My Own Worst Frenemy (10 page)

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Authors: Kimberly Reid

BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy
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Chapter 13
I
'm home on the sofa trying to write a sonnet for my English lit class, but I can't stay focused. It's kinda hard to concentrate on homework when your principal has accused you of stealing a two-thousand-dollar bracelet. That's felony theft. Two to six years. If I tell Lana, all she'll do is ask how I get myself into these situations, and then answer her own question : bad judgment, wrong friends.
When the doorbell rings, I'm happy for the diversion. I see MJ through the peephole and I wonder two things. First, am I clairvoyant 'cause it's like I conjured her up thinking about bad judgment and wrong friends. Second, has hell frozen over?
“MJ, what's up?” I say all casual, as though she hasn't sworn never to speak to me again.
“I found this at my house,” she says, holding up my iPod. “Thought you might want it.”
I'd been wondering where it was. It must have fallen out of my bag while we were still friends and I was hanging out at her house. Why it took her so long to return it I don't know, but I sure don't plan to ask.
“Thanks. I've been looking for that.” An awkward moment of silence passes, and then, “I was about to nuke a frozen burrito. Want one?”
“I'm just returning what belongs to you. That don't make us friends again.”
She starts to leave, but turns around.
“Did you hear Donnell Down-the-Street got arrested?”
“Yeah, but he's back out. They couldn't hold him.”
Her face turns hard and she says, “Yeah, I guess you'd know all the details.”
“That's common knowledge on The Ave,” I say.
“Is it common knowledge he's pissed with you?”
“How'd you hear?”
“People talk. That girl Michelle has a big mouth.”
I can't imagine Squeak saying boo to MJ, but she's already stolen one friend from me. Not that MJ is still a friend.
“I'm not worried about Donnell, but thanks for caring.” I say, hoping the sarcasm is obvious.
“Look, I don't really care what happens to you; but maybe you ought to be worried.”
“I've got homework,” I say, because this is beyond awkward and I don't see her point in trying to scare me about Donnell other than to just be mean. I get the point. We're no longer friends. “I'll be seeing you, MJ.”
“I doubt it. Just wanted to return the iPod. Can't have you thinking I'm a thief or something. You might have your mother arrest me.”
 
Lana is sort of the reason MJ hates me now. I'm mostly the reason, but Lana didn't help. The only thing MJ hates more than me are the cops. I can see her point, but that's because she was falsely accused and should never have gone to jail. I believe her story about her boyfriend's botched bank robbery, even though I don't understand how she missed those clues. Tasha's kid sister would have seen that disaster coming, and she's like seven or something. That's why I don't have a boyfriend (Michelle would give you other reasons). Boys mess up your head, make you want to go to jail for them. Even when they're so stupid they leave the money bag in the car, put what they can in their pockets, and go out to the car for the bag so they can get the rest, during which time the teller trips the alarm and the manager locks the doors so they can't get back in. When MJ later told me that bit of information, I started thinking there was a legit reason why the Down Homes got no respect outside of SoCal. I questioned how much respect they got
inside
SoCal.
Anyway, I knew MJ was an innocent. An innocent who could probably break your neck with her bare hands if you got on her bad side, but it would take a lot to get on her bad side. Unless, like I said before, you wear a badge.
I was thinking about this while I sat outside the Tastee Treets a few weeks after MJ and I had met. The girl who had reluctantly offered me Robert Tice had just walked up. At first she looked like she was about to snatch me bald, and the next minute she was smiling at me like I was about to give her my lunch money. That's because MJ had just walked out of the restaurant with our food. That's how my summer was going. I got respect from everyone, all because MJ was my new best friend. Which is why I thought nothing of doing the favor she asked that day.
“My grandmother took her car on a church trip down to Colorado Springs. You think you could give me a ride across town tonight, over on Colfax, around ten or eleven? There's a hotel down there my cousin is staying at. He wants to know if I could visit him while he's in town.”
I didn't want to tell her I only had a learner's permit. MJ was almost eighteen and worldly compared to me. If she knew I was just fifteen, I figured she wouldn't want to hang out. Instead of telling her I couldn't legally drive, I began asking questions that might help me get out of doing her the favor.
