Buzz Kill (20 page)

I squirmed in my seat, watching Chase in profile as he tossed some popcorn into his mouth, his eyes trained on the screen, where cartoon penguins invited patrons to visit the currently unattended snack bar.

Is there
anything
I don't like about this guy—except for the way he DOESN'T like me? How did that happen?

Chase must've seen me observing him out of the corner of his eye. He gestured to the front of the theater, reminding me, “The movie's starting.”

I didn't face the screen right away. Instead, I leaned closer to Chase, asking, in a whisper, a question that I couldn't contain for two full hours: “Chase, why are you so dead set on me seeing this? It looks terrible.”

He met my eyes in the darkness, and I saw that he was no longer laughing. “I don't really know, Millie.” He hesitated. “I . . . I just think you'll get it.”

I didn't know if he meant I'd grasp the importance of the movie in and of itself—the artistry and message—or that I'd come away knowing something about him. But as the story of a boy who goes down the wrong path and finds himself incarcerated with hardened criminals began to unfold, I suspected that it was the latter. And by the time the movie ended, with that young man staring ambiguously at the camera, the ocean that represented liberation behind him, so I wasn't quite sure if he really felt free or not . . . I knew that Chase had dragged me along to share something about his soul.

It didn't even seem weird when the lights came up, to realize that I had a lump in my throat—and my hand on Chase's arm, squeezing him to sort of comfort him, and myself, too.

I let go pretty quickly, but we still sat in silence for a minute, even after we heard Mrs. Murphy discreetly remove herself, without saying goodbye, as if she knew better than to intrude.

I had all kinds of questions for Chase and wanted to tell him that whatever had really happened, back on that dark road, he'd served his time and should let it go. That he wasn't some kid in a movie. But Chase spoke first, and I could tell that he wasn't going to elaborate on the film—that we weren't going to talk about “feelings” or his past—when he asked, “So, what the heck did you and Mike talk about in French class that compelled him to blurt out ‘murder'?”

Chase had parked his car at the theater, but he walked me home after the movie because it was a beautiful October night, and we both wanted to stretch our legs after sitting for so long.

Okay, I would've taken a ride—would I
never
get back in that awesome car?—but when Chase suggested a stroll, I could hardly refuse.

“So what do you think about Mike?” I asked after I'd related everything that had happened in class. “Do you think he's capable of murder?”

I sort of hoped Chase would say yes, because I was already composing the headline for my next story: “Brutish Football Player Implicated in Slaying.” With the subhead “Jeez, He's Best Pals with Viv! What Did You Expect?”

Okay, maybe that fantasy was a little over the top, but the more I thought about Mike Price, the more my gut said he was capable of, if nothing else, acting on a base impulse, if he and Coach Killdare had ever had it out some late evening after practice . . .

“Millie, are you listening to me?”

“Sorry,” I told Chase. “I was imagining Mike bludgeoning things. In the daydream, he's wearing an ape suit.”

I was immediately uncertain about the wisdom of adding that last part, but Chase didn't even give me a strange look. Instead he said, “I was basically agreeing that Mike doesn't seem to engage in much higher-level cognitive activity—which is why Mr. Killdare swapped him from quarterback to running back.” Chase looked down at me. “Not to sound conceited, but—along with being a leader—a quarterback has to think ahead, and that wasn't Mike's forte.”

“So you agree that Mike could've gotten mad and lashed out?” I started to spin a scenario, but could tell that Chase wasn't necessarily buying my theory.

“I don't know, Millie,” he said. “I met a lot of offenders when I was in the system.”

It was almost impossible to believe that the polished guy who'd just used the phrase “higher-level cognitive activity” had ever been incarcerated. But who would've thought my father and my librarian would have a secret, shared life, either?

“And most of them were surprisingly intelligent,” Chase continued. “We didn't get in trouble because we were stupid—in terms of IQ. We did things because we were smart but bored, or angry, or looking for the next adrenaline rush. And then, of course, there were those Hannibal Lecter wannabes who had brains but no conscience.”

