Buzz Kill (33 page)

“How's your head?” Chase asked, gently stroking my hair, barely touching me, because even though it had been nearly two days since Ms. Beamish had clobbered me, I still had a pretty big bump. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” I said, shifting on the couch so I could rest even closer against his chest. I wasn't sure what the future held for us, but for the time being, he didn't seem inclined to stay away from me. I had a feeling that saving me had expiated a little more of his guilt. Either that, or he was starting to realize that life was, indeed, short and unpredictable, and that you had to grasp the present, even if you'd screwed up the past.

All I knew for certain was that I'd awoken on a classroom floor—next to Viv, who'd seemed a little
too
alert, as if she had been playing possum, even when I'd been about to get killed—and Ms. Beamish, whom Chase had tackled, although that wasn't normally the role of a quarterback. And on that floor littered with semiconscious bodies, I'd felt Chase's hand under my head and heard him telling me, “Please be okay, Millie. I love you. Please wake up . . .”

I hadn't been drifting toward some celestial light or existential darkness, but those words had helped to clear the fog from my head and compensate for the throbbing inside my skull—which still lingered.

“I think some hamburger would help ease the pain,” I suggested.

Chase took the hint and picked up my Double Bungee from a plate on the cushion next to him, offering me a bite.

Okay, I was admittedly taking it too far, getting fed, but I knew I wouldn't be able to milk my injury forever. I would enjoy the extreme pampering while I could.

“Why'd you come for me?” I asked for the millionth time, like a kid who enjoyed hearing the same bedtime story, over and over. “I couldn't believe it when you showed up.”

“You tossed away a doughnut as you ran toward the school, Millie.”

I honestly still didn't recall having done that.

“And to see you run, in general—which I never saw happen in phys ed,” Chase added. “I knew something was wrong. I started to play again, but I kept screwing up, watching for you to come out of the school. Finally, I just had to go.” He rubbed my head again, a little harder, like he knew I was starting to heal and maybe overplaying things so we could keep sitting so close on the couch. My dad would definitely put an end to any public displays of affection the moment the lump went down. “Thank God for this hair, huh?” Chase teased. “I'm sure its spring action cushioned the blow and saved your life.”

I pushed off his chest so I could see him grinning and rubbed my head, too, silently thanking my mother for sharing her genes with me. “Yeah. I'll never complain about it again.”

I was pretty sure I was about to get a compliment—or a kiss. I could tell, just from the look in Chase's eyes. Unfortunately, my dad and Ms. Parkins came in the front door, right at that inopportune moment—along with Baxter on a leash.

“
You
are walking this dog, the minute you feel better,” my father complained without even greeting us. Chase and I wisely moved a few inches apart. “And I don't care if you still have a concussion. It needs a bath
tonight.
”

He was griping, but there was a lightness to it, since he'd resumed his post as mayor. Although he didn't intend to coach again. He said it just didn't have the same appeal anymore. But I secretly suspected he wanted to devote more time to the woman who was unhooking Baxter's leash—but winking at me. “I'll wash him, Millie. You just rest.”

“I can't believe I'm letting you keep this thing,” Dad added with a gentle—somewhat affectionate . . . or maybe not—kick to Baxter's rump as the dog loped to me and Chase. “In retrospect, you had a lot of nerve asking while you were in the emergency room.”

“Thanks again, Dad.” I smiled. “Love you!”

I said that last part like I was joking, but I really wasn't. I wanted us to start saying that to each other, even if it didn't come naturally yet.

“Love you, too, Millicent,” Dad grumbled, but I knew he meant it, too. He came over to the couch, offering me and Chase a newspaper that had been folded under his arm. “And I guess you both
do
deserve a reward for saving Viv—and me,” he added grudgingly. He unfolded the
Honeywell Crier,
the town's daily. “Here. Read.”

Chase accepted the paper, and we both saw that the story of our confrontation with Ms. Beamish was on page one. There was an unflattering shot of me wobbling out of the school with the assistance of a paramedic—and what looked like a model's headshot of Viv.

“She looks better than me,” I admitted. “But she's going to be furious about the story. Ironically, it's killing her that I saved her.” I grinned at Chase. “What if I actually win a Pacemaker on top of this?”

Chase's smile was uncertain. “I think I'll be worried. She already despises you more than usual for nearly getting her killed.”

“Yeah, how about how she and Mike really were talking about Viv helping him cheat on a French test when I overheard them?” I mused, feeling a tad responsible for the goose egg Viv was sporting on her head, too. Then again, if Viv hadn't been so evil to begin with, I never would've thought her capable of homicide. I shrugged. “Who knew?”

“Just watch your back for a while, okay, Millie?” Chase urged.

I wasn't worried. Viv and I had a
historia,
and though she might stand back and let me get murdered to save her own butt, she'd never actively, physically hurt me. At least, I didn't think so. “I see there's ‘no comment' from Detective Lohser,” I added, shifting the conversation, because I was starting to get a little uneasy, too. “He ‘could not be reached.'”

“Yes, he seems to have disappeared,” Dad agreed. “Thank heavens.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Ms. Parkins rested her hand on my father's arm and nodded toward the kitchen.