“Why so late? Why not tomorrow when your grandmother's back in town?”
“He's passing through on his way to Chicago, leaving tomorrow. We're like brother and sister, and I haven't seen him in a long time. It would be nice to see him, just for a few minutes at least.”
“Passing through from where?” The Lana angel over my right shoulder was whispering
No good can come of anything, especially a hotel on West Colfax, late on a Saturday night.
“I know what you're thinking, Chanti. Yeah, he's from L.A., but he wasn't a Down Home. He wouldn't have a thing to do with the Down Homes.”
So I thought,
Why not
? It was already mid-July and my association with MJ had brought very little excitement to my summer, and I was tired of evading Tasha and Michelle's questions about what MJ and I did when we hung out. Okay, so I didn't evade their questions; I answered them. I was getting tired of embellishing. It didn't seem like lying if I made the stories we watched on
Law & Order
sound sort of like they had happened to MJ. Lana was on a stakeout, the car was free, and I knew where she kept the extra set of keys. I'd be in my bed long before she got home. I'd already taken the car a couple of times without her ever noticing the odometer had moved—part of my ill-fated summer of rebellion. But this drive would be ten miles roundtrip, not two. Since I didn't want to risk Tasha or her parents seeing us and maybe telling Lana, we agreed to meet back at the Tastee Treets at ten o'clock.
Maybe MJ didn't know the difference between a hotel and a motel, but that place was definitely not a hotel. It was barely a motel in my opinion, but the huge red flashing sign out front disagreed. When MJ got out of the car, she said she'd just be fifteen minutes, but now it was twice that and still no sign of her. I remembered the instructions from the card in the seat pocket on the one plane ride I ever took—you're supposed to walk around every so often so you won't get a blood clot in your legs and die. I imagined there were worse ways to die around there, but I had a moment of bravery and got out of the car to stretch my legs.
Forty-five minutes and still no MJ. I'd never been mad at her before, but I was starting to get angry. To keep my mind off how long she was taking, and how the red flashing motel sign made the oil spots in the parking lot resemble bloodstains, I played the game I always play when I'm somewhere new. It's something Lana taught me when I was a kid, the way other mothers teach their kids to lay on the grass and detect bunnies and kittens in the clouds passing overhead. It's called
Observe Your Surroundings.
The motel had two floors in the shape of a square, with a courtyard in the middle, two passageways into the courtyard on each side, one on each end. The loud hum of a soda or ice machine came from the passageway nearest me. I could hear it over the televisions blaring through open motel windows (no AC in this place) and cars going down Colfax. Very close, a car backfired. At least that's what I hoped it was.
There was only one access point from motel to street. One way in or out. The glass lobby doors directly faced the entrance from the frontage road, so the front desk clerk would be able to see anything coming in or out of the parking lot, as long as he didn't fall asleep. I'd definitely want a room near the lobby given my choice, which I'd have in a mostly vacant motel the city should have condemned and bulldozed about twenty years ago. But MJ's cousin had chosen a room in the back. Since I'd been waiting, several cars had entered the lot and gone straight to the back, and then exited the lot five minutes later. I got back in the car because I had a bad feeling all of a sudden. That's why I nearly peed myself when there was a knock on my window. When I saw who it was, I went from fear to relief to fear all over again.
“I thought this was my car. What are you doing out here?”
“Mom.”
“Don't
Mom
me. If I wasn't on the job, I swear . . .” Lana stopped talking, and I knew she was listening to someone in her ear. It was then I noticed a row of cars parked in the next motel's lot. It was dark, but there was enough light from the motel to make them out if you knew what you were looking for. They were all Crown Vics, cop car of choice. Why hadn't I noticed them before?
“Chanti, don't leave this car. Stay low. It's about to go down.” That's the last thing Lana said before she went walking off into the dark, her platinum-blond wig made orange by the red, flashing sign.
