December Park(56)

Chapter Nine


The Heart-Shaped Locket





Late for school the following day, I eventually caught up with the guys in the cafeteria. Peter, Scott, and Michael were seated at a table in the back playing Uno.

“Missed you in first period,” Peter said, dealing me in the next hand. “Thought you might be skipping the whole day.”

“I had to finish a paper for English.”

“Where’s Poindexter?” said Michael. He used the nickname without malice. Since that day at Drunkard’s Pond and the forging of our unseemly friendships last month, Adrian had sat at our lunch table every day.

“I guess he’s not here yet,” I said, looking around.

Michael laid down a card, leaving one left in his hand. “Uno.”

Peter dropped a Draw Four on Michael, who let out a pathetic little groan. Apparently, Peter knew what color card Michael had remaining in his hand, because when he called red, Michael balked and accused Peter of cheating.

“Like hell,” Peter said.

“Like hell, like hell.” Michael glanced behind him. Directly at his back was one of the plate-glass windows that made up the east wall of the cafeteria. “You can see my card reflecting in the glass.”

“Bullshit. Draw four.”

“I’m not drawing shit. I want to switch seats. Angie, switch seats with me.”

“Forget it.”

“Draw,” Peter cajoled. “Draw, draw, draw, draw, draw, you dork.”

Scowling, Michael selected four cards from the deck. “I’d like to crowbar your face in, Galloway.”

“You won’t be able to lift a crowbar after I break both your arms,” Peter countered.

“Okay,” Michael said, suddenly beaming. He threw an elbow onto the tabletop, his open hand held out in front of his face, fingers wiggling. “Arm wrestle.”

“I’m not touching that hand,” Peter said.

Scott and I laughed.

“You big coward wimp bitch,” Michael taunted. It was easy to see that he was fighting off laughter, too.

The truth was, no one in our small group would dare arm wrestle Michael Sugarland. Not just because he was freakishly strong—which he was, particularly for someone so wiry—but because we had all been present when he had arm wrestled David Schumacher in the cafeteria last year.

David had incrementally ratcheted Michael’s hand closer and closer to the tabletop until a gleam flared behind Michael’s wild eyes. He had darted forward and popped David’s thumb into his mouth and sucked for all he was worth. David was obviously mortified and shocked. His wrist went limp, and the match was quickly overturned. The undisputed winner, Michael was awarded David’s brown-bag lunch for the remainder of the week, which he opted not to eat. Instead, he wadded the bag into a ball and aimed for the industrial trash can beside our table, practicing his free throws, while David watched him with stormy contempt.

Peter won the hand, and the cards were collected, shuffled, dealt out again.

“Look,” I said finally, “I gotta tell you guys something, but you gotta promise that it stays between us.”

Michael rolled his eyes and said, “If you’re gonna tell us you’re gay, we already know.”

I shot him a look. “Come on. I’m serious. Swear it.”

Peter and Scott both put their index fingers to their noses and in unison said, “I swear.”

“You, too, Michael,” I said.

“Aren’t we just a little bit old for the nose-swearing thing?” he said.

“Just do it.”

Michael blew the loose strands of hair off his forehead, casually pressed his index finger against the tip of his nose, and intoned in a nasally resignation, “I swear. Okay?”

“Listen. Adrian found something. It might be important. I’m not sure.”

“What is it?” Peter said disinterestedly.

“A heart-shaped locket,” I said, “and he thinks it belonged to Courtney Cole.”

They all looked at me over the fans of their cards. It was almost comical.

“Wait. What?” Peter said. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“A locket?” Scott said, furrowing his brow. “Like a charm for a necklace.”

“Yeah.”

“Why does he think it’s hers?”

“Because he discovered it in the ditch beside Counterpoint Lane a couple of days before the cops found her body.”

Michael slammed his cards down on the table. “Bullshit.”

“And you saw it?” Peter said. “You saw the locket?”

“Yeah.”

“What did it look like?”

Sliding my sandwich out of my lunch bag, I said, “Just a locket in the shape of a heart. It had a little clasp on top, like where you’d hang it from a chain, but it was broken. Adrian thinks it must have broken during a struggle with the killer.”

“Holy shit,” Scott said.

“What the heck does Adrian know?” Michael said. “That could be anybody’s locket.”

“I guess so,” I said, unwrapping my sandwich. Peppers and eggs on a toasted roll. My lunch bag was always the greasiest at our table, but my lunches were the envy of them all.