The Tutor (29 page)

Suppose the pond had been frozen, which made sense since it was partly frozen yesterday and ice-free today, and the DPW guys had maybe missed a pizza slice, or a whole box, that the wind had blown out onto the ice. The wind: a factor, as the animal control officer had predicted. What would Zippy do? Pretty obvious. Easy to visualize the scene: Zippy out on the ice, falling through somewhere out in the middle where the ice was thin, paws scrabbling frantically, panic; the effort came in trying not to see it. But she had to know. Ruby walked home, Zippy’s tag warming in her fist.

R
uby returned to the pond dragging her SnoTube, the round fat one big enough for two, inflated as full as she could get it with the bike pump. On the SnoTube lay her mask and snorkel, faded a little from the Bahamian sun. She had no intention of going in, nothing crazy—the water was much too cold—but going on was different. She knew where to draw the line.

Ruby took off her jacket, laid it by the rock. She took off her mittens, rolled up the sleeves of her lone Abercrombie sweater—she was still too small for Abercrombie, but she’d had to have it—and pushed the SnoTube down to the edge of the water. Then she spat in her mask—a nice man called Moxie at the Junkanoo Beach Hut had shown her the whole routine—swished it around in the water, yes, very cold, and put it on top of her head, snorkel hanging down the side. After that, she lay prone on the SnoTube, shoved off with her legs, and whoosh—she was skimming across the pond.

Ruby paddled a little, but not too much because the water was so cold, steering toward the middle of the pond. When she got there, she lowered the mask, stuck the snorkel in her mouth, wriggled forward to the front of the SnoTube and lowered her face into the water.

Wow. That woke her up. But the mask stayed on tight, just her cheeks and chin going numb. She breathed through the snorkel, peered down into the depths of the pond, saw nothing except stuff that looked like dust motes. No sign of the bottom. How deep was the pond, anyway? Funny how she’d never brought her snorkeling stuff in the summer, only thinking of it when they went to the ocean.

Ruby paddled a little bit one way, a little bit another, didn’t see the bottom or anything else, except for the dust mote things. All of a sudden something moved, way down there. The SnoTube passed over before she could get a good look. Ruby wriggled a little farther forward, got her face in a little deeper, better for looking back, and there it was: a fish, on its way up. A brown fish—in the winter!—with delicate fins, sort of blue, not the electric blue she’d seen in the Bahamian—

Then she was in the water. So fast: like a giant wave roared up and tipped her over. Down she went, jolted through and through with cold so shocking she couldn’t move a muscle, do anything but gasp. Gasping meant swallowing water. She swallowed water, coughed, swallowed more, sank, boots filling up, clothes so heavy. On the way down, Ruby caught a glimpse of the bottom, a jumble of beer cans, bottles, tires, weeds, tree trunks, a ski pole. Then another jolt went through her, this a desperate one from inside. Ruby’s arms and legs started moving, thrashing around; sounds of struggle bubbled past her ears. She came to the surface, coughing and gasping, glanced wildly around for the SnoTube, spotted it on the far side of the pond, bobbing by the shore. The wind again: she was no smarter than Zippy, maybe dumber.

Ruby thrashed. Mask and snorkel gone, boots gone, socks gone, Abercrombie sweater gone, she thrashed herself to shore, pulled her practically naked body up in the snow. She reached for her jacket, shivering, teeth clacking together like those Spanish dancer things, dropped it, picked it up with both numb hands, tried to put it on. Wouldn’t go on. She wrapped it around her and got herself home, running, stumbling, crying a little, barefoot in the snow.

N
o one home. She had a long hot bath, climbed into bed, turned on her TV. Snowy parking lot; yellow tape; Jeanette’s pickup.

Reporter: “. . . an excellent skier. Police are working on the theory that some time over the weekend, she skied into a gladed area, possibly out of bounds, and came to grief. Searchers are now combing every inch of Killington’s six mountains, as well as neighboring Pico and unmarked terrain, but as another cold night descends on ski country, the hope for a successful outcome to this winter drama dims.” Shots of searchers in the woods, on skis, on snowmobiles, with dogs. Sound of the dogs barking.

