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Authors: Kimberly Reid

BOOK: Creeping with the Enemy
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“Maybe Ada made it all up,” I suggest.
“There is no way Ada Crawford is calling the police unless she has a very good reason. Most likely the cashier was in on the holdup, although they found money in the register.”
That would explain why I'd never seen the cashier before. And I guess there wasn't a grandmother in the back making tamales after all, or she'd have been a witness. But I know for sure I saw the cashier put money in a paper bag and hand it to the robber. Maybe he didn't give it all away, which would make him the dumbest cashier ever because that's the quickest way to piss off a robber—holding out on him. My first time witnessing a holdup and it's the strangest one I've ever heard of. Now it sounds more like a phantom robbery. But at least now I don't have to worry about being called as a witness or having Lana find out I was in the bodega after she told me it was off-limits.
“This neighborhood is getting so bad I'm afraid to leave you here alone at night anymore.”
“It's kind of hard to work vice and not work nights, Lana. Not a whole lot of vice going down at nine in the morning.”
“I know, but Burglary wasn't so bad.”
“Only because you love being a cop, so you'd rather work in any department than not be one. But you love being a vice cop even more than just being a cop. I'm fine at night, really.”
“Maybe we should get a dog. Better yet, it might be time for me to take you to the firing range.”
“The dog is a better idea. I already know how to handle a gun.”
“You're old enough to know more than how to handle it. I want you to know how to
use
it.”
On summer trips to Atlanta, my grandfather would take me out to our cousin's farm in the country so we could shoot aluminum cans off a tree trunk. I know how to load, clean, and shoot a gun, but only the mechanics. She's talking about something entirely different now—the mental part. The part that involves confrontation and freaks me out completely.
That whole situation last semester that might cost me my relationship with Marco? It ended with me holding a gun on a bad guy. Later, I told Lana that I may have looked like I was in control, but I was pretty sure I couldn't have used the gun if I really had to. She always said you should never pick up a weapon of any kind unless you intended to use it. Otherwise the bad guy was certain to take it from you and have no hesitation about using it. I don't know if I'm ready for the firing range just yet. That's the real deal, complete with targets that look like people, even if they're only paper people. I don't want to talk about target practice and guns anymore, but I also don't want her to talk about the bodega, either.
“I don't know if I'm ready for the range yet.”
“You attract trouble even though I try to keep you as far away from it as I can. Maybe instead of shielding you from trouble, I should be teaching you how to handle it if it comes.”
“I'm fine, Lana, I swear.”
“We could move ...”
This is where the conversation always goes, which scares me almost as much as the talk about the firing range. Or whatever is simmering in that pot on the stove. It ain't much, but I love our house, the Ave, and the people on the street. At least the ones who haven't done time. Well, except for MJ Cooper, but she's going straight. By now, I know exactly what to say at this point in the conversation.
“This house is almost fully paid, which is no small thing living on one salary, a cop's salary, at that. And you know that house on the corner has had the
FOR SALE
sign in the yard so long it's faded.”
“Because people are afraid to live here.”
“But like you always say, what happened in North Highland is going to happen here—young couples with good tech and medical jobs are going to want to move to Denver Heights and put up Starbucks and tea shops and then we can sell for large dollars.”
“That's true,” she says, then turns from the stove to look at me. “You haven't been going to that bodega, have you?”
I try to judge whether she knows something and is just testing me. If she knows and I lie, I'm dead. If she doesn't know and I confess, I'm dead.
“You told me to stay away from there, right?”
“No one got hurt, thank goodness,” she says, and turns back to the stove, satisfied with my pseudo-answer. See how I'm good at lying without lying? It's a gift, really.
“Didn't they have surveillance tape in there?” I ask, to close out my final worry.
“No—can you believe it? Who doesn't have cameras nowadays? Especially around here.”
