Nearly Gone (8 page)

Later that afternoon, Posie Washington looked at her watch and shrugged. A damp breeze turned the leaves upside down, revealing their bright undersides and blowing debris over the sidewalk. I tried not to stare at the remnants of yellow tape that tumbled along with them. Four days had passed since Marcia’s murder. That’s what the police were calling it. The police tape had been cut from the gym doors, and it was no longer cordoned off as a crime scene, but the details of the ongoing investigation were quiet.

We both stared at the storm clouds, neither of us mentioning the subject that hung over West River like a pall. “Twenty after four,” she said apologetically, rubbing her coffee-milk arms.

“No worries, my next student is late anyway.”

An older model minivan turned into the school parking lot and pulled to the curb. Posie’s little brothers and sisters were wreaking havoc in the backseats and her Mom’s tired face smiled through the window.

Posie was the oldest of five children, and would be the first to go to college. And at the rate she was going, she’d be the youngest student at West River ever to graduate. She’d skipped ahead two years, and was a gawky and slight fourteen-year-old junior. She didn’t really need the tutoring, but Posie had spent every Tuesday afternoon with me since the beginning of the year. It couldn’t have been easy for her to make friends, and as she sailed through her lessons each week, I suspected she needed the companionship more than the mentoring.

Posie’s little brother made blowfish lips against the glass and I smiled, resisting the urge to make a funny face back. Must be nice, coming home to a house full of giggles.

Posie climbed into the passenger seat, reaching over to wrap her arms around her mother’s neck. She waved with a sad smile, and watched me disappear in her rear-view mirror, as if maybe it was really me who needed the companionship after all.

