Hexed (6 page)

Which all might be super embarrassing if twenty thousand other screaming Jay-Z fans weren’t in the same exact situation as me.

“Having fun?” Devon yells into my ear.

And ow, that was loud, but I nod and smile, because I
am
having fun. Sure, rap’s not my
favorite,
but it hardly matters when you’ve got floor tickets to the sold-out concert everyone in school’s been talking about for ages. The energy in the stadium alone would be enough to make any rap hater have a good time. And Jay-Z hasn’t even come out yet.

The lights dim suddenly, and a slow beat—not unlike the ones common in slasher movies—blasts through the speakers. The crowd hushes. Random images flash across giant screens set up in all corners of the building. Smoke billows from the very pores of the stage. An explosion sounds, eliciting gasps from the audience, and then floodlights pour blue light across the stage, and Jay-Z is there. The stadium erupts into savage cheers just as the first notes of his latest song begin.

Jay-Z strides across the stage—Jay-Z is right in front of me, holy crap, Jay-Z’s red sneakers just walked past me!—and the crowd surges forward, so Devon and I get smushed up against the stage. Which would be totally painful if I weren’t so freaking happy about being smushed up against my boyfriend at a Jay-Z concert. This is the best—
best
—night of my life.

So what if we hardly get to talk, and when we do get a chance, conversation is stilted and awkward like it never was before. And so what if at intermission we have to stand in line for approximately seventeen minutes to get a bottle of water, and then Devon doesn’t even pay for mine. And really, I don’t mind when Devon sees his football buddy, Ian, and runs off so they can smash their chests together in a testosterone-fueled greeting, then go on to badly sing Jay-Z lyrics for what feels like forever while I twiddle my thumbs by the concession stand.

Mere blips. I stand by my statement: best night of my life.

“Indigo!”

I search the packed lobby for the face belonging to the vaguely familiar voice calling my name. I do a double take when my eyes land on Leather Jacket Guy, leaning casually against a wall with his hands jammed in the pockets of his black pants. A chill ripples through me.

He followed me.

Leather pushes off the wall. For a moment I lose sight of his black waves among the sea of bodies crowding the lobby, and I panic. When he pops up again, it’s nearly right in front of me.

I gasp, clapping a hand to my pounding heart. “Did you follow me?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes on him while simultaneously scanning the lobby for Devon.

“I’m here for the music,” he answers.

I snort, despite my fear. One look at his smirk and I know he’s lying.

“Does your mom know you’re out this late?” he asks.

“Okay, getting creepy there, Leather Jacket Dude,” I say. “Should I memorize your features for the police lineup now or later?”

“I’m just saying, it’s late.”

“And? I’m not twelve.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t check in with your mom. Innocent suggestion here.” With that, he gives me a little wave and disappears back into the crowd.

My throat goes dry. My missed phone call from Mom, the fact that she didn’t call back, didn’t show up to the game—something’s wrong. really wrong. I frantically dig my phone out of my purse and punch in Mom’s number.

It rings ten times before going to voice mail.

I try once more, but my luck doesn’t get any better. Finally, I stow my phone and search for Devon. I spot his blond hair in a group of guys and cross the lobby to give his arm a violent shake. He glances at me before holding up the universal “one-minute” signal. I shake him harder.

Releasing a heavy sigh, he reluctantly turns to me. “Ind, I was in the middle of—”

“I need to go home.”

“Home? What are you talking about? Are you drunk?” He makes to turn back to his friends but I yank his arm.

“The guy from the football game you told me not to talk to, he was just here and he said some really creepy shit and now I’m worried about my mom.”

“That guy was here?” he asks.

“Yeah, which you would have seen if you were paying any attention to me at all.”

“Oh, come on,” he starts, but I cut him off because that argument can so wait.

“I think he followed me.”

He puffs up his chest and scans the lobby. “You see him again, you tell me. I’ll take care of it.”

Seriously?

“That’s great,” I say. “But we have to go.”