I nodded. “Psychopaths. Like Viv.”

Chase grinned. “I don't know if I'd go
that
far about Viv.”

“I disagree.” I glanced up, trying to read his expression, and asked, sort of offhandedly, as if I didn't really care, “What did you two talk about? In French class?”

He shrugged. “Football. Cheerleading. Her hatred of you.”

I felt my eyes get wide. “No!”

Chase smiled down at me. “No, not really. Just football and cheerleading.”

I debated whether to tell him that Viv had set her sights on him, like a big-game hunter aiming to bring down the most majestic elk in the herd, but I was pretty sure he knew what she was up to. I had a feeling he was used to girls hitting on him.

“So what's next?” he asked, turning the conversation back to my investigation. “Are you going to follow up on your suspicions about Mike?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. We'd reached my house and stopped walking. A light was on inside, like my dad was home. Probably alone. “I mean, I want to, but I don't really know what to do.”

Chase took a moment to consider my quandary, then said, “I think there's a place we can go to learn
too much
about Mike. And if he's hiding a murder weapon, it's probably there. Along with a bunch of Coach Killdare's stuff. Things that he wouldn't keep at his house.”

I got a little excited. “What? What are you talking about?”

This was obviously a secret that Chase wanted to keep because it amused him, though. “Just meet me tomorrow at school, at about seven-thirty,” he said. “Inside the front doors.”

“Won't they be locked?” I pointed out.

“No.” Chase gave me a funny look. “The football team will have left about a half-hour before, and there's practice for the fall musical that goes on until at least eight-thirty.” He paused. “Haven't you
ever
done an extracurricular activity, Millie? Besides working for the paper?”

“I'm founder and president of the Philosophy Club,” I said. “But we meet . . . Well, it's just me, and we don't really meet.”

He didn't seem to know how to respond, so I added, “I'm saving my energy for adulthood, Chase. I plan to start ramping it up in my twenties and be a huge success by age thirty. I honestly think the rest of you are peaking way too soon.”

Chase took a moment to digest that, too. “Have I mentioned that you're . . . unique?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, you have. Let's not beat it into the ground, okay?” I remembered that we'd been making plans. “So what are we gonna do at school after hours?”

He still didn't explain. “Just trust me—and meet me there. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed. Then, making a split-second decision—voicing something that I hadn't considered before the moment it popped into my head—I blurted, “But in exchange for me not asking questions, you have to do me a favor.”

He seemed intrigued. Or on guard. “What?”

I was already regretting opening my mouth, but it was too late to turn back, so I said, “Come with me to the fall formal next week.” I saw the surprise—coupled with dismay—on his face and added, “Just as friends. Not like a date.” I held up my hands. “Believe me! I know where you stand on
that
prospect.”

Chase looked down the street. “Millie . . . It's not that. It's just . . . I don't usually go to that kind of thing.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” I really thought he was going overboard with the self-inflicted penance, and that old Mrs. Murphy was right. He was too isolated—which was why I'd asked him to go in the first place.
I
didn't really want to attend a lame, tropical-themed “gala” in a school gym. “Are you refusing because you'd be embarrassed to go with me?” I challenged him. “Or because you think you should never have fun again, like a ‘normal' kid? Because you know I'd make the whole thing fun.”

Chase looked me in the eye. “Millie, I would be far from ashamed to go to a dance with you . . .”

Actually, I'd said “embarrassed,” not “ashamed.” Was one of those words a little harsher?

“. . . But I've told you, I try to lie low,” he said. “And I really feel strange doing anything related to partying. As you've noticed, I don't socialize much outside of football.”

“I think you
are
embarrassed to be seen with me,” I countered. “You think I'm going to stick my face in the punch bowl and lap up Hi-C like Baxter or something. Don't you?”

