Between the Notes Read online

  James’s face went slightly green. “Uh . . .” He licked his lips and squirmed under Mr. Eli’s gaze. I knew that squirm, that heart-racing discomfort.

  “I’ll go.” I jumped to my feet, knocking the desk with my hip so it scraped loudly across the floor. Everyone who had been watching James turned to gape at me.

  “Miss Emerson?” Mr. Eli looked at me with surprise. Reesa looked at me with surprise. The part of me that hadn’t gone totally insane looked at me with surprise. “Thank you for volunteering,” said Mr. Eli.

  I swallowed and began before my brain could fully process what I’d done, what I was about to do.

  “‘Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote . . .’” My voice quavered, but the strange words spilled out in the proper order. I had put the poem to music in my head, a trick I always used to memorize things. Separating it now from that melody was like reading backward, but it kept my mind off the fact that everyone was watching me. Closing my eyes helped, too.

  When I finished, there was a polite smattering of applause and I took my seat. Or rather, I fell into my seat as my knees gave out. Reesa was still staring at me like an alien had possessed my body. “What was that about?” she whispered.

  I shrugged as Mr. Eli called on her next. She hopped up and launched into the poem. I let my eyes flutter over to where James sat. He was staring back at me, a curious eyebrow raised. I looked back at the front of the classroom and didn’t budge for the rest of the class.

  “Glad that’s over,” Reesa said after the bell rang. She linked her arm with mine and looked back over her shoulder as we left class. I followed her line of sight and saw James standing in front of Mr. Eli’s desk, teetering back on his heels, now with his thumbs hooked through his front belt loops instead of shoved into his back pockets. “He’s hot,” she said.

  “Who?” I said.

  “Sir James. Me thinketh he’s divine.”

  My throat felt dry. “You think?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Tall, dreamy. And quiet. You know what they say about the quiet ones.”

  “Um, they don’t talk a lot?”

  “Actually, I have no idea what they say about the quiet ones. But it must be good.” She laughed at herself. “They have a secret. They’re hiding something, like—”

  “Bodies? The quiet ones are serial killers?”

  Reesa put a hand on her hip. “Don’t talk about my future boyfriend like that. I was referring to a secret passion. Quiet on the outside, crazy and sexy on the inside. Something like that.” She gave a meaningful wink. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

  She sauntered off with an exaggerated sway of her hips, putting her dibs on James Wickerton. I didn’t like it. The guy surely thought I was an idiot, and I’d rather my best friend didn’t date someone who thought I was an idiot. But, to be honest, what really bothered me was that she hadn’t even mentioned his eyes. How could she not have noticed how they were icy blue and warm at the same time?

  Because he hadn’t looked at her.

  SEVEN

  I didn’t see James for the rest of the day. But Lennie was suddenly everywhere. Grinning, leering, sneering, materializing out of nowhere—like my own personal Cheshire cat. Sometimes he was surrounded by his friends, the moving boys from Saturday morning. But fortunately, Lennie was the only one who seemed to remember me.

  Reesa noticed one of his more blatant stares when we passed him in the hall on the way to chemistry. “Who’s that?”

  “Nobody,” I said too quickly.

  She turned to get a better look. “What’s his name, Lizinsky? Lewinski? Isn’t he, like, a drug lord or something?”

  “No idea. Can I borrow your psych notes? I kind of zoned out during that ethics lecture.”

  “Sure.” She dug a notebook out of her bag as we were walking. “But why is that guy . . .”

  “Can we not talk about him, please? He stared at me. End of story.” I walked ahead of her without taking the notebook.

  She hurried to catch me. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Seriously?” I wanted to bang my head repeatedly against the lockers.

  She rolled her eyes and handed me the notebook. “Don’t be so sensitive.”

  “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one ripped from your home and thrown to the wolves. You act like nothing’s changed, like I’m just . . . I don’t know, having a bad hair day or something.”

  She glanced up at my hair. “Well, you kind of are. And you told me to act like nothing had changed. Remember?”

