Love Over Matter (13 page)

So far it’s not going well, most of us
tongue-tied over the resurrection of George’s ghost. “So you’re
considering applying to Columbia?” Alex asks me, in a relaxed,
congenial tone that’s at odds with the crazed panic I’m
feeling.

Our cover story is that I’m a
prospective student and Ian is an anthropology groupie. “Oh,
definitely,” I manage to reply, my head bobbing in
agreement.

“
It’s really great here,”
he tells me, “and I’m not just saying that because my dad’s a
teacher.”

The doctor interjects, “Alex
practically grew up in the anthropology department.” With a wry
smile, he adds, “I should probably send condolence letters to the
faculty for all the skateboard damage he’s inflicted over the
years.”

He’s a skateboarder too?
Nuh-uh.

Out of left field, Haley asks, “Does
your mother work here?”

Is my sister a moron? The last thing
we ought to be bringing up is a communist spy. It strikes me that I
should appear to be eating my lunch, so I crack open a
banana.

Alex shakes his mahogany curls, which
are an inch longer than George’s were ever allowed to grow. “Nah,”
he says. “She’s a researcher with the CDC. Doesn’t make it back
here too often anymore.”

I steal a glance at Dr. Smullen’s hand
where, sure enough, I spy a thick band of gold on his ring finger,
leading me to conclude that Alex is referring to his
stepmother.

An awkward silence is shattered by the
squeal of techno music from Rosie’s . . . rear end? She
clutches for her pocket, her face flushing. “Sorry.” She quiets the
phone and glowers at its screen. I’m about to ask what the problem
is when she pops out of her chair. “I’ve gotta take this. Be right
back.”

Alex chomps through his last potato
chip (Lay’s Salt & Vinegar) and then does something that
wrenches my stomach: with his beautiful (read: elegant but rough
around the edges) fingers, he smoothes the chip bag flat, rolls it
into a cigar shape and then, like he’s been doing it all his life,
twists the package into a perky bowtie knot.

My jaw drops, nearly allowing a hunk
of banana to escape my mouth.

“
That’s so
weird,
” says Ian, echoing
my thoughts in the matter.

Haley adds, “We know someone who used
to do that.” She gives the knot a tap. “Only he was a Funyuns
man.”

“
Oh, yeah?” Alex
says.

Dr. Smullen’s complexion goes bleached
white. “Would you like me to arrange a tour of the campus?” he asks
no one in particular. “I’m sure there’s someone in the admissions
office who would be happy to show you around.”

Rosie slinks up beside us wearing a
concerned face. “No, thanks,” she replies. “We’re behind schedule
for another . . . engagement. C’mon, guys.” She delivers
a round of imperative glares. “It’s getting late.”

Whatever the subject of that phone
call was—and I can only assume it was my mother or father,
demanding proof of my and Haley’s continued existence—it must have
been a doozy. I owe it to Rosie to back her up. “Maybe some other
time?” I suggest, rising with my lunch tray. I smile. “Nice meeting
you.”

Ian gapes incredulously but follows my
lead. “I’ll e-mail you about that book,” he tells Dr. Smullen,
keeping up the charade.

Alex stares at me longer than he
should, considering we’ve just met. “Good luck with the search,” he
tells me about college. “See you around?”

If I’m lucky,
I think. I get a freaky chill, reminding me that
George is dead. “Not if I see you first.”

chapter 11

We make it all the way back to the
Bunny Mobile before Rosie reveals what’s going on. And when she
finally does, I have a hard time believing the news.

For obvious reasons, so does Opal.
“What am I . . . ? I don’t know
how . . . Who . . . ?” she says,
dumbstruck.

Here’s the sitch: Opal’s mom showed up
at a golf tournament in which her estranged husband was a player
and proceeded to harass/threaten/assault him. Now she’s in the
slammer on a slew of criminal charges, and my dad is on his way to
bail her out; meanwhile, we’ve got to zoom back to Milbridge—and
pronto.