“R
uby?”

Ruby opened her eyes. It was dark in her room. Mom was there, her face lit by the blue-white glow of the TV.

“Are you okay?” Mom said.

“Must have fallen asleep.” Her head was all fuzzy. “Have you heard about Jeanette?”

“It’s terrible,” said Mom. “But there’s every reason to hope—she’s such a strong woman.”

“How long does it take to freeze to death?”

“It depends.”

“What if she hit her head on a tree?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do they keep searching at night?”

“I’m not sure.”

Ruby sat up. “What’s going on, Mom?”

“What do you mean?”

“Zippy,” Ruby said. “And now Jeanette.”

Mom came closer, put her hand on Ruby’s forehead, a cool hand, cold, in fact. “You feel a little warm,” Mom said. “Why don’t you come downstairs? It’s a Blue Dragon night, but I can heat some chicken soup.”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ll bring something up.”

“Don’t want anything.”

Mom bent over, kissed her forehead, left the room. Ruby gazed at the TV. They were showing the pickup again but it was the exact same report as before, shot in the daytime. Now it was night. It got cold in the mountains at night, way below zero. She’d been up at Uncle Tom and Aunt Deborah’s ski place once, had stepped out at night just to see how way-below-zero felt. Ruby pressed the off button on her remote.

Dad came in. “Got it pretty dark in here, sweetheart.” He switched on the lights. “I hear you’re not feeling tip-top.” He sat on the bed, put a tray on her bedside table: chicken soup, orange juice, white rice with plum sauce.

“What’s going on, Dad?”

“How do you mean?”

“Zippy. Jeanette.”

Dad shrugged. “Unfortunate things happen sometimes. But lost dogs get found all the time. And Jeanette’s a tough cookie.”

“Zippy’s not coming back.”

“We don’t know that,” Dad said.

Ruby did know it, almost 100 percent, but going into the whole pond episode would mean big trouble. “And what if they don’t find Jeanette in time?”

Dad sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s not worry about that unless we have to. Worrying never helps, Ruby.” He felt her forehead; his hand felt cold too, but not as cold as Mom’s. “Feel okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Try to eat something. Then get a good night’s sleep. You’ll be good as new in the morning.”

“Thanks, Dad.” He was a great dad and she would have felt a little better just from his gentle tone if he hadn’t said
good as new
, which led right to Unka Death.
Fuck you, good as new, all we do, then it’s through.
It was one of the best records she’d ever heard, maybe because the meaning scared her so much.

Dad gave her a little kiss on the forehead, as Mom had, and started toward the door.

“Dad? How’s the stock?”

Dad turned. “Doing just what we want, sweetheart. Try not to worry so much.” He left the room.

Ruby sat up. Not easy: she was so heavy, all of a sudden. She tried the soup, had to make a big effort to get a single spoonful down. She took a sip of orange juice. Rice was out of the question, despite her love of plum sauce. One of the worst things about getting sick was the way your mind played tricks on you. The plum sauce, for example: it glistened on the rice in a creepy way, like it had some sort of bad plan for the rice, a smothering one. At that point, she forced herself to get out of bed, before things got worse.

Ruby went into the hall, now feeling very light, like a reed, and very tall, so that every step was dangerous. Julian’s voice drifted up from downstairs.

“Columbia?” he was saying. “A bit of a reach at this stage, certainly, although not impossible. But if you want my opinion . . .”

“Of course,” said Dad.

“I think he preferred NYU.”

“Do you?” said Mom, in that tone she had when she was getting real interested in something.

“And it wouldn’t be a bad choice, in my view,” Julian said. His voice faded as Ruby went down the hall, trailed by half-audible snippets: NYU, Columbia, SAT, GPA, community service. She opened Brandon’s door.

He was at his desk, a textbook in front of him, yellow highlighter in hand. Had she ever actually caught him doing homework before? The animal smell wasn’t as strong as usual, but that might have been because her nose was clogging up. She went in and closed the door. He turned at the sound.

“Ever heard of knocking?”

She couldn’t think of anything sharp or biting to say back, didn’t have the strength. “We have to talk.”

“About what?”

