The Unwilling(104)

“Oh my God…”

“An immediate, eager, and most definite yes.”



* * *



Dana had lost her virginity in ninth grade, so it took time for Becky to settle her down, and peel away into the morning crowd. Gibby was not in precalculus; she couldn’t find him in the courtyard or the halls. By third period, Becky decided he wasn’t in school at all. No one had seen Chance, either.

Becky used a pay phone to call his house. No answer, but that was nothing new. At lunchtime, she went looking for Dana, and found her leaning against the same wall, her earlier enthusiasms melted away, as if by the heat. Her eyes were half-closed, one foot braced against the brick. “School sucks this close to summer.”

That was all the opportunity Becky needed. “Do you feel like ditching?”

“Yes. Please. God.”

They waited until the end-of-lunch bell spilled a thousand students into the hallways, then used the confusion to slip away, across the baseball diamond and into student parking. Squatting by the car, Dana fumbled with her keys as Becky craned her neck to see if they’d been spotted or followed. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Keep your skirt on, woman.” Dana found the right key, and unlocked the driver’s door, climbing in to unlock the other side. “God, this heat.” She started the car when Becky got in. “We’re clear?”

“Right as the rain.”

“Then we are out.” She didn’t bother with reverse, but thumped over the curb and onto the street, saying, “Yes! Thank you, Becky Collins!”

“Ah, it was nothing.”

“Where are we going?”

“Gibby’s house.”

“Wait. That’s why we’re doing this?”

“He wouldn’t ditch without a reason.”

“Seriously?” Dana shook her head, half-smiling. “He’s cute and all, but I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that boy.”

“Stop. I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” Dana grinned around the cigarette pinched between her perfect teeth, hair whipping out as she drove faster. “Sometimes a cowgirl needs a pony.”



* * *



The rest of the drive went like that: Dana amused, and Becky tied into knots of worry. Gibby’s car was not in the driveway when they got to his house, so Becky rang the doorbell. When no one came, she rang five more times.

“He’s not home!” Dana yelled. “Let’s go already!”

Becky got back in the car, and belted herself in. “Let’s go to Chance’s house.”

“I hate that side of town.”

“Just drive the car, Dana. Please.”

They found Gibby’s car in Chance’s driveway, top down and glinting in the sun.

No response to the doorbell.

Dead silence in the house.

Dana made a shooing motion, and said, “Go on in!” But Becky was thinking of Tyra and Sara. Dark house. Dead quiet. Dana stuck her head through the car window, shouting, “Go on, cowgirl! Ride that pony!”

Becky put a finger against her lips.

“Put a brand on that pony!”

Dana could get in these moods, and Becky knew from hard experience that the best way to shut her up was to take away the target. So she opened the door, and stepped inside, half-blind.

“Hello? Anyone?”

Becky couldn’t explain the fear she felt, but it grew by the second, a serious, no-bullshit kind of fear. Gibby should have been in school. His car was here.

And what was that smell?

Every curtain was drawn, and that felt wrong on such a sunny day, the kind of wrong that made Becky think of outside and people and fast fucking cars. Instead, she went to the living room, which was darkest. Something shapeless was on the floor. In the gloom, it could be a pile of laundry, but Becky knew better. She thought she saw a leg, that maybe those were fingers.

Don’t do it, she thought.

But her fingers found the switch on the wall.

When the light exploded, she wanted to run—God, did she want to run! But those were fingers. And that was a leg. So Becky screamed. She screamed so loud and long that Dana tumbled from the car, and burst into the house, following the sound of those screams. She came at a dead run—a fine damn friend—and that’s how she tripped on the body, and fell facedown on top of it. Ride that pony, Becky thought, but it was a mad thought, and a wild one, a where-the-hell-is-my-boyfriend thought.





39


Cops came like buzzards to a kill, the marked cars and dark sedans, the men in somber suits. Becky sat on the porch with an arm around Dana, who could not stop scrubbing at all the places she’d been stained by the dead man’s blood.

“I need a shower. God, please. A bath. A washcloth.”

Two cops approached, and one said, “We really do need to talk.”

“Give her another minute,” Becky replied.

“How about we question you separately. How about that.” They weren’t questions, and he wasn’t pleasant.

Becky said, “It’s Martinez, right?”

“Detective Martinez.”

“I’m not leaving her, Detective, so give us another minute.”