“
Don’t worry,” says Haley,
offering Opal a sisterly hug. “Everything’ll be all
right.”

“
Why don’t you guys ride
together?” I suggest, effectively ousting Haley from the Love
Machine.

Rosie says, “Fine by me.”

As easy as that, our travel plans are
settled and we strike out on the road again. “That was surreal,” I
say to Ian after ten minutes of quiet, time I used to memorize
every squeak and hiccup this old van emits.

“
Do you think he
knows?”

“
You mean Dr.
Smullen?”

“
Or Alex.”

I pick absently at a piece of loose
vinyl on the door. “He must,” I say. “I just don’t get why George
was adopted by the Brookses when his real father is
so . . .” I give an emotional sigh. “Didn’t you
think he was decent?”

A noncommittal shrug. “He doesn’t seem
bad, if that’s what you mean.”

“
And
Alex . . .”

“
He’s not George, Cass,”
Ian tells me in a tone that hints at frustration? Anger?

“
Could’ve fooled
me.”

“
That’s what I’m afraid
of.”

“
I’m a big girl,” I assure
him. “I can handle myself. Promise.”

“
Whatever you’re thinking,
it’s a bad idea. George would hate it.”

“
Who says I’m
thinking?”

He revs the engine. “I know
you.”

Now he’s an FBI profiler? “Yeah,
so?”

“
So I don’t want to see
you”—he shoots me a sad glance—“hurt yourself.”

“
Fat chance,” I say, sort
of ironically, since I
did
hurt myself with George. But I’ve learned my
lesson.

“
These people could be
freaks. Weirdoes,” he cautions. “Maybe even secret
agents.”

I roll my eyes. “Really? Somehow I
doubt it.”

“
You heard what old man
Rabinski said.”

“
He said Ruth Dawson was a
spy,” I remind him. “There was no mention of the doctor being
involved.”

“
It’s not
impossible.”

“
Nothing’s
impossible.”

“
What about time
travel?”

He’s messing with the wrong girl.
“Actually, physicists found a subatomic particle that can travel
faster than the speed of light. The neutrino, I think it’s called.
And we’ve already got particle accelerators,
so . . .”

“
You don’t even know him.
Just because he looks like George doesn’t mean . . .
anything.”

“
You’re right. Can we talk
about something else?” I ask, trying to avoid a pout session (on my
part, not his). Otherwise, this is going to be a very long ride.
“Do you think Waterslide Village will take you back?”

When we embarked upon this journey,
Ian had only loose permission from a coworker who agreed to pick up
his shifts to miss work. “It’s no biggie,” he tells me. “It’s a
summer job. They can’t afford to lose people this late in the
season.”

I know how much he needs the money, so
I’m planning on raiding my emergency fund when we get home and
slipping him a hundred dollars for gas and tolls. “That’s good.” I
finish peeling the vinyl away, leaving an off-colored spot in the
shape of Africa (or maybe South America, if I tip my head
sideways). “I’m gonna miss you, you know,” I find myself saying, a
sudden wave of nostalgia washing over me.

“
Nah,” he says with a
smile.

“
Yuh-huh.”

“
Nuh-uh.”

Does he think I’m a quitter?
“Yuh-huh.”

“
Me too.”

I want to tell him that I
love him, in the good-buddy, big-brother kind of way. But I can’t
figure out how. “Don’t go getting all stuck-up once you’re
at
college,
” I
say, in a mocking (but joking) voice. “Or I’ll have to drive up
there”—or is it down? I really should consult a map—“and whup your
arse.”

He laughs like a deranged hyena. (I’m
not sure which idea he finds funnier, the driving or the arse
whupping.) Eventually, he calms down enough to promise, “It’s a
date.”

* * *

Back at the ranch, a.k.a. my house,
things are strangely calm, owing to the fact that Mom and Haley are
camped out at Opal’s awaiting the arrival of Dad and Mrs.
Madden.

