A friend indeed, p.13
A Friend Indeed, page 13
Up ahead, like an answer to an unspoken prayer, a vision appeared before me. At the base of her locker, neatly folded, lay Angie Zukovitch’s cheerleading jacket. She must have forgotten it somewhere, and someone had kindly returned it. It shone like a beacon: cobalt blue with her surname in silver letters. The school colors.
I bent down and slipped the shrooms into the inside chest pocket. I’d been looking forward to them, but the sacrifice seemed worthwhile.
There was a spring in my step as I reentered History. Even Mrs. Gosford couldn’t squash it.
Sure enough, later that day I saw Angie slumped on Death Row, pale beneath a layer of false bravado and pancake makeup. She never knew who did it or why: payback for her endless lame riffs on my surname, Dykstra, and for taking that nude Polaroid of me for Bryce and Kyle.
Plenty of people had reason to fuck with her back in high school. I didn’t tell Dana until years later. I wasn’t ashamed of setting Angie up, I just wasn’t proud of it either. I even felt a little bad for not feeling bad when she was marched out of school, tearfully protesting her innocence between her loud, grim-faced parents.
I don’t lack empathy. I just save it for those who deserve it, like Owen McFarlane. He looks pale and thin, a consumptive, tortured boy version of his mom.
Finally, the secretary hands me a new stapler. It’s a tinny piece of shit. I’d better just go buy one. Crap stapler in hand, I walk over to Owen. “Hey, Owen.”
He looks up. Beneath a mass of straggly curls, dark eyes take me in. Even in a school uniform of crisp white shirt and gray slacks, Owen manages to look goth. I like him. Someone in that family had to rebel. He shuffles his feet. “Hi, Ms. Jo.”
In school, my name is Miz Jo. Back when I was a kid, we still called teachers by their surnames: Mr. O’Connor, Mrs. Dawson. I’m not sure when that shifted.
Outside of school, to Owen I’m plain old Jo. I met the twins as newborns. At that point, childless myself, I found them sweet but mind-numbing. It wasn’t until I had Ruby that I understood Dana’s obsession.
“You okay?” I ask. There’s a geometric pattern drawn on the back of his hand in blue ink. It’s like a starburst or a mandala using only straight lines. I wonder what it means and why he’s here, looking like he’s waiting—no, hoping—for death outside the principal’s office.
Owen shrugs. He’s not much of a talker.
I should go but don’t. There are more questions I’d love to ask but don’t dare: Did you see or hear anything that night? Do you know your mom’s guilty as sin? Do you suspect I helped her?
Owen surprises me by saying: “The cops talked to me last night.”
“Oh,” I say. I thought Dana was against that. Was their lawyer with them? “Was it okay?”
Another shrug. “They asked a lot about you.”
“Me?” I blurt before I can stop myself, then, in a more normal voice, say, “Really? What did they want to know?”
Owen sighs. “Just stuff.”
I feel an urge to shake him.
I thought Owen was the honest twin, more straightforward and transparent than his high-gloss brother. But the way he hangs his head low and looks up seems covert. Is that mockery in his twisted lips or just his standard teenage-misfit expression?
I wrap my cardigan tighter. There’s a draft in this office.
“Owen,” I say, “why are you here?”
He blinks. His voice is soft. “I guess I’m in trouble.”
“Why?” It comes out as a bleat. I want to shake him again. What’s he done? His mom’s under enough pressure without him misbehaving.
Owen’s thin shoulders rise. His sandy curls obscure more of his face. “School searched our lockers this morning.”
“Oh shit,” I say. This word escapes through clenched teeth.
Again, I think back to my own narrow escape with the shrooms. How old was I? Sixteen. A year older than Owen. Evidently not old enough to know better. Who brings drugs to school? What was I thinking?
Owen swings his feet. When he glances up, he looks scared, arms clutching his belly like it hurts. His upper body is gently rocking.
The fear on his face fuels my own. I’m assuming it was drugs because of my own misspent youth. What if it’s something else? Something worse. Something related to Stan’s death.
“Owen?” I cross the gap between us and sidle into the chair beside his. “What did they find in your locker?”
He’s rocking harder. “Spice,” he mumbles.
