“Too busy doing other stuff, huh?” The words breezed out of Gabby’s mouth, but they bordered on bitter. She was studying her salad carefully. “I could have sworn it was you.”
“I’d never ignore you, Gabs. And I’d love to look for sweaters,” Em said, trying to steer the conversation back around to a normal zone. “Maybe we could go to that new vintage shop in Portland some weekend soon?”
“Yeah, for sure. Sometime soon,” Gabby echoed.
But Em saw, with a pang, that Gabby didn’t believe her.
? ? ?
Em struggled through her sixth-and seventh-period classes and was about to skip her last one to drive over to Drea’s house. As everyone else scurried to eighth period, Em made for her locker; the skies were spewing an angry winter rain, and she needed her raincoat.
It was when she passed the library that she thought of it: the book. Crow had told her that Sasha Bowlder might have been the one to have stolen Conjuring the Furies. It was a long shot, but . . .
About a month ago Drea had pointed out Sasha’s locker to Em. The administration had cleaned off the slurs (WITCH and PSYCHO), but Drea wasn’t sure if anyone had ever opened up the locker and taken out what was inside.
“Maybe someday I’ll have Fount help me break in,” she’d said at the time, and Em had nodded, immediately distracted by thinking about JD’s capable mind and hands.
Eighth period would be over in thirty-five minutes. She had just enough time.
Em speed-walked to the language arts wing and found the locker that looked scrubbed clean, with whitish patches where the words had been. She dug in her purse for her wallet and found her library card. What better use for it than jail-breaking a missing book?
Em shoved the card in where the lock was and started fussing with it, turning it this way and that. Nothing. Why did they make this look so easy on cop shows? She took a step back to reevaluate. Maybe if she used it to pry off the dial? About to give up, she gave the card another jiggle in the slot . . . and heard it click. She caught her breath.
The door swung open with a loud creaking sound, and Em peered around quickly to make sure no one else was in the hall to witness her breakin. Then she turned back to the locker and gasped. It was Sasha’s stuff—strewn everywhere, just the way most kids’ lockers look. Something about the haphazardness of all her things filled Em with a sudden sadness. She was just like the rest of us. And then, one day, she was gone.
Em tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat as she shakily bent down to pick up some of the old textbooks and an old crumpled black sweater she recalled seeing Sasha wear. And then there it was: a hardcover book, bound in leather with raised lettering on the cover. Conjuring the Furies.
Em’s eyes got big. She looked to the left and the right; the hallway was still deserted. Her heart leaping, she took the book—the book Sasha had wanted badly enough to steal—from the locker and closed the door silently. She gripped the leather tightly and then walked deliberately, proudly, even, out of the building.
? ? ?
Drea wasn’t at her house. Next stop: the Dungeon. By now school was over, and the parking lot was starting to fill up with cars. The Dungeon’s windows were steamed up from the heat and the warm bodies inside. Walking through the double doors, Em scanned the low chairs and couches. No sign of Drea’s purple locks, her half-shaved head, her raspy laugh. Em turned on her heel and headed back to her car, using a newspaper to cover her head (in her excitement over the book, she’d left her raincoat at school). She would have to go home and regroup, look at the library book, come up with a plan.
But when she reached her locked car and dug in her purse for her keys, she couldn’t find them. You have got to be kidding me, she thought, peering into the driver’s-side window. There they were, lying on the seat. Great. Now, thanks to her distraction, she was stranded at the Dungeon in the freezing rain.
Shaking her head in embarrassment, she dialed AAA. Then she ducked back into the shop to wait.
Once inside, she wished she’d denied the craving for caffeine. Because while she waited in line, someone tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned around. Crow was towering over her in a heavy green sweatshirt. He clearly hadn’t shaved in a few days—his jawline was scruffy. He looked good. And kind of scary. Her stomach fluttered a little, and she had the urge to dodge him.
“I was just leaving,” he said in that voice that sounded like honey on apples—sticky-sweet and smooth, with a bite underneath. “But if you’re here, I could be convinced to stay. . . .”
“I’m actually waiting for someone,” Em said.
“Ah, intriguing!” Crow said, grin never leaving his face. “Who’s the lucky fella?”
Em allowed herself a self-deprecating smile. “The guy from Triple-A,” she said. “Hot date.”
“Bummer,” he replied. “Want to come wait in my truck?”