Bad Taste in Boys (6 page)

I tried Rocky again. She still didn’t answer. I knew she wouldn’t leave me hanging like this unless something was wrong. I couldn’t believe I’d left her at Kiki’s house with a semidead, steroid-addled lip muncher. If Mike was gnawing on my best friend, he was going to be in a world of hurt.

I ran back down the stairs, leapt the banister in a fit of adrenaline-induced athleticism, and scared the heck out of Jonah. He was trying to stuff the chicken suit into the hall closet. When I charged past him, he squawked indignantly. I wasn’t slowing down. My friend might be in trouble. Vague, unexplained trouble, but trouble nonetheless.

I jumped back into the car and drove toward Rocky’s house. Her battery was probably low. Or maybe her phone was charging. “She’s probably at home right now, asleep already,” I told myself, clutching the wheel. “That’s why she hasn’t called me back.” I knew
that was the most logical explanation. But I still couldn’t stop shaking. There was something seriously wrong with Mike. He looked wrong. He smelled wrong.

He
tasted
wrong.

When I turned onto her street, I was going maybe a little faster than I should have been. I saw the bright lights of an SUV coming straight toward me from the opposite direction. They practically lased out my eyeballs. I squinted, trying to find the street despite driving blind. There was a mailbox outside my window, close enough to touch.

My wimpy little puke-scented sedan was no match for an SUV; I was about to be pulverized.

I wrenched the wheel to the right. My hyped-up reflexes overcompensated, and the car went bouncing and rattling off the road onto somebody’s lawn, taking out a row of ornamental bushes before it rolled to a stop.

My hands shook so hard that I couldn’t open the door, and the stench hit me again. Finally I managed to get out of the car and promptly tripped over the sorry remains of a bush half-stuck in my wheel well.

“Rocky!” I shrieked as my friend stumbled out of the SUV.

She staggered across the street with a weird shuffling gait. Fear paralyzed me; I needed to breathe but couldn’t make my muscles respond. She lurched across the lawn.

She was crying. And I was pretty sure it wasn’t because she’d almost run me over.

I swallowed a big gulp of air, and then I was on my feet and running toward her. At first I thought I might pass out, but when I reached her, she collapsed on me. I staggered even though she weighed practically nothing.

“Rocky! Are you okay?”

She just cried harder, so I hugged her tight. Then I started searching for bite marks. I didn’t see any on her face or arms, so I ran my hands along her sides. I hoped she didn’t think I was feeling her up.

“It’s Bryan,” she said, hiccupping. She pulled away, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “He’s been shot.”

I had no idea what I’d been expecting her to say, but that wasn’t it.

“What—how—is he okay?” I stammered.

“I think so, but I haven’t talked to him. He’s in the base infirmary.”

“What happened?”

“He got shot in the butt. His mom called just a couple minutes ago.” Rocky blinked back tears. “I’m his girlfriend; how could he not tell me?”

Rocky was my best friend, and she deserved my support at a time like this, but all I could think to say was “He’s got a bullet in his booty?”

“Yeah.” She sniffled.

I started to giggle hysterically. She looked offended for about a second and then joined in.

Rocky got herself under control before I did. “His mom wants me to come over. Will you come with me?” she asked.

I wiped my streaming eyes. “Of course, Rock. Anything you want.”

“You’re awesome.” She looked at me closely. “Hey. Your lip is bleeding.”

Now that I could unload the whole sordid mess, I realized I really didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t even want to think about it. I wanted to forget it had ever happened and avoid Mike for eternity. So for the first time in my life, I lied to my best friend.

I licked my lip, as if the injury was news to me. The scab had cracked open, probably during the accident. “I must have bit it when I went off the road.”

Rocky looked concerned. “Can you get your car off the grass?”

“One way to find out.”

I tugged the bush from my wheel and gently set the remains down on the lawn before getting into the car. It was surprisingly easy to get back on the road again, although I ran over the rest of the bushes in the process. The house remained dark; no one came outside to yell at me for decimating their shrubbery. I should probably have left a note or something, but there wasn’t time.

I followed Rocky to Bryan’s house. Now that I knew she was okay, I felt mostly calm. Part of me still wanted to stop and figure out what was wrong with Mike; I didn’t even know where he was, and that really worried me. But Rocky needed my help. Besides, not much would change in an hour.

At least, that was what I kept telling myself.

ryan’s mom answered the door of their tiny little ranch house. She was all puffy-faced and blotchy, like she’d been crying for the last sixty hours or so over her son’s butt. This struck me as a slight overreaction.

“Oh, Roxanne,” she gushed. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

They hugged. I hovered in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

“I hope it’s okay that I brought Kate,” Rocky said. “I thought she could be helpful.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Rodriguez managed to give me a smile. “Are you hungry? I’ve made carnitas.”

My stomach growled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a meal that didn’t come from a box or a window. “Um, sure. Thanks.”

