Stones and Spark (8 page)

I could hurl right here, except for the fact that DeMott only pecks her forehead.

She blinks, stunned.

And then we both watch him walk away. DeMott's one of those guys who looks so comfortable when he walks, like he expects life to move at his speed, not the other way around. I feel so much better just looking at him. And I can't really say why.

But from the corner of my eye I see a yellow flash, right before Tinsley spits out the words.

“Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?”

"I asked you a question," Tinsley says.

Now that DeMott’s out of range, Tinsley's reverting to her true self. It's like seeing Barbie morph into a pit bull. I shift my gaze to DeMott’s back, a much-improved view.

Tinsley reaches out, squeezing my arm. "Answer me!"

I shake out of her grip. "I'm looking for Drew."

She laughs coldly. "Do I look stupid to you?"

"Actually—"

"You know what's wrong with you?" she says, cutting me off. "You've got issues."

"
I've
got issues?"

"Raleigh, face the facts. Your real dad dumped you, your mom's crazy
,
and your only friend has run away. Again. And now look at you. Bless your heart, wearing sweats to the dance. You're having a public meltdown."

Something runs down my spine, colder than the night wind. Colder than Tinsley's glacial smile. It’s true that my birth dad took off. I was four. My mom had to get a job, Helen and I went into cheap daycare, and we rode city busses because we couldn’t afford a car. But my clearest memory from those hard years is standing next to my mother in the grocery story. She was picking out collard greens—cheap green food—for our dinner. A song played overhead and she was singing to it. A man stopped to stare at her. He was very,
very handsome and I felt ashamed of my mother, singing in public, picking over that stiff green food we hated eating. But the man didn’t leave. He kept watching her, looking at her like he knew her. More than that: he looked at her like he’d known her his whole life. Eight months later, that man, David Harmon, married my mom and we moved into his big house on Monument Avenue and never rode the city bus again. My birth dad took off. David Harmon is my real dad.

And yet the cold feeling still sinks all the way into my bone marrow. I don't like Tinsley. But right now I need her help. So I strap on that fake smile I swore never to use, and which is already becoming a habit.

"I’ll make you a deal, Tinsley. You tell me what Drew said during your tutoring session today, and I won't tell DeMott
you're
the one who's getting tutored."

She narrows her beady eyes. She might be dumber than sandstone, and shallow as a dry creek bed, but she's also the snakiest of snakes. So our stare-down continues and I don't blink. I notice her skin, how it's perfect. No freckles. Not one zit. Not even a blemish. I decide evil has to look this good or else we'd immediately recognize it.

She breaks eye contact first. "Drew didn't really say anything."

"Tinsley
—"

She lifts one skinny arm, waving to the couples hurrying across the parking lot to the waiting limos. "See y'all real soon!" she chirps.

I want to grab her bony shoulders, shake her, force her to talk. But my dad
,
the judge
,
says lawyers often make the mistake of "leading the witness" with questions that make him doubt their testimony. I want the truth. So I wait.

"Lookin' good!" she calls out.

"Tinsley." My teeth are gritted. "Tell. Me.”

"Before I say anything," she turns to me, her white smile like frost, "you have to make a promise."

“What.”

“Promise-hope-I-die-stick-a-needle-in-my—”

“What!”

She looks offended. "Don't be rude."

“Cut to the chase.”

“Promise you’ll stay away from him."

I frown. “Who?”

“Who else would I be talking about? DeMott!”

“You must be kidding.”

Her green eyes widen. “I most certainly am not kidding. He’s interested in you, for some ungodly reason. It should automatically disqualify him, but . . . ” She gives a skinny shrug.

“But he's so rich.”

“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes and laughs. It sounds like crackling ice. “Rich guys are a dime a dozen.”

I wait, just in case she actually realizes her ironic pun. But the wit sails right over her pretty head.

“Oh, I get it.” I nod. “It’s the Fielding name you want. All that land, the mansion—”

“In any event,” she cuts me off. Because I'm right. The Fieldings own 3,000 acres of prime real estate along the James River. It’s been in their family since England owned Virginia, since the King gave charters to colonists. Something like sixteen generations have lived in the estate’s mansion.

“So we have a deal?” she asks. "You stay away from DeMott, which means you can never tell him I’m being tutored.”

“Okay, fine, whatever, just tell me what Drew said.”

Tinsley leans in close, like we're suddenly co-conspirators. Her perfume smells sweet but simple, like hothouse flowers.

“Drew cancelled.”

I pull back, to get fresh air. “Why did she cancel?”

“You think I care? I was thrilled not to have to listen to her babbling about the 'wonders of math,' especially when I needed to get ready for Homecoming.” She runs another cold glance over me, stopping at my Converse
.
“Not that you would understand.”

She's right: I would never understand a lot of other things. Like, why the world keeps putting people like Tinsley at the top.

“So Drew didn't tell you why she cancelled?”

“No.”

“You're lying.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Tinsley, she's obsessed with cause-and-effect. So even if
you
didn't care why she was canceling, she’d give you a reason. She can’t help it. So, what did she say?”

She rubs a skinny hand over a skinny arm. “It's freezing out here.”

“Okay, look, if you can’t—”

"I need to get DeMott's jacket."

I step in front of her. "Tell me what she said.”

“Raleigh, here's a news flash." She smiles. "Nobody cares about y'all. So even if Drew did say something, I didn't pay attention because nobody's paying attention to you two weirdos. Understand?"

