Читать книгу Indelible - Dawn Metcalf - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

“YOU LOOK LIKE crap,” Monica said.

“Thank you,” Joy grumbled as she spun the dial on her locker. She’d waited half the night for the police to come knocking or Officer Castrodad to call back or, better yet, Stef. But no one had called. Not even monsters. She shook her head against the fog in her brain. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Aww. Well, at least you have both eyes half-open,” Monica said. “That’s an improvement.”

Joy glared at the lock. Flash! Flash! She sighed.

“There’s something wrong with my eye,” she said. “I keep seeing these bits of light. It’s annoying.” Joy resumed twisting her combination. “I told Dad about it this morning and he said if it doesn’t clear up by the end of the week, he’ll take me to the ophthalmologist.”

Joy opened her locker and noticed the photo of her and Stefan taped on the inside of the door. He’d written, Keep strong! in silver marker, which Joy once thought had been an attempt at brotherly wisdom before realizing that he’d probably known about Mom’s affair roughly six months before she did. She frowned. Why hadn’t he told her then?

Why hadn’t he called back?

That’s when she noticed a slip of paper tucked beneath the magnetic photo frame.

Joy pulled it out. The paper was thin, almost transparent, with pale brown handwriting. Her fingers left oil spots where she touched it. Folded inside the message was a perfectly pressed four-leaf clover.

Bairn Madigan, Phineas Dorne. Bantry, West Cork

Mark’t un ryghte mit spare pointe, reg. Umber #4

Curse o’ the Isles be on it.

Monica leaned in. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Joy stuffed the note and clover into her pocket. The icy-hot shiver down her spine might have been anger or fear. This was going too far. How had these people found her locker? How had they gotten the note inside? This was evidence. Harassment. Maybe there’d be fingerprints?

A dull pulse throbbed behind her nose and heat flushed her face. No. She was not going to cry!

Joy slammed her books around, catching her sweater on the notebook spiral and banging the door shut.

“You sure you’re okay?” Monica asked.

“Nothing twelve hours of sleep couldn’t cure,” Joy lied.

“O-kay,” Monica said as they started walking. “So ask me about last night.”

“How was last night?” Joy asked dutifully.

“Gordon-ocious!”

Joy smirked despite herself. “You’ve been waiting all morning to say that, haven’t you?”

“I practiced in the car.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“Is this love?” Joy asked.

“Maybe,” Monica said slyly. “And a little bit lower.”

Even distracted, Joy could appreciate Monica’s delight in smarm. “Well, I’m glad you and your hormones are happy.”

Monica stood up straighter and adjusted an earring. “I am happy,” she said, sounding surprised. “Who’d’ve thunk it? Gordon Weitzenhoffer makes me happy!”

“Weitzenhoffer?” Joy snorted.

Monica tried to look unruffled. “It’s German.”

“It’s hideous,” Joy said. “Monica Weitzenhoffer?”

“He’s gorgeous.”

“Gordon-ocious, so I’m told.”

“It completely makes up for the miserable last name.”

“Good thing, too,” Joy said, pointing left. “Off to precalc.”

“Later, lady.”

They parted and Joy sighed, chest tight. Monica had found an actual boyfriend the night she’d been stabbed in the eye. How fair was that? And what had she gotten? Monsters at the window, glowing girls at the door, a flash in her eye and a note in her pocket. Joy took out the piece of paper and smoothed it against the wall, then snapped a picture with her phone for insurance. She’d forgotten to ask Officer Castrodad for a text address. She’d have to send the pic when she got home.

Somebody thought she knew something. Obviously they hadn’t heard that she was always the last to know anything. Joy stomped up the stairs with all the unknown questions and half answers fluttering uncomfortably under her stomach.

And even with a four-leaf clover, she totally blew the history test.

* * *

Joy slammed the front door.

Fixated on her impending F, Joy completely forgot about the alarm system until the moment before sirens blasted both her ears. She punched in the code while swearing loudly. In the ringing after-silence, her skin crawled and her eye twitched: Flash! Flash! Dad’s increased security was doing nothing for her nerves.

The phone rang. She gave the operator her name and code number, apologized and said everything was okay.

But everything was not okay.

Joy could all but feel the thin note crinkle in her pocket as she clicked through the call history. Joy hit redial. It connected on the second ring.

“Officer Willis speaking. May I help you?”

Joy hesitated at the pleasant-sounding female voice. “Um...I think I have the wrong extension.”

“Were you calling the police station?”

“Yeah, but I was looking for Officer Castrodad,” Joy said, rooting for the business card on the side table. “Officer Gabriel Castrodad?”

“Officer Castrodad isn’t here today. My name is Officer Willis. Can I help you?”

“I don’t know,” Joy said. She knew what to say to Officer Castrodad, but now she was improvising. “He was looking into something for me and I thought he was going to call me back.”

“Oh.” Officer Willis sounded a little flustered herself. “Well, he’s out on leave, actually. If you can give me some of the details, I can look up your file. What’s your name?”