Suddenly, I feel so much relief. I guess I didn't realize how tense I was carrying around that lie-by-omission. I think I've averted any other bodega questions, but I'm glad for the phone ringing at that moment, just in case.
“Are you screening?” I ask Lana before I pick up.
“Yeah, and dinner's almost ready. I can't wait for you to try this new recipe I came up with.”
I check the caller ID. “It's an Atlanta number, and not one I recognize. You think Papa got a new number?”
“No,” Lana says, sounding almost angry. “Don't answer. If it's anyone worth talking to, they'll leave a message.”
All of a sudden, I feel tension between Lana and me and I'm not sure why. Neither of us says anything for a minute, then Lana walks over to the phone base, puts it on speaker, and dials a number. The mechanical voice of the messaging system announces we have no new messages.
She turns to me, looking as relieved as I did a few minutes ago when I learned there was no surveillance tape at the bodega, and says, “See? I was right—no one important.”
I'm not sure what all that was about, but I know better than to do anything but nod in agreement.
Chapter 5
I
t's Saturday night and now I find myself grateful for Bethanie's bodega hero-turned-stalker-turned-date. Marco was much easier than I expected to convince that we needed to check out Bethanie's new boyfriend, and not just because he's a good guy that way. I think all those hallway dates of ours are making him want more than that, no matter his mom's rules. All I've thought about for the last two months is this moment, but now that it's here, I'm a little nervous. I never thought our first real date would be with another couple, but I take what I can get. And what I get is perfect. Marco looks delicious when Bethanie and I find him waiting outside the restaurant. He's in a suit (how many times does a girl get to see her guy in a suit?) and while I'd love him in anything, this look is truly working for him. We're all dressed like something out of Oscar night because Cole picked a restaurant that no high school kid could afford unless it's a Langdon kid, and not one who is there only because they got a scholarship. I guess we know which couple will be picking up the tab.
I talked Bethanie into us driving together and letting the guys meet us there. Until I figure out what Cole is about, I'd rather her not be in a car alone with him. And if I was being honest, I'd admit the same thing about Marco and me, but for a different reason. Despite what Bethanie says, Cole's not some regular stranger—there's nothing regular about how he stalked her, and the more I replay the holdup, the more I think something was off about it. I mean
off
beyond the fact that it was a holdup and we were threatened at gunpoint.
Cole shows up right behind us in a tailor-made suit that looks like it costs ten of Marco's. His whole look is effortless, like he's used to the stiff collar and the tie. I'm pretty sure Marco is wearing his father's clothes, because the suit's a little tight (there's a reason Marco is the starting quarterback—muscle in all the right places). Unlike Mr. Smooth standing next to him, Marco keeps sticking his finger between his collar and neck, and is beginning to look a little uncomfortable. But that's okay because he'll still be the finest guy in the place.
While I'm trying to figure out what kind of job a twenty-year-old must have to afford to dress all
GQ
and know restaurants like this even exist—expensive and sustainably grown, of course—Cole is opening the door for all of us and acting like he's running the show. Marco definitely would have opened the door for us if he'd gotten to it first. If you were only going by his face, Cole looks our age but he still gets respect from the maître d', who leads us to a great table. Maybe that's what confidence and a good suit will do for you. I'm pretty sure the maître d' would have kicked the rest of us out of the place—Marco in his father's off-the-rack suit; me in a too-little black dress borrowed from Lana, who is a size smaller; and Bethanie in a tight, hot-pink sparkly dress that proves her tastes haven't yet caught up with her money. Yeah, without Cole, that maître d' would have kicked us out
and
called the police—or Tim Gunn—for extra measure.
When the hostess shows us our table, Marco guides me to my chair with his hand on the small of my back, and I just about faint. When he helps me slide my chair in, just like the leading man always does in the movies, he leans in close and whispers, “You look great, and smell even better.” Does he have any idea how hard he's making it to focus on why I'm here?
By the time the appetizers arrive, I've calmed down enough to remember I have a job to do. Barely.