The minivan rolled out of the lot, and thunder rumbled in the distance.
Obviously Reece wasn’t going to show up, and despite needing the tutoring hours, I was relieved. I secured my backpack tighter over my shoulders, zipped my hoodie against the humid gusts, and began the long (and soon to be wet) walk home.
A motorcycle growled to life in the parking lot. It rounded the corner, grumbling louder, and my stomach knotted as it neared the curb. Reece hadn’t been a no-show. He’d just been late.
He wasn’t wearing a helmet and his eyes were obscured behind aviator sunglasses even though the sun wasn’t out. I waited for him to shut off the engine.
He didn’t.
Instead he revved the throttle, just enough to make a point, and idled at the curb.
I turned on my heel and headed for the doors. If he wanted to study, he could park his death machine and come inside. I pulled the handle but it didn’t budge, already locked from the inside.
I turned back with a look that could kill and a fat raindrop plunked down on my cheek.
Reece shook with laughter I couldn’t hear, and he dangled a helmet from his fingers, crooking one in a “come here” gesture that made my knees slightly numb.
Thunder crackled a few miles away, the sky a deepening purple.
“I’m not getting on that thing with you.”
He glanced up at the sky, shrugged a shoulder, and kicked the bike into gear.
“Suit yourself,” he said, fingers loosening on the clutch. A fork flashed low across the sky and the wind kicked dirt devils across the pavement. In a few minutes, I’d be a wet human lightning rod tromping down Route 1.
“Oh for god’s sake.” I snatched the helmet, wrestled it onto my head, and fumbled with the chin clasp, muttering profanities as fat drops splattered the pavement.
Reece reached out, grabbed me by the front of my shirt, and dragged me closer. The heat of the pipes bloomed against my ankles, creeping up to settle in my cheeks. He fastened the clip with practiced hands, and his finger accidentally brushed my chin.
“Have you ever been on a bike before?” He spoke loudly over the engine.
I shook my head.
“It’s easy. Just relax. Hold on to my waist. Lean when I lean.” Reece waited for me to ease onto the seat behind him. My fingers fumbled for a handhold, but there were no handles. He reached back and grabbed my arm through my sleeve, drawing my hand toward his waist where the hem of his T-shirt met his jeans. My wrist grazed the warm skin of his stomach, and I think I forgot how to breathe. His emotions were suffocating and heavy, regrets mingled with guilt so deep, I was sure I’d never get the taste off my tongue. “Try not to fall off.”
He revved the engine and I held tight with both hands as the bike lurched forward.
I squealed, grasping for finger holds and finding them in the belt loops of his jeans. As we neared the first turn out of the parking lot, I dropped my face between his shoulders and squeezed my eyes shut. Icy drops pelted the back of my neck. We zoomed down streets, the bike leaning into the curves, wind whipping over me. The faster we went, the more Reece’s bitterness faded. I pressed into his back until all I could smell was the leather tang of his jacket, and all I could taste was the sweet thrill of flying away.
• • •
When we finally stopped, I smelled French fries. My legs wobbled and my ears thrummed, but I was alive in the parking lot of a diner.
Reece stepped over the bike, unhooked my helmet, lifted it off my head, then laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I smoothed back the static fly-aways.
“Nothing. You did great. It’s just a little helmet-hair.” His own hair fell around his face in effortless, orderly chaos.
“I thought we were going to study.”
“We are.”
Reece freed his backpack from the bungee cord behind the seat and I followed him into the restaurant. A waitress led us to a quiet, high-backed booth in the back.
I waited until he was engrossed in his menu before I set mine aside.
“What’s the matter? You’re not hungry?”
“No.” My stomach growled and I wrapped my arms around it to stifle the sound.
“Order whatever you want.” He pushed the menu back at me with a smirk. “Consider it payback for scaring the crap out of you.”
“I wasn’t scared,” I lied.
The waitress returned with two sweating water glasses, and took our orders. As she cleared the menus, Reece took out his chemistry book and set it on the table between us.
I raised a brow. “You remembered your book?”
“Maybe I’m not as stupid as I look.” The crease between his eyes was real and made me feel small. I pulled the book closer.
“Sorry, I’m just surprised.”
“Why?”
“No reason.” I bit my lip. This conversation was treading on dangerous water. Lieutenant Nicholson was already suspicious of me. If Reece figured out that I knew he was a narc—using me to get close enough to feed information to Nicholson—it wouldn’t look good. But my curiosity was getting the better of me. “I don’t know many juniors that haven’t taken basic chemistry.”
He turned his glass in lazy circles, slowly enough that I could study the tattoo on his arm. The leaves of some bristly plant climbed up his skin. “I already told you, I spent some time in the system. Missed a few classes.”
The waitress arrived, balancing two large plates and a basket of fries. Reece slammed the book shut as she set the food on the table between us, his interest in studying overshadowed by a mountain of patties with melted cheese. I supposed in this way he was like every other normal high school guy. My stomach growled again and I scarfed down a handful of fries, scalding my tongue and making my eyes water. I’d had trouble eating since Friday night, and that hollow feeling had finally caught up with me.
Reece watched with a curious smile and I almost shrank under the table.
“Guess I was hungrier than I thought.” I hoped I didn’t have ketchup on my chin and I was desperate for a subject change, anything to take the focus off me. “So, what were you in the system for?”
His eyes drifted down to his own plate. “Nothing I’m proud of.”
“Assault and battery” rippled in my memory. I wondered how many times he’d been locked up, and for how long? Looking at his face, it was hard to guess his age. The shadow of his beard was dark and full, broken by a faint white line where an old scar cut across his chin. He was at least as old I was. Maybe older. But basic chemistry was freshman year curriculum. Sophomore year for the really slow kids. He must have missed at least a year of school. He was hard, but there was nothing slow about him.
“Why didn’t you go back to your old school?” I asked.
He chewed more slowly, thoughtfully. I got the distinct impression he was stalling, weighing his words. “Got kicked out of North Hampton. They wouldn’t let me back in, so I got sent to West River.”
“Sent by who? Your parents?”
Reece’s brow furrowed. “Parole officer.”
Nicholson had said Reece was involved in a shooting, but a shooting was bad. Very bad. And yet they let him free. Something didn’t add up. “If they let you out of juvie, it couldn’t have been that bad, could it?” I kept prodding. I don’t know why I needed to hear him say it. That Anh was wrong and he hadn’t done anything too terrible. After all, the charges were only assault. Assault wasn’t the same as manslaughter. “I mean . . . it’s not like you killed someone, right?”
