Rooms(68)

“We haven’t seen Trenton in hours,” Minna said, seizing on Danny’s suggestion that Trenton drive as if she could prove the absurdity of the whole complaint. “And he’s not allowed behind the wheel of a car, anyway.”

Caroline teetered again, and Minna steadied her. “Where’s Trenton?” Caroline said. It was like she had somehow delayed the effect of the alcohol she must have consumed; now it was hitting her all at once. “Did he see my speech?”

“She can’t come down to the station,” Minna said. “Look at her. And don’t say you’re sorry again.”

“Trenton! Trenton!” Caroline’s eyes were wide with panic. She was gripping Minna’s arm so tightly, Minna was sure she was leaving marks. “Minna, where did Trenton go? We’re burying Dad this afternoon. We have to bury the ashes . . . ”

Danny’s partner finished his conversation. He pivoted and flipped shut his phone. “Rogers is on his way,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high pitched and did not at all match his face.

“He’s on his way over here?” Danny said.

Caroline seized her opportunity. She lurched forward, nearly upsetting a chair; before Danny could stop her, she had barreled around him and passed into the hall.

“There’s been a development.” Acne Scars barely registered Caroline’s departure. “Vivian Wright’s cell phone went on an hour ago.”

Danny went still, like a deer listening for danger. “Someone found it?” he said.

Acne Scars shook his head. “She sent a text,” he said, “to a 516 number.” He turned to Minna. His eyes were very shiny, and his lips wet. “Registered to one Trenton Walker.”





TRENTON

Trenton still felt woozy, even after puking twice. He splashed cold water on his face, getting his shirt collar all wet in the process. He didn’t care. In the medicine cabinets he found a few miscellaneous toiletry items that Minna had skipped over or missed, among them a half-used tube of toothpaste and a travel-size bottle of mouthwash. He scrubbed his teeth and tongue with his finger, nearly puking again. Then he rinsed four times with mouthwash. The whole time, he was expecting the ghost to start badgering him—hurry up, please Trenton, you promised me—but she was, uncharacteristically, quiet.

By then, Katie had texted again. You didn’t tell me you were having a party.

Before he could write back and correct her—not a party, a memorial service—she had texted again. Where are you?

The room was still revolving a bit. Trenton eased the bathroom door open and peeked into the hall, which was crowded with people—all of them were shuffling slowly out of the living room in unison, like zombies gearing up for attack. Minna had booted up the speakers, and soft music intermingled with the sound of murmured voices and repressed laughter. Someone had farted.

Trenton had missed the whole service.

Mrs. Anderson, his first-grade English teacher, spotted him and waved. Trenton ducked quickly back into the bathroom and closed the door.

Go toward the music, Trenton texted. I’ll watch 4 u.

This is the worst party I’ve ever been 2, she texted back.

The song was an acoustic version of “Born to Run,” by Bruce Springsteen. Trenton had to admit: Minna was a genius for picking it. Trenton’s dad was a Bruce fanatic, partly, Minna said, because Richard Walker identified with his story: the everyday, working-class guy who makes it big on his own steam. Trenton remembered being five or six years old and sitting in the passenger seat of his dad’s new Mercedes, summertime, windows down, sunlight streaming so brightly through the windshield it was practically blinding, the bass reverberating so hard through the dashboard Trenton could feel it in his teeth. And Richard was singing along, and drumming with one hand on the wheel, and Trenton had felt very old, then: like his father’s best friend.

Trenton checked the hall again and saw her: red hoodie cinched tight, sunglasses on, a bright spot of color in a sea of blacks and grays, startling, like a spot of blood on a clean floor. He started to move out into the hall to greet her, but she put a hand on his chest and piloted him backward into the bathroom again and closed the door behind her.

“Look,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and wrenching off her hood. “I don’t have much time.”

She had changed her hair color again. It was dark brown now, like his.

He was filled with sudden joy. The world shrank down to the size of a single room: Katie was here, with him. “I thought you ran away,” he said.

“That’s funny,” she said.

“Or your parents shipped you off.”

“My parents don’t know where I am,” she said. A brief look of pain, or maybe worry, passed across her face. “Listen, Trenton. I need you to listen to me. I have to explain a few things to you, okay?”

“I’ve been up shit’s creek since the fire,” he said. He was still dizzy, but now he thought it might be because they were standing so close. He could see individual freckles under her makeup, like tiny stars. “But I made sure Amy didn’t tell.”

“Listen.” She grabbed both of his arms. Surprised, he sat backward, onto the toilet. Thankfully, the lid was closed. “Just shut up for two seconds, okay? I have four things to tell you.” She released him and straightened up. He said nothing. She began pacing. The bathroom was so small she could only take two steps in either direction before having to pivot and return. “One. I have to go away soon.” She was ticking off items on her fingers.