It’s past dinnertime, but after a
much-needed bathroom break (Ian must have a bladder the size of
Wyoming, considering how he breezed by all those rest areas), I
slap together a ham and chess sandwich and devour it in front of
the TV.

I’m about to load a goblet full of
mint chocolate chip ice cream when a screech of “BWAAH! BWAAH!”
echoes through the house, reminding me of Clive’s existence.
“Shoot,” I mumble. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

I jam the ice cream back into the
freezer and head for my room, where I find my bird-friend giddy
with excitement over my return.

“
Here, boy,” I say,
unlatching his cage and thrusting my arm inside. If Clive could fly
right, I’d consider setting him free, because my heart aches at his
captivity. But the face-off with a semi that splattered Clive-ina
left good ol’ Clivey with a mangled wing that, so far, shows no
sign of recovery.

The bird sure can hop, though. And
strut. In fact, if I were a better teacher, odds are he could dance
the tango. Or the rumba. Maybe even pull off a can-can.

He settles on my forearm, and I guide
him to freedom, careful not to rattle his brain against the bars.
Once he’s happily pacing the window sill, I turn back to the job of
refreshing his abode. And there I find a beautiful, healthy-looking
feather that is so black and shiny it’s taken on a bluish tint. I
pinch its shaft between my thumb and forefinger and give it a
twirl, imagining a ball gown covered in the lovely
things—overlapping and poufy—with me inside, my hair upswept,
swaying in the glow of a harvest moon, George’s warm arms wrapped
around my waist, an open smile at his mesmerizing lips.

This is what I have left of George:
illogical fantasies; dreams that will never come true. But now
there’s Alex, and I can’t help
wondering . . .

I give Clive a quick glance before
slipping across the hall to Haley’s room, where our shared laptop
is no doubt drowning in a morass of overdue library
books.

With a few swift tugs, the computer
lands in my hands. I spirit it back to my room, cozy up on my bed
and flip it open.

Alex . . .

Dawson?

Smullen?

Or maybe he goes by Aleksey online?
That would make finding him so much easier (unless, of course,
Aleksey means John in Russian).

I switch the computer on and wait. And
wait some more. The laptop is only six months old, but Haley
downloads so much useless junk that it’d take a visit from Steve
Jobs himself (which is about as likely as my Cinderella fantasy
with George) to restore it to optimal functionality.

Eventually, the internet gods allow me
to pull up Facebook, the destination of choice for amateur and
professional sleuths alike. With a few keystrokes—I think I’ll try
searching for Aleksey Dawson first—I
find . . .

Absolutely nothing.

Okay, Aleksey Smullen it
is.

And—
dat-da-da-da
—it is (though I sort of
wish it weren’t, since it’s not the most user-friendly name on the
planet).

Clive has parachuted down from the
window and is now nipping at the edge of my comforter. I offer him
a hand—literally—boosting him up to join me. “There you go, silly,”
I say, stroking the back of his neck. “All better?”

He gives a head bob of agreement and I
go back to my detective work. Right off, I notice a number of
unusual things about Aleksey Smullen’s profile.

First, it’s totally open. Public.
Anyone, anywhere in the world, has unfettered access to whatever
there is to know about the guy, which strikes me as gutsy at best
and, at worst, dopey and naïve.

Next, I see that Aleksey
has an outrageous number of friends. Not just, like, a thousand (I
mean, even some of the most popular kids at Milbridge High have
cracked
that
ceiling), but 6,532, to be exact.

I’m not even sure there are six
thousand people in Milbridge, period.

It’s a New York City
thing,
I tell myself, hoping it’s
true.
He’s not a friend whore.
La-la-la-la-la
(plugging my ears
here).
He
can’t
be.

The other thing that stands out is the
odd-yet-appropriate spelling of Aleksey’s nickname. Instead of the
traditional A-L-E-X (the way I’ve been spelling it in my head all
along), he’s Aleksey A-L-E-K-S Smullen.