It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(9)

“1 don’t want any present,” she said.

“You’d better come down here. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.”

Reed didn’t make idle threats, and she’d learned long ago that she had few defenses against him. Her father got mad at her if she complained that Reed teased her or hit her. Bert said she was spineless and that he wasn’t going to fight her battles for her. But at twelve, Reed was two years older than she was and lots stronger, and she couldn’t imagine fighting him.

She didn’t understand why Reed hated her so much. She might be rich while he was poor, but his mother hadn’t died when he was four like hers had, and he didn’t get sent away to school. Reed and her Aunt Ruth, who was her father’s sister, had lived in a brick apartment building two miles from the estate ever since Reed’s father had run off. Bert paid the rent and gave Aunt Ruth money, even though he didn’t like her that much. But he loved Reed because Reed was a boy, and he was good at sports, especially football.

She knew Reed would climb up after her if she defied him, and she decided she’d feel safer facing him on solid ground. With a sinking sense of dread, she began descending the maple tree, her plump thighs making an ugly swishing sound as they rubbed together. She hoped he wasn’t looking up her shorts. He was always trying to see her there, or touch her, or say nasty things about her bottom, not all of which she understood. She dropped awkwardly to the ground, breathing hard because the descent had been difficult.

Reed wasn’t unusually tall for a twelve-year-old, but he was stocky, with short, strong legs, broad shoulders, and a thick chest. His arms and legs were perpetually covered with scabs and bruises from sports activities, bike accidents, and fights. Bert loved to inspect Reed’s injuries. He said Reed was “all boy.”

She, however, was lumpish and shy, more interested in books than in sports. Bert called her Lard Ass and said that all those A’s she made in school wouldn’t get her anywhere in life if she couldn’t manage to stand up straight and look people in the eye. Reed wasn’t smart in school, but that didn’t make any difference to Bert because Reed was the star of his junior high football team.

Her cousin was dressed in a torn orange T-shirt, cutoffs, and battered sneakers, exactly the kind of rumpled play clothes she would have liked to wear, except her father’s housekeeper wouldn’t let her. Mrs. Mertz bought all Phoebe’s clothing in an expensive children’s store, and today she had laid out a pair of white shorts that emphasized Phoebe’s round stomach and a sleeveless cotton top that had a big strawberry on the front and cut her under the arms.

“Don’t ever say I’ve never done anything nice for you, Flea Belly.” Reed held up a piece of heavy white paper just a little larger than a paperback book cover “Guess what I’ve got?”

“I don’t know.” Phoebe spoke cautiously, determined to avoid whatever land mines Reed was laying for her.

“I’ve got a picture of your mom.”

Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat. “I don’t believe you.”

He turned the paper over, and she saw that it was, indeed, a photograph, although he flashed it too quickly for her to absorb anything more than the vague impression of a beautiful woman’s face.

“I found it stuck in the back of Mom’s junk drawer,” he said taking an impatient swipe at the thick, dark bangs hanging in jags to his eyebrows.

Her legs felt weak, and she knew she had never wanted anything in her life as much as she wanted that photograph. “How do you know it’s her?”

“I asked my mom.” He cupped it in his hand so Phoebe couldn’t see it and looked at it. “It’s a real good picture, Flea Belly.”

Phoebe’s heart was pounding so hard she was afraid he would see it. She wanted to snatch the photograph from his hand but she kept still because she knew from painful experience that he would simply hold it out of her reach if she tried.

She only had one picture of her mother, and it had been taken from so far away that Phoebe couldn’t see her face. Her father never said anything much about her except that she was a dumb blonde who’d looked great in a G-string, and it was too goddamn bad Phoebe hadn’t inherited her body instead of his brains. Phoebe’s ex-stepmother, Cooki, whom her father had divorced last year after she’d had another miscarriage, said that Phoebe’s mom probably wasn’t as bad as Bert made out, but that Bert was a hard man to live with. Phoebe had loved Cooki. She had painted Phoebe’s toenails Pink Parfait and read her exciting stories about real life out of True Confessions magazine.

“What’ll you give me for it,” Reed said.

She knew she couldn’t let Reed see how precious the photograph was or he would do something awful to keep her from having it. “I already have lots of pictures of her,” she lied, “so why should I give you anything?”

He held it up in front of him. “All right. I’ll just tear it up.”

“No!” She leapt forward, the protest slipping through her lips before she could stop it.

His dark eyes narrowed in sly triumph, and she felt as if the sharp jaws of a steel trap had just closed around her.

“How much do you want it?”

She had begun to tremble. “Just give it to me.”

“Pull down your pants and I will.”