorded over his kingdom. “I'm more of a behind-the-scenes guy now. Dealers answer to me.”

“Well, I don't answer to you,” I said.

“Oh my God,” York groaned. “Just sit down.”

“Nah, let the lady speak,” the gunman drawled. “What's on your mind, little girl? You mad at your mom and taking it out on me? Sorry, but I'm not your guy.”

“It was years ago,” I said. “She's clean now.”

It was a lie, but just a day ago it would have been the truth. I wanted him to know he had lost one to sobriety.

“Melissa Cherie, you said?”

I nodded.

“She used to be a country singer or something?”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I knew I was right—knew it the moment I heard his slimy voice in person and finally saw his scum face lit up with the last gasps of daylight—but having him confirm it made me physically ill.

“Yeah, I remember her now.” He chuckled. “No way is that bitch clean.”

I wanted to scream at him not to call her a bitch, but a logical part of me remembered he had a finger on a trigger, and a deeper part of me felt ripped open by the truth. He was right. As of this moment, she wasn't clean.

My fault.

No.

His fault
.

“Careful with that,” he said, aiming his gun at my hand.

I looked down and saw that I was crumpling the police shirt in my fist.

“Did you really think these would fool real cops?” I asked.

One of the sideline guys called out, “How 'bout you just shut your mouth and sit down like the man said?”

“Sam,” Boston's voice was pleading and racked with tears. “Just sit!”

I ignored everyone except Mama's dealer.

“Those uniforms aren't for the cops' benefit, sweetheart,” he said. “They're to keep the other riffraff away while we're doing business.”

He turned his head to the side to spit, and a thick brown glob hit the ground. The sight of it twisted my stomach. “Most
folks in River City Park at night don't want to be anywhere near police,” he said. “All hookers and dope-heads and trash.” He spit again. “Like your mom.”

“Fuck you,” I said.

The logical part of my brain had apparently just gone on vacation.

His smug look turned vicious now, and he aimed his weapon right at my face. “You may not answer to me, honey, but you will answer to my gun.”

York stood up then, and the dealer turned his gun on the boys. York instantly put his hands up, and, not taking his eyes off the weapon, he said to me, “Sam, come on.
Please.
”

The fear in his voice shook me awake. That's what I was supposed to be feeling—fear. The rage had chased it all away, but it was seeping back in now. I shuffled over toward the fire, and by the time I had dropped onto a low stump, my whole body was trembling.

“Finally!” The dealer lowered his gun and rotated his shoulder. “My arm was getting tired. Now, get the other one out here.”

The sideline thugs—who looked more like meth-heads than bodyguards, with their skinny frames and gray teeth—backtracked to the truck and returned with Andi between them.

My heart pounded. She had a dirty gray cloth stuffed in her mouth and bruises on her tattooed arms, but I counted ten fingers and exhaled with relief. The goons threw her into a lawn chair and then took up posts on either side of the campfire. They twitched with nervous energy, reminding me too much of Mama
at her unpredictable worst. The man in charge dropped into a chair next to Andi and pulled the cloth from her mouth. She gagged as it came out.

“She's a screamer, this one.” He winked at us, then nudged Andi's knee. “Don't be mad. It was just a precaution. Sit back and relax now. You done good.”

What was that?

I cocked my head, zeroing in on the two of them across the fire. Twilight was darkening the sky around us, but I could still clearly see Andi's face—and the shame that now filled it.

The scum sitting next to her smiled around at the rest of us. “Andi here almost blew it, though, huh? Thought I was going to have to cut this bitch when shit went bad, but she pulled it together.”

No.

“What is he talking about?” York spoke low and even, but there was a growl at the back of his throat.

“You're the ‘she,'” I whispered.

“I wanted to—I thought that—”Andi stammered.

She moved to stand, but the dealer used his gun arm to force her back down. “Andi here's our little lookout. Kind of fucked it up, though, didn't she?”

He reared his gun up and moved as if to backhand Andi, but he stopped just short of her face and laughed. To Andi's credit, she didn't flinch.

“You work for them?” I said.

The dealer answered for her. “Oh yeah,” he drawled. “Andi and I go way back. Caught her trying to lift a wallet out
of some girl's purse while she was getting her ankle inked up at my friend Frankie's tattoo shop. Told her there was a much easier way to get cash. She's been running little errands for us ever since.”

I heard every word he said, but I never took my eyes off Andi. Her face crumpled as he told the story, and I saw her deflate the same way she had in detention last year. She didn't need his cash. What she needed was an outlet for her rage—at Georgia, at her dad—and she'd gone looking for it in all the wrong places.

“I can explain,” she said.

“Explain?” Boston said. “Explain?!” He leaped to his feet and stayed there, despite the thugs stepping closer and the gun now pointed at him. “You knew—you've known all along—”

“The paper,” I interrupted. “With the time and place—”

“It fell out of my bag,” Andi said miserably.