  “I told you not to tell anyone. There’s a difference.”

  Reesa took a deep breath and exhaled it loudly. “Obviously, whatever I say is going to be the wrong thing, so I’m just going to shut up.” Now she was the one walking away from me.

  “You didn’t even call me,” I mumbled to her back.

  She spun around. “You don’t have a phone!”

  “Shh! Do you have to announce it to everyone?”

  Reesa closed her eyes and spoke low. “You’re in a mood. I get that, and I get why. But you need to stop acting like a crazy person. Okay? We’re going to be late.”

  I followed her down the stairs to our last class and tried my best to act like a noncrazy person, fully engaged in the wonders of science. But my mind kept straying to my next challenge: retrieving my bicycle from the hedges at the end of the day without attracting further attention.

  And when the final bell rang fifty minutes later, I dodged my way to an upstairs bathroom to avoid my friends, who might notice if I didn’t head out to catch a bus or a ride home. I waited for a turn at the mirror. Reesa wasn’t kidding about bad hair day. I scrounged through my backpack for something to tie it back, but all I could find was one of those big black-and-silver metal binder clips. I grabbed a fistful of hair and clipped it back. It looked . . . well, pretty stupid. But it would keep my hair out of my face on the ride home. My standards were clearly falling already.

  The hallway had grown quiet. Aside from a few kids sitting around some lockers at the far stairs, the coast was clear. I started walking toward them, but Mr. Cook, the assistant principal, appeared at the end of the hall and started interrogating them. I dived for the nearest door and ducked inside.

  Mr. Cook was notorious for giving detention, and that was the last thing I needed. The room I’d entered was pitch-dark. I stood, not moving, just listening for footsteps and trying not to breathe too loud. Behind me, in whatever this room was, something was dripping. It started to freak me out, so I swept my hand along the wall until I found a switch. A long fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating a storage room with floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with cardboard boxes and big multipacks of toilet paper. The drip was coming from a utility sink in the corner.

  Beyond the supply shelves was a long, narrow hallway. It was too dark to see exactly where that led, but I noticed another small room off to the side. It was a tiny little sitting room, a break room for the janitor, maybe? It had a table and lamp, which I switched on, and an orange faux-leather chair like the ones in the library (only this one had a tear in it that was patched with duct tape). The wall was lined with shelves that were empty except for a few boxes of paper clips. The discovery gave me a little tingle, like I’d stumbled upon the secret tunnels of Vanderbilt High.

  I closed the door and sat in the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. The cement walls blocked out every sound from the outside world. It was the perfect place to hide after school. All I’d need was a few good books to pass the time. I pulled out the beaten-up copy of The Great Gatsby I had in my backpack from a summer reading project and set it on the shelf—a little start to my secret reading room. I switched off the lamp and closed the door as I left.

  It had been ten minutes, and the hallway was eerily quiet and empty now. My pink Chucks squeaked along the waxed linoleum. When I reached the double doors, I hesitated. Someone was in the stairway. I peered through the lit
tle window and saw the one person I least wanted to see: Lennie. He was talking to some guy wearing a black slouch hat.

  “It’s top quality,” Lennie said, handing him a small paper bag.

  Slouch Hat looked into the bag, then rolled it up and shoved it in his front pocket. “How much?”

  “Twenty.”

  The kid took a bill from his wallet and handed it over. “I’ll call you if I need more. I know some guys who might want to check out your stuff, too.”

  “You know where to find me,” said Lennie.

  Oh, my God. I ducked down so they wouldn’t see me through the window. Had I just witnessed what I thought I’d witnessed? Unbelievable.

  The door pushed against me and I jumped back. “Ahhh!”

  “Emerson,” said Lennie. “Can I help you?”

  I stepped away. “No.”

  He came through the door, letting it swing shut behind him. “Were you spying on me?”

  “Of course not.” I glanced behind me, now wishing Mr. Cook would appear. “I was just leaving.”