Reece didn’t answer.
The hamburger gelled in my throat. No, he was probably just trying to screw with me. The cops never would have sent a known killer to follow me around . . . unless maybe they knew as little about Reece Whelan as I did.
I shoved my plate aside, my appetite gone, and reached for his textbook. “Aren’t we supposed to be studying or something?” I flipped the pages clumsily. The spine gaped where chapter one had been ripped out. I buried my head in my hands. “We’re not going to get very far—”
“Relax.” Reece pulled the missing pages from the pocket of his jacket and smoothed them across the table. The edges of the periodic table were curled and webbed with crinkle marks.
I stared at it. “Where’d you get that?”
“I found it on the floor in front of your locker.”
“But I could have sworn I’d tossed it
inside
my locker.”
“Must have slipped out,” he said, answering the question on my face. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to teach me how to balance equations,” he offered, as if I were waiting for some direction. When I didn’t answer, he pointed to the handwritten note on the first page.
I NEED YOU . . . PLEASE.—RW
“Please.” He dipped low, that uneven smile back on his lips.
“Fine.” I scowled at the mess on the table, remembering the pink slip that landed me in this situation to begin with. “You’ve got one hour, so pay attention. I’m only doing this once.” I reached into my backpack for a spiral notebook, a calculator, and a pencil. The waitress came by and cleared away the plates, refilling our water glasses while I scrawled out a simple equation.
Al + O
₂
→ Al
₂
O
₃
I turned the paper toward Reece. “This is a chemical equation. Aluminum and oxygen are the reactants. The product is aluminum oxide. Your job is to balance it.”
Reece nodded and watched, like maybe he was actually interested.
“We need the same amount of aluminum and oxygen on both sides. So how would you do that?”
“Easy.” He grabbed my pencil and drew a two in front of the symbol for aluminum. Then slapped the pencil down, triumphant.
“Okay, hotshot. So you’ve got two aluminums on the reactant side. Now how do you balance your oxygen?”
He frowned over the notebook. Then he scratched 1.5 in front of the oxygen, but held on to the pencil this time, a little less sure of himself.
I’d seen that coming. It was a common mistake. It was human nature to look for the quick fix, not necessarily the right one, and Reece was no exception. “That would work if you could have half of an atom, but you can’t. Atoms are indivisible. You can’t cut an atom to make it fit into an equation.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Why not? Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
I looked at the equation, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Changing your name just to fit in?” Reece studied me through the rain-slicked ends of his hair. “I mean, aren’t you glad you’re not a Jennifer or a Susan? Why do you hate your name so much?”
What the hell? He had no idea how it felt to grow up with a name like Nearly. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.” He kept digging, ignoring my don’t-go-there glare. “What’s the story? A name like that has to have a story.”
I dropped the pencil and slouched back in the bench. “I was born premature, and I almost didn’t make it. My mother didn’t have a name picked out, but when the doctor told her they ‘nearly’ lost me . . .” I rolled my eyes over the air quotes. Why the hell was I telling him anyway? Just chemistry. That was the deal. I didn’t have to tell him anything about me. “Stop changing the subject,” I said, poking the equation with a finger. “Besides, we’re not just talking about changing the
name
of an element. Even if it were possible, your solution would change the fundamental
nature
of the element. It would be like turning it into something else.”
Reece looked from the paper to me, trying to look serious, but the gleam in his eye gave him away. “So you’re saying an errant—and maybe slightly unbalanced—element can’t fundamentally change?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
He leaned over the table. “Even if it really, really wanted to?”
I drummed my fingers, patience wearing thin. “Can we please just focus on the equation?”
“Okay, fine.” He slouched back against the booth. “So the elements are different. Big deal. Why don’t we just put the elements together as they are, and mess with outcome later?”
I wasn’t biting. This was all a big game to him. “You can’t do that. The aluminum oxide molecule is what it is. You can’t change the elements within a compound to force the fit.”
He tossed the pencil down. “Are you always so rigid?”
“This is chemistry. The rules don’t bend for good behavior.”
“Well, it’s a shitty rule.” He glared at me across the table. “I’m just trying to get to know you.”
“Getting to know me wasn’t in our agreement.” That was his agreement with Nicholson, and I’d be damned if I wanted any part of that.
“What if I want to change our agreement? What if I wanted to take you out sometime?”
“You’re not my type.”
“And that Jeremy guy I’ve seen you hanging out with? Is he your type?”
I stood up and reached for my backpack. Watching me was one thing. Involving Jeremy in this was where I drew the line. “We’re done.”
“Wait, I’m sorry.” He reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
My mouth grew dry with thirst and a void opened like a cold pit inside me. Loneliness. He was contrite. Even curious. But mostly, he was alone.
I pulled my hand out from his and eased back into my seat.
After a moment of silent contemplation, he leaned in, elbows resting on the table. “Look. I know we’re different. I know you probably don’t want to have anything to do with a guy like me. Assuming I can’t just erase the parts that don’t balance . . . assuming I can’t change anything . . . fundamentally—” His eyes locked on mine and held. “How am I supposed to make this work?”
I reached for the pencil. He held the other end a second too long, forcing me to meet his eyes before letting it go. How were we supposed to make this work?
Easy. He pretends to like me. I pretend to let him. He realizes I’m boring—and rigid. The police figure out who killed Marcia and my life goes back to normal. That’s it.
I erased the 1.5 in front of the oxygen and the 2 in front of the aluminum, brushing away the eraser dust with my sleeve. “We can’t get rid of the unwanted parts of the element—no matter how much we might want to . . ” I let my eyes flick back to his. “But we can build up both sides until they balance each other. Try multiplying the entire equation by two.”
I was surprised when he took the pencil and followed my directions. He scratched out a few numbers, laying down the pencil and turning the notebook in a slow circle toward me. “So . . . if a wayward element is willing to give twice as much of himself, he might have a shot?”
The booth suddenly felt a little too close. “A shot at what?” “You know, this whole balance thing.”
He looked serious. As serious as the person I’d felt hiding underneath when he touched me. I wondered how difficult it must be, to walk a tight rope between two lives and two identities. Unless those two people weren’t actually different from each other at all. “I think it would depend on how bad the element really is.”