Crushed Page 17

  Wickham began to work off his wet shoes. “My pants are wet, too,” he said.

  Lea glanced over at him again and seemed to regain her wits. “Yeah, well,” she said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to keep those on.”

  Wickham watched her drive. Her white hands on the steering wheel were small and precise. Her eyes, when she turned to him and laughed at one of his jokes, did not see anything wrong with him. The slate was clean, he had no past, and the car was warm and expensive-smelling. “New car?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I got it this afternoon. It’s an early birthday present from my dad. He came by after school and took me down to the dealership. My mother doesn’t even know about it yet.” She turned right onto Genesee, away from Audrey’s building, and gently accelerated. “She’s going to have the grand champion of all cows.”

  An easy laugh from Wickham; then he said, “How come?”

  “Sixteen different reasons, the big ones being that, one, teenagers shouldn’t drive ritzy cars and, two, Audis are part of Volkswagen and Hitler helped design the original bug, so Audis are kind of a Nazi car.”

  This was news to Wickham. “Adolf did that?” he said.

  Lea made a grim smile. “Probably. My mom’s a demon for facts.”

  Wickham smoothed a finger over the cherrywood dash; then, closer to Lea’s leg, over the soft beige leather. “I don’t know,” he said, “I wouldn’t call this automobile anything but deluxe.”

  “Yeah?” Lea said, and looked pleased. “I wanted to show it to C.C., but she’s not home, and”—she paused—“it didn’t seem right to show it to Audrey right now.” She looked at Wickham. “You know what I mean, right?”

  Wickham nodded somberly and said he did.

  “Losing that house would’ve killed me,” Lea said, “but she’s being so brave about it all.”

  Again Wickham nodded.

  “I really admire her for that,” Lea said.

  Wickham said he did, too. Then he said, “So when’s your birthday?”

  “Wednesday. December 17. I’ll be eighteen, which is actually embarrassing. I’m too old for high school.”

  Wickham told Lea something he’d never told Audrey. “I’m eighteen already.”

  Lea seemed pleasantly surprised by this fact. “You are?” she said.

  “Yeah. We were moving a lot, so I did third grade over. How about you?”

  “My mother didn’t believe in an early start, so when everybody else was in kindergarten, I was with my mother in Tunisia helping the locals build a school.”

  The CD she was playing was some kind of retro thing, and all the lyrics were in French. He was surprised how much he liked it.

  “You ever smoke?” Lea said.

  The question seemed to come out of the blue. “Yeah, I used to.” He gave his next words some thought, then went ahead. “I was smoking when I was in this terrible accident in South Carolina where a girlfriend died, so, I don’t know, after that I just told myself I’d quit for a while.” He looked out the window and said in a lower tone, “That seems like a long time ago.” Another pause; then he turned back to Lea. “But the smoking—you can’t believe how much I’ve missed it.”

  Lea gave Wickham a sympathetic look, then leaned past him to open the glove compartment and pull out a package of Chesterfield cigarettes.

  “You smoke?” Wickham said. This ride with Lea was one surprise after another.

  “A little,” Lea said.

  On the CD, a woman sang, “Non, je ne regrette rien,” which Lea translated as “I regret nothing.”

  Wickham pushed in the cigarette lighter. He tugged the pull strip on the Chesterfields’ plastic wrapper. He tapped out two cigarettes.

  The car rolled quietly down the snow-covered street.

  Part Three

  Cold and raw the north wind doth blow

  Bleak in the morning early,

  All the hills are covered with snow,

  And winter’s now come fairly.

  Chapter 58

  What’s with the French Music?

  Monday, December 15, was bitter cold. On the way to school, Audrey sat in the back of Lea’s new car while, up front, Lea drove and C.C. checked everything out (“Lea, honey,” C.C. said, “I think I need to own up to a wee bit of envy here”). Audrey stared blankly at the instruments on the cherrywood dash and realized that the “− 3F” she was looking at indicated the outside temperature. It was also just about the way she felt. Minus three.

