Lock and Key (9 page)

“I was a mystery?” I asked.

“You were something,” he replied. “You okay?”

This was unexpected, as was the lump that rose up in my throat as I heard it. I swallowed, then said, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Marshall was eighteen and had graduated from Jackson the year before, although we hadn’t known each other until he moved in with Rogerson, the guy who sold all my friends their pot. At first, Marshall didn’t make much of an impression—just a tall, skinny guy who was always passing through or in the kitchen when we went over there to get bags. I’d never even talked to him until one day I went over by myself and Rogerson wasn’t around, so it was just the two of us.

Rogerson was all business and little conversation. You knocked, you came in, got what you needed, and got out. I was expecting pretty much the same with Marshall, and at first he didn’t disappoint, barely speaking as I followed him to the living room and watched him measure out the bag. I paid him and was just about to get to my feet when he reached over to a nearby cabinet, pulling open a drawer and taking out a small ceramic bowl. “You want some?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, and then he handed it over, along with a lighter. I could feel him watching me, his dark eyes narrowed, as I lit it, took some in, and passed it back.

The pot was good, better than the stuff we bought, and I felt it almost instantly, the room and my brain slowly taking on a heavy, rolling haze. Suddenly, everything seemed that much more fascinating, from the pattern on the couch beneath me to Marshall himself, sitting back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head. After a few minutes, I realized we’d stopped passing the bowl back and forth and were just sitting there in silence, for how long I had no idea.

“You know what we need,” he said suddenly, his voice low and flat.

“What’s that?” My own tongue felt thick, my entire mouth dry.

“Slurpees,” he said. “Come on.”

I’d been afraid he would ask me to drive, which was completely out of the question, but instead, once outside, he led the way down a path that cut across a nearby field dotted with power lines, emerging a block down from a convenience store. We didn’t talk the entire way there, or when we were in the store itself. It was not until we were leaving, in fact, each of us sucking away at our Slurpees—which were cold and sweet and perfect—that he finally spoke.

“Good stuff,” he said, glancing over at me.

I nodded. “It’s
fantastic
.”

Hearing this, he smiled, which was unnerving simply because it was something I’d never seen before. Even stranger, as we started back across the path, he reached behind him, grabbing my hand, and then held it, walking a little bit ahead, the whole way home. I will never forget that, my Slurpee cold on my teeth and Marshall’s palm warm against mine as we walked in the late-afternoon sunshine, those power lines rising up and casting long shadows all around us.

When he stopped walking and kissed me a few minutes later, it was like time had stopped, with the air, my heart, and the world all so still. And it was this I remembered every other time I was with Marshall. Maybe it was the setting, us alone in that field, or because it was the first time. I didn’t know yet that this was all either of us was capable of: moments together that were great but also fleeting.

Marshall was not my boyfriend. On the other hand, he wasn’t just a friend either. Instead, our relationship was elastic, stretching between those two extremes depending on who else was around, how much either of us had had to drink, and other varying factors. This was exactly what I wanted, as commitments had never really been my thing. And it wasn’t like it was hard, either. The only trick was never giving more than you were willing to lose. With Marshall and me, it was like a game called I Could Care Less. I talked to a guy at a party; he disappeared with some girl at the next one. He didn’t return my calls; I’d stay away for a while, making him wonder what I was up to. And so on.

We’d been doing this for so long that really, it came naturally. But now, I was so surprised by how nice it was to hear his voice, something familiar in all this newness, that I found myself breaking my own rule, offering up more than I’d planned.

“Yeah, so, I’ve just been, you know, dealing with some family stuff,” I said, easing back against the booth wall behind me. “I moved in with my sister, and—”

“Hang on a sec, okay?” he said, and then I heard his hand cover the receiver, muffling it. Then he was saying something, his words impossible to make out before I heard him come back on. “Sorry,” he said, then coughed. “What were you saying?”

And just like that, it was over. Even missing him was fleeting, like everything else.