Despite my relief, I’m outraged. “Spice!” I say. “Do you even know what that is?” I figured he might have tried pot, but this is worse. It’s synthetic marijuana sprayed with God knows what. The effects are much stronger. And at school! Owen ignores me. I take a deep breath. “Where did you get it?”
He shoots me a sideways sneer that says I’m a moron. “It’s everywhere.”
I study my sensible work shoes tapping on the tiles next to Owen’s scuffed loafers. Dana will lose it.
“Owen,” I whisper. “It’s illegal! The school might call the cops.”
That gets his attention.
All motion stops. “The cops? But they barely found anything! It’s not like I was selling it!”
“That’s good,” I say, somewhat relieved. At least he wasn’t found with bushels. “But you’re a minor. And it’s dangerous. They’ll want to know where it came from.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a narc.”
My eyes follow suit in a jerky eye roll. What is this, a bad TV cop drama? First his mom talking about sting ops, and now Owen’s contempt for narcs.
His gaze has reglued to the floor. He’s stopped rocking, but his hands knead his knees. He’s got big knuckles like his father’s.
“Did you buy it at school?” I ask.
His lips twitch briefly into what could be a smile. “As if. Nobody sells anything here except shit.”
“Such as?”
“Bobby Armstead’s dad has a massive wine cellar.”
I picture Bobby’s good-old-boy dad when he finds his prized bottles of 1990 Château Margaux have gone missing. “Nice,” I say. “Could you let me know next time Bobby’s peddling his dad’s premium hooch?”
If I was hoping for a smile, I don’t get it.
Gazing at Owen, the truth hits me. I recall what Angie said about her son Jordan’s tennis coach selling him marijuana. That coach lives next door to Owen. The smile dies on my lips. “It was your neighbor,” I whisper. Dana’s young lover.
Owen’s whole body goes rigid. If he’d screamed yes, the truth couldn’t be louder or clearer.
I shut my eyes. Jesus.
What a fucker, selling chemical-laced weed to his lover’s vulnerable teenage son. I’d like to kick Ryan Reeve in the balls. As will Dana.
At that moment, Principal Bill’s door opens. Seeing me seated beside Owen, his gray eyebrows rise, and the corners of his mouth shoot down. Principal Bill doesn’t like me. He had no choice but to approve my hiring, not after Stan and Dana endorsed me. Not after their generous donation to Stanton House. They built the new science lab. So yes, I owe Dana.
“Owen?” says Principal Bill. A tall, thin man, his voice is unusually low. He’s fond of western-style belt buckles and lariats. He moves and talks slowly. I suspect he does this to bore his opponents into submission. By the time he’s finished a sentence, the will to live, let alone argue, is . . . long . . . gone. Strangely, kids seem to like him. He has a grandfatherly vibe.
Owen stands up. I stay quiet and seated.
“Jo?” says my boss. “Did you need to see me?” These six words last an ice age.
I shake my head. “No.” There’s no reason to pretend to like him either.
I stand up. “I was just speaking with Owen. About how hard it is with his dad still unfound.” This is my reminder to go easy on him, to bear in mind what he’s facing, and whose son he is. I click my stapler. “Have you spoken with Owen’s mother?”
Principal Bill frowns. His head shake is stiff: “The secretary’s been unable to reach her.”
“She should be here,” I say. “I’ll try to call her.”
Under their shroud of curls, Owen’s eyes shift my way. “No!” he growls. “Mom makes everything worse! She’s crazy! She’s—” His voice breaks.
The panic in his eyes zaps me. Is Owen scared of—or for—Dana?
I quash this thought. That wasn’t fear, just resentment. All teenagers feel misunderstood. And Owen has good reason to feel that way. No one in that family ever got him, with his pebble-towers on the beach, tribal wood carvings, and elaborate mobiles of found objects. Dana dragged him to all those doctors, made the poor kid feel defective instead of creative. No wonder he mistrusts her.
Owen is smart. All those therapists taught him was to hide himself better. I can’t say those diagnoses were wrong, just that labels aren’t always helpful.
“Shall we?” says Principal Bill. He motions Owen into his office.
Owen only half shuts the door.