Chapter 14
S
o I know all about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that's how I'd describe my whole Langdon experience. But up to now, having to attend Langdon was an annoyance. Smythe suggesting I've committed a felony goes way past annoyance.
The next day at lunch, Marco, Bethanie, and I find a table in the back of the cafeteria so we can discuss what went down in Smythe's office yesterday.
“Did you say anything about it to your parents yet?” I ask.
“No,” Bethanie says. “I'm just hoping this thing goes away.”
“I haven't said anything,” says Marco.
“Good. I'd appreciate it if you gave me a couple of days to figure this out first,” I tell them. “I'd love to bust this case and set Smythe straight. If parents get into it, it'll turn into a whole big thing and I won't get a chance to find out who really did it.”
“Only if you tell us what you did last summer,” Bethanie says. “What was all that about?”
“I have no idea what Smythe is talking about,” I say, which is mostly true.
“I can wait,” Marco says. “My parents are already stressed about my dad's hours being cut at work and they're dealing with some serious family stuff. They've got enough to worry about. I can lay low unless she gets real crazy and calls the cops on us.”
“It won't get that far. I'll figure it out before it does,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I really am.
“I know you play girl detective on TV, but what makes you think you can actually find the thief?” Bethanie asks.
“She's pretty good at observing people, and isn't that mostly what being a detective is about? Maybe we should give her a chance.”
We haven't talked about what went wrong over the weekend, but I'm hoping this means Marco is willing to give me another chance on that front, too. It helps that he smiles at me after he says this, just barely, but I notice.
“I guess I can give you a couple of days. If my parents get dragged into it, then it might come out that I'm . . .”
Bethanie stops midsentence, and I know what she was about to say—that she's afraid her cover will be blown, the school board and her parents will find out she lied her way into Langdon, and she'll be expelled faster than Smythe can conjure up crazy accusations.
“I mean, you know, the farther you can keep the parents from school, the better, right? They stay in my business enough at home.”
“Thanks, guys,” I say, letting Bethanie's weak story slide. “I think I picked up a clue or two before I walked out of Smythe's office.”
“So give it up,” Bethanie says.
“Number-one lesson in solving a crime—don't let on what you know until you have your suspect in custody, and even then, don't tell much.”
“That's number one?” Bethanie asks. “I thought you said it was ‘understand the motive'.”
When Lana first became a cop and I wanted to know everything there was to know about her work, she'd teach me lessons in crime-solving. I'm pretty certain both lessons were high on the list of importance, but that was a while ago, when I was still young enough to think my friends would agree being a cop was the coolest job on the planet. I still believe it is, but no one else on Aurora Ave would.
“Well, it's somewhere in the top ten. On that note, I have someplace I need to be,” I say, leaving them to wonder what I'm up to.
I go looking for Mildred. I already knew she disliked her boss as much as I do, but while we were all in Smythe's office, she seemed to have a definite opinion on Smythe falsely accusing people. I'm betting Mildred is sympathetic to our getting railroaded, and has some history on Smythe that might help my case. I find her in the janitor's supply room/office in Main Hall.
“I won't take too much of your time, Mildred. It's related to that whole thing in Smythe's office earlier.”
“You're still here, so I guess she hasn't expelled you yet.”
“She's not expelling us. We haven't done anything wrong.”
“That won't stop her.”
“So you've seen it happen before?”
“Up close and personal. She expelled one of my kids.”
“Your kids go to Langdon?”
“They did. One of the employee benefits used to be free tuition for children of staff after ten years of service. I put three kids through Langdon. They all graduated and got full scholarships into some good universities. The fourth, my youngest, would have been starting his senior year, but she expelled him just before winter break. Some Christmas that was.”
“For what?”
“Graffiti and theft. She claims he stole some paint from the art department—that was the theft part—and then ‘defaced' Langdon property.”
“And you don't believe it?”
“Of course not. I know my Reginald isn't an angel, but he didn't do that.” She points to a photo tacked to the wall above a shelf full of cleaning products. “He's the one in the middle. Got an honest face if ever I saw one.”
I look closely at the photo and see the middle boy is cute, kind of familiar-looking, but I don't know why, considering he was kicked out before I started Langdon.