"Tinnnsleeeeee."

We both turn.

Norwood Godwin is heading our way.

Most of us southern girls have family names for our first names—Tinsley, MacKenna, and probably Raleigh, although my mom's never given me a clear answer—but of all of us, Norwood got the short end of a stick with a name that sounds like a euphemism for dork. It doesn't help that she's a husky girl—not fat, just big—who should go out for softball or shot-put, but instead squeezes herself into clothing made for girls like Tinsley, girls as bony as coat hangers.

Tonight, Norwood’s crow-barred her substantial figure into a bright orange satin gown held up by floss-thin spaghetti straps. The sight of her makes the words fly off my tongue.

"That dress!”

“Isn't it gorgeous,” Tinsley says. “I picked it out myself.”

“And she’s still your friend?"

She turns to me. "Orange is very
au courant
right now. Not that
you
have any great fashion sense.”

This is also true.

But I know enough not to leave my house looking like a shellacked pumpkin.

"Tins," Norwood says, "what're you doing way over here?”

“You'll never believe it. Drew Levinson ran away.”

“Again?”

“Not 'again.’” My voice rises with frustration. "That was a long time ago."

"Sixth grade." Norwood looks at Tinsley. "Does that count as a long time ago?"

“No. But Raleigh's in denial. Bless her heart.”

“Hey," Norwood says. "Let's tell Mr. Ellis to start the phone tree again.” The phone tree is for emergencies. Snow days. School cancellations. "Worked great last time. Everyone got to see how weird Drew really is.”

Tinsley sighs. "I’m sure she's just going to pop up somewhere tomorrow, expecting us to care.”

“You need to come on. They're waiting for us in the limo."

“DeMott, you mean." Tinsley fixes her green eyes on me. "DeMott is waiting for me in the limo."

They start to walk away, but before they’ve gone three paces, Tinsley turns her head, calling over her emaciated shoulder. "Don't forget your promise, Raleigh.”

I stand by the bike rack, watching the human pumpkin and a skinny slice of lemon meringue walk over to Ellis and Parsnip. Both Tinsley and Norwood have that practiced fake smile. I wait to see if they say anything about Drew, but after practically bowing to authority, they dash to the waiting white limo. Parsnip and Ellis don't even look over at me.

The limo's back door opens. Laughter and cheers leak out.

I don't like those two. I really don't. But that ache is back, grabbing my heart again--the feeling that hit me inside the gym.

Tinsley's wrong: I'm not in denial. I know exactly what I'm feeling.

Jealousy.

I’m jealous of two really awful people.

Because at least they have each other.

***

I run through the darkened West End, occasionally seeing a blue flicker in a window. Somebody up late watching television. The idea only makes me feel more alone.

River Road, also empty, pulls my legs down the hill, gravity doing all the work because my legs are too tired. I jog across the Huguenot Bridge, over the James River, then cut directly underneath where I can hear water washing over the rocks, splashing its way to downtown. And my breathing. I can hear my breathing; I am breathing hard.

Once I asked her: "Where did you go?"

The end of seventh grade. We'd been friends for almost a year, the whole time
I was
dying to know what happened that night she ran away. There was plenty of speculation around school—Drew took drugs, Drew had sex with random guys. I heard it all.

But nobody knew. For sure.

"Where did you go?"

The question came suddenly, when we weren't even talking about That Night. But now, walking beside the river in the dark, searching for her, I realize that's one of the things about having a best friend:
y
ou don't have to explain. Anything. You find your best friend, and suddenly some secret code gets written into your cells. You know each other.

You just know.

“The river,” she answered, immediately knowing what I was asking. “I went down to the river.”

“What for?”

“Because water is required in order to drown oneself.”

Back then, Jayne and Rusty were fighting like caged rats. They divorced soon after.

“Only you didn't drown yourself,” I pointed out.

“Obviously,” she said. “I realized that if I drowned myself, nobody would finish my experiments. Not even you.”

This was Drew: totally rational, completely focused on cause and effect, even when contemplating suicide.

The gravel crunches under my shoes. And I can smell the river now, its deep
,
rich layered mud on the banks. I walk to the only light, shining over a small wooden boat launch. The water slides past like a channel of black ink.

“Drew!”

My palms are
already
sweaty from the run
,
bu
t
as I walk away from that single light, I feel a new spurt of perspiration.
And panic.
The dark feels as thick as molten tar. The gravel snapping like teeth.

“Drew Levinson!”

I know there's a narrow trail down here; I've run it plenty of times in daylight. But as I creep forward in the dark, it seems to get farther away. I turn my head sideways, forcing my peripheral vision to work on the black curtain in front of me. Finally I find the wooden bridge that crosses the feeder creek, but halfway across, I stop. The water gurgles below me. And another sound. Something moving.

“Drew . . . ?”

A groan fills the dark.

“Drew!” I pivot, trying to locate the sound. Coming from my right. I think. But a second groan rises on my left. I turn in a circle, feeling blood pounding inside my head, so hard I can't hear straight. Adrenaline. Running. Fear of the dark.

“
Drew—it's me—Raleigh!”

It flies out of the dark. I jump back, scream when it lands at my feet.

More. They come moaning and leaping, bellowing into the nigh
t:
frogs springing up from the creek, sliming my face, kissing my arms.