Joy ignored the question. “He’s on leave? Like on vacation?” she said. “What? Now?”

“No, he’s not on vacation,” Officer Willis said. “He’s taken a leave of absence. I don’t know when he might be back, so I’m handling—”

“When he might be back?” Joy interrupted.

“—so I’m handling his caseload,” Officer Willis said stubbornly. “May I have your name, please?”

Joy’s insides seized up with an odd prickle of premonition. “No, thank you,” she whispered and quickly hung up. She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to hang up on the police, but she felt eerily guilty. Something was wrong.

Joy opened her computer, typed his name and hit Search. The answer popped up in a brief news blurb:

Officers were dispatched to Grandview Park at approximately 3:30 p.m. Wednesday afternoon to apprehend local policeman Officer Gabriel Castrodad, 42, who was arrested for brandishing his weapon without cause. The park was quickly evacuated and Castrodad was taken into custody without resisting arrest.

Officer Castrodad’s sister, Emilia Castrodad, was called into the precinct to translate for the twice-decorated officer, who refused to give testimony in either Spanish or English. Ms. Castrodad explained that her brother had been speaking Rarámuri, the native language of the Tarahumara, Castrodad’s first language, which he’d learned from his grandmother, a native of Cerocahui, Chihuahua.

“But I have never heard him speak a word of it since he was very small,” she told reporters on Thursday.

Officer Castrodad was immediately relieved of duty pending a psychiatric evaluation and indefinite leave of absence due to traumatic stress.

Joy read the words twice, a vague horror creeping up her spine. She was the one who had sent him to Grandview Park. Whatever had happened, it was because of her—she’d caused it. It was her fault. That could have been her—or Dad—because she’d answered the door! Because of those women. Because of this Ink.

Digging in her pocket, she found the tiny brown note and, separating it from the clover, tore it to shreds. Wiping the cascade of confetti into her wastebasket, she debated using matches. Joy did the same with the crumpled envelope, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces. She took out her phone and deleted the pic. Then the weird messages. All of it. Delete. Delete. Done.

She started scanning online for more about what had happened at Grandview Park or Officer Gabriel Castrodad or any connection to anybody named Ink. She lost herself in searching—there had to be more! Her eyes watered from staring at the screen. Nothing. Nothing but wrong leads and dead ends. She IM’ed Stef. Nothing. Called again. Left a message. Checked her cell. Her email. Her chat boxes. Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

She opened her cache and trashed the entire history.

“Joy?” Her father’s voice spooked her out of her trance. The clock read 6:26.

“Crap.” She jumped up from the chair. “Sorry...!”

“It was your turn to cook,” he said as his keys hit the table.

“Sorry sorry sorry,” she said as she clicked windows closed and shut off her screen. “I was online.”

“For three hours?” Her dad appeared in the hallway, still wearing his coat. He didn’t look pleased.

“Um...yeah.”

“I think I should listen to the talk shows and yank that thing out of your room.”

“I have to do my homework,” Joy said.

He crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway. “Were you doing your homework?”

“Um, no,” she admitted.

“That tears a small hole in your argument.”

“Dad...”

“Never mind.” He sighed. “I hate to reward negligence, but I’m starving. Grab your shoes and let’s eat out.”

“Saigon?” Joy asked hopefully.

“You wish,” he said. “Subway or KFC?”

Joy pulled on her coat. “No fried foods,” she reminded him.

“Subway it is.”

In the car, Joy watched her father as he drove, noticing the deep wrinkles by his eyes: smile lines and worry. She debated telling him about last night and the glowing visitors at the door. Maybe tell him there’d been strange texts on her cell, a note in her locker, a man in the woods, that she’d called Officer Castrodad, trespassed on a crime scene, and confess that it had been a black-eyed boy and not a splinter that had sent her to the emergency room. That she was scared. That she was lonely. That she was going to fail history this semester. But she knotted her fingers in her lap and sat quietly in the passenger seat, unable to find the words, afraid to rock their fragile boat. Joy settled on feeling oddly proud that she had inadvertently forced Dad to eat something healthy for once.

He had never talked about her eating habits while she’d been training for competitions, so she wasn’t about to start lecturing him now. Besides, she could have said something a year ago. Six months ago. Looking at him forty pounds later, it was clearly too little, too late. Like quitting gymnastics or dropping her blog or Joy’s mother leaving—when some things went unsaid long enough, they got way too big to talk about now.

They ordered dinner and sat down, chewing and slurping soda noisily through too much ice and not enough syrup. Joy debated life’s tiny cruelties as she stabbed her straw to the bottom of the cup.

“So Monica has a new boyfriend?” her dad said into the quiet.

“Fresh out of the box,” Joy said. “Name’s Gordon.”

“Sounds old,” he muttered.

“He’s our age,” Joy said while thinking that she didn’t really know his age, and that he had looked older in the half-light. It had been an Under 18 Night, but of course, everybody knew that some older guys came to hook up with younger girls. She’d have to remember to ask Monica about it. They hadn’t talked that much lately.