“So what do you do, Cole?” I ask.
“That's an odd question,” he says.
“It seems pretty normal to me.”
“For a thirty-year-old, maybe. Juniors in high school don't usually ask that.”
“Once you get to know Chanti, you'll see that's just how she is, like a little old lady,” Bethanie says. “She makes thirty seem young.”
“Thirty
is
young,” Cole says, sounding like Lana when I call someone her age old—a little defensive.
“Well, if you were also a junior in high school, I wouldn't have to ask. But Bethanie says you're twenty. Unless you were kept back
a lot,
I'm guessing you're done with summer reading lists and prepping for the SATs.”
“No, I'm actually twenty-one, and no more SATs for me. I graduated college a few months ago, and for now, I'm just keeping my options open.”
“Oh yeah?” Marco says. “Where'd you go to school?”
I give Bethanie the biggest stare-down possible and don't care if anyone notices. Did he just say twenty-one? I can imagine Bethanie explaining how five years is not a big deal. Twenty-one and twenty-six would be no big deal, but twenty-one and sixteen? I'm sorry, that's a problem. And probably a crime.
“Marco is seventeen, the same age I'll be in just a couple of weeks—a consenting party in the state of Colorado. I looked it up,” Bethanie says, without giving Cole a chance to answer Marco's question and apparently reading my mind.
Cole looks slightly unnerved by Bethanie's announcement to the whole table that at some point, she plans on consenting to something, and I'm sure none of us think she meant just a second date. It's a strange reaction if you ask me. He should be glad she's looked up the law and found out he won't be breaking one. I mean—he
is
trying to hook up with her, right? Bethanie doesn't seem to notice how uncomfortable she's made her date—on their
first
date—and keeps right on talking.
“And Chanti's almost sixteen. Now that we have our ages out of the way, maybe we could talk about something more interesting.”
“You're only fifteen? Impressive. You must be some kind of brainiac,” Cole says to me, clearly trying to move the subject away from Bethanie and all her talk about the age of consent.
“My girl is mad smart,” Marco says, leaning back a little and putting his arm on the back of my chair. My pre-boyfriend self would have called “macho ownership” on that move. My post-boyfriend self thinks it's the sweetest thing. Yep, I'm turning into
that
girl and I kinda like it.
“I skipped second grade.”
“Second grade ... I think that's a critical grade in the development of social skills,” Bethanie says.
I take the hint and promise myself I'll be good at least until the main course. Besides, there's plenty to learn about a person just through observation. Like his accent. I love trying to figure out where a person is from based on their inflection, which is kind of hard since I haven't traveled much. But whenever I meet someone with an accent from somewhere other than Colorado, I try to learn where they're from. According to Bethanie, Cole's from DC, but as I listen to him wax on about slow food, I hear a lot more South in his voice than Washington, which claims to be Southern but really isn't. That
is
one of the few places I've traveled to, and it ain't the South no matter what the map says.
Since Cole is still talking about eating food grown locally, I see an opening.
“Speaking of locations, Bethanie tells me you're from DC, Cole. I have family in Atlanta so I go down there often. You sound a lot like someone from there.”
“You have a really keen ear. Smart and observant—that could be dangerous,” he says before flashing that con-artist smile of his to everyone at the table. “I guess I didn't explain that very well to Bethanie. I went to school in DC but grew up in a small town an hour outside Atlanta. I thought I'd lost the twang since I haven't been down there in a long time, but I guess some people can still detect the accent.”
Bethanie looks at Cole like she's surprised, but he doesn't notice. I wish I knew what that look meant. If I had to guess, she either realizes he lied to her or he's lying to me, because she understood exactly what he said when he told her he was from DC. Or finding out he's from the South like she is—even though I haven't gotten her to tell me exactly where's she's from—has thrown her a little.
“I'm thinking about going to school in DC,” Marco says, revealing something he's never told me. “Georgetown or American University. They have good poli-sci programs.”