Trying to listen in, I recall him, maybe age four, face blotched with fury because Dana had thrown out a mobile he’d fashioned from wire and seagull feathers. She said it was filthy, which it was. She’d urged him to remake it using fluffy dyed feathers from the craft store. What Dana didn’t get was the purpose of that mobile. It wasn’t decoration but protection, an attempt to keep his world in balance.
My memory is interrupted by footsteps. Principal Bill peers out, frowning, and shuts his door.
Damn. Did he know I was trying to eavesdrop?
As I stalk out into the hallway, I recall Owen’s anger toward his mother. What if he knows the truth about his dad? The kid’s fragile, maybe drug addled. I’m scared of what he’ll let slip to that old windbag Bill.
CHAPTER 22
JO
Phone pressed to my ear, I speed-walk to the art room. I have a free block between now and lunch. I’m so behind on my grading it’s not funny, yet there’s no way I can focus, not with Owen saying God knows what to Principal Bill.
Dana doesn’t answer when I call. It goes to voicemail. I hang up and redial.
The art room’s cold. I slip inside, shut the door, and dump my papers on a table. The parquet floor needs sweeping. It’s covered in shreds of colored paper, chalk dust, and glitter. The room’s utterly still.
Again voicemail. I lower my phone. Where the hell’s Dana? If Principal Bill’s reached her, she should be here already. Is she in his office?
I approach a window and scan the guest parking lot down below. There’s a Range Rover, but it’s not Dana’s. There is no silver Mercedes. My frustration spikes. Where is she? Maybe her phone’s on silent.
I send her a text—call me!!!—and another: call me asap!
If she sees them, she’ll know it’s urgent. I detest all caps.
The art room smells of gouache, an earthy scent like mud after heavy rain. It’s giving me a headache. I pace before the tall windows. Glitter is stuck to my dark pants. Damn. That stuff never comes off; I refuse to buy it for Ruby. I recheck my phone. Where the fuck’s Dana?
There’s no way she wouldn’t come when summoned by Principal Bill. Unless she can’t. This thought stops me cold. Dana’s never without her phone. She even takes it to yoga. What if she’s been arrested?
It’s unlikely, yet I can’t help but picture her in a cell, head in hands, her belongings confiscated, waiting—like Owen—to be summoned for interrogation.
I press my fingertips against the cool window. A man’s raking leaves off the school’s lawn and collecting them in shiny black garbage bags. The guest parking lot’s almost empty. I look up. The wind’s torn blue holes in the clouds.
I redial Dana’s number, get no answer.
I stuff my phone and my unmarked essays into my bag. I’d better find her. Who knows what Owen’s saying?
Teachers aren’t meant to leave the school grounds during free periods. I need this job, need a good reference to help hide the blot on my name from Chicago. I don’t want more trouble. But I have to find Dana.
I sneak down the back stairs and hurry to the staff lot. It’s full of respectable cars, not as flashy as the parents’ but none too bad, save for mine. A layer of grime coats my car. I wouldn’t normally let it get this dirty, but I’m hoping the hit-and-run detectives have noticed I have nothing to hide—ha ha. I bet whoever struck Alma Reyes headed straight for the nearest car wash.
As I drive, the local news comes on. I don’t pay attention until the announcer’s voice says, “hit-and-run.” I turn up the volume. “Alma Reyes, the forty-two-year-old Filipina struck in a hit-and-run in the Oaks early on the morning of October eighteenth, has succumbed to her injuries.”
Shock locks my chest. I can’t believe it. The poor woman died. She never awoke from her coma.
The newscaster’s voice echoes: “There have been no arrests yet, although police report progress.”
My eyes swim. Progress? I’ve been so consumed with worry about dumping Stan’s body that I’ve barely thought about Alma Reyes. Or running that stop sign. Guilt churns my stomach. And now she’s dead.
The news report ends as I approach Marlowe. I try not to look at the spot where she lay or remember her, frail and still, or that small, scrappy dog. It’s not fair. I’m shaking with guilt, fury, and sorrow.
I was sure she’d pull through. How old are her poor children? I clutch the wheel, overcome with rage at the man who hit her. He was speeding. He left her for dead in the drizzle! And he put me on the cops’ radar. Made me complicit. He obviously feels no remorse. I want him caught. And I want him to suffer.
