You Could Be Home by Now (8 page)

“I'm
reporting
,” Nicky said. He wiped his hand on his pants when it was clear Lily was not about to shake.

“This just in: local granddaughter gets the paper.”

“Your grandparents live here?”

“My gran.”

“Little Red Riding Hood.” Rocky did that same smug thing with his chin when he thought he'd said something smart. If she had her phone she'd take a picture for Sierra, who would promptly drop dead at the blissful prospect of two of them. Nicky attempted a flirtatious grin. “To grandmother's house you go? Like in the story.”

“I'm not stupid,” she said. “I just didn't think it was funny.”

“Fine. Sorry. You been visiting long?”

“I'm not visiting. I'm living here in secret.”

She hadn't had a sense of how lousy his posture was until he straightened. “For real? Like that kid?” His phone came out, with a doofy stylus for notes.

“Yeah. Just like him. And we aren't the only ones. Bin Laden's hiding at
his
gran's house, too. You're not really a reporter, are you?”

He colored. His eyelashes were long like both Roskos' but bold and feathery and dark. Further evidence of an unjust universe: no mascara in the world could get her that look. “I'm an intern,” he admitted. “I start at Rice this fall.”

“That's nice, I guess.” A curtain rustled in the Rosko house. Little Ty, playing secret agent. Mona Rosko, wishing that strapping fellow would kiss the dyke and cure her already.

“It's a good school. I'm looking forward to it.” His blush receded and his grin returned. Like Rocky, he had an underbite. Ten bucks said that on the way from his eardrums to his brain her
that's nice
turned into a breathless, mushy, Sierra-to-Rocky-style
omigosh-you're-smart
. A breeze rattled the chimes on a neighbor's porch and a quick, deep
damn!
carried from the golf course. “I'm doing a follow-up on that kid who's been hiding out.” Nicky made Tyson sound like a cops-and-robbers bandit. “This is his street.”

“I know that. I told you I wasn't stupid.”

“Have you met them?”

She shrugged.

“You have. Do you think you could throw me a quote?”

“Isn't the
Crier
sending someone real?”

Nicky examined his hands, front and back. “I'm pretty sure I
am
real.”

That was kind of funny, actually.

But Lily knew the formulae.

Laugh and it's encouragement.

Say I'm not interested and hear back
bitch
.

And half the time he'll take the God's honest I'll-never-be-interested-no-offense-it's-a-question-of-chromosomes truth as a challenge.

The other half he'll ask to watch.

“My gran's waiting. I've got to go.”

“C'mon.” He took a quick step toward her. “Look. I was on the paper all through high school. I made editor my junior year. I got into Rice early decision.” He rolled his eyes. “And I'm spending my summer doing jack-all for an editor I caught using the wrong
there
twice.”

“Our school paper did that once in a headline.” She hadn't actually noticed, but her English teacher had gone on about it.

“The guy's a sleepwalker. He's got no idea I'm out here. But I figure, if I write up something good I might get to do something this summer besides watch my ex-girlfriend play FarmVille. Help a guy out? I'm dying.”

The way he threw up his hands reminded her of Gran.

“That doesn't sound so bad,” Lily said. “Mucking around online all day.” She was pitiful. Her hand made the shape it would take to hold her iPhone.

“I'm dying,” he said again.

The emphasis on the first syllable reminded her of Sierra.

If she let her eyes blur, he didn't look like Rocky at all.

Lily knew what people thought of her. Even before Miss Titty Tattlecakes' sob story. She'd overheard her parents. Dad to Mom: Who knows, maybe someday she'll do a post on how not to be shallow. Mom to Dad: That's mean. She's so confident now. It's helped her come into her own. Lily to parentals, if only she were
actually
confident: It's the opposite of shallow. Shallow would be hoarding her know-how.
Lipstick
helped girls across the country, girls across the Atlantic even. It wasn't an exaggeration to call it an essential service. Knowing you look good frees your mind for so many other things.

Like doing actual freaking good.

“Ty's a sweetie,” she said. Sweetie would get better play than one-of-those-creepy-kids-who-seem-forty. “Epic sweetie pie.”

“You mean the kid?”