  It had been two days since she’d last seen or spoken to Wickham. All weekend long she’d kept expecting him to call, or just drop by, and she’d gotten so worried about it she wouldn’t even leave the apartment to go to the market because she was afraid she’d miss him. At first she’d thought something was wrong with his phone—when she called him, all she got was his voice mail—and then, yesterday, when he still didn’t call, she thought maybe something had happened to him, or maybe to his mom. Maybe they’d driven back suddenly to South Carolina or something and he hadn’t had time yet to let her know.

  “Jeez, Louise,” C.C. said from up front. “Whose are these?” She was holding up a half-empty pack of cigarettes she’d found in the glove compartment.

  Lea actually blushed. “Mine, you big snoop.”

  C.C. looked incredulous. “Yours? Overnight, you’re a nicotine freak?”

  Lea said that would be taking it pretty far. “Besides, in forty-eight hours I’m eighteen, and then, legally speaking, these lungs are mine to do what I want with.”

  For Lea, this was a major policy speech, and C.C. fell quiet for a moment or two. Then she said, “Wow, Lea.”

  Lea, more softly now, said, “I’m just checking it out.” Her pale eyes brightened slightly. “But I kind of like it. It makes me feel different.”

  “Then why don’t you smoke around us?”

  Lea smiled. “Haven’t got it down yet. I still look like a smoking nerd.”

  C.C. laughed. “Because that’s what you are.”

  Lea shrugged. “I don’t know. I just get sick of being so virtuous all the time.”

  Audrey realized that not only had she not said a word through this exchange, but neither C.C. nor Lea had expected her to. It was as if they’d forgotten about her, or she’d turned invisible. So she said, “Once you get a boyfriend, that won’t be a problem anymore.”

  C.C. turned, and Lea looked into the rearview mirror. “What won’t be a problem?” C.C. asked.

  “Feeling virtuous.”

  Lea and C.C. were quiet for a second or two. Then C.C. said, “You okay, Aud?”

  Audrey nodded. “It’s just this moving thing. It’s kind of discombobulating.” She looked out the car window. “And the snow. Winter hasn’t even officially started yet and I’m already sick of it.”

  C.C. murmured in agreement. Then, idly, probably trying to dispel Audrey’s gloom, she said, “So what did you and Wickham do this weekend?”

  Audrey shifted her eyes. “Nothing. He’s sick, I think. He said he wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Bummer,” C.C. said. “Maybe after school we should brew him some chicken soup.”

  “Maybe,” Audrey said vaguely.

  Lea said nothing. The new car moved smoothly down the street, and the girls fell into a silence that C.C. finally broke by saying, “Lea, honey, what’s with the French music, anyhow?”

  Chapter 59

  Interesting

  At school, after Lea had walked off in another direction and C.C. and Audrey were making their way through the crowded corridor, C.C. said, “So did Lea tell you she didn’t want to celebrate her birthday this year?”

  “Uh-uh,” Audrey said. Her eyes were scanning the hallway for Wickham.

  “Yeah, she was totally specific. No party, no presents, no nothing.”

  This caught Audrey’s attention. No presents. Was that because she’d feel guilty having Audrey spend money? “How come no presents?” she asked.

  C.C. shrugged. “Who knows? Lea’
s turned into a riddle a day.” They walked a little farther without talking. Then C.C. said, “Know what I hate?”

  “What?” Audrey said.

  “When your mother says something she thinks is profound but you think is silly, and then it turns out she was right.”

  “What did your mother say?” Audrey asked.

  “That what makes people interesting is their secrets.”

  Audrey stopped short. “Who’re you talking about?”

  The vehemence of Audrey’s question seemed to startle C.C. “Lea,” she said. “And her smoking.”

  Audrey, relieved, nodded, and when they were walking again, C.C. said, “Who did you think I was talking about?”

  Wickham, Audrey thought. But she said, “Nobody in particular.”

  When they reached the end of the hall, C.C. said, “The thing about Lea’s smoking is that, you know, in a weird way it does make her more interesting.” She paused. “If nothing else, it makes you wonder what other little secrets she’s got in the glove compartment.”

