lying.”
“Try me.”
He spits in my face and turns away. As he saunters off, he calls over his shoulder, “I’ll be in the parking lot at three-thirty. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Twenty-Two
T he books that fell out of my locker are probably being kicked up the hall by people changing class.
But that’s happening on another planet. I’ve only got one thing to think about besides throwing up, and that’s getting to Jason’s. Now, while he’s out. If there’s a memory card, I’m getting it back.
I leave the school grounds as fast as I can, grab a bus to the subway, take the subway to Sherwood station, then another bus to Jason’s subdivision. Walking up his street, I feel like an alien. I imagine all these rich housewives and nannies watching me out of their living room windows, getting ready to call the cops.
Nobody walks around here. Even if they wanted to, there’s no sidewalks, just curbs. It’s like walking is a crime or something. Like, if you don’t drive, you must be a lowlife casing a job.
Especially if you look like me. My jeans are ripped from the gravel, I’m covered in scrapes, my hair is a mess, and I’ve got a bump on the back of my head that feels like a watermelon. What’ll I say when I see Jason’s mother? “Hello, Mrs. McCready, your son’s a rapist, but hey, who cares, have another drink”?
When I get to his house, her Camry’s not in the driveway. Is she away, or just upstairs comatose, the car in the garage? I check my watch. It’s not quite noon. I can’t believe she’s out already; Jason told me she sometimes sleeps all day.
I ring the doorbell. It’s one of those chimes that are supposed to sound elegant but just sound phony, like the ones at upscale shoe stores. No answer. I ring again. Still nothing. Time for drastic action—I grab the brass door knocker and bang away for all I’m worth.
Silence.
What now? I can’t leave. Not without what I came for. But with all the noise, the whole neighborhood must be watching. If I try to break in, they’ll call the cops for sure.
I get this wild idea. I wave at the empty living room window, like there’s somebody inside, then say in a loud voice, “Oh hi, Mrs. McCready. You want me to meet you in the garage? Okay.”
What, am I crazy? Like that’s supposed to fool anybody?
Relax. If the neighbors are nosy they’ll have seen me around here with Jason. They’ll already be back to watching TV .
I take a deep breath. The garage door lock’s been broken since Jason gave it a boot a month ago. I raise the door a bit, slip inside and close it behind me.
I know the hiding place for the house key is under the watering can by the garbage pail. Why do they even have a watering can? As if Mrs. McCready’d be caught dead holding one. As for Jason’s dad, he’s never home long enough to water.
I let myself in. The warning from their security system starts beeping, but that’s okay. Before the alarm goes off, I punch in the code and disarm it. I’ve seen Jason punch it so often, I know it by heart. 8-7-4-2, the last four digits of their phone number. What a stupid code. Like, do they want to get robbed?
Okay. I’m inside. The alarm is turned off. So far so good.
All the same, I’m afraid to move. Even though nobody’s around to hear me, I’m terrified of making a sound. It’s as if I think the furniture is alive, listening for intruders. How do guys steal for a living? Aren’t they afraid to give themselves heart attacks?
I have a flash that maybe I’m not alone, that Mrs. McCready really is here, that she didn’t hear me because she’s downstairs working out on her X-Trainer. “Mrs. McCready?” I call out. “It’s me. Leslie.”
Silence. I’m alone.
I don’t have much time. I better move fast.
Jason bragged he hid the memory card upstairs. That means his bedroom. Anyplace else, his folks could find it by accident.
I’m there in a heartbeat. But where do I look? How do I find it? It’s barely
“Try me.”
He spits in my face and turns away. As he saunters off, he calls over his shoulder, “I’ll be in the parking lot at three-thirty. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Twenty-Two
T he books that fell out of my locker are probably being kicked up the hall by people changing class.
But that’s happening on another planet. I’ve only got one thing to think about besides throwing up, and that’s getting to Jason’s. Now, while he’s out. If there’s a memory card, I’m getting it back.
I leave the school grounds as fast as I can, grab a bus to the subway, take the subway to Sherwood station, then another bus to Jason’s subdivision. Walking up his street, I feel like an alien. I imagine all these rich housewives and nannies watching me out of their living room windows, getting ready to call the cops.
Nobody walks around here. Even if they wanted to, there’s no sidewalks, just curbs. It’s like walking is a crime or something. Like, if you don’t drive, you must be a lowlife casing a job.
Especially if you look like me. My jeans are ripped from the gravel, I’m covered in scrapes, my hair is a mess, and I’ve got a bump on the back of my head that feels like a watermelon. What’ll I say when I see Jason’s mother? “Hello, Mrs. McCready, your son’s a rapist, but hey, who cares, have another drink”?
When I get to his house, her Camry’s not in the driveway. Is she away, or just upstairs comatose, the car in the garage? I check my watch. It’s not quite noon. I can’t believe she’s out already; Jason told me she sometimes sleeps all day.
I ring the doorbell. It’s one of those chimes that are supposed to sound elegant but just sound phony, like the ones at upscale shoe stores. No answer. I ring again. Still nothing. Time for drastic action—I grab the brass door knocker and bang away for all I’m worth.
Silence.
What now? I can’t leave. Not without what I came for. But with all the noise, the whole neighborhood must be watching. If I try to break in, they’ll call the cops for sure.
I get this wild idea. I wave at the empty living room window, like there’s somebody inside, then say in a loud voice, “Oh hi, Mrs. McCready. You want me to meet you in the garage? Okay.”
What, am I crazy? Like that’s supposed to fool anybody?
Relax. If the neighbors are nosy they’ll have seen me around here with Jason. They’ll already be back to watching TV .
I take a deep breath. The garage door lock’s been broken since Jason gave it a boot a month ago. I raise the door a bit, slip inside and close it behind me.
I know the hiding place for the house key is under the watering can by the garbage pail. Why do they even have a watering can? As if Mrs. McCready’d be caught dead holding one. As for Jason’s dad, he’s never home long enough to water.
I let myself in. The warning from their security system starts beeping, but that’s okay. Before the alarm goes off, I punch in the code and disarm it. I’ve seen Jason punch it so often, I know it by heart. 8-7-4-2, the last four digits of their phone number. What a stupid code. Like, do they want to get robbed?
Okay. I’m inside. The alarm is turned off. So far so good.
All the same, I’m afraid to move. Even though nobody’s around to hear me, I’m terrified of making a sound. It’s as if I think the furniture is alive, listening for intruders. How do guys steal for a living? Aren’t they afraid to give themselves heart attacks?
I have a flash that maybe I’m not alone, that Mrs. McCready really is here, that she didn’t hear me because she’s downstairs working out on her X-Trainer. “Mrs. McCready?” I call out. “It’s me. Leslie.”
Silence. I’m alone.
I don’t have much time. I better move fast.
Jason bragged he hid the memory card upstairs. That means his bedroom. Anyplace else, his folks could find it by accident.
I’m there in a heartbeat. But where do I look? How do I find it? It’s barely
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