The Takedown(32)

My Doc buzzed. Kyle! My sweet little bro’s sibling sixth sense must have picked up on my misery.

boi-k Hey, sis, not to make you go more girl over this but it’s getting worse.

mama That’s not an appropriate descriptor, Kyle.

I hadn’t realized we were on group txt.

boi-k Sorry, but the Times Online wrote about the video. It’s one swipe into the local section. Titled: Sex Scandal Rocks Prestigious Parkside Prep. The video’s views just exploded (more).

Neither my mom nor I replied. Kyle kept going.

boi-k Also, Mom FYI. The video’s attaching itself to us. On side: I have 10k new friends. On side: video comes up when you G-Search StitchBtch. It’s the second link after your website.

My mom had been talking with her lawyers about going public. A new string of stores were set to open in France. She’d given this company her all since her twenties. And now I’d ruined everything because someone at school had it out for me. It was like I’d proved her right.

There was a long pause where no one wrote anything. Then:

mama This is what lawyers are for.

Then her avatar went red. Do not disturb.

When I got home, I didn’t bother going inside. The mini blizzard of two nights ago had shifted right into a warm front. The temp had steadily risen all day. At eight o’clock it was sixty degrees out. Sorry, Fawn, I guess no white Christmas after all. Fine by me. I needed fresh air and exercise stat. As I sloshed down the steps from the sidewalk to haul my bike out from under the stoop, a shadow separated from the tree next door.

“Excuse me, miss?” It was a soft voice that belonged inside a white van with tinted windows. “Do you live here?”

His Doc gave off a silver glimmer. I couldn’t tell if he was pointing it at me or simply holding it. I quick tried to think of how I’d describe the man to police. Tallish. Dark clothes. Light skin. Twenties? Thirties? Tell him you’re only the babysitter! Tell him it’s your friend’s house! my brain shouted. Don’t tell him you live here!

“Yeah, this is my house,” I said.

Why do we feel obligated to tell perfect strangers the truth? If I ever have kids, I’m encouraging them to be good liars.

“Cute.” He paused, like I was supposed to fill in the uncomfortable silence. “I was hoping you could tell me what your Doc digits are. Just kidding. Which way is Seventh Avenue from here?”

“Straight up the hill. Can’t miss it. Especially if you use your Doc.”

He seemed surprised to find it in his hand.

“I’m suffering through the Series Twenty-Three.” He laughed softly. “The map app gives you 3-D directions. It’s the most confusing thing. I think it gives me motion sickness.”

I’d read that the Series 23 did that to people, but this guy didn’t look sick. He took a step forward, as if to show me the maps feature. I took a step back. He stopped.

“Sure, I get it. Don’t talk to strangers, right?” Now a longer, weirder pause. “Anyway, happy holidays. Hope you’ve been a good girl and Santa brings you everything you asked for.”

Two houses away, he looked back, stared at me, then waved. Part of me wanted to run inside. Part of me didn’t want to be anywhere near my house right now. That part won.





There was only one place I could conceive of going. And even if he wasn’t home, or wouldn’t let me in, or I had to knock down Rupey to see him, being in the vicinity of Mac would be better than being anywhere else. I made it to his house in twenty minutes flat. A new record.

I always teased Mac that he couldn’t do anything unless he had enough guys with him for a pickup soccer game. So I wasn’t surprised that he was outside on his stoop with a handful of his cousins when I rode up. Cans of beer and bags of chips took up the empty spaces on the steps between them.

I skidded to a stop in front of his house and dropped my bike.

“Kyla?” Mac made to stand up, but Rupey put a hand on his arm and he stayed seated. “What do you want?”

I pulled a wadded-up tissue from my pocket and threw it at Rupey.

“I came to tell your primo it’s rude to spit in public. That’s what tissues are for.”

And then because I couldn’t take one more mean comment from me or anyone else, I put my face in my hands and sobbed. Again. I’d cried more in the last hour than I had in a decade. With a quick, annoyed glance at Rupey, Mac untangled himself from the stoop.

“What happened?” He walked me a few paces away from his cousins. Pulling my hands from my face, he brushed my bangs back from my forehead. This was the reaction I’d been expecting yesterday, when the video dropped. We hadn’t spoken in nearly a day and a half. I’d been afraid I’d never see this side of him again. “You’re shaking.”

“I pedaled standing up the whole way here.”

“How come? Qué pasa, chiquita? Tell me.”

“There was a guy. Outside my house. I don’t know if he was one of the guys who have been messaging my CB with pics of their wieners or if he was AnyLies or if he was a total nobody and just lost, but he had a Doc so how could he be lost? And I didn’t know him, but he knew me. And, Macky, it was muy scary and I don’t know what to do. About any of this.”

Mac pulled me into a hug. He smelled like beer, clean Tshirts, and cheesy tortilla chips. Just like that, all the bullshite of the previous thirty-six hours fell away.