While Nicole was getting her brain tweaked by Schmidt, I was off to grab coffee. I dropped my long board and slalomed fast-forming puddles to the Starbucks next to the tire center. When the hydraulic lifts let the cars down, the air escaping from the pistons sounded like screams of people being crushed. This kept the Starbucks nice and empty. Sometimes I asked the girl behind the counter for help with my phone. I holstered what was to all appearances flip-style junk. In public, I pretended I didn’t know how to use it. Nobody suspects you for a hacker when you can’t figure out how to send a text from your eight-year-old Nokia. “How do I get to menu again?”
“Oh my god, if you weren’t almost cute I would totally smack you.” She grabbed my phone and started pressing buttons. “No rejoinder to my ‘almost cute,’ huh? You look like a vampire.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“I like long hair on guys. What kind of product are you using?”
“Grease.”
“Brand?”
“The kind that comes from washing your hair only every other shower.”
“That’s gross but also slightly hot.” She was ready to key a message into my phone. “Who’s the target?”
“Father. Message is whatever.”
“Whatever comes to my mind?”
“Just ‘whatever.’” He’d left me a voicemail to tell me he might not be home until late, unusually considerate of him.
The girl slid a black coffee to me. “You’re coming here two years now, right?”
“I guess.”
“And I slip you a free Grande whenever the manager isn’t around.”
“Are you telling me you want me to pay for all those coffees now?”
“I’m telling you that you never once thought to ask my name.”
Actually, I’d thought about it since the first time I saw her. She was exceedingly cute. Sadly, she was too short. Not too short for most people but too short for a Lurch like me. I wasn’t even sure I was done growing at six three, and given the way this girl’s body was banged out double-D, she was likely done at five feet even. Plus we sort of looked the same, dark hair, eyes. We’d look goofy, like I was holding hands with my little cousin instead of my girlfriend or whatever. More than that, what if I had a seizure in front of her and wet myself? I didn’t want to start something that was headed for disaster. “Can I borrow a to-go lid?”
“You mean can you have one.” She slapped the lid on. “You probably should know my name if we’re gonna go to the rave together.”
“I thought raving was declared dorky before the end of last century.”
“At my friend’s house. Her parents are away this weekend. You can drive, okay? My car is literally falling apart.”
“Duct tape holding up the bumpers?”
“What bumpers?”
“Civic, right?”
“How’d you know?”
Secondhand Civics were ubiquitous in New Jersey. You couldn’t go two blocks without passing one sputtering along in the slow lane. “I don’t have a car,” I said.
“Fine, you, me, my half a Civic. If the car breaks down, I’ll get out and push.”
Last thing I needed was a retro rave, flashing lights, drunk Goths slamming into me, somebody slipping an e-ball into my Coke, setting off god knows what kind of chemical reaction in my already messed-up brain. And anyway this girl was no raver, hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, barely any makeup, certainly no piercings I could see. She had Catholic school written all over her. I couldn’t imagine her in anything other than a Starbucks getup or a plaid skirt. “I’m not really into parties,” I said.
“Ouch. Flat-out rejected by boy without a car.”
“It’s just not my thing, raving.”
“I so believe you with your black army jacket, black jeans, black high-tops.”
I started feeling bad for saying no. “Look, my name’s Jay.”
“I know,” she said.
My slightly greasy, vampiric hair stood up a little.
“Hello, your phone?” she said. “The time you asked me to email a picture to your Hotmail? JayNaz666? Who even uses Hotmail anymore?” She put out her hand. “I’m officially introducing myself to you. Cherry DiBenneditto. For real is Cherisse. Which do you prefer?”
“Both.”
“Okay, so forget the rave. How about a slasher flick?”
“Why after all this time are you asking me out?”
“You look really different today,” she said.
This was a lie. I always looked exactly the same-same clothes, hair, expression, midway between bored and aggrieved. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. You look lit up. You smell different too.”
I’d run out of deodorant that morning and had to snake some of my dad’s. He was into that all-natural, fruit-based crap, because the regular kind, with zinc or aluminum or whatever in it, gives you Alzheimer’s, I forget why. The natural crap only makes you smell like you’re cooking up a banana in your armpit. I thought it was rank, but apparently she was into that kind of thing. “Cherry?”
“Jay?”
“I can’t.”
“That’ll be four ninety-five for the Grande. I’m kidding. Sort of. You may go now.”
“Thank you.” I backed out of Starbucks, nodding thanks, and I backed into this old dude. He rapped my shin with his four-pronged cane. I grabbed a newspaper from the garbage and read as I walked back to the Hollows, my board tucked into my backpack straps. Six weeks after it happened, the attack on Nicole Castro was still fresh news, at least locally. The headline story of the page five updates section of the Brandywine Vine said students were still being questioned, but no new leads. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, what Nicole said to Dave Bendix in Schmidt’s waiting room: “I can’t do that.” He wanted her to lie about something, I was pretty sure. And he was definitely desperate.