I tore into the food with the kind of table manners you develop in an eat-and-run family. But Mrs. Rodriguez started gaping at me about two bites in, so I forced myself to actually chew my food for once.

“So,” I said between mouthfuls, “what’s up with Bryan? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, Kate. I don’t know what to think. He’s …” Mrs. Rodriguez trailed off, shrugging.

“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” I said, using my most reassuring voice. “Random gunshots happen more often than you think, and usually there are no real complications.”

“I’m not worried about the bullet,” Mrs. Rodriguez said.

“What are you worried about, then?” I asked.

She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Bryan missed his Sunday-night check-in. He’s usually good about calling, so I assumed he was out on a training mission. It was a surprise when he called me tonight from a number I didn’t recognize.”

“Okay,” I said. “And what did he tell you?”

“He said he was under quarantine, and he couldn’t talk long.”

I frowned. Military docs don’t quarantine shooting victims. Quarantine meant we were talking about a communicable disease, maybe even bioterrorism.

I couldn’t make sense of that. “Why is he under quarantine?” I asked. “What does that have to do with a bullet wound?”

Mrs. Rodriguez took a sip. “He said he was shot during their first live-fire exercise, but the bullet just grazed him. Nothing to
worry about. But when he was about to be discharged from the infirmary, they brought in some other soldiers. They were vomiting black stuff all over the place, and then they started going stiff. ‘Like a dead dog, Mom,’ he told me.” Her hand shook and coffee sloshed out of the cup. “And then the doctors put on Hazmat suits and quarantined the whole place. He can’t leave. The only reason he was even able to call was because they left the phone unattended for a minute.”

“Did he touch the vomit?” I asked, managing through sheer force of will to keep my voice from shaking. “Did he tell you if he touched it?”

“I—I don’t think so.”

“Then he’s probably safe. Unless whatever’s causing it is airborne.”

If it was airborne, they probably would have already issued a health alert. I would have heard about it.

I put my hand to my mouth, and it came away with a viscous red smear. The bleeding still hadn’t stopped, although it was practically a trickle now. Mrs. Rodriguez handed me a napkin and I smiled at her thankfully.

“So we don’t need to worry?” Rocky whispered.

I didn’t know what to say. “They’ll isolate Bryan from the other patients so that the chance of infection is minimal. They know what they’re doing.” I couldn’t keep that wobble out of my voice no matter how hard I tried. “I’ve got to go. Now.”

Rocky blinked at me. “I don’t understand.…”

“Rock, the vomit might be infectious.”

“But Bryan didn’t touch it.”

“Maybe not,” I said, pushing my plate away. “But Jonah did.”

I broke a few traffic laws on the way home, but I didn’t care. It took a lot of effort to keep myself from totally breaking down or driving off the road again. I really wanted to curl up in a little ball with my blankie and let someone else deal with all this. But I couldn’t.

Based on what Mrs. Rodriguez had said, I assumed we were dealing with an infectious disease. I knew more about communicable diseases than I did about football, but not by much. Part of me wanted nothing to do with my car, but I knew most infectious agents don’t live for long outside the body. The infectivity ought to be gone even if the stench remained. If anyone was at risk, it was Jonah, because he’d had immediate contact with the puke.

And then there was me. If Mike had the same thing as the guys on the base and he bit me …

I didn’t want to think about that. I needed to stay rational if I wanted to figure out what the heck was going on.

I swung into the driveway and sprinted into our house. I’d run more that night than I ever had in my life. My gym teacher would have been so proud.

Jonah wasn’t in the living room. Or the kitchen. His slovenly excuse for a bedroom was empty. I slammed his door in frustration, and Dad shuffled out into the hallway, gazing at me with
bleary eyes. He wore his bathrobe and Mom’s old pair of pink fuzzy slippers.

“Sorry I woke you up, Dad,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. Just looking for Jonah.”

“What did he do this time?” Dad yawned.

I couldn’t tell him. Saying it out loud would mean this was really happening.

I forced myself to sound casual. “He just took something of mine, that’s all.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop barging around like a crazy person. I have to be into the office early tomorrow.”

“Sorry!” I said, pushing past him and dashing back down the stairs.

I flung open the basement door. The light was on. Thank god; I’d found him.

“Jonah?” I called.

My feeling of relief was short-lived. He didn’t answer. He could be lying there unconscious and no one would know. I should have brought my med kit, but I didn’t want to waste precious seconds running out to the car to get it. My brother needed me.

I ran down the stairs and turned the corner at the bottom. Then I felt something hard hit my head, and my skull flared with pain. I saw a flash of something like lightning.

Everything went dark.

hen I came to, it felt like someone had stabbed me in the frontal lobe. I pinched the bridge of my nose, as if that was going to help, and looked around. I was in my bed. Jonah sat in the yellow floral papasan chair next to me; he shoved a glass of water in my face, followed by my meds. My migraines and seizures usually came in a one-two combo.