Aftermath(76)

“Ditto.” I give a small chuckle. “So… we’re kinda screwed, huh?”

“Nah, we just need practice. Lots of practice.”

He puts his hands on my cheeks and lifts my face, and I keep it perfectly still, eyes half open, because apparently, whatever books and movies might suggest, this is not a maneuver to be attempted in the dark, at least not until a certain level of skill has been achieved.

He lowers his mouth to mine, and we kiss, and that’s better – much better. I’m still careful not to move, though. Well, not to move anything except my lips. It takes a second, but we find a rhythm, and then…

And then there it is.

I’m kissing Jesse. I am finally kissing Jesse, and it’s everything thirteen-year-old Skye imagined it would be. It’s sweet and warm and gentle, and my head starts spinning like I really am thirteen, singing “He’s kissing me!” over and over, and then…

Well, then I don’t feel thirteen anymore, as I pull him closer and his arms tighten around me, the kiss deepening, igniting a spark that is definitely not for middle grade Skye, and inside, I’m not dancing and singing anymore. I’m grinning. Grinning and thinking I definitely want more practice at this, as much practice as I can get, and — “Jasser?” The whoosh of the front door and his mother’s voice.

We jump apart even faster than when the library volunteer caught us.

“Jasser?” she calls. “Do I smell something burning?”

We both look over at the stove… smoke curling from the pan. We start to run for it, collide and steady each other, grinning, and he calls, “We’re in here!” as I race to the stove.

Skye

As we wait near the McDonald’s, I think about Chris. He’s been there for two years, rising to shift manager. Some kids take jobs for pocket money; Chris works to put food on the table. His dad is long gone and never paid child support.

Maybe hearing about someone like that should make me glad my dad pays. It doesn’t. My dad pays because he has the money, and his professional rep has been tarnished enough by a school-shooter son. When Chris’s father was around, he only did odd jobs and spent most of his time drinking and venting his drunken frustration on Chris’s mom. I remember how Chris said that, matter-of-factly, when I commented on him needing to work most nights.

“I’d rather work than have him back,” Chris said.

His mom’s job at the supermarket doesn’t support a family of four, so Chris chooses to hold down a part-time job and insists on buying the family’s groceries. That’s the kind of guy he is. Or the kind of guy I thought he was.

Now this… I can’t comprehend this.

Is it misplaced revenge for his cousin? I didn’t think they’d been close.

Or was that just an excuse?

He said he used to have a crush on me. Had I inadvertently led him on? Rejected him?

I can’t see a misunderstanding between thirteen-year-olds being an explanation for what he’s doing now. I can’t see anyone having a good reason – ever – for doing this to someone. Which should seem to suggest it’s not about me. But if it isn’t, why is it aimed at me?

Maybe that’s like trying to understand why Isaac would bring guns to school. Why he murdered three kids he didn’t even know.

Jesse asked why Luka came out of that bathroom with a gun. Even hearing the question frustrated me. It can’t be answered. It can’t be understood. This is the same thing. Looking for a reason why anyone would do this to me is as futile as looking for a reason why my kind, gentle, good brother walked out of the boys’ bathroom holding a gun.

We tail Chris from work.

“He’s going straight home,” I say. “His apartment’s over there.” I point at an old building in one of the city’s worse neighborhoods.

Sure enough, Chris pulls into the lot. Jesse eases the car to the curb, lights off, as we watch Chris park. He gets out and looks around. Checks his watch. Glances at the building. Then he sends a quick text, pulls up the hood on his dark sweatshirt and lopes across the lot… heading away from his building.

I double-check the address I have for Chris. I’m squinting at the sign outside the apartment building when Jesse says, “No, that’s his place. I did a project with him years ago. He’s heading somewhere else.”

We slip from the car. Chris scales a fence behind the parking lot. At the top, he crouches and looks around. Jesse and I both duck. Chris leaps down and the distant pound of his footfalls echoes through the falling night.

We loop around the lot, running on the grassy border so our footsteps don’t give us away. When we reach the fence, Jesse boosts me. I peek over the top to see an auto-body shop. I have to read the sign backward – someone has turned it around, and there’s a crack through the middle. Below the sign is a weathered FOR SALE one with a bright orange PRICE REDUCED sticker.

They might have more luck selling the place if they cleared the parking lot first. I count five junkers, four on blocks, all of them beyond the repair skill of any mechanic.

I’m looking at the surrounding buildings, trying to see where Chris went, when a light flickers behind an abandoned panel van. Metal clunks, like a rusted door opening, and I motion for Jesse to bring me down.

I explain what I saw and heard, and then say, “What if he has Tiffany in that van?”