“Go? It's only intermission!”

I glare at him.

He wraps an arm around me and pulls me into him. “You can’t seriously be suggesting we leave based on what some crazy guy said? I’m sure your mom’s fine.”

“I’m worried,” I mumble. More like warble.

He kisses the top of my head. “We’ll call the cops after the show and you can tell them all about the guy. Does that make you feel better?”

I consider this. He’s probably right. I shouldn’t take my cues from a wackjob. Mom is probably fine.

The sounds of warm-up drumming spill out from the auditorium, and we fight the crowd back to our front-row seats. Jay-Z takes the stage again, and the crowd erupts into cheers. But he hasn’t even made it through his first song when I tap Devon on the shoulder. He bends slightly, without taking his transfixed gaze from the stage. “It doesn’t!” I yell over the music.

He shakes his head, cupping a hand around his ear. “What?”

“I said it doesn’t make me feel better!”

And then I go outside and hail a cab.

T
he drive from the Staples Center to my house is a blink in terms of L.A. time, but it feels like an eternity right now. Traffic moves painfully slowly. Every time I see the brake lights of the car in front of us flash, my chest tightens and I’m sure I’m having a coronary.

It doesn’t help that the cabdriver insists on making small talk the entire way, in between obnoxiously smacking his gum and trying to kill us both with his insane driving. Was the concert any good? Did I hear Jay-Z’s staying at the Chateau Marmont? Aren’t I young to be out by myself ? Did I hear Magnet is the latest celeb hangout?

I want to scream at him to shut up. The only thing that stops me is the chance he might boot me if I insult him. Cabbies are weird like that.

I groan in despair.

God, why didn’t Mom answer my calls? I flip through the most horrendous options like I’m going through a Rolodex. Car accident. Drive-by shooting. Heart attack. I dig my nails into my thighs so hard I’m sure I draw blood. Okay, it’s probably none of those things. I’m probably being melodramatic. I’m sure it’s just Aunt Penny having a crisis again. That’s why Mom called—to tell me that the L.A. parking authority finally caught on to Penny’s zillions of unpaid parking tickets, and Mom has to go save her sister’s POS car from certain death at the impound lot. Or that she has to go talk Aunt Penny off a ledge after (gasp!) her latest douche of a boyfriend didn’t work out. Or that Aunt Penny quit her cocktail waitress/personal assistant/makeup artist job because what she really wants to do is act, and she’s not going to waste her time doing anything else.

I pull out my cell phone and punch in Aunt Penny’s number. It rings six times before she picks up. Club music blares from the phone so loud I have to hold it away from my ear.

“Aunt Penny?”

“My favorite niece!” she yells. “What’s up, girlie? One sec.
Vodka
tonic. No, I said vodka tonic! Thanks.
Ugh, the bartenders are deaf here. So what’s up?” Before I can answer, she erupts into laughter. The phone makes interference noises.

“Hello? Aunt Penny? It’s important!” I yell.

Voices skip over the roar of the music, but none of them is Aunt Penny’s.

I end the call.

So there goes my theory. Not that it made much sense to begin with—not that any of my theories make sense. A big piece is missing, and that piece is Leather Jacket Guy. How did he know about Mom? Who is he?

I blow out through pursed lips, trying to slow my racing heart.

Somehow, not much time has elapsed before we reach tree-lined Fuller Avenue. The cabbie practically inches past the gated three-story mansions, through the intersection at Waring, and down a few more blocks, until we finally reach the squat white bungalow with the sad little flower box under the picture window that I call home.

But Mom’s car isn’t here. It’s after ten, and all the lights are off. She should be home.

“Change of plans,” I say. “Two Ninety Melrose.”

The cabbie throws the car in reverse. I start to think I really am having a heart attack as he navigates through traffic that only gets worse as prime bar hours approach.

But my muscles relax when we pull onto Melrose, and I spot the glint of moonlight on Mom’s car, parked right in front of the shop. They tense up just as quickly, though, when we roll to a stop under the Black Cat’s awning; darkness emanates from every window, yet the neon Open sign is on.

