Tantalize (12 page)

M
rs. Levy strolled through the aisles of second-period English, handing back journals with red pluses or minuses on them. That Thursday, mine had a minus.

“How are you, Quincie?” she asked, pausing at my desk.

It was back, The Tone. The one I’d heard so often after my folks died, this time because of Vaggio. Despite the locker incident, my classmates were treating me like usual, which was to say like furniture. But a couple of my teachers had been using The Tone, especially since my grades had started to slip. It was almost enough to make me reconsider homeschooling. I tried to look perky. “Fine, thanks.”

She put down Kieren’s journal on the desk next to mine. A plus. I could imagine him, sprawled, disheveled, on his water bed, scribbling away. Mmmm . . . nice.

When Mrs. Levy moved on, I whispered, “Kiss ass.”

Kieren put his forefinger over his lips to say “Hush.”

I smirked back. I always did crappy in classes I had with Kieren, but he was so gorgeous. I couldn’t help myself. He
was
one of the good guys, I thought.

Mrs. Levy took her place at the front of the room and turned hopeful eyes on her flock. “Who can tell me about one of the many retellings of Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
?”

Tamika Thomas’s and Angela Gray’s hands shot up like it was a synchronized sport, but Mrs. Levy ignored them to call on Ricardo Bentley, linebacker. Due to grades, he was in danger of having to sit out this weekend’s football game, and our teacher was enough of a fan to give him a shot at improving his participation marks.

Most of the class, including Kieren, cared enough to wait rapt for Ricardo’s response. I took advantage of the shift in attention to indulge in my favorite pastime: drooling over my best friend. He had the longest, blackest eyelashes and the fullest lips. When he licked the bottom one, I squirmed in the institutional plastic chair.

As Ricardo wowed the masses with his analysis of why
Pretty Woman
was more on point than
She’s All That,
my gaze slid to Kieren’s hands. One resting on the desk, one curled around a blue-ink pen. Imagined them in my hair, sweeping it aside as he leaned in to nibble my shoulder. Imagined them falling lower, caressing my spine before sliding farther down. Imagined them taking mine, drawing me to lie beside him. Remembered the closest I’d gotten, our hands intertwined. At Vaggio’s memorial on Mount Bonnell. In the back seat of the police car, his stained with Vaggio’s blood. At the railroad bridge, his stained with mine. Straining into claws. Piercing. Tearing.

“Quincie?” Mrs. Levy called. “Are you with us this morning?”

After school, I paced as Brad tried on a red satin shirt and black leather pants in the dressing room at Babes & Bikes on Sixth Street.

“You’ve been out of sorts lately,” Brad observed from behind the curtain. “Your uncle is worried about you. He thinks it has something to do with your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said. “I have a boy who’s a friend. Or, at least I do for now. He’s . . . moving away.”

“Let me guess,” the chef replied. “Out-of-state college?”

“Something like that.” I couldn’t help wondering if it was easier to fixate on Kieren’s joining a Wolf pack than whether he might
have
lost control with Vaggio. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get it out of my head. If Kieren hadn’t told me the whole truth about the pack, maybe he hadn’t told me the whole truth about that night, too. Miz Morales had seemed so convinced his leaving was the only way. Maybe it was her he’d talked to. If I still had a mama, that’s who I’d go to now.

God, what was wrong with me? Why didn’t I know anything? One minute I wanted to jump Kieren and the next I wanted to run away from him and hide. One minute I thought we should be together forever and the next I just wanted him to go ahead and get the hell out of my life.

I paced faster, turning without paying attention, knocking into a display of chain belts and wrist cuffs, causing it to topple over with a jangling crash.

“Quincie!” Brad exclaimed from the dressing room.

“Nothing’s broken,” I said, scrambling to restore order. “I’m just a complete spaz.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Brad said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Actually, it did. With things so uncertain between me and Kieren, Uncle D always off with Ruby or busy working, and Vaggio dead, it was nice to have someone new to talk to. I didn’t even mind Brad’s flirting. It seemed harmless enough, I thought, putting the last of the belts back on their hooks, and Kieren never flirted. He was so earnest, so careful around me. Brad made me feel like I was a girl somebody could really want.

“Here goes,” Brad said, stepping out into the shop. He struck a pose, showing off the black leather and red satin. “Too slutty?”

Wow. “Oh, yeah.”

B
rad glided through the dining room doorway. Black tux, white shirt, black dress shoes, white calla lily boutonniere. “Ta-da!” Seriously. He said “Ta-da!”

“Are you taking her to the prom?” Uncle D asked. “Or are you two getting married?”

Brad’s smile was wistful, showing fang. “Can we do both?”

I wasn’t so chipper. Yesterday, we’d taken advantage of school being out for Labor Day to power shop. But with only ten days till the premiere party, Uncle D’s ruling was “no go.” We’d have to try again. Maybe look into express-ordering something online.

“I do look kind of like a lounge lizard. But that’s no reason to waste the suit.” Brad extended his hand to me. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”

“There’s no music,” I said, feeling awkward.

“There’s always music,” he replied, “if you listen carefully enough.”

Brad had been trying out lines like that, now and then. Trying to get into character. So far, he sounded like a typical fan boy, not like the headliner.