The newscaster moves on to some local council meeting. Even he sounds bored stiff. I’m fighting back furious tears.
At Bennet, I turn right toward Beach, then left toward Dana’s. I could turn onto Beach earlier but don’t, out of habit. At this time of year, the road’s empty. Come summer, Beach Drive is full of tourists driving twenty miles an hour.
Since the closing of the cannery and the mill, Glebes Bay depends on tourism. Weekenders come up from Seattle, lured by waterfront lodges, forest hikes, and a coastal town billed as “charming.”
It is charming, yet there’s much the tourists don’t see. The off-season, for starters, when it rains nonstop. And the locals, scraping by in the poorer parts of town, like the Glebe, where I grew up, far from the movie-set locales of Beach Drive and Glebes Harbor, with its shiny white boats and flower baskets.
As I slow and pull into Dana’s drive, I check the security camera facing the mailbox. Its green light is blinking. I’m glad Dana remembered to turn it back on. At least she’s paying attention. Except where is she? I type in the gate’s code, feeling shaky.
I’m worried about Dana—about us. And I’m still reeling over the news about Alma Reyes. She held on for nine days! I hate to think of her, turned and washed by strangers. The indignity! And her poor family back in the Philippines, undoubtedly praying. If she had to die, it should have been instantaneous.
Pulling through the tall gates, I swipe the tears from my eyes. The oaks lining Dana’s drive are almost bare. Black branches reach skyward like charred witchy fingers. Through their lattice, Winderlea looks extra spooky.
I pull into a guest slot. Gloria’s car, almost as crappy as mine, isn’t here. It might be her day off. Where is she? I know nothing about Gloria. This is worrying.
Exiting my car, cool, damp air enfolds me. I zip my jacket. It’s always colder near the sea.
The vast grounds lie still. I walk briskly to the front steps. In shadow, the house looks grim. The porch is a dark mouth. No lights are on. I trot up the steps and ring the bell. Its clangs echo. I try Dana’s phone again. No reply.
Frustrated, I descend the stairs. Coming here was a waste of time. I should have stayed at school. I could get in trouble.
I’m near my car when a bird trills in the pines. It comes from the direction of Dana’s guest cottage.
I stop, uneasy. The sound’s odd, not quite a bird’s cry. I stare into the trees.
Behind me lies the service entrance to Dana’s studio. It’s also unlit. Where’s Dana’s assistant? I know nothing about her either. What if Daisy found blood in the studio? We cleaned up in a hurry.
That weird sound comes again. I veer onto the path leading to the guest cottage. I pass dormant rose bushes and a red-skinned madrona.
Through the trees, the guesthouse comes into view. Unlike the main house, it’s charming: a fairy-tale cottage with leaded glass in the windows. Its stone walls are embraced by climbing roses and ivy.
I’m a dozen steps away when the sound reoccurs: a short, shrill cry. I stop. Was it human? Or a bird chirping in warning?
I’m listening hard when movement yanks my gaze to a window. There’s a gap in the sheer curtains. Something gold flashes.
Without thinking, I step closer, over ivy, between prickly rose bushes. Come summer, they’ll be heavy with pink blossoms.
Just as I can picture the roses, I can picture the cottage’s bedroom. I stayed there for a week with Ruby last summer, just after we moved back to Glebes Bay. The cottage is tiny but heavenly, with a view over the water. I’d gladly have stayed forever, but Dana made it clear that wasn’t an option. It was hard to go from there to my dingy basement.
I peer through the leaded window.
Dana’s hair cascades silver-blond off the bed. She’s on her back, naked. Straddling her is a man with a photoshopped body. Caramel hair hides his face. His curls bounce as he thrusts. I’ve never seen him before, but who else could it be but Dana’s hot young neighbor? Ryan Reeve, the gorgeous drug dealer.
Dana groans and grips his ass. His head rears back. Dana moans louder.
Holy shit! I jerk backward and sideways, out of the window. Shock’s left me lightheaded.
I only saw his face for a second, but that was enough. I was wrong about never having seen him before. He’s the hit-and-run driver!
