Old School Bones (6 page)

“THIS better be good.”

She sees him squinting at her across the steel table, a bunch of
lo mein
noodles pinched between the chopsticks in his right hand.

Her gaze drifts away, off to her right, toward a vendor’s counter as if she’s looking to see if her plate of spring rolls is up yet. But what she’s really doing is giving him permission to look at her.
See me, Michael. See the strength in my jaw. See my observant eyes. See the way my breasts swell beneath the V-neck sweater, too. Ninja Girl.

She wonders if he sees anything, feels anything. Wonders if he knows she dressed for him tonight. That no matter what he thinks, she’s not a kid anymore. That she’s got to find Lib’s killer. That she’s scared. That she’s heading way out on a limb here. That she can’t do this without him.

And now she’s got something to show him that could change everything. Maybe even the way he thinks of her. Maybe make him see her as something more than some crazy chick with a conspiracy theory.

He’s playing with his noodles with the chopsticks, not eating.

“What’s the matter, you don’t like Chinese food? Want to try some of this soup?”

She pushes her bowl of
won ton
toward him, offers her spoon. Looks into his dark eyes, surveys those high Latin cheeks, the shadow of his heavy beard, the cords of his neck. Smiles. Smells the ginger, the hot pepper, steamed onions. Basil. Lots of sweet basil. Music’s rising in her head. One of Lib’s favorites. Beyonce Knowles’ “Green Light.”

She tries to imagine herself as one of Charlie’s Angels. As Lucy Liu. Tough, no-nonsense ninja. But the picture in her head keeps morphing. She can’t help it. She’s seeing the inside of a dark Hong Kong bar in the Wanchai district. A girl in a thong working a pole dance to the rhythm. Her.
OMG, if he only knew how much I want him to really see me. To be a ninja knight.

“Hey, Michael! You with me here?”

He blinks, coming out of a secret place of his own, maybe. Seems to see for the first time the bright lights of this busy food court tucked above a fortune cookie bakery in Boston’s Chinatown. Seems to see her, too. This girl full of yearning opposite him at the table. Her nose stud a tiny ruby today, winking at him.

“I was just thinking … What was I saying?”

“This better be good.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what YOU said. I think you were talking about the
lo mein
I ordered for you.”

He shakes his head no. “I was talking about what you want to tell me. I’m not in the habit of having secret rendezvous in backroom restaurants with high school girls.”

Ouch.

“Come on. Admit this is a cool place.”

He looks around. Takes in a dozen different vendors stirring their woks, ladling out soup, blending shakes of durian and strange red beans. Street people, a few suits, lovers waiting in line for their food. Inhales the smells again.

Can he smell the tamarind, my Tommy Girl perfume?

She gives him an urgent smile, feels her hair frizzing in the steamy air.

“Definitely funky!”

“See, I knew you’d like it. A great date place, don’t you think?”

He sighs. “We’re not having a date, Gracie. You said to meet you here because you had something you wanted to show me. Please, can we get on with this?”

Put a knife in my heart.

“If somebody you know sees us here, they might get the wrong idea. What? What was so urgent that you had to sneak off campus tonight?”

“You mean that you had to drive the whole way up here from that fishing boat, or wherever you live?”

“Yeah. OK. Come on. What couldn’t you tell me on the phone?”

Whoa, adrenaline rush. Work it.

She feels the power of her secret. “Swear you won’t tell anyone.”

“Sure. I swear. What?”

“Swear. Look at me.”

He levels those lazy bedroom eyes on her.
Oh yeah … Hang on, baby.
“Are you ready for this?”

“Gracie!”

“I’ve got Lib’s journal.”

“Her what?”

“Her journal. You know, her diary. She’s been keeping it like forever.”

“Where did you—”

“Stole it. Bumbledork had it in his office, shoved under a bunch of papers on his desk. Tory spotted it yesterday, when he called her in to ask her how she was doing. You know, with Liberty’s death and school and all.”

“You just snatched it?”

She smiles.
Like how cool am I now? Ninja Girl warrior.

“It’s not his! He’s the one who stole it. I just got it back this morning when it was my turn to go see the great and powerful Bumbledork for tea and sympathy.

“How …?”

“Girl power. I threw like a major crying fit. When he went looking for a box of tissues, I scored Lib’s journal. Here!” She opens her messenger’s bag, removes a ragged, red, cloth-bound notebook. Laminated to the cover is a magazine photo of Denzel Washington dressed as a Civil War soldier for the 54th Massachusetts Brigade. A promo shot from the film
Glory.

“Wow!”

“Denzel was her hero.”

“So there’s something in here?”

“You said you wanted to know all about her thing with Kevin.”

“Singleton? Her boyfriend?”

“Feast your eyes.”