“Yeah. Tyson Rosko.” The papers didn't even have his name. No wonder Nicky was paying attention. “He's the most fantastic kid. I've got a Facebook group for him going.” Despite the call from her parents, who were
thrilled
about it in a yes-I-know-it's-important-to-you-but-we-said-no-Internet-Lily-we've-had-it-up-to-here kind of way.

Nicky's stylus scribbled briefly. “And the grandma? It'd be great to get intel on her.”

Boom. The word
intel
made her loathe him again. The kind of word Rocky would pick up from one of those video games where he pretended to be a soldier. And then there was Mona Rosko: her bare, clean house, her quiet boy, her daughter who actually served. Her hair, a coiling curtain of gray. The golden wasted length of her eyelashes. The fluid arc of a hammer brought unerringly down. “She's strong,” Lily said. “Like you wouldn't believe.”

Nicky scrawled. She could read his notes upside down with no trouble. No caps for Rosko.

“She's doing her best, you know? Her daughter's stationed in Afghanistan. Someone's got to look after the kid.”

Afghanistan,
Nicky wrote. That, he capitalized. She wasn't saying this right.

“She's strong,” she tried again, and then, “real.” Lily mimed Ms. Rosko with the hammer. Nicky looked at her like she was having a fit. “You don't get it. If you'd seen her on Channel Twelve, you'd get it.”

Nicky smirked. Rocky II: the return. “I don't think you were watching the same Channel Twelve as the rest of the world.” He fiddled with his phone. It was embarrassing how much she missed the solid, connected palm-feel of her own. Nicky tilted the screen toward her, shading it with his hand. “Footage from yesterday. Leaked, I guess. Obviously they couldn't air it.”

The reporter from last night, hair bobbed at chin level to make her eyes pop. And beside her, the putty-colored face of Per-Vet Thales. “Wait,” he said, “I have something to say.” He shut his eyes, then bugged them out. Beside him, the reporter gave a brief, conversational nod. The per-vet inhaled. “That Mona Rosko is a vinegary old cunt.”

A quick pan back to the reporter. You could pinpoint the moment she processed the word. “Sir—”

“And you're a cunt, too. I apologize for saying it, Miss, but it's true. And you—” he pointed a tuberous finger at the camera—“you're a cunt for listening.” He brought a hand to his mouth for an improvised megaphone. “All you neighbors! All of you are cunts for even caring about this.” His voice pitched high and mincing. “But we have
rules.
” Something in his throat shifted. His voice was baritone now, but still whiney. “But he's a little boy and we have to be
nice
to him.” His face contorted; his eyebrows wriggled like a pair of tortured caterpillars. A fly zoomed into the frame. It came to rest on his cheek and he swatted it away, his hands huge and pawlike. The fly made its erratic way toward the camera and then back onto his face. He didn't notice, even when it crawled over the bridge of his nose. “We know the little boy's safe, and he's a cunt, too. We all are, because nobody cares about the real problem, about children who—” His throat worked horribly, like he was struggling for air. His skin had gone from putty to meat. The fly turned small circles on his left cheek. “Tenaya Alder, sixteen. Last seen wearing cutoffs and a green T-shirt. Mimi Asencios, sixteen. Last seen wearing her Pizza Hut uniform.” The fly edged toward the corner of his mouth. Benjamin Thales had gone completely robotic, his voice glazed and metallic. “Christy Aves, sixteen. Last seen wearing khakis and a red parka. Lisa Balish, almost sixteen. Last seen wearing her boyfriend's letter jacket. Meghan Bagnall—” His face was still, except for the small, essential movement the mouth needed to name its names. Beside him, the reporter drew a quick finger across her neck. The mic feed dropped away. Ben didn't notice. His fish lips kept doing their thing. He stopped, realized the mic was out, and leaned in toward the reporter, who had one clipped to the V of her collar. The camera caught him in profile, the fly silhouetted on his forehead. The microphone caught something about “denim skirt” and “Darcy Bremmen” and “high-top sneakers.” Every time the reporter stepped away, the man followed, head bowed as if to peck at something in her cleavage. “—and a green pullover. Theresa Cavanough. I don't remember what she was last seen wearing. That makes me a cunt, too.” And just like that he stopped. Face slack and mottled. As if disoriented by the sudden quiet, the fly drifted from the per-vet's face and settled on the reporter's exposed collarbone. Then Ben's voice returned, courteous and lilting, tender as a lullaby. “I'm awfully sorry, Miss. There's a fly on your shoulder.” He gestured to his own with a flat, open palm, as if to cradle something wounded.

