Chaos Theory (6 page)

Ten

Sandy's voice hardens. “I'm not buying it! Triple D confessed to the cops!!! We should leave him hanging.”

“Face facts, Sandy. He dresses up like some NY street ganger and hangs out at Broken Bone. Everyone knows everyone out at Broken Bone. No one will buy from him there. It has setup all over it.”

Sam says, “And most of those kids just smoke a little pot.”

“Right. He's going about this all wrong.”

Sam the Skeptic asks, “And you know how he should be doing it?”

“Sam, Kami is who she is! Of course, she figured it out. Thinking like a drug dealer doesn't make her one. It's the same way the police think!”

Bless my BFF's heart. “Daniel doesn't have any idea of how to do it. And worst of all? The cops have their snitch. They aren't going to let him out of this. They won't listen to me.”

Sam the Just says, “Come on, we know all the police in town. We've played soccer with their kids for years, or we're coaching theirs now. That doesn't sound logical.”

“Things have changed. I Googled five years of drug busts. There's a seventeen percent higher rate last year over all four previous years—all in the last six months. That's a definite spike. What do you think Sandy?” If anyone has their finger on the school's pulse, it's her.

Sandy thinks for some time. “I've heard about kids using oxi, highly addictive. Remember John Fuerst from the honor society signing up for the army? There were rumors. And there were those two girls sent off to that Arizona school? The rumor was they were pregnant, but
maybe
they weren't.
Maybe
they started using. Who goes away anymore if you're pregnant? Those aren't your typical druggies, you know? There could be a lot more.”

Sam the Investigative Reporter's eyes go unfocused. “I've heard students buy drugs to get sharp before the ACTs. I tried to dig up some information. Everyone closed up. No one from administration to counselors to students would talk. I think you're onto something.”

Team Daniel shapes up in front of my eyes—still uncommitted, but intrigued by the puzzle aspect. I say, “And then a high profile Jamison dies of a drug overdose. The police lost control and want to stop it. They have to stop it.”

Sandy says, “Nothing you've said clears Daniel. He could have stored the drugs in Julia's glove.”

“No. Trish said Daniel never went to the stable. And he's been in North Carolina. I checked the school's website. They've got mandatory drug testing. He's clean.”

“You can sell without taking,” Sam the Fact Checker says, “Unlikely, but possible. He has access to athletes that might buy steroids from him.”

Sandy says, “And people who knew Julia told me Daniel was back for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I just don't buy that he's innocent. If he's innocent, why confess?”

I sigh. Team Daniel fades. I grab a piece of paper and pull out a pen. “Here's what won't let me walk away from this.” I draw a quarter-sized-circle. “Pretend this is me.” Then I draw a bunch of overlapping circles that make a larger circle around and overlapping mine. “These circles are you guys and Mom and Dad. You all have my back. I'm never alone.”

I start a new diagram on the paper's lower part, adding a quarter-sized circle in the middle, and draw another connecting ring around it, but these don't overlap the center one. “These circles represent the people around Daniel. This one's the police. They aren't concerned about Daniel—only what they can get from him.” I move my finger to another. “The school counselor is more concerned about the school. She's required to report it.” Then I tap the three remaining ones. “These represent his mom, his dad, and his stepmom. For some reason, Daniel didn't call them from the hospital. He called his handler, not them. They either don't have any idea what's happening or they don't care. It's unlikely that all three wipe him off as unimportant.” I lean back and hope.

Sam the Sesame Street buff sings out, “One of these things is not like the others.” He takes the pencil and re-circles the isolated circle within the ring. “That's Daniel, all alone.”

Sandy isn't feeling any friend buzz. “If he's innocent and he has a problem, all he has to do is reach out! If he's chosen not to get help, then he must be guilty. He hasn't asked for our help either. Let it be!!!”

“I almost did walk away, but there's more to this.” Pulling out the photo of angelic, innocent, and very dead Julia, I lay it on the table. It moves them, the way it does me.

It's Sam the Inquisitive who eventually says, “You've left off one circle.” He takes the piece of paper and draws a small one inside the one that represents Daniel. He taps the photo and then the circle. “Julia.”

We all stare at that dime-sized dot and think about a young girl who died by suicide.

“That's his guilt!” Sandy is still not buying in.

My heart aches. Is that all there is to Daniel's isolation? Guilt? I've felt that kind of isolation. Like it does so often, the image of Grandma drawing her last breath hits me. This time it doesn't overwhelm me. This time I use it to understand what Daniel might be going through.

“Or…” I say, leaning forward, tapping the inner circle again. “It's Christmas, right? He gets home from school. Something happens. Maybe finds out Julia's doing drugs or even dealing them. Then she commits suicide. Maybe he feels guilty about her death, not the drugs.”