The cabbie twists to face me. Dispatch is barking orders through the radio. His lips move, but his words barely register.

I was in such a hurry to get here, and now I’m frozen, afraid to go inside for fear of what I’ll find. A breeze sweeps through the open cab window and raises goose bumps on my exposed flesh. Night has finally chased away the suffocating heat of the day. I shove the nine hundred dollars I owe the cabbie at him before stepping outside. He gives me a wave and then peels off.

I’m alone in the dark. That’s if you don’t count the hoboes and knife-wielding crazies I’m sure are hiding in the shadows.

“Going in, or what?”

I jump so high I’d laugh if it were someone else besides me doing it, then whirl around to find the source of the voice.

Leather Jacket Guy leans against the stucco side of the fast-check-cashing place across the street, hands in the pockets of his black pants and one army-booted heel up against the wall. Signature pose, I guess.

“You? What are you doing here?”

Laughter rings out through the night. “Relax, I’m not going to attack you. Just pointing out that you might want to get inside. Lots of baddies in L.A. at night.”

“Aren’t you full of helpful hints,” I say, backing up.

The light from a streetlamp etches shadows into his laugh lines and makes his smirk look sinister. He pushes off the wall.

“Don’t come any closer.” My voice comes out much shakier than I’d planned.

I climb up the steps, careful not to fully turn my back to him as I unlock the front door. Only it’s not locked. My stomach churns. Mom would never leave the door unlocked after close. When eight p.m. strikes, it’s the first thing she does.

Hands shaking, I push the door open. The little bell jingles as I enter, which, in the dark, sounds anything but inviting. I do a quick check to make sure the guy isn’t going to try to push me inside the shop, and then hurry inside, slamming the door so hard it rattles the windows. I flip the dead bolt closed.

I
’m afraid to flick on the lights, afraid of what I’ll see. Then I hear Mom’s moan and I can’t turn them on fast enough. My hands fumble for the panel next to the door. I feel the cold plastic under my fingers and bash all the switches up.

I don’t see her right away. Having adjusted to the dark, my eyes are seared even by the dim lighting of the shop, and I have to shield them from the candelabra. And then Mom moans again, and I find her.

The ceiling-high solid oak bookcase has been overturned, and underneath it is an absolute mountain of books. Mom’s black-heeled boots poke out from underneath all the rubble. If it weren’t for the cauldron on display in the center of the room, which caught one end of the bookcase, the whole thing would have landed on top of her. Would have killed her. And judging by the way the bookcase bows in the middle, an inch-deep crack splitting the center of the arc, it could still happen at any moment.

“In-Indigo?”

“Mom!” I snap from my trance and run to where she lies, falling to my knees and frantically pulling books off her. “Mom, what happened? Are you okay? Can you get up?”

Her head is steeped in the shadow of the bookcase, but it shakes minutely.

“I’m going to pull you out, okay?

She moans as if to say “Don’t touch me,” but what else can I do? I can’t leave her like this. What if the wood cracks while I wait for help to arrive?

I grab her by the ankles and use my weight to pull. I’m able to drag her out a few inches, but then her body snags taut, and she lets out a piercing cry.

“What? What’s wrong?” I drop her legs and fall to my knees again.

“My arm,” she mutters. “It’s stuck.”

“Oh God. Okay, um, if I lift the bookshelf will you be able to move it?”

No answer.

“Mom?”

“Okay,” she says, her voice a harsh whisper.

“All right. This is going to be really heavy, and I’ll only be able to hold it up for a second, if that, so you’ll have to move fast, okay?”

I widen my stance, brace my hands under the wood, and lift, lift, lift until my face turns hot and an artery pulses in my neck and my hands shake and I have to give up. It’s not budging. I release my grip and massage the deep indents the bookcase left in my palms.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t do it.” A sob escapes me and I fall to the floor. I’ve never felt more useless. “I’m calling nine-one-one, okay? Hang in there.”