“No. That's not it,” he insisted. “I just don't think it's right for me.”

“Is it your girlfriend?” I asked bluntly, bringing up a subject I'd never broached before. Maybe because, up until the incident at Mr. Killdare's, this teeny part of me had hoped everybody was wrong, and she didn't really exist. But there was no reason to avoid the subject anymore. “Huh? Is that it?”

Chase gave me a sharp look. “Who told you I have a girlfriend?”

I realized that I probably shouldn't know that. “Ryan said you mentioned it once or something.” I tried to play innocent. “I don't even know why we were talking about it.”

“Oh.” Chase seemed to accept that explanation. In fact, he appeared distracted and even more unhappy. “It's not exactly her,” he said softly. “I mean . . . Not the way you think. Not like a jealousy thing.” He seemed oddly tongue-tied. “It's just me . . .”

“Well,” I said, taking a new tack. “If you're really so dead set on never having fun again, and punishing yourself forever, you should definitely take me up on my offer. Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you think going to a dance with me would be a
terrible ordeal.
”

Something—probably everything—I'd just said finally made Chase laugh again. And although it was at my expense—again—I had to admit that it was a pretty nice sound. A good complement to the smile that he seemed to be using more often lately. Then Chase forced himself to be serious and said, with semi-sincerity, “Millicent Ostermeyer, I would be honored to take you to the Honeywell High School fall formal.” He glanced at my feet. “Provided that you agree not to stick your head in the punch—or wear those sneakers, because no offense, but I would be embarrassed if you did either of those things.”

I looked down at my shoes, too, suddenly not sure what I intended to wear on my feet—or my body, for that matter. Then I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”

It wasn't until Chase had walked away, headed back to his car with a reminder about our meeting the next evening, that what had just happened really sank in.

I, Millie Ostermeyer, who hadn't had a date for a dance since the Nolan Durkin debacle of ninth grade, had just asked the most desirable guy at school to escort me to a formal.

A guy Vivienne Fitch also wanted.

Viv, a possible killer, who would see me with Chase in the gym and maybe misunderstand. Who might just think Chase and I were more than friends, and that I was stealing him from her, just like I'd stolen her thunder at camp—only a thousand times worse.

Seriously . . . What had I just
done?

“Millie, if we're here to return books, why are we lurking behind a tree?” Laura asked. “Why not just go in the library? Because this is embarrassing!”

“You're the one who's all about copying Nancy Drew,” I said, shuffling the pile of books I was finally returning until I found
The Bungalow Mystery.
I pointed to the cover, which showed Nancy peering out from behind a tree trunk, watching a shack. “
She's
not embarrassed.”

“Nancy's also wearing a shirt dress,” Laura noted, looking pointedly at my usual T-shirt-and-jeans combo. “So apparently
you're
allowed to pick and choose when she's a role model.”

Sometimes having a perceptive, logical friend could be a pain in the butt. “Just . . . keep hiding,” I said, pressing the books against my chest and scooching farther behind the tree because the library door was opening, revealing a glimpse of a chartreuse sleeve.

Ms. Parkins.

I watched her step into the fading sunlight and thought my former librarian seemed washed out, too. Sure, her sweater was trademark bright, as were her pink stilettos and her floral tote bag, but her shoulders drooped and there was no spring in her step as she walked to her car.

“You came to see her, didn't you?” Laura asked quietly. “Because you're worried about her.”

I didn't answer. I just kept spying on Ms. Parkins, who sat in her little Mazda like she wasn't in any hurry to leave.
Maybe because she has nobody to go home to . 
.
 .

“Millie,” Laura said gently. “If you're so concerned about Ms. Parkins and your dad, why don't you give them your blessing? Tell them to go ahead and be happy together?”

I kept observing, avoiding those—also very logical—questions.

How could I tell Laura that I wanted to do those things, but that every time I tried to open my mouth, to my dad at least, my usually uncontrollably flapping tongue froze up?