“You read it, huh?”

“You don’t think I’d make you come all the way to Chinatown just to buy you noodles.”

She sees something shift in his shoulders, his back. He’s suddenly leaning toward her across the table. Eyes widening. His cheeks a little darker.

“Well, you know, I …”

Is he flirting?

She blinks, wets her eyes, hopes they really catch the light now. Her lip gloss, too. My god she’s such a little slut. Woman warrior.

“Check it out.”

She hands him the open journal, pages in green script. Feels the warmth of his fingers as they brush hers in the hand-off. Watches the smile burst across his face. Glowing at her. Only her. Not Doc P. Ninja Girl. In this kick-ass black sweater.

Score.

HE reads.

Kevin’s being kind of a dick tonight. I called him to tell him about this awful note I found in my physics book today. I was crying. I told him I wanted to see him. Please come over to Hibernia House. Or meet me at the boathouse down by Hourglass Lake. Like PLEASE! He said it was too late. He couldn’t get out of the house without making his parents suspicious and they were already on his case because his grades had started to suck.

Go talk to Doc P, he said.

Yeah right, like thanks a whole lot, pal!!! I’m always there for him whenever he has a bad day. How many times have I snuck away after lights-out to meet him at the boathouse to give him some TLC? Why isn’t he here for me the same way? Are all guys like this? Can you ever trust them to take care of your heart? And if you can’t trust them, how can they ever in their wildest dreams think you are going to give it up for them? That’s what I want to know.

I think I’ll give him the cold shoulder for the next couple of days. See how Mr. Stay-at-Home likes that.

For some reason he feels hot, sweaty a little around the temples. Maybe it’s the MSG in the
lo mein.
Maybe just the weirdness of this place. Or the way she’s looking at him. Way too intense.

“She’s sure not too happy with him,” he says.

“Yesterday you asked if they were having trouble. I told you I thought things were pretty good between them. But now you see …”

Her eyes glisten. Proud eyes, hungry eyes.

He wipes the sweat at his hairline with his fingers. “What happened to your theory about a secret society being behind Liberty’s death?”

She leans toward him. Elbows on the table, chin in her hand. “I don’t know. I still think it’s a real possibility. I mean, there was that note. But on
CSI
the boyfriend or husband is always the first guy the police want to talk to. So, maybe she tried to dump him and then he …?”

“If they had a fight. If anything leading up to her death was violent, the medical examiner would have found some evidence.” Sweat is beading on his chest, tickling his solar plexis.

Dude?

“But maybe he just slipped her some roofies, first.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he wanted to date-rape her.” She pauses, seems to scan his face with almost imperceptible shifts of her eyes. “Like to get even, you know? Maybe he got carried away.”

Something deep in his head has begun to smoke, burn. Anger, for sure. And something else. “You think Kevin Singleton is that kind of kid?”

She scrunches up her face. “I don’t know.”

“Is it hot in here?”

Her hand reaches over, covers his as she turns the page. “Look. There’s more.”

I went downstairs and tried to talk to Doc P about this racist note and Kevin and everything. But she couldn’t talk. OK, it was late, and she said she was in bed. Fair enough.

But Doc P almost always has my back. Tonight, I know she couldn’t talk because she had someone in her bed with her. She thinks I don’t know about her boyfriends. But this is an old house, and sometimes I can hear things going on downstairs. Like sappy, whack music. The bed creaking. Moaning.

This one guy, who looks like Tupac Shakur, is always sniffing around Hibernia House. Laying down his lines. Like trying to relate to me b/c I’m a sister from the hood. Maybe he’s trying to hit on me. I don’t know.

Fool. She ought to drop him like a hot potato. She said things were all over with him. But you never know. I don’t see his car on the street, though. So maybe she is branching out. With Doc P, it’s like that book
Smart Women, Foolish Choices.
Sometimes I feel her hurt. Lonely lady.

Anyway, I needed to talk. So I called Tedeeka. She’s a good listener. Pretty amazing how we connect.

But she’s not a big one for advice. Especially about love. She’s got a pimp whips her butt all over Roxbury.

Take care of number one, baby, she told me!

Word, Teddie, I think. How do I do that when I got a boyfriend afraid to come out and comfort me, a house counselor like to lose her mind for one faithless fool after another, a mother turning tricks on the street? And, oh yeah, the KKK or Red Tooth or whoever breathing down my neck?

What I need is a big hug and some action. Not some of Teddie’s street jive. Well, it’s 4:00 in the morning, and I got to catch some ZZZZZZZZ for my beauty sleep. Then help Gracie with our history project. Secret societies? Probably a lot of male nonsense. More later.

The rest of the journal is blank.

He wipes away the sweat on his forehead again.