“Nothing,” I told him. “I should go. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

“Yeah. See you around.”

I hung up, leaving my hand on the receiver as I reached into my pocket, pulling out some more change. Then I took a breath and put it back to my ear, dropped in a few coins, and called someone I knew would be more than happy to talk.

"Ruby? ” Peyton said as soon as she heard my voice. “Oh my God. What
happened
to you?”

“Well,” I said.

But she was already continuing, her voice coming out in a gush. “I mean, I was waiting for you in the courtyard, just like always, and you never showed up! So I’m like, she must be mad at me or something, but then Aaron said the cops had pulled you out of class, and nobody knew why. And then I went by your house, and it was all dark, and—”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, cutting her off more out of a time concern than rudeness. Peyton was always summarizing, even when you knew the story as well as she did. “It’s just a family thing. I’m staying with my sister for a while.”

“Well,” she said, “it’s all
anyone
is talking about, just so you know. You should hear the rumors.”

“Yeah? ”

“It’s terrible!” she said, sounding truly aghast. “They have you doing everything from committing murder to teen prostitution.”

“I’ve been gone for two days,” I said.

“Of course, I’ve been sticking up for you,” she added quickly. “I told them there was no way you’d ever sleep with guys for money. I mean, come on.”

This was typical Peyton. Defending my honor vigorously, while not realizing that she was implying that I might be capable of murder. “Well,” I said, “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” I could hear voices behind her; from the sound of it, she was at the clearing a ways down from school, where we always hung out after final bell. “So, like, what’s the real story, though? Is it your mom?”

“Something like that,” I told her. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal.”

Peyton was my closest friend at Jackson, but like everyone else, she had no idea my mom had taken off. She’d actually never even met her, which was no accident; as a rule, I preferred to keep my private life just that, private. This was especially important with someone like Peyton, whose family was pretty much perfect. Rich and functional, they lived in a big house in the Arbors, where up until the year before, she’d been the ideal daughter, pulling straight As and lettering in field hockey. During the summer, though, she’d started dating my friend Aaron, who was a harmless but dedicated pothead. In the fall, she’d gotten busted with a joint at school and was asked to leave St. Micheline’s, the Catholic school she’d been attending. Her parents, of course, were none too pleased, and hoped Peyton’s new-found rebellion was a just a phase that would end when she and Aaron broke up. After a few weeks, they did, but by that point, she and I were already friends.

Peyton was, in a word, cute. Short and curvy, she was also incredibly naive, which was alternately annoying and endearing. Sometimes I felt more like a big sister to her than a friend—I was always having to rescue her from weird guys at parties, or hold her head when she puked, or explain again how to work the various expensive electronics her parents were always buying her—but she was fun to hang out with, had a car, and never complained about having to come all the way out to pick me up, even though it was on the way to nowhere. Or back.

“So the thing is,” I said to her now, “I need a favor.”

“Name it,” she replied.

“I’m over here by Perkins Day, and I need a ride,” I told her. “Can you come get me?”

“At Perkins Day?”

“Near there. Just down the street.”

There was a pause, during which time I heard laughter behind her. “God, Ruby . . . I wish I could. But I’m supposed to be home in an hour.”

“It’s not that far,” I said.

“I know. But you know how my mom’s been lately.” Since the last time Peyton had come home smelling like beer, her parents had instituted a strict accountability program involving constant tracking, elaborate sniff tests, and surprise room searches. “Hey, did you try Marshall? I bet he can—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. Peyton had never quite gotten Marshall’s and my arrangement; an incurable romantic, to her, every story was a love story. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

There was another pause, and again, I could hear what was happening around her: laughter, someone’s radio playing, a car engine starting up. It was true what I’d said: it wasn’t that far from there to here, only fifteen miles or so. But at that moment, it suddenly seemed like a long way.

“You sure?” she asked. “Because I could ask someone here.”

