Sweet 16 to Life (5 page)

“Not when the hoodie has the letters
DH
on the back, which are, coincidentally enough, the initials of MJ's old gang.”

“And Elvis is still alive and the government is hiding aliens in Roswell.” He gets up from the table again, and this time slides his chair under, like he's done with the conversation.

It takes me a second to realize he's making fun of me.

“How can you say I'm one of those crazy conspiracy theorists? You were there when I busted that very real burglary ring we were arrested for. And I was right about Bethanie and Cole, how he wasn't who he claimed to be and was totally scamming her,” I say, reminding him of my most recent case. Which I single-handedly solved.

“You were only partly right about Cole,” Marco says as he leans against a counter, arms crossed again. “I'm not saying you aren't good at this. I'm saying it's not your business. Take it to the cops if you suspect a crime. They have badges and guns and paychecks that prove crime-fighting is their job. You don't even have a driver's license yet.”

“I will in less than two weeks. Have my license, I mean. When I turn sixteen,” I say, which is probably the lamest thing I could have said.

“You kind of missed the point.”

“I got the point. You're still mad I chose sleuthing over you.”

“I'm not mad.”

“And I didn't choose. It's just what I do. It's like asking me to choose between you and eating.”

“Looking for trouble is not remotely the same as eating.”

“It isn't even the sleuthing, is it?” I say, looking at all the photos on the refrigerator. “It's that I chose
anything
over you.”

“Time's up, Chanti.”

“It's probably a good thing we didn't work out,” I say, getting up from the table myself and slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “You just don't get me, Marco.”

“Maybe I don't. But I do get that you'll be studying for the French exam alone tonight, and I won't be.”

I came up with a really evil response to that—on the walk home. When Marco immediately realized that what he said was too mean even if I did suggest he was kind of a diva, he tried to give me a ride home. I told him I didn't want him to miss Angelique's arrival and just walked out. Two hours ago when the tables were turned, I had looked back to see if he was watching me leave with Reginald. This time when I left, I glanced back but shouldn't have. He wasn't watching.

T
he next morning, I consider faking sick to avoid seeing Marco at school, but at the last minute, change my mind. Gorgeous or not, best kisser on the planet or not, no guy is going to run my world. Lana is always telling me that no matter how much in love you are or how great a person he is, the sun does not rise and set on any boy, even if you're convinced it does.

What she hasn't taught me is how you make yourself believe that, but I figure this is one of those cases where it's best to fake it until you make it. Not to mention my academic situation is already a little sketchy since I've spent most of the semester preoccupied with little things like keeping myself out of jail and keeping Bethanie from showing up on a milk carton. Which is what I remind myself as I pass MJ's house on my walk to the bus stop. Her problems are not my problems.

I'm replaying that in my head, trying to turn it into a mantra, when I notice something shiny glinting in the lush green grass of Ada Crawford's yard. Yes, it's late November, but Ada gets her grass painted so it looks like springtime whether we're in the middle of winter or a drought. The sun is shining on the object in just the right way to make me think whatever it is, it's probably an expensive metal, not a beer bottle cap or a ball of tin foil.

I cross the street and walk across Ada's lawn, stopping a second to check out her house. Ada isn't Mrs. Jenkins, peeking through her curtains 24-7, but I want to make sure. The shiny object turns out to be a cigarette lighter, and not the plastic kind next to the register at the bodega. It's the old-fashioned kind like my grandfather has, a rectangle of silver with a flip top. And I mean real silver, not silver plated. There's a raised design on one side.

It'll give me the perfect excuse to try and get inside Ada's house so I can ask her a few questions, but considering her business hours, I doubt she's up this early. I slip the lighter into my pocket and continue toward the bus stop, reciting my MJ mantra.
Her problems are not my problems.
But you know what they say about best intentions—they are generally screwed the second you make them. Just as I reach Center Street, I hear someone yelling my name. Not just someone—it's MJ.

“Hold up,” she says when she reaches me, a little out of breath. “Didn't you hear me calling you?”

“No. I'm running late for school and can't miss the next bus.”

“You got a few minutes 'til the bus,” she says, getting in step with me as I cross Center. “A person might think you trying to avoid them.”

“That's exactly what a person should think when said person demanded I ‘leave it alone.' And that's a quote.”

“
It
. I said leave
it
alone, not me. You know these people on the street act like they can't say three words in my direction. If you stop talking to me, I won't have nobody that's got my back.”

She says this just as we arrive at the bus shelter. Once there I recognize two riders who also live on Aurora Ave. Since they're some of the people who don't have her back, she nods in their direction and raises her voice a little. For extra measure, she stares them down a couple of seconds, daring anyone to actually say three words to her. See, that's why I'm her only friend on the street. Hard to make friends when you're all the time acting like you're ready to jump bad on somebody. MJ could seriously use an anger management course, though I suppose this was probably a useful personality trait when she was serving time.

A bus arrives, but it isn't my route. Everyone else gets on, leaving MJ and me alone.

“Was Big Mama upset about the fire?”

“No. I told her it was an accident and she was just glad I was okay.”

“Is she planning to file an insurance claim?”

“Why you asking that?”

“Just wondering. I mean, that's what people usually do when they have accidents. You'll probably need the fire report if you do.”

“Nah, Big Mama said the small amount of damage ain't worth jacking up her premiums, plus the deductible is hella steep. She says there'd be questions about how it started and with me still on probation and everything—”

“Because she believes you started it.”

“That's what she believes because that's what happened,” MJ says, her voice full of threat.

“My bad, don't get all tense,” I say, deciding on another approach. “So . . . you're up early this morning. You don't have your GED classes until the afternoon, right? That was one of the reasons you said you didn't want to go to regular high school, because the hours sucked.”