Huh? He told me he wants to go to college for engineering. I sneak a look at him and he smiles like he's up to something, like we have a secret. Oh, now I get it. He's trying to help me interrogate Cole. Is he not the greatest?
“That's what I hear,” is all Cole says. I guess he doesn't plan on telling us anything about his college days, so I try another approach.
“What brings you to Denver, Cole?”
“There's that thing again where you talk like somebody's mother,” Bethanie says, followed by a smile full of threat.
“It's okay, Bethanie,” Cole says. “Who doesn't like talking about themselves?”
Bethanie doesn't, at least not the truth about herself.
“After school, I came out for a job opportunity. It didn't work out, but I like Denver so much, I decided to stay.”
“And do what?”
“I'm still working on that, but I have some good leads.”
“In the meantime, you're living off wealthy parents, a trust fund, or what?”
“Chanti, stop!” Bethanie says, a lot less subtle than her last warnings.
“It's a legit question. This restaurant is steep for a guy fresh out of school,” Marco says, defending me. Or maybe he's preparing me for when the check comes and he won't be able to pay it.
“No trust fund or rich parents, but I have some money saved, at least until it runs out. Then I might have to pick up my old gambling habit again.” Cole laughs, but no one else does. “How about your parents, Bethanie? What brought them to Colorado?”
Even though Cole is trying to evade me, I'd like to know the answer to that question myself.
“What makes you think they aren't from here?” Bethanie answers with another question, like she always does when anyone asks about her background.
“Oh, nothing. Just making conversation,” Cole says. I can tell he's feeling the same deep freeze I get whenever I ask her about the Larsens.
“Have you become a Broncos fan yet?” Marco asks, changing the tone of the table, which, I'll admit, was getting a little tense.
“No way, man. Redskins till I die.”
The entrée comes and I let Cole off the hook while he and Marco talk sports the way guys do when they have nothing in common but can become like brothers if they find a sport they both like. Listening to Cole talk, now I'm wondering if he's lying about his age. Like Bethanie accused me of acting, Cole talks and acts older than a guy fresh out of college—until he and Marco started talking sports. Now they sound like they can be the same age. Then again, that isn't much of a clue—my grandfather sounds the same way when he gets excited about the Atlanta Braves.
I wish I could ask Cole questions about that day in the bodega, but I haven't told Marco about that and don't plan to. Not only do he and his parents already think I'm just a walking trouble magnet, I'm also a little embarrassed that I didn't offer myself as a witness for the owner. It's something Marco would have done.
I don't have much to contribute conversationally until the lull between the main course and dessert, but then I get back to work.
“So, Cole, are you like Usher with just the one name?”
He laughs in a completely charming way that almost makes me want to back off. I can see why Bethanie is falling for him.
“Bethanie, I really like your friend—even if I feel a little like I'm meeting your parents.”
“Oh no, this is way worse than meeting my parents. If you can survive Chanti, they won't be any problem at all.”
“Good, because I want to meet them. I'll think of Chanti's interrogation as practice.”
He wants to meet her parents? After knowing her less than a week? Freak. Freak with a disarming smile, but freak nonetheless.
“To answer your question, Chanti, I don't like last names. They denote ownership.”
“Like slave names?” I ask. “I've heard my grandparents talk about that.”
“Well, obviously not like a slave name. I mean the way it denotes your parents own you. Not even both your parents, but your father, really.”
“That must be the weirdest thing I've ever heard,” I say.
“It isn't weird to me, maybe because I went to second grade and learned how to interact with human beings,” Bethanie says. “My father totally wants to own me.”
“Really?” Cole says. He seems very interested in Bethanie's parents, her dad specifically. “You mean in that whole ‘no one is good enough for my daughter' way?”
“No, I mean literally wants to own me. He ...” Bethanie suddenly stops as though she realizes she was about to say too much.

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