She still has her elbows on the table. Her chin cupped in her hands. Staring at those last words in Lib’s journal … and him. Wondering about all those black whiskers on his cheeks, whether she really thinks they’re sexy.

“So?”

“I don’t get it, Gracie.”

Sometimes guys can be so clueless. It’s kind of cute.

He squints at her. She’s the knower here. The mystery. Ninja Girl.

“What’s not to get?”

He says he doesn’t see how any of this adds up to murder. Or points a finger at a suspect. He just sees a desperate, depressed girl.

“I thought you were Sir Lancelot.”

Smile, babe.

“Cut it out. I’m a fisherman, not one of those guys on
Law & Order.”

She wonders whether she’s laying it on a little too thick. But what the hell, this is her time to shine, right?

“Gracie?”

“You sure don’t get females …”

He shifts in his seat, looks like he’s going to stand up. Walk right out of here.

She grabs his left hand—it’s like this involuntary thing. “Don’t you see? Liberty wasn’t really depressed. When teenage girls are REALLY depressed, they stop eating, they shit on everything, even themselves. They totally lose their sense of humor. They stop thinking about schoolwork. And they don’t sleep. Or they sleep ALL the time. Trust me on this.”

He looks at her hand holding his hand. “What are you saying?”

She tells him to read between the lines. Pauses. Unhands him, doesn’t want him to think she’s clingy. Just real. A force. The ninja warrior in the killer sweater.

“I think I’m out of my league.”

She smiles, says Liberty was bitter and confused about how males treat females. That seemed to bother her even more than the awful note. But she still had the ability to feel for Doc P and her mother. Still the same girl as in the videos. Still had her sense of humor, her whack sarcasm. Still thinking about her beauty sleep and working on the history stuff.

He says that’s not exactly a smoking gun. Why would your headmaster want to steal Liberty’s journal?

She swallows a bite of
Moo Shi
pork. “That’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question. What was he looking for in here? What did he find? What was he trying to keep out of the public eye? And does it point to Liberty’s murder?”

She watches his mouth. Sees him roll a noodle over his tongue, swallow. There’s a buzzing starting along the insides of her legs. A bubble building in her chest.
Fuck, would you just look at this guy’s beautiful face.

“Maybe Awasha will shed some light on this.”

“You can’t tell her about the journal.”

“Why?”

“First, you promised …” She licks her lips. “And, second, it would break her heart.”

“Damn.” His voice arcs. She can hear the lightning, feel the strike.

“Yeah.”

Exhale.

“This is between us.”
Exhale.

“So now what?”

“Maybe I should have another look at Hibernia House. I missed a lot the first time around.”

Exhale.

“The school has posted No Trespassing signs. But Ninja Girl knows the secret passage in.”

“We can’t go in there alone. It could be dangerous.”

No shit, Sherlock.

AWASHA has seemed on edge since before they entered Hibernia House through the back alley, the basement door. Gracie’s secret passage in.

Now as soon as he asks if he can see her apartment, it’s clear he’s really hit a nerve. She has been staring out the dormer window, probably watching for one of the school’s green and white Honda SUV’s the security folks drive. Now she wheels back toward him, her long, black hair cutting a perfect arc through the harsh morning light. Her eyes suddenly a ghost crab’s, on sticks.

“Why do you want to see my apartment?”

Tory shoots Gracie a look. Like
what the fuck?

“Is it a problem?”

“No. But it would not be cool at all if someone found us in here. And I just don’t see—”

“You said Liberty came into your place the night before she died. She let herself in. I want to see how she did that, where she was. Maybe … I don’t know.”

“Whatever. Come on!”

She leads him and the two teenage girls out of Liberty’s empty quarters, the scrubbed walls and oak floors giving off a mercurial glow. Across the moth-eaten oriental rug in the common room, James Dean still leers from the poster over the mantle. They go down the students’ stairwell. Treads, creaking. Two flights to a dirty white door. She tries the door. It’s locked. She hisses, fishes in her bag for keys.

“Was the door always locked?”

“Never. Doc P left it unlocked for us,” says Tory.

“I guess the maintenance people must have locked up.”

She keys the lock, opens the door into a small study. Everyone files in.

“Was it locked last week when I was here?”

She looks confused. “What do you mean?”

He says that when she hid him in the closet upstairs, she came down here with someone—a colleague, she said. For tea.

“Oh … right. I don’t know. Why is this …? No. It was unlocked. I remember.”

“So someone has been in the building since last week? Maybe in your apartment?”

She frowns. “These damn people. Nothing is private. I don’t know why I work in a place like this.”

Tory and Gracie shuffle in their thick winter coats, hugging themselves. The school has dropped the heat in Hibernia House to about fifty degrees to conserve energy. Vapor puffs from the girls’ lungs, Awasha’s, his. They are all panting. A cloud rising toward the ceiling. Her private rooms overhead on the second floor.