“Yeah, that and after two years of high school courtesy of L.A. County juvie, I could care less about pep rallies and proms.”

“You mean you
couldn't
care less.”

“Exactly. Just want to finish my last semester and get my GED.”

MJ also couldn't care less that she just did one of my pet peeves, so I go back to my questioning.

“The GED classes are from four to six, every weekday, is what I thought you told me.”

“Yeah, but I have a job now. That's where I'm going. Eddie hooked me up with a part-time cashier job at the bodega.”

I guess things are going well with Eddie, her new boyfriend and son of the Center Street bodega owner. I wonder what Eddie would think about Hoodie Dude.

“That's cool, except it must interfere with your classes.”

“I only started yesterday, and I only work the morning shift. I open the store and leave at noon. I'm serious about getting my GED and never miss class.”

“See, if I had a new job, at the end of my first day, I'd probably blow off my classes and go celebrate. Is that what you did yesterday between four and six?”

“I told you—I never miss school. Damn, Chanti. Why every other conversation with you gotta feel like I'm talking to my probie? Make me think maybe you
should
leave me alone. And why you so interested in my class work, anyway?”

“Just want to make sure you get that diploma. Like you said, I got your back,” I remind her as I fish my bus pass out of my bag.

“Well, if that's true, maybe you could help me with my math homework.”

I'm thinking a tutoring session would be the perfect opportunity to do some snooping at her house when she adds, “Meet me at Treets at seven? Since I'm making a little cash now, I'll buy.”

“Why not your house?”

“It still smells like smoke. Probably a health hazard.”

“Then why are you and Big Mama still living there?”

“Where else would we go?”

I don't get a chance to answer her because my bus pulls up just then. MJ might think she's just been saved by the crosstown, but I have other plans.

 

I was at Langdon Prep less than a month when Lana discovered I could get into trouble—through no fault of my own—whether I'm at a fancy school across town or at my nearby public school. And as much as I hated Langdon, I told Lana I'd stay when she gave me a chance to leave my scholarship and transfer back to North Denver Heights. I guess I owe Michelle an apology because when school started, I accused her of going to a school because a boy she liked went there, and I ended up choosing to stay at a school for the same reason. I turned down Lana's offer because Marco and I were still an item and I had an ally in Bethanie, the other scholarship girl. Now that she's moved away, I realize I'm going to have to make new friends, especially since Reginald won't arrive for another six weeks. Otherwise Langdon will be unbearable for the next year and a half.

That's why I look for Annette Park in the cafeteria at lunch. I probably hold the title of least-liked girl at Langdon, but Annette is definitely a contender. If you know our history, you might think she'd be the person most likely to start a campaign to get me expelled. But politics make strange bedfellows, and everyone knows politics don't get any stranger—or more ruthless—than they are in high school.

I find Annette alone at the table where she and her crew used to hold court over the whole school before I brought down their leader. I fully expect her to haul off and slap me, or at least knock my tray out of my hands, so I'm completely thrown when she looks up and smiles. If Headmistress Smythe hadn't already expelled Annette's former queen bee, I'd be pretty worried right about now. As it is, I instinctively look around the cafeteria for signs of impending foul play. But everything seems normal, like any other school cafeteria, except today's menu includes pâté on crostini and hand-tossed goat cheese pizza. It's my favorite place at Langdon—not a fish stick to be found and I'm sure they've never served those cheese-covered cardboard rectangles they tried to pass off as pizza at my old school.

“Can I sit here?” I ask, still a little wary.

“Yeah, but why would you? Don't you hate me? Everyone else does, and you're the only one with a reason to.”

She's got a point, but before I can explain myself, she starts talking again.

“I'm not really like her, you know. I mean, like Lissa Mitchell,” she explains, invoking the name of the she-beast that caused me nothing but grief from the day I set foot on campus.

“Where are the other two—Lissa's clones? Why don't you guys have lunch together anymore?” I ask.

It's something I've been wondering about from the minute Headmistress Smythe had to admit her favorite student had violated more than a few of Langdon's rules of conduct and had to throw her out. It was even more painful for Smythe because she originally accused me of committing the violations until I cleared my name. Smythe never liked me from the get-go, thanks to how she met my mother—during one of Lana's undercover jobs in which Smythe somehow became indebted to my mom. I know Smythe thinks Lana is a convict and by default, I'm just a crime away from my own prison sentence. There's more to it than that, of course, but Lana won't tell me what actually went down between them—a mystery for another day.

“If they're anything like me, they're somewhere having lunch alone, just like they did B.L.”

“Huh?”

“B.L.Before
Lissa
.”

Wow. I used to call the girls in Lissa's crew her minions, but maybe
disciples
would have been more appropriate.

“When was that?” I ask, spreading goose liver and capers on little toasts. It sounds gross, but it's sooo good. Rich people know how to eat.

“When I was a freshman. Every year, Lissa picked three new freshmen to be in her circle.”

“So after a year, she fired you from your job as lackey? No offense.”

“I've had some time to think about it since practically no one talks to me now. That's exactly what we were—her lackeys. Lissa looked for easy marks, girls who don't yet know who they are and could easily be convinced to become someone else. Where better to find those girls than in freshman class? Only freshmen were crazy enough to do her bidding, so she had to get a new batch every year when the last recruits figured her out.”

“But you're a junior.”

“I guess I was the easiest mark of all. Two years later and I still don't know who I am,” she says, then adds a weak smile, the kind people make when they want you to think it's all good but it really isn't.

“Let's not talk about Lissa anymore,” I say. And because we have nothing else in common to talk about, we finish our goat cheese pizza mostly in silence. But sometimes silence is just right.