For a second, my dad didn't seem to understand. Then he got that she was trying to give me and Chase some privacy, and he frowned. “Isabel . . .”

But Ms. Parkins kept smiling in her infectious, persuasive way and tugging his arm. “Jack . . . Come on now. We're intruding on a dinner date.”

“Oh . . . Fine.” My father went along with
his
date, but gave me and Chase one warning look right before the kitchen door swung shut—behind a trotting Baxter, who'd clearly taken a shine to my father, even if the reverse wasn't true.

I still wasn't sure whether Dad was protecting me from Chase, or Chase from me. Either way, we both ignored that cautionary glance. The moment he and Ms. Parkins were gone, I moved closer to Chase, and he moved closer to me. We kissed once, just quickly, because we
were
under my dad's roof, then I rested my head against Chase's chest again, thinking that was good enough for now. More than perfect, really. Like a scene right out of Nancy Drew's life—if she'd ever worn Doc Martens and been lucky enough to get an AWESOME dog, and an even more amazing boyfriend, like mine.

As always, I want to thank my family for making this book possible. Endless thanks to my husband, Dave, for believing in me and helping me carve out time to work. And thanks to my kids—Paige, Julia, and Hope—for learning to use the microwave and surviving on Lean Cuisines while I wrote. You girls are awesome.

I am also indebted to my parents, Donald and Marjorie Fantaskey, for your unswerving faith and support.

Similarly, I am eternally grateful to my in-laws, George and Elaine Kaszuba—and especially to my sister-in-law, Sandra Petrosky, who serves as my unofficial, but phenomenal, publicist. Your efforts to promote my books—including your surreptitious rearrangement of store displays—is much, much appreciated.

And, of course, I want to say thanks to “my” librarian, Elizabeth Maule, who let a geeky, book loving fifth-grader become a library “assistant,” giving me a safe place to retreat when that first year of middle school got overwhelming. I know my shelving efforts created more work for you, but you never let it show.

Thanks, also, to my indefatigable editor, Margaret Raymo, and my dynamo agent, Helen Breitwieser. You always have my back—and push me in the right direction. You two are the best.

And how can I express sufficient gratitude to my friend Jackie Kelly, who asked the crucial question “If you want to be done with this book, why don't you sit down and write it?” You are too wise.

To Scott Manning—thanks for stepping in at the last minute with your French expertise.
Merci!

Finally, a million thanks to all of you readers who support my books, especially those of you who have become my genuine friends, be it through cyberspace or face-to-face. High on that latter list are all the cool people at my gym, my kids' schools, and the businesses I frequent around my hometown—especially Denise Poust at the hardware store. Thanks so much for sharing my books from your personal “bookmobile”!

THE FIRST TIME
I saw him, a heavy, gray fog clung to the cornfields, tails of mist slithering between the dying stalks. It was a dreary early morning right after Labor Day, and I was waiting for the school bus, just minding my own business, standing at the end of the dirt lane that connected my family's farmhouse to the main road into town.

I was thinking about how many times I'd probably waited for that bus over the course of a dozen years, killing time like any mathlete would, by doing calculations in my head, when I noticed him.

And suddenly that familiar stretch of blacktop seemed awfully desolate.

He was standing under a massive beech tree across the road from me, his arms crossed over his chest. The tree's low, gnarled branches twisted down around him, nearly concealing him in limbs and leaves and shadows. But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak.

My chest clenched, and I swallowed hard.
Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak?

He must have realized I'd spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. Or maybe cross the road.

It had never struck me how vulnerable I'd been all those mornings I'd waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then.

I glanced down the road, heart thudding.
Where is the stupid bus? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? Why couldn't I own a car, like practically every other senior? But no, I had to “share the ride” to save the environment. When I'm abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons. . . .

In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have sworn—just as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the road—I could have sworn I heard him say, “Antanasia.”

My old name . . . The name I'd been given at birth, in Eastern Europe, before I'd been adopted and brought to America, rechristened Jessica Packwood. . . .

Or maybe I was hearing things, because the word was drowned out by the sound of tires hissing on wet pavement, grinding gears, and the whoosh of the doors as the driver, old Mr. Dilly, swung them open for me.
Wonderful, wonderful bus number 23.
I'd never been so happy to climb on board.

With his usual grunted “Mornin', Jess,” Mr. Dilly put the bus in gear, and I stumbled down the aisle, searching for an empty seat or a friendly face among the half-groggy riders. It sucked sometimes, living in rural Pennsylvania. The town kids were probably still sleeping, safe and sound in their beds.

Locating a spot at the very back of the bus, I plopped down with a rush of relief. Maybe I'd overreacted. Maybe my imagination had run wild, or too many episodes of
America's Most Wanted
had messed with my head. Or maybe the stranger really had meant me harm. . . . Twisting around, I peered out the rear window, and my heart sank.

He was still there, but in the road now, booted feet planted on either side of the double yellow line, arms still crossed, watching the bus drive away. Watching me.

“
Antanasia . . .
”

Had I really heard him call me by that long-forgotten name?

And if he knew
that
obscure fact, what else did the dark stranger, receding in the mist, know about my past?

More to the point, what did he want with me in the present?