I swallowed, leaning back against the side of the booth. On the opposite side, above the phone, someone had written WHERE DO YOU SLEEP? in thick black marker. Scratched underneath, less legibly, was a reply: WITH YOUR MAMA. I reached up, rubbing my face with my hand. It wasn’t like I’d expected anyone to come rescue me, anyway. “Nah,” I said. “That’s all right. I’ll figure out something.”

“All right,” she said. A car horn beeped in the background. “Give me your sister’s number, though. I’ll call you tonight, we can catch up.”

“I’m still getting settled,” I told her. “I’ll give you a call in a few days.”

“Okay,” she said easily. “And hey, Ruby.”

“What? ”

“I’m glad you’re not a hooker or a murderer.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

I hung up the phone, then stepped out of the booth to finish off my Coke and contemplate my next move. The parking lot, which had been mostly empty when I first got there, had filled up with Perkins Day students. Clearly, this was some sort of off-site hangout, with people sitting on the hoods and bumpers of their expensive cars, slumming at the Quick Zip. Scanning the crowd, I spotted Nate off to the right, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the driver’s-side door of a black SUV. A dark-haired girl in a ponytail and a cropped blue jacket was with him, telling some story and gesturing wildly, the Zip Coke in her hand waving back and forth as she spoke. Nate, of course, was smiling as he listened, the epitome of the Nicest Guy in the World.

Then something occurred to me. I glanced at my watch. It was just before four, which meant I had a little over an hour before I’d be late enough for anyone to notice. It was enough time to do what I had to do, if I got going soon. All I needed was a little help, and if I worked things right, maybe I wouldn’t even have to ask for it.

As I hitched my backpack over my shoulder and started toward the road, I made it a point not to look at the Perkins Day contingent, even as I passed right in front of them. Instead, I just kept my focus forward, on the big intersection that lay ahead. It was a long walk home, and even farther to where I really needed to be, making this a serious gamble, especially considering how I’d acted earlier. But part of being nice was forgiveness—or so I’d heard—so I rolled the dice anyway.

Two blocks down the road, I heard a car horn, then an engine slowing behind me. I waited until the second beep before arranging my face to look surprised, and turned around. Sure enough, there was Nate.

“Let me guess,” he said. He was leaning across the passenger seat, one hand on the wheel, looking up at me. “You don’t need a ride.”

“Nope,” I told him. “Thanks, though.”

“This is a major road,” he pointed out. “There’s not even a sidewalk.”

“Who are you, the safety monitor?”

He made a face at me. “So you’d prefer to just walk the six miles home.”

“It’s not six miles,” I said.

“You’re right. It’s six point two,” he replied as a red Ford beeped angrily behind him, then zoomed past. “I run it every Friday. So I know.”

“Why are you so hell-bent on driving me somewhere?” I asked.

“I’m chivalrous,” he said.

Yeah, right,
I thought.
That’s one word for it.
“Chivalry’s dead.”

“And you will be, too, if you keep walking along here.” He sighed. “Get in.”

And it was just that easy.

Inside, Nate’s car was dark, the interior immaculate, and still smelled new. Even so, there was an air freshener hanging from the rearview. The logo on it said REST ASSURED EXECUTIVE SERVICES: WE WORRY SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO.

“It’s my dad’s company,” he explained when he saw me looking at it. “We work to make life simpler in these complicated times.”

I raised my eyebrows. “That sounds like something right off a brochure.”

“Because it is,” he said. “But I have to say it if anybody asks what we do.”

“And what if they want an actual answer?”

“Then,” he said, glancing behind him as he switched lanes, “I tell them we do everything from picking up mail to walking dogs to getting your dry-cleaning to frosting cupcakes for your kid’s school party.”

I considered this. “Doesn’t sound as good.”

“I know. Hence the rule.”

I sat back in my seat, looking out the window at the buildings and cars blurring past. Okay, fine. So he wasn’t terrible company. Still, I wasn’t here to make friends.

“So look,” he said, “about earlier, and that joke I made.”