“You said free tuition used to be a benefit. Not anymore ?”
“Not since
she
arrived a few years ago. She talked the board into offering it to faculty only. Said it should be a perk for attracting the best teachers, but staff like me come a dime a dozen. Reginald had just been accepted to ninth grade, so he was what you call grandfathered in.”
“I suppose Smythe didn't like that.”
“Not one bit. I was the only staff member who had a child attending, and it just ate at her that he was still here. I think she just made up that charge to get rid of him.”
“Why was Smythe so set on expelling Reginald? Does she dislike you that much?”
“Not
me
. Anyone like me. Anyone like you. People who don't have money or a fancy upbringing. Sort of the way you don't want flies hanging around your picnic.”
“So where is Reginald now?”
“Neighborhood school. But not for long, I hope. I brought a complaint to the board and I'm getting myself a lawyer. That's the only reason I'm still working here—if her decision gets overturned, Reginald's coming back. He'll graduate from Langdon like my other kids.”
“That reminds me why I'm here,” I say, really motivated to prove Smythe wrong after hearing Mildred's story. “I have a favor to ask. I need your help proving my friends and I aren't guilty.”
“If you can do that, it would surely help Reginald's case. It would show the board she just goes around willy-nilly accusing people. Just let me know what you need me to do.”
“I need information about what was stolen and when. If you could get me into her office, keep watch for me while I'm in there, that's all I need.”
“I can do that. How about today after school? She leaves every day at four o'clock. I can let you in then.”
“That'll work. Maybe you can keep an ear out, too. If you're in the office next time something's reported stolen, let me know what's going on.”
“Wouldn't it be fun if it was Smythe doing the stealing?”
“You think?”
“Nah, I'm just talking. I hate that woman and
wish
it was her so she could be fired. But she'd never do her own dirty work. That doesn't mean she wouldn't get someone else to do it for her. Now
that
I wouldn't put past her.”
 
My old school had security cameras everywhere, but lucky for me, Langdon only has them on the grounds, not inside. Or maybe that isn't so lucky in this case—if there were cameras, we might know who was stealing and I wouldn't be in Smythe's office trying to clear my name. Mildred is standing in the main office pretending to mop the floor, but she's really keeping an eye out for me. She made sure the floor was good and slick with wax, and put out one of those yellow plastic signs that warn people not to enter or they'll slip. Once I get the information I need, I'll go out the back entrance.
It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for. Smythe is as transparent as the wax Mildred's using on the floor. There's a folder in her file cabinet marked
SCHOLARSHIP STUDENTS
and that's where I find the report of the stolen items. The witch. I make a quick scan of the list and return it to the folder. That's when I hear Mildred's voice in the outer office.
“You'll have to wait until the floor is dry, or I'll have to start all over again.”
“That's your job, isn't it? Another pass with the mop won't take more than a minute or two. I need to get into my office.”
Oh, snap.
“Those are some pretty expensive-looking pumps you're wearing. Leather soles, right?”
“So?”
“So I'd hate to see them get all gummed up with this wax. And once they dry, every time you wear those shoes, you'll be slip-sliding all over the place.”
“Well, what do you suggest I do? I can't very well leave without my car keys.”
“I'll get them for you. Won't matter if these old work shoes get a little wax on them.”
Thank you, Mildred.
“Well, that makes more sense than ruining a perfectly good pair of Ferragamos. They're on the desk. No, wait, in the pencil drawer. I remember—I threw them on the valet where I hang my jacket.”
I look around the room and find them in none of those places, but I do notice the sweater draped on the back of her chair is hanging lower on one side. I quietly fish out the keys so they don't jangle and hand them over to Mildred when she walks into the office. She gives me a reassuring smile, as if to say
It'll be okay, I won't let you get caught,
and goes back out to Smythe.
“That was quick,” Smythe says, sounding suspicious. Or maybe I'm just paranoid.
“They were right where you said they were, on the valet by the door.”
“Of course they were. I knew where I left my keys.”
I cannot wait to set this woman straight.

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