  Audrey didn’t answer. She’d hardly heard what C.C. said. She was again busy scanning the hall for Wickham.

  Chapter 60

  Extra, Extra

  Wickham’s seat was empty when Audrey walked into Mrs. Leacock’s class, and it stayed empty. When Leslie Poll, who took roll, reported his absence, Mrs. Leacock said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Mr. Hill has effected a transfer out of this class through the good offices of the ombudsman.” Mrs. Leacock let her gaze rest for just a moment on Audrey. “It seems Mr. Hill does not believe he was treated with, quote, fairness or respect because of Mr. Hill’s, quote, cultural differences.”

  Audrey could hardly believe her ears. Wickham had filed a grievance with the ombudsman by himself? And he’d transferred out of the only class they had together on the day of the makeup essay?

  A kind of panic took hold of Audrey. When was she going to see him? She had to see him, she had to find out what was wrong, but she couldn’t see him or talk to him. In her green notebook she wrote, This is like starvation.

  The period crawled by. She didn’t hear anything Mrs. Leacock was saying, and when the class was given time to read and take notes, all Audrey could do was write Wickham, over and over, in the same place, until her pen ripped through the paper. She turned back the pages and stared at the words she’d written six weeks before: Something happening. Something definitely happening.

  The windows in the room were clouded with condensation from the radiators, and occasionally a bead of water would form and suddenly stream down to the sill. Audrey was watching the slow progress of one of these beads when she heard muffled laughter from the hallway outside. Then, turning, she saw sheets of yellow paper slide under the door. Outside, raucous laughter followed, and the echoing sound of running feet.

  The room grew unnaturally quiet. Everyone was staring either at the scattered Yellow Papers or at Mrs. Leacock, who was herself staring at them.

  The Yellow Papers told the story of Wickham’s accident. Audrey was sure of it, so sure of it that she suddenly stood up and said, “Do you want me to throw them away?”

  “No,” Mrs. Leacock said, glancing mildly at Audrey, “but thank you.”

  Mrs. Leacock walked across the front of the room, bent down, and picked up one of the yellow sheets. She walked toward the windows, reading in silence; then, after perhaps ten seconds, she simply let the paper drop from her hands. She didn’t look at Audrey. She didn’t look at the class. She didn’t look at anybody. For a full minute she stood perfectly still; then, finally, she took a step forward and did something Audrey would never in her life forget.

  With her finger, Mrs. Leacock wrote three words on the steamy window:

  Shame on you

  Then Mrs. Leacock picked up her purse and left the room.

  After a second or two, students left their seats and began picking up the papers. Audrey picked one up, too.

  EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA! spanned the top of the page, followed by this:

  Feliz Navidad, Kwanzaa, and Hanukkah, dudes and dudettes of all cultures, and no, this isn’t another plea for a wholesome charity drive unless you happen to be Sands of Mandeville in which case we could definitely go for some of your unwrapped toys, but, scusi scusi, we digress. What we have here for inquiring minds of the Yellow Nation is a stellar little present, free of charge and straight from the crime files, regarding our very own Mrs. Science, a.k.a. The Behoover, whose hubby while lying in close bedside proximity to the physics whiz in their L.A. digs in the wee hours of a February eve eleven years back died of an overdose the accidentalness of which the L.A.P.D., evidentially speaking, had certain questions about, and so do we, as in, How do a Peacock spell Fowl Play?

  There had been a relative quiet while the students in the room read this story, but that quiet now gave way to a hum of excitement. A short boy Audrey didn’t know whooped and gave the kind of pelvic thrust she’d seen football players on TV do when they’d made a touchdown. All around her, students were grinning and their eyes were bright. “She killed her husband?” somebody said. Someone else said, “Why does that not surprise me?”

  Once the excitement had quieted, students began filing out of the room in twos and threes. Audrey was the last to leave. She picked up the Yellow Papers that were still scattered on the floor and threw all but one away. She kept one, folding it in half and slipping it into her green notebook. There was something about it, something just behind the words, that seemed strangely familiar.