  I attempted to walk past him to the door, but he sidestepped into my path, glaring down at me. “What are you doing here?”

  I remembered what someone once told me about vicious dogs. They could smell your fear. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin. “I might ask you the same thing!”

  He nodded. “You might. And I might have a very good answer.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as I help out in the au-to-mo-tive shop after school.” He articulated the word like he was trying to sound aristocratic. “Fully approved and sanctioned by the administrative powers that be. And you?”

  “None of your business,” I said, desperately wishing I’d had a better comeback, something that seemed to escape me whenever I was in Lennie’s presence.

  “Better be on your way, then.” He glanced up at the big, round clock that hung over the doorway. “Mr. Cook is due to pass through here on his daily rounds in approximately two minutes.”

  My eyes widened. He had it all timed perfectly.

  “Unless you want a ride,” he added, grinning.

  “No, uh . . . I don’t think so.” I brushed past him to get to the door. As I started to pull it open, he slid his heavy boot in the way. I stared down at it, fingers squeezing the door handle so tight my knuckles went white.

  “It’s just a ride,” he said in a low voice. “I wasn’t asking you out or anything.”

  I swiveled my head to look up at his face, which was now inches from mine. “That’s not what I thought. I would never think that.”

  The grin that had been taunting me through most of our conversation fell from his face. He pulled his foot out of the way. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  My heart was now thumping visibly through my shirt, I was sure of it. I yanked the door open and nearly flew down the stairwell. I was almost to the bottom when I heard the door above swing open again.

  Lennie called out, “Love what you’ve done with your hair, by the way!”

  I put a hand to my head, felt the giant binder clip, and groaned inwardly as I pushed through the doors to the downstairs hallway.

  EIGHT

  I pedaled home. Fast. My legs screamed. All I kept thinking was that I had to beat Lennie home. I didn’t want him there waiting to taunt me again. I’d also nearly forgotten about the twins’ bus, and the disaster it would be if I didn’t arrive in time to greet them. Mom was usually there, but she had an interview today for a job at a newspaper. I bumped onto our gravel road just as the bus squeaked to a stop and deposited Kaya and Brady at my wheel, along with a handful of other kids from the neighborhood. A few gave Brady funny looks, but Kaya funny-looked them right back and they ran off. Kaya was Brady’s fiercest defender, and most of the time he didn’t even know it was happening. He automatically assumed everyone was nice, like he was.

  “Hey.” I panted. “How was school?”

  “Fantabulous,” said Kaya. She nudged Brady’s arm.

  “Fan-tah-lah-bus,” he tried. Kaya attempted to teach him a new word on the bus every day. She was responsible for additions to his vocabulary including “chili cheese dog,” “holy bagumba,” and “butt head,” among others.

  “Fan-tah-byu-lus,” she tried again.

  Brady didn’t respond. He was staring at his feet, then looking toward our house in the distance, and back down to his feet. His little mouth fell open as he squatted down, patting the stones with both hands.

  “Oh, no,” said Kaya. “The rocks. He wants to clean up the rocks. Like at home. The driveway. Remember?”

  He picked one up. Just one bit of gravel from an entire road made of gravel, and threw it toward the grass. It didn’t quite make it, so he went to where it had fallen and tried to figure out which one it was. He finally picked up a stone and threw it again, then squatted down for another.

  “Brady,” I said, “the rocks belong here. In the road. It’s not like home.” That was the understatement of the year. Our driveway at home was beautifully paved with an ornate brick border. Here it was just gravel that crunched when you drove on it.

  “Come on.” Kaya gently took his hand. “Let’s go.”

  He let her lead him to the side so they could walk along the edge of the grass. I followed, pushing the bike. Kaya glanced at it but said nothing, clearly too nervous about the precarious situation with Brady and the gravel. You never knew what might set him off.

