Hexed

I consider this. He’s probably right. I shouldn’t take my cues from a wackjob. Mom is probably fine.

 

The sounds of warm-up drumming spill out from the auditorium, and we fight the crowd back to our front-row seats. Jay-Z takes the stage again, and the crowd erupts into cheers. But he hasn’t even made it through his first song when I tap Devon on the shoulder. He bends slightly, without taking his transfixed gaze from the stage. “It doesn’t!” I yell over the music.

 

He shakes his head, cupping a hand around his ear. “What?”

 

“I said it doesn’t make me feel better!”

 

And then I go outside and hail a cab.

 

 

 

 

 

6

 

 

 

 

 

The drive from the Staples Center to my house is a blink in terms of L.A. time, but it feels like an eternity right now. Traffic moves painfully slowly. Every time I see the brake lights of the car in front of us flash, my chest tightens and I’m sure I’m having a coronary.

 

It doesn’t help that the cabdriver insists on making small talk the entire way, in between obnoxiously smacking his gum and trying to kill us both with his insane driving. Was the concert any good? Did I hear Jay-Z’s staying at the Chateau Marmont? Aren’t I young to be out by myself ? Did I hear Magnet is the latest celeb hangout?

 

I want to scream at him to shut up. The only thing that stops me is the chance he might boot me if I insult him. Cabbies are weird like that.

 

I groan in despair.

 

God, why didn’t Mom answer my calls? I flip through the most horrendous options like I’m going through a Rolodex. Car accident. Drive-by shooting. Heart attack. I dig my nails into my thighs so hard I’m sure I draw blood. Okay, it’s probably none of those things. I’m probably being melodramatic. I’m sure it’s just Aunt Penny having a crisis again. That’s why Mom called—to tell me that the L.A. parking authority finally caught on to Penny’s zillions of unpaid parking tickets, and Mom has to go save her sister’s POS car from certain death at the impound lot. Or that she has to go talk Aunt Penny off a ledge after (gasp!) her latest douche of a boyfriend didn’t work out. Or that Aunt Penny quit her cocktail waitress/personal assistant/makeup artist job because what she really wants to do is act, and she’s not going to waste her time doing anything else.

 

I pull out my cell phone and punch in Aunt Penny’s number. It rings six times before she picks up. Club music blares from the phone so loud I have to hold it away from my ear.

 

“Aunt Penny?”

 

“My favorite niece!” she yells. “What’s up, girlie? One sec. Vodka tonic. No, I said vodka tonic! Thanks. Ugh, the bartenders are deaf here. So what’s up?” Before I can answer, she erupts into laughter. The phone makes interference noises.

 

“Hello? Aunt Penny? It’s important!” I yell.

 

Voices skip over the roar of the music, but none of them is Aunt Penny’s.

 

I end the call.

 

So there goes my theory. Not that it made much sense to begin with—not that any of my theories make sense. A big piece is missing, and that piece is Leather Jacket Guy. How did he know about Mom? Who is he?

 

I blow out through pursed lips, trying to slow my racing heart.

 

Somehow, not much time has elapsed before we reach tree-lined Fuller Avenue. The cabbie practically inches past the gated three-story mansions, through the intersection at Waring, and down a few more blocks, until we finally reach the squat white bungalow with the sad little flower box under the picture window that I call home.

 

But Mom’s car isn’t here. It’s after ten, and all the lights are off. She should be home.

 

“Change of plans,” I say. “Two Ninety Melrose.”

 

The cabbie throws the car in reverse. I start to think I really am having a heart attack as he navigates through traffic that only gets worse as prime bar hours approach.

 

But my muscles relax when we pull onto Melrose, and I spot the glint of moonlight on Mom’s car, parked right in front of the shop. They tense up just as quickly, though, when we roll to a stop under the Black Cat’s awning; darkness emanates from every window, yet the neon Open sign is on.

 

The cabbie twists to face me. Dispatch is barking orders through the radio. His lips move, but his words barely register.

 

I was in such a hurry to get here, and now I’m frozen, afraid to go inside for fear of what I’ll find. A breeze sweeps through the open cab window and raises goose bumps on my exposed flesh. Night has finally chased away the suffocating heat of the day. I shove the nine hundred dollars I owe the cabbie at him before stepping outside. He gives me a wave and then peels off.

 

I’m alone in the dark. That’s if you don’t count the hoboes and knife-wielding crazies I’m sure are hiding in the shadows.

 

“Going in, or what?”

 

I jump so high I’d laugh if it were someone else besides me doing it, then whirl around to find the source of the voice.