The Quick Fix (9 page)

“You can have that back,” I said. “If it'll make you feel better, I can stuff it inside the box before I give it to you.”

“I don't want my money back. I want to retain your services.”

“No.”

“Matthew, as far as our relationship is concerned, the word ‘no' has been removed from your vocabulary.”

“In that case, ask me if I think you're a jerk.”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

“I'm always surprised when you resort to bullying to get your way, Vinny … considering what you used to go through.”

“I'm always surprised by your surprise, Matthew … considering what I used to go through,” he said. “The thing is, I haven't changed. I'm still the same kid I was when I was getting knocked around. The only difference is, I now have the means to get what I want.”

“I wouldn't say that's the only difference.”

“Yes, well, only because you didn't know me very well back then.”

“I knew you well enough to think you were worth protecting from bullies,” I said.

Vinny was quiet.

“Good night, Matthew,” he said, finally. “I'm going to need you tomorrow. I'll let you know when you're available.”

Before I could respond, he hung up.

It was two in the morning when I heard the door to our apartment open. I was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to find one spot on my pillow that was still cool. I heard my mom tiptoe down the hallway, then slowly open my bedroom door. I thought about pretending to be asleep, but I was too wired to fake it.

“Hey,” she said. “You're awake.” She stood in the doorway but didn't come inside. Her shape was silhouetted by the light of the hallway, and I couldn't see her face.

“Don't sound so surprised,” I said. “Aren't I always?”

“Yeah, but usually you're just barely hanging in there. Tonight, you're
wide
awake. Is everything okay?”

What answer could I give?
Not really … see, this girl at school hired me for a job, but then she had her life ruined because of this decorative little box. Actually, it wasn't because of the box; it was because of what was
inside
the box. What
was inside the box? Well, apparently not what was
supposed
to be in there. What was
supposed
to be in the box was something that someone could use to blackmail Vinny Biggs, if they were into that sort of thing. (Vinny Biggs is the head of a whole criminal organization at school and he uses his power to destroy kids' lives by putting them in the Outs … but that's a discussion for another time.) What was
actually
in the box was a piece of paper with the same letter and number sequence that they found in Dad's car when he disappeared. Other than that, I'm fine.

Instead, I just said, “Yup.”

“I never trust one-word answers,” she said, “especially when they come after three-minute pauses.”

I shrugged. “Not sure what to tell you.”

“Are you sure that you're not sure?”

“No,” I said. “In fact, I'm sure that I'm not sure that I'm sure.”

“Sure you are,” she said.

I smiled. I think she smiled, too, but because of the shadows, I couldn't tell.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked.

“I do, but I don't. And I can't …”

“So you won't,” she said. “Yeah … I get it.” There was something in her voice that made me sit up. I reached for
the lamp on my bedside table. When I turned on the light, I saw that her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Her nose was red. She'd been crying.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You first,” she said.

“This … no … We talked about this,” I said. “We agreed to keep our own secrets. But if one of us got in over our heads, we'd ask the other for help.”

“And you think I'm in over my head?” she asked. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“You're kidding, right? You're—” I stopped. “You're crying,” I said, making an effort not to start crying myself.

“And you're lying in your bed, wide awake at two in the morning,” she said. “So, what conclusion should I come to?”

I didn't say anything.

I understood her position, but that didn't keep me from feeling frustrated. I wanted to be there for her, to help her … and I imagined she was feeling the same thing about me.

She walked into my room and sat down on the edge of my bed.

“We've kind of painted ourselves into a corner,” I said.

My mom nodded. “Any ideas on what to do next?”

“No. Hey, aren't you an adult? Don't you have any age-related wisdom you can apply to this situation?”

“Age-related wisdom?!?” she said, laughing. “That's the worst euphemism for ‘old' I've ever heard.” She reached over and mussed up my hair, then pushed my head back so that it fell into the pillow. “Think of that as a little nudge toward dreamland,” she said.

“More like a shove toward Concussion City.”

She stood up and walked out the door, then stopped and turned. “Are you sure you can handle what's going on?” she asked.

“No. Are you?”

“No. When do you think you'll know for sure?”

“Probably when it's too late to ask for help,” I said.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Well, at least now I know who I inherited
that
from,” I said.

“Good night, Matt. Try to get some sleep.”

“Back atcha.”

I used to think I trusted my mom, that I could tell her anything … which was ridiculous, considering that
I couldn't tell her anything about what really happened at the Frank. So, which was better: the lie that was comfortable or the truth that made me wish we were still living the lie?

morning came. There was no way to stop it. The best I could do was delay it a bit. After several trips to the snooze bar, I realized that I wasn't going to feel rested by getting sleep in ten-minute increments. I rolled out of bed, turned off the alarm, and stumbled into the day. Getting through school on two hours of sleep wasn't ideal, but I had done it enough times to know it was possible.