  When we got to the house, I quickly wheeled the Schwinn around back and tucked it under the stairs. Brady and Kaya were standing out front. I watched from the side of the house. Sometimes it was best to just let him process things. He was staring intently at that gravel road, no doubt trying to figure out what he was going to do about it. The poor kid had spent all of last year clearing our driveway of every stray bit of stone, like it was the most important job in the world. His job. It was a huge source of pride for him, and now it was gone.

  God, I hated this place.

  As the three of us stood there, Lennie’s Jeep rumbled to a stop in front of his house. He climbed out and started walking toward his front door, glancing from Brady to the road. He took a step toward the twins, and I was about to run out to protect them if he got any closer, but he didn’t.

  “Whatcha doin’?” he called out.

  Kaya kept looking out at the road and said, “My brother is trying to figure out what to do about all those rocks.”

  “Ah,” said Lennie, nodding. “They get everywhere, don’t they?” Then he reached down, picked up a piece of gravel from his front yard, and threw it into the road.

  Brady swiveled his head to look at Lennie, who bent down to pick up two more pieces. He tossed them one at a time, underhand so they arched up high before dropping with a satisfying clatter.

  Brady watched each rock as it soared into the street. A big smile came across his face. He studied the grass around his feet, squatted, and selected one of several bits of gravel. He stood and threw it with all his might. It landed about three feet away.

  Lennie laughed. He threw another rock, then Brady threw one. Then Kaya joined in, and they all took turns. The threat of a major Brady meltdown had been avoided. I kept watching from the side of the house, not sure what to do.

  Lennie looked up and saw me, then let the rock he was holding drop to the ground. He turned to Brady. “Gotta go, dude. Keep up the good work.”

  Brady smiled at him, and waved—a perfectly normal exchange, which was not normal for my brother. It usually took him weeks of behavior therapy to master an interaction like that.

  I waited for Lennie to go into his house, then hurried to collect the twins and take them inside. Brady was loath to leave his work unfinished, but I assured him he could continue later. There had to be at least a year’s worth of gravel in our little yard to clean up.

  “How was school?” Mom asked an hour later. She kicked off her shoes and opened the refrigerator.

  “Fine.”

  “The bu
s?”

  “Fantabulous,” I said. “How did your interview go?”

  “Also fantabulous,” she said, not even realizing it was Brady’s word of the day. “I got the job.”

  “That’s great! Doing what?”

  “Copyediting. Writing obituaries, the police report, stuff like that. It’s just two afternoons a week for now. I’ll need you home to get the twins off the bus those days. Okay?”

  “Yeah.” I heard the distinctive rumble of Lennie’s Jeep and watched out the front window as he drove off. My chest unclenched the slightest bit, knowing he was gone. “You probably won’t have to go very far to get stuff for your police report.”

  Mom raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  “Am I the only one who’s noticed that our neighbor is a drug dealer?”

  “Mr. Lazarski?” Mom chuckled. “He’s sixty-five years old and disabled. I hardly think he’s dealing drugs. He can barely feed himself, apparently. Carla told us a car fell on him, if you can believe it. He used to be a mechanic.”

  I peered out the kitchen window toward their little house. There was one broken-down car parked in the grass along the far side, and one of those prefab sheds shaped like a miniature barn. I’d seen Lennie coming and going from it, but nobody else had stepped out of the house.

  “I wasn’t talking about Mr. Lazarski, Mom. I was talking about his son.”

  Mom pulled a box of pasta from the cabinet. “Trust me. We checked everyone out thoroughly before moving here. It’s not a bad neighborhood, sweetie. No arrests, no incidents at all in the past year.”

  “That just means they haven’t been caught yet,” I mumbled.

  Mom gave me The Look, as Kaya came bouncing down from the bunk bed room and described the gravel incident in painstaking detail. In her version of events, Lennie hadn’t absently thrown a few rocks into the road. He had practically swooped in wearing a superhero cape to save the day.

  Mom turned to me and said, “See? He’s not so bad.”

  “He knows how to throw rocks,” I said. “Doesn’t exactly make him a model citizen.”