  Before leaving the room, Audrey looked back one last time. She looked at her own empty desk, and at Wickham’s; then she looked at the steamy window. Shame on you. A few beads of water had trailed through the words, but Audrey could still read them, and she felt them as if they’d been written only for her.

  Chapter 61

  A Sighting

  She saw him. Suddenly, between fifth and sixth periods, with a shock of recognition, she saw him, at the other end of the east hall, and quickly called, “Wickham!” But he was just turning out of sight and didn’t seem to hear.

  “Did you say ‘Wicked’?”

  Behind her, grinning, was Brian. “If it’s wicked you want, I’m your boy.”

  Audrey felt terrible, but she knew that wasn’t Brian’s fault. She made a faint smile and touched her index finger to his nose. “You’re funny.”

  Brian grinned. “Also, if need be, wicked.”

  Audrey said she’d bear that in mind, and after they parted, she drifted to a hallway window and cleared the dampness with her hand. And there, passing into her field of vision, waving easily at someone, as comfortable in himself as ever before, was Wickham again, strolling across the quad, going who knew where.

  He looked the same. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? Because how could he look the same if everything had changed?

  Audrey was still standing at the window, staring out at the deserted quad, when the final tardy bell rang.

  Chapter 62

  Said the Spider to the Fly

  Clyde moved warily through the halls. There were two people he didn’t want to see—more than two, really, but two in particular: Theo Driggs, who’d pulverized him, and Audrey Reed, who’d set him up for the pulverization.

  But who he saw waiting for him at his locker was Sands Mandeville, and she was smiling.

  “Hey, Mumsford,” she said.

  He nodded, and she presented him with a Yellow Paper.

  “What’s that?”

  Sands had a pretty face, but her smile was evil. “As if you didn’t know.”

  Clyde stared at The Yellow Paper. “I don’t want that.”

  Sands kept her blue eyes on him for a second or two, then took back The Yellow Paper and began folding it smaller and smaller. “Guess Theo didn’t quite get through to you,” she said in a casual voice as she worked, and once the paper was folded into a tiny square, she leaned forward and pulled open his front pocket with one hand before pushing the paper deep into
it with the other. As she did this, her breast pressed softly into his arm. Her breath smelled of spearmint, and in a whispery voice she said, “Peruse that at your pleasure.”

  When she stepped back, she said in a cooing voice, “You know, for a guy with all the dirt, you’re weirdly unaware.” She smiled evenly at Clyde. “My boyfriend is Cruz Wolfe.”

  Cruz Wolfe was a halfback on the football team, a face man with a temper.

  “I’m afraid Cruz isn’t going to like your yellow reference to my”—her expression was pert—“unwrapped toys.”

  “What unwrapped toys?” Clyde said.

  Sands kept her amused smile. “Here’s a little-known fact about Cruz. He and Theo Driggs have been friends since they were just itty-bitty, and while it’s true they aren’t that tight anymore, they still have, shall we say, a good working relationship.” She leaned forward and gently touched a finger to Clyde’s swollen eye. “It’s a shame, really,” she said in a minty whisper. “Things were just beginning to heal.”

  Chapter 63

  A Parley with Theo

  After Sands left, Clyde read The Yellow Paper, twice, and while he did, his feelings slowly hardened into something fistlike. Crap about Sands, crap about Mrs. Leacock. This was too much. This was too effing much.

  Down the hallway, he saw Craig Ashworth, one of Theo’s groupies. In seventh grade, Craig and Clyde had traded Star Wars cards for a while. Now Craig was wearing a black leather jacket studded with chrome, and his ears were pierced.

  Clyde walked over and said, “Hey, Craig. I’m looking for Theo. Do you know where he is?”

  Craig nodded and led Clyde out the west exit, past the temps, and out to the auto shop. The shop teacher was bent under a hood, so Theo strolled over. Two of Theo’s friends followed him, and Craig stayed.

  “So The Mummy wants to parley,” Theo said, leading Clyde and the rest of the party out of the auto shop and over to a corner of the adjoining lot made private by hedges. He planted himself there and smiled at Clyde. “So?”