“Don’t you think dancing is kind of silly?” I asked.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of silly to dress up in a tuxedo and not dance?”

It was hard to argue. I climbed off the chair, Brad spun me, and then we were waltzing, a skill I owed to the valiant six-week effort of a middle school gym teacher. Brad was good, a strong lead. I gazed up into his red eyes. He seemed ready to confide something, and I took a side step, not ready to hear. It would be simpler to keep dancing.

As Uncle Davidson cleared his throat, we broke apart.

Truth was, I’d forgotten for a moment he was standing there.

“Quincie, honey,” Uncle D said, “mind if I have a word with you?”

It was an ominously parental question.

Excusing himself, Brad ducked out of the room to change clothes.

My uncle waited until he was gone and motioned for me to follow him to the foyer. For privacy, I supposed.

“The clock’s ticking,” my uncle began, using his index finger to wipe dust from the photo of Mama and Daddy. “Brad’s been busy with the food, and . . . Don’t get me wrong. You’ve done a top-notch job of managing him, but I’m ready to settle for a good cook and let Ruby play to the crowd.”

Ruby
again.
Yuck. It was so unfair! Besides, what if she and my uncle broke up? Talk about your personal-professional wreckage. Uncle D wasn’t thinking straight. He was in some kind of sex haze. It was my duty as his niece and my mother’s daughter to save the restaurant. “But when Vaggio was alive, you loved the vampire chef idea.”

Uncle D’s face fell. “Honey, Vaggio was a born showman. Brad’s not. We can still call him ‘the vampire chef.’ He’ll just stay offstage. But we need a star.”

“Ruby, you mean.” I took refuge behind the hostess stand. Going off about her to my uncle wouldn’t help my cause. “One more chance,” I begged. “I can do this.”

Uncle D considered a moment before backing down. “Okay, okay. You’re such a doll, always there for everyone else. Me especially. You can try again with Brad’s makeover. One more try.”

I beamed at him. “Thanks!”

With that, he retreated to the kitchen. A moment later, I heard his laugh, mingled with Brad’s. I opened Frank at the hostess stand to make a new to-do list.

The phone rang, catching me off-guard. “Sanguini’s: A Very Rare Restaurant,” I announced. “May I help you?”

“This is Detective Sanchez. Who’s this?”

Oh my God, I thought, the police. Sanchez, Sanchez . . . I didn’t remember a Detective Sanchez, but the days surrounding Vaggio’s murder had been such a blur. Maybe he was the guy who’d come with Detective Bartok to the memorial service.

“This is Quincie Morris,” I said into the phone.

“Quincie, good. Listen, this call is confidential.” It was an order, not a question. “I don’t want to read about it in tomorrow’s paper or see it on News 8.”

I tightened my grip on the receiver. “Understood.”

I heard the detective take a drink. Coffee, I figured, imagining him, mug in hand, hunched over his messy desk at the station. Come on, I thought. Whatever it is, tell me.

“I’m calling to urge you to be careful. The victim . . .”

“Vaggio,” I said, glancing at his birthday picture. “His name was —”

“Mr. Bianchi was an older man, but he was in good health. At the time of the crime, he may have had his guard down. The perp —”

“Perp?”

“The murderer, the shifter. It’s probably someone he knew. Which means —”

“It’s probably someone I know, too.”

“Q
uincie!”

I jerked my head up as Mr. Wu slammed his Econ book on my desk.

“This is a class, not a slumber party. Next week, try caffeine like the rest of us.”

Mr. Wu was the one teacher who hadn’t adopted The Tone since Vaggio’s death. At first I’d been grateful. Now, not so much.

The bell rang, and I peeled out of there, turned into the filling hallway, and ran smack into Vice Principal Harding.

“Good morning, Miss Morris.”

Damn. “Good morning, Mr. Harding.”

“It’s not too late for you to consider homeschooling.”

Having just been awakened by the Econ teacher in front of my whole first period, I had to admit the idea sounded more appealing than it had initially. But then I remembered the main reason I liked school. He was in my next class.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, dodging Harding on my way to my locker for my English book.

When I slid behind the desk next to Kieren, he was leaning over his notebook, the highlighted short story spread open in front of him. That’s when I remembered. Friday’s scheduled quiz. Hawthorne. “Young Goodman Brown.” I used to calendar out all of my assignments in Frank, but lately, I hadn’t bothered. I didn’t even have Frank with me today for some reason. I put my hand on Kieren’s forearm. “I didn’t do the reading —”

“Again?”

“I had to work. What’s the story about?”

“It’s this sledgehammer study in symbolism with —”

The bell rang and Kieren paused, glancing at Mrs. Levy.

“Go on,” I whispered.

But before he could, Mrs. Levy said, “Please put your books and notes under your desks.” She passed out the quizzes to the first person in each row, and they passed them back. After a few more instructions, everyone got to work.

I squinted, trying to make some sense of the questions. The words looked blurry. What was it with English teachers and their desperate need to quiz? I wondered. Did they enjoy torturing students? And where did Kieren get off judging me, just because I wasn’t spending every minute with my muzzle buried in a book? The whole thing was so stupid, so pointless. So juvenile. I, I didn’t . . .

“Do you need to go to the nurse?” Mrs. Levy whispered at my shoulder.

“Why?”

“You’re crying,” she told me in The Tone.