In the kitchen, there was a ten-dollar bill and a note from my mom. “Don't spend this all on coffee,” it said.
“Love ya.” I smiled. I picked up the ten dollars and walked down the hall toward her room. She had an ugly ceramic pineapple on top of her dresser where she kept her emergency fund. I picked up the lid and stuffed the ten inside. I still had almost fifty bucks from three different clients; no need to take my mom's money. I stumbled back to the kitchen to start my morning routine.

As I drank some juice and poured myself some cereal, my thoughts shifted to the piece of paper inside the box. Who put it there and why? And how did they know about TMS136P15? Had they somehow been involved in my dad's disappearance? Was putting that code in the box an attempt to hurt or distract me, or was someone trying to make contact with me? Or did it have nothing to do with me? Was TMS136P15 part of something bigger, and my dad's disappearance was only a small part of it?

My head started hurting; it didn't feel big enough to hold the number of possibilities that I was going to have to sift through in order to get some answers. I decided that the best way to move forward with this case was to start at the beginning, with Will Atkins. He was the one who had given Melissa the box to hold in the first place, and he had told her not to tell anyone she had it because it might be
valuable. It was valuable, all right. It was time to find out if Will knew why.

I grabbed the school newspaper as I walked into the building and saw that Will had won the game almost single-handedly, scoring forty-two of Franklin's sixty-one points, including the game winner at the buzzer. He even used his post-game remarks to make a statement about some “activities in this school that need to stop. We're on the same team; we should act like it.” My feelings for Will were definitely conflicted.

I checked in with a contact in the principal's office. The Thompsons were listed as absent. That should've made me feel a little less anxious, but there were a lot of rocks to hide under at the Frank, and I was pretty sure that the Thompsons had at some time or other crawled under most of them.

When I wasn't looking over my shoulder, I watched Will. He went through his usual morning routine of soaking up the adoration of our classmates. No one seemed to offer any condolences for what had happened to his girlfriend, although a couple of girls did “accidentally” trip and stumble right into him.

Apart from all the attention, he did the same things I had seen him do the previous day: He hummed his song, tapped his locker, smiled and chatted with his stream of fans … but there was definitely something different about him. He was twitchy in a way that seemed different from his game-day jitters.

Then, right after third period, he spotted me. He had locked his locker, tapped on the door four times, and started to walk to class when our eyes met. He pretended like he didn't see me. When he reached the doors to the gym, he went inside. Not wanting to be obvious, or to get jumped, I continued down the hall. I kept walking until I came to another set of doors, the ones leading to the other side of the gym. I opened those doors as quietly as possible and slipped inside.

Will was at the free throw line at the far end. He dribbled in place a couple of times, took a deep breath, bent his knees slowly, then came back up smoothly, with perfect form, his arm going from bent to straight, his wrist going from bent back to bent forward: the perfect “gooseneck” necessary to give the ball backspin. The ball swished through the net, then bounced and rolled back to him, like a well-trained dog returning to its master. He picked it up and held it.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, without even turning toward me.

I looked around the gym, to see if there was anyone else he could be talking to. There wasn't.

“Come on, man,” he said. “I spend the majority of my time in this gym. I'm in here more than I'm in my own home. I know every click of every door, every creak of every floorboard. No matter how quiet you think you are, I can hear you.” He repeated the same perfect free throw motion as before, with the same exact result. He picked up the ball again and turned to face me.

“Matt Stevens,” I said, and started walking toward him.

“I've heard of you,” he said. “Kids hire you to do stuff for them, right?”

“That's one way to put it.”

“So, did someone hire you to watch me? Is that why you're here?” he asked.

I stopped walking. We were six or seven feet apart. He lifted the ball slowly, as if he was getting ready to throw a chest pass. He seemed friendly, but I got the feeling that if I made a sudden movement, that's exactly what he'd do.

“Melissa hired me to watch you,” I said. He grimaced at the mention of her name. “She was worried about you.”

He sighed. “Poor Melissa. I wish someone had been more worried about her.”

“I was. It didn't help. Maybe if you hadn't given her that box to hold.”

Just mentioning the box had the effect of a ten-thousand-volt current going through his body. His eyes shot open wide; his head jerked back. He raised the ball in his right hand like a baseball; his feet shifted like a shortstop preparing to throw a runner out at first. “You have five seconds to tell me the truth or I break your nose.”

I almost said
Calm down
, which was something you never want to say in such a situation. Someone that worked up was liable to smack you for even suggesting he calm down. Instead, I said, “You gave your girlfriend, Melissa Scott, a box to hold, right?”

“It wasn't a box,” he replied. “It was just a piece of wood. Like a decoration or a knickknack …”

“Is that what your friend told you when he gave it to you?”

“Yeah, he—” Will stopped. “I don't have to tell you anything.” The ball was still in his hand.