Nicky snickered. “I'm awfully sorry, Miss. There's a fly on your shoulder.” He was a lousy mimic.
Gran's
accents were better. When his hand came to his shoulder, he looked more like he was trying to cup a large and badly placed boob. When she didn't laugh, he said it again, “I'm awfully sorry, Miss. There's a fly on your shoulder.” This time, he reached toward her.

“Don't touch me.”

“Sorry. It's funny though. The fly's what
makes
it. The guy doesn't even notice, and then he's all, I'm sorry, Miss.”

The Laws of Cheese dictated she ought to say something arch here. Get a load of those golf pants, or I guess we know who's hiding the bodies. A quick, dull ache bloomed at the base of her tongue. Her grandmother
liked
Ben Thales. She'd invited him into her home, baked her specialty biscuits, put out the plates with blue flowers on the rim. “I've got to go.”

“Wait. Check this out. My buddy Kai did a remix.”

“Sorry. Bye.”

“What? Are you pissed about the
C
word?”

“I'm not pissed about the
C
word.”

Nicky followed her up the drive, pocketing the phone. The roof of her mouth itched. Gran was inside, waiting for her daily walk. Gran, whose husband had known the secret to the world's best scrambled eggs. Who had collected maps with that husband of everywhere they'd traveled, the roads they'd used traced carefully in yellow highlighter. Grandpa had whistled old show tunes when he shaved and had a callus from a lifetime of holding his pen the wrong way. Grandpa had insisted Lily sell her Girl Scout Cookies in person instead of circulating a signup sheet at the office because even though the world didn't operate face-to-face anymore, it ought to. He and Gran had met at a skating party when they were both twelve. Thick flakes had clung to dark hair and now he was buried in a state that hadn't seen snow this millennium.

Oh, Gran.

She was coming out of a time capsule from before she was hormonal. She had no way of knowing that ped-obsessed jerkoraptors like Benjamin Thales even existed.

“You
are
pissed.” Nicky tapped his temple. “I'm kind of psychic.” He smiled. The insouciant look of someone who thought her shoulder was his to touch by right.

“Me, too.” She tapped her own temple. “I can tell you'd kill for a byline.”

He nodded.

“Well, listen. I was the one who saw the kid get hurt. I've been in the Rosko house. I'm actually kind of their official spokesperson.” The lie felt good. The way his eyes widened. His hand went quick to his phone like a gunslinger. “And I'm leaving now.” She barely stopped a bright
ta-ta
.

T
HE THEME FROM
I
NDIANA
J
ONES
meant that Stephen was calling. Last Thanksgiving, Ben'd had Anjali set up the ringtone. “Why Indy?” she'd asked, inputting an unintelligible set of commands. “His favorite's
The Godfather
, yeah?” She'd hummed a few bars. Badly. Anjali was slight and vivid and omnicompetent, which made her musical hopelessness endearing.

He'd smiled. “The tune gets stuck in my head like nothing else.
Dah-dah-DAH-dah, dah-dah-dah
. Now when he calls, it'll stay with me all day.”

“You dear sweet man,” Anjali had said, and thereafter the tune was full of her as well.

Ben picked up halfway through. “Stephen!”

“So, Dad. I hear you made the news down there.”

“For a second or so. On Saturday.” He'd watched at twelve, at five, and again at ten. He'd seen his father, nine years buried last October, before he'd seen himself. Ben hadn't realized. He'd lost weight. His hands were all puff and knobs. The skin of his face was half a pulse behind his actual expression. And the waste of it. The utter waste. The things he'd said to that poor young woman. The only thing that had come of it was Sadie's granddaughter asking, ostentatiously, where on earth he'd gotten those fabulous pants. He was a fool. Yes, a withered old fool. Even if they'd had the stones to air it, his daughter would not have known him.

His son said, “I'm proud of you, Dad. All calm and succinct and dignified.”

Stephen sounded like Veronica at her most ticked off. Ben's house, all custom-outfitted twenty-one-hundred square feet of it, contracted claustrophobic.