I move along this train of thought. “Innocent, sweet Julia commits suicide with her own drugs. The entire world and, even more important, her family would learn what she'd been doing behind their backs.”

It's a theory, but it fits. If Daniel is protecting his sister, I'm not going to let him do it alone. If I'm lucky, my friends will help me.

Sam the I've Decided nods. Sandy sighs deep and long. Giving in, she commits to Team Daniel. “And he steps up to protect his sister's reputation and to keep his family from learning the truth. He's already in hot water with the DUI. Maybe Daniel hasn't reached out for help because he's too busy covering Julia's back.”

Pause. She says, “I'm in. I'll help.”

And I'm not alone anymore and neither is Daniel—whether he likes it or not.

***

Friday morning, I'm early at school again. About half of the snow melted yesterday, but it left behind black ice. Skittering, I step-pause my way across the sidewalk to the front entrance, and then turn back to search again for Daniel's red Mustang. It isn't there. In the lobby, I plop down on the open-stair railing, lift the Starbucks coffee mug, and sip, watching the parking lot and front door through the two-story front windows. With national school violence and mass shootings, this is the only entrance.

An hour passes. Jocks line the railing with some friendly ribbing about me being on their turf. Sam and Sandy enter and climb the stairs past me. I raise my caffeine to them. Sam's hand is on Sandy's lower, way lower, back as they disappear down the hall. Happy for them, I return to my lonely vigil.

The warning bell rings. Daniel's a no show. I leave my spot, giving way to the jocks. One of them says, “Hey, way to go on your locker 224 experiment.” He mimics an end zone spike. “MIT here you come. You can do it.”

“Thanks.” I head down the hall to my locker. It's changed. Sandy's printed banner, “Know Your Locker” has been modified. Ask replaces Know. Someone used a thick red magic marker. Underneath that in different handwriting is, “Thank God.” WTF?

I open the locker door to familiar pain. Thud. Thud. Thud. The scents hit, and then I wait to see if things escape. It's a fall-out day. But it isn't anything I'd put in there. Instead, three sealed envelopes flutter to the floor. All three are addressed in different handwriting, but share the same label, Kami/Chaos Locker. It's like three friends dropped them through the locker vents together.

The second bell rings, but I ignore it as I read the message on the outside of one:
You have a chaos locker? We have chaos lives. We've all written you for advice. We figure Sam can post answers on the website. Thank you.

Again, WTF. I open the first envelope.
I had an argument with my boyfriend. He treats me like crap, but if I break up with him all my friends will have that look. You know the look that says pity all over it? What I can't tell them is that he hit me. I know I should tell him where to go, but I don't want to be alone. What should I do? I can't talk about this with my friends.

In a panic, I rip open the second envelop.
My boyfriend wants to drink at parties. I don't want to, but everyone thinks I'm a baby. What happens if I say no? Should I? Life would be easier if I just do it or fake it.

Then I read the third that is pink with little butterflies on it.
My friends don't understand me!
No one
understands me! Am I weird?

I am now five minutes late for class, but research rule number one is never break protocol. Pulling out three marbles, I list them in my notebook as envelopes one, two, and three, and then set them in the locker. One rolls off the stack toward the front right corner. It rattles down the interior vertical groove of the locker, where it rings loudly on the bottom when it hits.

A clinker. I reach in and pull it out. It's soft lavender with a white swirl. Envelope three. I roll it around in my palm and stare at it. This is the first to land in the front. And it is the first and only time a marble has traveled from top to bottom like that. Double damn.

***

At noon, I met Sandy and Sam in the lunchroom. None of us has seen Daniel. Even as we talk about it, he comes through the doors. I chase after him, but he sees me and he's gone. I return to the table.

“We have to get to Daniel,” Sam says.

We have a plan now. We pursue the Julia angle. If she's the user or the drug dealer, then she got them from someone. If we're going to help Daniel, we need Julia's dealer. Finding out why she committed suicide would be a nice plus.

Sam the On Track says, “We
have
to get her laptop and smartphone. Daniel can do that.”

“I know, but we don't even know if he'll work with us.”

Sandy pushes. “We talked about it. You have the trigger! He doesn't want anyone to know about Julia's drugs! If you threaten to tell his parents, he'll play.”

I wish she wasn't so eager to play that card.

Sandy says, “If you don't want to do it, I will.” She might back Team Daniel by default, but she isn't forgiving him for dragging me into that drug deal and the late night hospital visit.

I nix her takeover. “No. It's my connection.” Well, not a true connection, but he'll take it better from me. He might panic that Sam and Sandy know anything. We set a rule. We stay safe—no drug deals, nothing that puts us in danger, but Daniel's not going forward without us.

“By the way…” I pull out the three letters and shove them at Sandy. “These are for you.”