“Need a hand?”

I scuttle back like a crab. The guy from outside pokes his head into the shop.

“Stay back!” I yell. “I’m calling the cops.”

“Could be a while before they get here.” He pushes the door wider and leans against the frame, inspecting a chunky silver ring on his middle finger.

“Listen, creep, I don’t know how you knew about my mom, but— Wait a minute, how did you get in here? I locked the dead bolt!”

“Look, you want my help or not? I’m not in the mood for dramatics.”

I don’t want his help. He’s probably the reason Mom’s under the bookcase in the first place. How could he have known she’d been hurt if he wasn’t involved? But some part of me knows this doesn’t quite make sense, because then why stick around? Why warn me at all, offer to help when the police could be on the way as we speak? And he’s right. The cops could take a while to get here, and I can’t risk that—not with that ominous crack in the bookcase.

“Okay, then. Guess I’m not needed, so I’ll just—”

“Wait!” I push to my feet. “Help me lift this bookcase and then go away.”

He laughs. “Now, there’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

The floorboards creak under his feet as he nears, and holy shit, when did he get so tall? Not to mention the fact he obviously hasn’t brushed his hair in at least a month and has a huge tattoo on his
neck
! Surely this is not the kind of guy I should be inviting to share small spaces with me. My heart races. What will I do if he attacks? I can’t fight off a guy that big. Or any guy, for that matter.

He saunters around the wreck, scanning the mess.

I bite my nails. “Can you just do it, already? My mom’s trapped under there.”

“All right, all right.” He shrugs off his leather jacket, revealing a sleeve of colorful tattoos on his right arm, then spreads his legs and grips the wood. And then he does something really strange, even for him. He closes his eyes and whispers something inaudible. I can’t believe I wasted precious time on this weirdo. I snatch my cell phone out of my bag and dial 911.

“Hello, uh, hi. I need help. A bookcase fell over in my mom’s shop and she’s trapped. … Yes, she’s breathing, but she can’t get out and she’s hurt. … Yes, it’s the Black Cat on Mel—” Before I can finish my sentence, the guy’s lifting the bookcase.

And making it look easy. I mean, he’s got a deep crease in his brow and he’s lifting slowly, as if it’s a strain, but the muscles in his forearms aren’t taut and his knuckles don’t whiten a bit.

But that’s crazy!

“Little help?” He nods toward Mom.

“I have to go. The Black Cat, two-ninety Melrose. Hurry!” I drop the phone and rush to grab Mom’s ankles again. This time, I slide her out of the mess with only moderate effort, dragging her over the faux Turkish rug as far from the bookcase as I can before I have to give my muscles a break. When she’s clear, the guy lowers the bookcase to its resting place on the cauldron. As soon as he does, the crack finally gives way. The bookcase lands on the pile of books with a boom that echoes through the room. A shudder runs through me at the thought of Mom under there just moments before.

“Mom, are you okay?” I kneel beside her and brush the matted hair from her eyes. She focuses her gaze on me, and smiles. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see her smile.

“I’m okay now,” she says through labored breaths. “You’re here.”

I force a reassuring smile. “Your arm? Can you move it?”

She takes a breath and wiggles her fingers.

Okay. Everything’s going to be okay.

“What happened?”

“I—I don’t know.” She swallows. “I was just dusting off the bookshelves, like usual, and then … I guess it must have just tipped over. I don’t remember, really.” Her eyes cloud over. “Must have hit my head pretty hard.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. An ambulance is on its way.” I grip her hand, and she squeezes back.

And then I remember the guy. Sure, he just saved Mom and I should thank him, but first I need to find out how he knew what had happened to her. And then smack him for not helping her sooner.

But when I turn around, he’s not there. He’s not anywhere I can see, and there aren’t a lot of hiding spots in the small shop. “One minute, Mom.”

I drop her hand and race to the open front door, peering down either side of the street to make it official.

He’s gone.