“You tried to pin that paper on us!” York cried.

The dealer reached into a cooler with his free hand and cracked open a beer. “Well, this is downright entertaining.”

York spluttered at Andi. “You could have—you didn't—and then—”

“I tried to stop you!” Andi burst out. “I told you not to go to the docks! I said we should go back to the party!”

She did. She did try. But not hard enough.

“Didn't try to stop us from stealing their car, though, did you?” Boston raged.

York tried to pull him back down, but he wouldn't budge.

“Yeah, I'm a little pissed about that,” the dealer said, sucking the foam off his beer can. “I think you owe me a new ride.”

“I think you've already got everything you need,” Andi said. She was trying to sound tough, but I heard a quiver in her voice.

“Just about,” he agreed. He nodded over at Boston and York. “How 'bout you boys shove off those backpacks?”

They did as they were told, tossing the bags by the fire, where the thugs picked them up.

“You tried to get us to leave it all behind,” I said to Andi.

She grasped at the lifeline. “I did! I did try! I knew the crooked-cop story wasn't going to fly with police, but I couldn't tell you why.”

“You could have,” I said, sympathy competing with deep disappointment. “You could have told us.”

“You would have turned me in.”

“Yeah, we would've!” Boston agreed.

Andi's eyes probed mine. “Sam, I swear. I thought if we just left them their stuff—and after they got it I was going to tell you, before we got back to—”

“The text messages,” I said, realization dawning.
Call me or I will end you.
“You don't have a boyfriend, do you?”

Andi shook her head miserably.

“Andi here doesn't like boys.” The dealer laughed. “Damn shame.”

“She told us to leave the junk for you,” I said to him. I should have been pissed at Andi, but all I felt was pity. I had seen Mama sucked into situations like this, seen how quickly they could spiral out of control—how the least guilty could take the hardest fall. “She kept trying to ditch the car, the drugs—she was just outnumbered.”

The dealer was sipping his beer, listening.

“She didn't tell us anything, and she won't tell the cops. You can let her go.”

He sneered at me. “You talk too much. And you—” He pointed at Andi. “All you had to do was keep your little party pals out of the way. Don't think you're still getting that hundred bucks.”

“A hundred bucks?” York's hands clenched into fists on his knees, and his eyes drilled into Andi's. “You did all this for a
hundred fucking dollars
?”

No
, I thought.
She did it for the thrill
. But her thrill ride had turned into a shit show for all of us.

“You don't even
need
money,” Boston cried. “You have your own.”

“No; I have
hers
.” Andi took a sharp, sudden breath, almost like a hiccup, and looked away. “It's
all
I have of her.”

I would have spent all the money in the world to buy back Mama's missing pieces, but for Andi, all the money in the world was the only piece she had left.
She steals because she refuses to spend.

“I was just supposed to keep kids from the party away from the docks,” Andi said. “It wasn't my fault. It was the police. They busted up the party, and they all ran.” She waved an arm at us. “I couldn't stop them.”

“You're garbage.” York seethed.

A tear slipped down Andi's cheek, and she didn't bother to wipe it away. I wasn't sure she even knew it was there.

“The cabin,” Boston said, his voice strained. “You told them where we were.”

Andi shook her head, and the look she gave Boston was a warning, but he plowed on, catching up to what I'd already figured out.

“Those text messages! They were from him.” He pointed at the dealer, who in turn cocked his head at Andi.

“So you
did
get my messages.” He looked back at Boston. “If she had told me where you were, she'd be in a lot better favor right now. As it is, we used the GPS tracker in the wheel well. Took a while. Thanks for not finding it before we found you.”

“They saw you,” Andi said to the dealer, dragging his attention away from the boys and back to her. “They saw you by the docks, and the cops were right behind us. They could've identified you. When they took the car, I didn't know the stuff was still in it. I went with them to keep them from talking. I did it to protect you.” As she said this last line, her eyes slipped, ever so slightly, over to me.

I gave her the tiniest nod in return.
I believe you.

But apparently I was the only one.

The dealer waved the gun at his thugs. “Andi first,” he said. “Then the rest.”

I didn't have time to decipher what that might mean, because so much happened then at once. The twitchy meth-heads moved toward Andi just as Boston and York unleashed a flurry of curse words and accusations at her. Words like “traitor” and “scum” pierced the air in Boston's high-pitched scream, while York kept repeating “garbage” over and over again. The outburst startled the goons, and they paused halfway to Andi and turned to grab the boys instead.

York pushed one in the chest, then immediately held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Sorry. We're cool.”

But Boston was not cool. He struggled against the guy trying to grip his arms and shrieked hysterically at Andi, “You did this! To all of us!” He flailed in the thug's arms. “Disgusting, lying piece of shit, nobody—”

A gunshot ripped through the air, and I curled instinctively into a ball on the ground, my hands over my ears.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.