She had someone in her bed with her. She thinks I don’t know about her boyfriends … It’s like that book
Smart Women, Foolish Choices.
Sometimes I feel her hurt. Lonely lady.

“You want to show me around?”

“Can we do this fast, someone might.” Her voice sounds raw.

He understands. This seems fruitless. But if there is one thing he learned from the Provincetown Follies case, it is that absolutely nothing tops a thorough re-creation of events leading up to a death when it comes to getting beyond speculation and misunderstanding.

“What would Liberty have done when she came in here that night? Would she have stayed in this room?”

“No. If Doc P is not in her office, we usually go into the living room and call for her.” Gracie gives a little shrug. “It’s a big house. She never hears us call if we stay in here.”

Awasha sighs, leads the crew out of the study into an immense Victorian salon. High ceilings, huge marble fireplace. Antique furnishings, a grand piano in one corner.

“The living room. I just don’t get what you expect—”

“This place is pretty amazing.”

“The furnishings belong to the school. An historic house, they expect me to entertain. So they decorate the public rooms on the first floor. Lot of old WASP stuff.”

“You sound annoyed.”

“I really don’t want to have to explain to someone why we’re in here. Why these girls are in here when they are supposed to be at the all-school assembly.”

“But look at this place.”

“Yeah.” She eyes oils of a half-dozen portraits of the American gentry, circa 1850. And one of Edgar Hibernia by the piano. “A memorial to a bunch of dead white guys.”

Tory clears her throat. “It’s kind of spooky when you come in here late at night, the lights off. Like all those dudes on the wall watching you.”

He looks around. Even on this bright morning the room reminds him of a funeral parlor. Purple, filtered light. He tries to picture Liberty in here sometime after midnight. A black girl in a room full of dead white men. Bruised by the words
wog gash,
craving a hug. But his mind blanks on an image, keeps picturing the scene he cannot talk about. Awasha with Tupac Shakur.

The bed creaking. Moaning … Sappy whack music.

He spots the stereo. An old-school component set-up tucked on a bookshelf beside the fireplace.

“Can we go now, please? It’s just a matter of time before security or some maintenance worker shows up to check on the heat.”

“You listen to a lot of music?”

The girls roll their eyes.

Maybe she blushes. Her skin just the tiniest bit redder across the bridge of the nose.

Suddenly he has this urge to see her music. Maybe hear it. Just plain, dumb curiosity.

He spots an album box, empty, in front of the tuner. Next to an open can of Red Bull. He picks up the box. Squints to read its contents. It’s a homemade mix of love songs. Luther Vandross. Al Green. Oleta Adams, “Get Here.” Mariah Carey, “Vision of Love.” Cyndi Lauper, “Time After Time.” More. A duet, “Can’t We Try?”

He cocks his head, squints at her. Gives her a silly smile.

“You going to disrespect my taste in music? We didn’t come in here so that—”

“Doc P, you have to admit—”

“Hey, if I can’t control what’s on my walls, at least I can control what I listen to. How do you think it is down here when you girls are raging with Bow Wow, Puffy, Public Enemy and that crowd twenty-four seven. Sometimes hip hop can …”

He says he likes this stuff. He’s got every Al Green album ever made. His mom and dad were addicted. Dad cranks “Sha-La -La” every time they are hauling back on the
Rosa Lee.

“Great, Michael. We need to get out of here. There’s nothing in here that has to do with Liberty.”

“Hauling back?” asks Gracie.

“Bringing in our net. Full of fish … hopefully.”

“We should get out of here. Before somebody sees …”

He’s clicking on the stereo, suddenly feeling a little giddy, for no reason other than memories of love songs blasting over the deck of the
Rosa Lee.
The scent of fresh cod squirming in the net.

“One song, OK?”

“Not now!”

Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes Launch into “If you Don’t Know Me By Now.”

The violins are just winding up, sweet, up-tempo, when she kills the power. “We’re out of here. This is a dead end. Show’s over. Come on before we all have to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions.”

“Can I borrow your mix?”

She gives him a totally exasperated look. “If you swear to stop snooping around my apartment and get the hell out of here.”

“Scouts honor.”

She opens the CD tray, reaches for the album box to put away the mix.

“Hey what’s this?” The open can of Red Bull is in her hands.

He shrugs. “You forgot to finish your can of rocket fuel?”

“I don’t drink this stuff … Girls?”

“Liberty,” says Tory. “She craved it.”

“Maybe she left the can in here the night she …”

Gracie shakes her head, says maybe not. She’s pretty sure she drank her last one trying to write that freaking précis.

He clears his throat, then asks in a low voice, “I’d like to take this for awhile.”