“How about you?” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

“How about me?”

Her father took a huge bite and had to chew and swallow first. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Dad!” Joy cried.

“What? Can’t a father ask?”

She sucked noisily at the last drops of her drink. “I think there might be some law against it.” It was easier to hide behind banter armed with a straw. She fumbled it around the ice some more.

“So, no guy?”

“No guy,” she quipped. “Not even one stashed under the bed.”

Dad groaned. “That’s not funny.”

Joy wrinkled her nose. “It’s a little funny.”

“That’s a little funny like being a little grounded.”

“Hey!” Joy said. “Seriously, Dad, no guy. I’ve got no guy, I have no beau, I have no boyfriend—there, I said it. Happy?”

“Okay, okay,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I wanted you to know that if there was a guy, I’d want to meet him,” he added. “I’m your father and if some boy wants to date my daughter, I would have to meet him...if there was a guy.”

Joy popped her cup down on the laminate. “What’s all this about guys?”

“Nothing,” he said testily. “Just making conversation.”

“Because you’re hardly one to talk seeing as we’re both dateless wonders....” Joy’s voice trailed off as she saw her father’s face: a mix of hope and guilt. “No,” she whispered, the truth finally dawning. “You have a date? Last Saturday—the late night—you had a date?”

“I had a date,” he confessed.

“I thought you were out playing poker with guys from work!”

Dad scoffed. “When was the last time I played poker with the guys?”

“Is she...?” Joy tried to make the word fit her mouth. “Your girlfriend?”

He raised a hand to whoa. “Now, hang on—no one said anything about ‘girlfriend’—just friends. Friends who went out on a date to...find out if there was something more.”

Joy watched her own fingers play with a balled-up napkin, recycled brown paper twisting over her knuckles.

“So this was just a friends thing?” she asked. “Not a date-date?” Her father looked as rattled as she felt. She twisted the napkin tighter, a matching feeling in her chest. It had been an innocent question! They never talked about stuff like this. Why here? Why now? She didn’t want to be having this conversation. In this restaurant. At this table. They were in public, for Pete’s sake! Other people were watching, listening, like the old guy behind the Plexiglas sneeze guard wearing the white paper hat—he knew as much about her father’s love life as she did!

“Is this the real reason for your late nights at work?” Joy asked.

“No, no. No more office romances for me,” he said. The words hit her like a slap. Joy knew her mom and dad had met at the office. She stirred her straw around the hurt. “Just trying to get ahead at work. You know what they say, ‘If you can’t be a yes-man...’”

“‘...be indispensable,’” Joy muttered. It was cruel to use one of her mother’s old sayings right then. “So what’s her name?” she asked hollowly.

“Shelley.”

“Shelley?” Joy repeated. “As in Michelle, or is her name really Shelley?”

“I don’t know,” her dad admitted, chewing. “I didn’t ask.”

“How could you not ask?” Joy said. Had they been talking on this date, or doing something else? She scrubbed that mental image. Ew.

“Well, are you going to ask?” she said.

“Is it important?”

“Yes. No,” Joy snapped. “I mean, are you going to see her again?”

“Well, not just to ask about her name...”

“Dad!”

“Yes,” he said, finally, with a strange look on his face. “Yes, Joy. I want to see her again. But I want you to meet her when I do.”

Her stomach fell, a punched hole through her seat. A circle of her insides and recycled molded plastic should have been lying on the floor.

“Is it serious?” Joy asked.

“Not yet,” her dad said. “Maybe not ever.” He folded his napkin carefully into fourths. It crinkled softly, muffled under his hands. “But you’re my family and I wanted you to know.”

Joy examined the lines of her paper cup even though she couldn’t really see them. Her eyes were open, but nothing registered. Ice sloshed around like kaleidoscope beads.

“Does Stef know?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

That was something. Petty, but something. This time, whatever it was, she knew it first.

The need to talk to Stef burned in her throat.

Joy looked at her father, the worry creasing his hands and the corners of his mouth. This was too hard. She wanted to give him a break. But it hurt more than she’d thought it would.

“So...” she said, “this wasn’t really about you meeting my theoretical guy as much as me meeting your actual girl?”

“Something like that,” he admitted. “So what do you think?”

What did she think? Her thoughts were a jumble.

Mom. Dad. Doug. Shelley. Gordon. Monica. What did she think? What about me?

She gazed out the window, seeing the spark zip by each time she blinked. Shots of color winked orange and purple, silver and white, echoes of shadows and carousels and all-black eyes. Her mind whirled.

What did she think?

“I think I have to go to the doctor.”

Dad frowned. “You feel sick?”

“No, just that bit of light whenever I blink,” she said. “It’s annoying.”

There was a long pause. The only sound was the rumble of ice cubes inside her paper cup.

“I’ll make an appointment,” he said softly and stuffed their trash into the bag. Standing up, Joy instantly wished that she could take it back, rewind and record over, but then, she wished that about a lot of things.

They got in the car and, just like that, everything went back to being unsaid.