“Weird things have been happening.”

“Like?” He was tapping his foot.

“Let’s start with your jacket.”

He glanced at the door. “What do you know about my jacket?”

“A lot.”

“Did Dewey say something to you? Trish?”

“About what?”

He put down the highlighter. “What do you know about my jacket?”

“It’s central to the case.”

“What case?”

“Or cases, I meant. Remember that time you came home without your jacket and were surprised to see it on the peg?”

“We’re going through that again?”

Ruby got a little dizzy, sat on the bed. “How come we argue all the time?”

Brandon shrugged.

“I’m going to tell you something. You can get as mad as you want.”

“What?”

“I took your crack. I threw it away.”

He checked the door again. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s no point in lying, Brandon. I had it in my hands last night.”

“Last night?”

“I was so mad that maybe you hadn’t given out the flyers. I looked for them here and then in your jacket. That’s when I found the crack.”

“There was crack in my jacket?”

“For God’s sake, Brandon.”

He got up, came closer. Ruby was afraid. But all he did was sit beside her on the bed. “How much crack?” he said.

He really didn’t know? She looked into his eyes, eyes a lot like Mom’s, and couldn’t tell. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what? I don’t carry crack around. I’m not a crackhead, Ruby. I tried it once or twice, that’s all.”

“Promise you’ll never do it again.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“There were twelve of those vials.”

“Sewn in the lining?”

“How did you know that if you didn’t—”

“Because they searched my locker today—that D’Amario guy and the principal—and they cut it open.”

“They cut your varsity jacket?”

He nodded.

They sat in silence for a while. From Brandon’s headphones, lying on the desk, came tinny sounds of rap.

“Someone tried to get me in trouble,” Brandon said.

This was a moment for saying
duh
, to pay him back for all the
duhs
he’d sent her way. “Like who?” Ruby said instead.

“No idea,” said Brandon. “Whoever it was must have planted the stuff and called the school.”

“Anonymously?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do they tape the calls?”

“That’s coming next year,” Brandon said.

“School’s a gas,” said Ruby.

Brandon laughed, actually put his hand on hers. “Hey,” he said. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m okay,” said Ruby.

He looked at her, kind of funny, like he was meeting someone new. “You saved my butt,” he said.

“True,” said Ruby. “What are we going to do now?”

“I’m going to find whoever did it and beat the shit out of him.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’ve got friends at school. We’ll think of something.”

“What if it was one of them?”

Brandon thought about that. “What’s your suggestion?”

“The place to start is that day you were surprised to see your jacket on the peg,” said Ruby. “Like I said.”

“All right, all right,” said Brandon. “I got hammered at a party in the woods, an earlier one, and must have left it there. I kind of thought you brought it back.”

“Me?”

“Out with Zippy.”

Didn’t he know her better than that? “I would have said.”

“Oh,” said Brandon. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Are you telling me whoever brought the jacket back planted the crack, that it was there all that time?”

“I don’t know.”

Brandon rose. “Maybe Mom or Dad was here when the jacket came back, maybe the guy just handed it to them.” He headed for the door.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? I’ll go down and ask.”

It didn’t fit, but she couldn’t explain why, not before he went out. She listened to the tinny rap: Unka Death, but like a ghost. Brandon came back a minute or two later, shook his head. “They all looked blank,” he said. He handed her a glass of water and a pill.

“What’s this?”

“Advil. You look a little sick.”

“Thanks,” Ruby said.

He watched her swallow the pill, drink the water. “So what are we going to do?” he said.

Ruby thought. At first it seemed impossible. What did they know? Only one thing: some person had done this. What did they know about this person? Nothing. Then she realized, by simply putting herself in the unknown person’s place, that they did know something, one little fact: that person would be pretty puzzled right now, wondering what had gone wrong with the plan. “Whoever it is may come to you,” Ruby said.

“To try and find out what happened?” said Brandon.

Ruby nodded. This was getting easier, talking to Brandon; maybe they weren’t as different as she’d thought. “But it’ll be in a sneaky way,” she said.

“You’re right,” said Brandon. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Ruby shivered.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You should go to bed.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll pass out those flyers in the morning.”