Sandy's eyebrows lift as she opens the envelopes. Sam leans in close, closer than necessary. Romantic sparks fly between them, which weren't there last night. Sandy could probably feel his breath next to her ear.
I shiver thinking about Gavin doing that. Tonight, there'd be more than lip-locking with Emerald Green Eyes. Is that too fast? With Sam looking over her shoulder, they read the letters. Sandy says, “Uh ohhh.” No exclamation marks.

“Zonkers.” Sam says.

I grin. “Yeah, you guys handle this. If it makes a difference to you, envelope three dropped a clinker.”

Eleven

After fifth period, I'm panicking—still no Daniel. When I do spot him, he slithers away. The pep band skips sixth period so, with my flute and bookbag in tow, I head to the bus out front. Sam and Sandy stand beside the bus's open door and wave to me. One more last-ditch effort; I duck into the administration office.

“Hey, Carl.” He's a complete nerd, even more than me, and usually my stiffest science project competition. This year he's opted for the robotics program. I don't put it past him to do both and keep his science project a secret.

“Hey, Kami. Your locker! Interesting science project.” The guy cracks a sly evil grin, looking like a super hero villain. Yeah, he's doing both competitions. He knows I'm going to flame out.

“Carl, I need a big favor. Can you get me someone's phone number? There's a major project due Monday and my partner ditched me. If I don't get a hold of him, it'll be me doing the whole thing by myself.” It's a good angle to hit with Carl. Students ditch on him all the time and then roll in with an A on his hard work.

He leans forward and shoots a glance toward the school secretary, who's heading into the principal's office. “Who is it?”

“Daniel Jamison.”

Carl's head snaps back. “Triple D? So you did take him to the hospital last Friday night?”

I put my foot in it and snap, “I just happened to be around when he got hurt.” Then I remember the story Sam and Sandy concocted. “We were at Broken Bone for our sociology project.”

“Hey, no sweat off my back, but what a lousy partner.”

I try not to grind my teeth. Everyone is so fast to judge Daniel. It isn't fair. Carl spins around to a computer, types, and then scribbles the phone number on a Post-it note, handing it to me.

He whispers, “It's his home phone.”

“Thanks, Carl. I owe you.”

He laughs a deep muahh-ahhhh-ahhh like the comic book villains. Maybe Carl should write my locker and ask why no one likes him, but the world is better off with a lone wolf Carl. It's too easy to see him surrounded by corrupt minions taking over the school's science wing.

Punching in the number on my cell, I run to the bus where waiting Sandy and Sam see me and climb the steps. On the second ring, his mom answers. I say, “Hi. This is Kami from Daniel's school. We're doing a project together. Can you have him call me when he gets home?”

Her voice is soft, friendly, and curious. “He's just left for the skate park. He said school got out early because of the Fort Carroll game?”

I freeze with my foot on the bus's first step, right behind Sam. Early out for basketball players, cheerleaders, and pep band members, but not the general student population. “He just left?”

“Yes, for Broken Bone.”

Daniel's planning another three goon session. “Thanks, I'll try to catch him there.”

I scramble backward and both Sam and Sandy turn to look at me. “Daniel's going to the skate park.” There's no time to argue. We agreed we aren't going on drug deals. Yet, breaking that rule already, I run in front of the parked bus and barely miss stepping in front of a car. The driver throws on her brakes. I skirt it and head for EB.

“Wait!” Sandy calls out.

I glance back. Both she and Sam barrel full blast in front of the same car, instrument cases swinging as they round the front of the bus. They catch up as my key opens EB's door lock. One look at their faces and it's clear they're going to break our first rule too. I should warn them off. I don't.

“What's the plan?” Sam asks.

I climb into EB. “I'm heading there.” Protection would be nice. For that matter, what reason do we have to be at the park? None of us are skateboarders. Inspiration hits as I turn my key in the ignition; something that handles both problems. Sandy lives in the neighborhood near Riverside Park. She can stop there on her way. “Pick up Brute. Meet me there.”

Brute is Sandy's giant black and white Newfoundland—more pony than dog. As a puppy, he was a cute, clumsy, and shaggy thing with bronze soulful eyes. He still has the eyes, but now they are inside one monstrous dog. He won't hurt a flea, but with his hundred-plus-pound body as part of a defensive front, those three goons would think twice before coming after us.

I slam EB into reverse, back her up, and then gun her out of the school parking lot with a loud squeal from her tires. That's when I remember band's two skip rule; pep band just become history. And damn it, hot and sexy grown-up Gavin is on that bus too. I'd blown him off again. Daniel so owed me.

***

Coming down Sixth Street, the unmarked cop car is parked by the railroad underpass. Driving above the speed limit, I hit the brakes to slow and check it out. No one's inside the car. I turn into the parking lot and park next to Daniel's unoccupied Mustang.

Tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, I wait, anxious for Sam and Sandy to arrive. Breaking the safety rule is one thing; being stupid is another. Then Sandy's dark green rusted pickup turns into the parking lot. Inside and squashed between her and Sam is the huge excited dog. Only Brute is happy with the cramped quarters. He's got his Frisbee in his mouth.

Brute drools—a lot, Frisbee or not. Sam swipes at the flying slob on his cheek. They park and unload. The dog plows over the top of Sam, who manages to grab his leash. Sandy's glowing with excitement. Team Daniel she's not, but action queen she is. She also smells like baby powder again. She must have hugged her baby sister.

“So how do we handle this?” Sam the Cautious asks. From his shifting feet to his wide eyes, it's obvious he doesn't want to be here. I modify my original plan a bit.

“I walk across to Daniel. You guys stay here with Brute.”

Sandy says, “Nope. Besides, Brute wants to be the hero.”

She hadn't seen Daniel's beaten body. NCSI fan Sandy is wearing a TV flak jacket as strong as tissue paper. “This is serious, Sandy. Stay here. Look natural. Toss Brute's Frisbee here in the parking lot.”

“Are you kidding? I'm coming with you to Broken Bone.”

Sam the Uncertain stammers, “If Sandy's going, then I am too.”

I give in and we head up the little hill to Sixth Street, wait for traffic to clear, and enter the area west of the skate park. Sam the I'm-just-in-the-park-with-my-dog, nope-no-interest-in-drug-deals grabs the sopping Frisbee and tosses it before Sandy has the leash unhooked. Brute drags her three feet before she lets go. The Newfoundland races for the Frisbee, picks it up, and returns to sit in front of his new BFF, still trailing the leash.

Sam takes the wet Frisbee and shakes the slobber off it. “I don't have to love your dog, do I? It's not part of the bargain if we're dating?”

Sandy laughs and drops a kiss on his cheek. Sam grins and lofts the wet Frisbee again—long and hard. It hits the railroad embankment. Brute charges off.

Inside Broken Bone, Daniel's doing warm-ups, making those long, leisurely passes around the three concrete bowls. No goons in sight. Had I gotten kicked out of band AND missed my nuclear-hot date with Emerald Green Eyes for nothing?

Sam points up toward the railway bridge. “Why's there a homeless guy up there?”

Sandy shades her eyes from the bright winter sun. “The wind must be brutal.”

Up there, a man huddles down in blankets between the bushes. Sunlight glints off glass—binoculars. “Not a homeless guy—Daniel's handler. Change of plans. You guys wait here. If three ugly goons show up, text me, okay?”

“Sure.” Sam basks in Sandy's approval of seeing the cop and throws the Frisbee again.

Backtracking along Sixth Street and under the railroad overpass, I reach the unmarked police car. Next to it there are footprints leading up the snowy embankment. Grabbing onto small bushes to haul myself along, I follow them. Given the marks in the snow, Gravel Voice (ninety-nine percent sure that's him up there) had more problems doing it. Once on the railroad tracks, it's an easy if blustery walk to the man huddled under his blanket. The wind whips against my face as I come up behind him.

***

The skate park's concrete dome curves upward like an origami crane's wings, providing Gravel Voice with an unobstructed view of the action. He's got an open Thermos that reeks of power-spiced chili, but it's getting cold. One gloved hand holds his binoculars, while the other has a cell phone cupped to his ear. Because of the wind, he's yelling into it:

“I know he's my first CI, but he's not what he's supposed to be. He's out of his element. He's going to get hurt again.”

CI is the term Sandy uses for snitch; CI for confidential informant. Up above him, I squat down and listen without a bit of guilt. This creep thought I wanted to buy drugs. This creep intimidated me into backing off. Even Daniel hadn't managed that. Anger bunches up my muscles. I really hate this guy. From below, Sandy waves. Gravel Voice is too busy to notice. His binocs are trained on the dome itself. From this vantage point, he also has a clear shot of the bike path leading to Joint Row where Daniel had been beaten.

Gravel Voice listens some more. Then he says, “I know. I know. I heard it all at that conference like everyone else. They drilled it into my head that dime pushers can be pros at hiding their drug involvement, but this is not adding up.”

Balancing on my two feet, I slide down into his sightline. The binocs drop and his hand reaches for his sidearm, upsetting his chili. All that goody goodness oozes down the incline. Caught off guard, he's slow—really slow. I stare at him, and yeah, he can tell that I'm PO'd.

He says into the phone, “I'll have to call you back.” Slowly his weapon hand relaxes. “And you would be?”

“The girl you assumed wanted to buy drugs, you creep.”