He must be up to something, I decide. Something bad. I tear my eyes from him and dart a glance around. That’s when I see them: Bishop and Jezebel, dashing onto the football field.
“You’re late,” I call out, slowing to a jog now that the situation is looking entirely in my favor. “Had to go ahead and save myself.”
27
I’m all geared up Monday morning to spend hours fielding questions about Coach Jenkins. I was, after all, called down to the gym right before they found her body and was therefore the last known person to see her alive. But after I give my statement to police officers at the school (“We just chatted about the homecoming float, that’s all!”) and they decide it was likely an unfortunate accident, everyone’s too upset to pay any attention to me.
Thea breaks down in homeroom. A few people from the squad have to go home, and whoever isn’t going into hysterics in the hallway is loudly recounting their personal anecdotes about the beloved cheer coach/home ec teacher. But in true Hollywood fashion, we haven’t even made it to lunch before she’s become the butt of a million jokes. I even hear someone from the football team say that anyone who could accidentally stab themselves in the neck with a pair of craft scissors deserves to die. Nice.
Though I don’t see him, I’m sure Bishop’s out there, somewhere close by, watching my every move. In math class I test my hypothesis by getting a hall pass to use the bathroom. I haven’t made it past the water fountain when he appears.
“You shouldn’t be going places alone,” he says, falling into step beside me.
“I have to pee,” I explain. He makes to follow me into the girls’ bathroom, but I push him out. “Nice try, buddy.”
“It’s for your own safety,” he says, but he’s grinning. I let the door swing closed in his face. Despite the jokes, I know he’s feeling pretty bad about the close call yesterday. About Coach Jenkins. And that, in turn, makes me feel a tiny bit safer. At least I know he’s on his toes now.
I don’t see him again the rest of the school day, but when there’s a knock at the door not ten minutes after I arrive home, I’m not surprised to find it’s him. He, however, looks mighty surprised to find that I’m pushing him back outside.
“Let’s go,” I tell him.
He raises his thick eyebrows high, but doesn’t say more. “Aunt Penny’s going to the shop tonight to do inventory,” I explain. “And if I don’t get out of the house before she’s out of the shower, I’m probably going to get roped into helping.” Buh-bye, practice time. And if yesterday was any indication, I could really use it.
“Actually, that works out, because it’s a long drive to where we’re going. We need to hit the road now or we won’t get back before late.”
“And where is it we’re going?” I ask.
“Indie?”
Crap.
Aunt Penny edges downstairs, a silky pink bathrobe tied around her waist and her blond curls twisted into a braid over her left shoulder.
I sigh and move aside in the doorway. “Aunt Penny, this is Bishop. You’ve seen him around, but I don’t think you’ve officially met.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bishop says, giving Aunt Penny a friendly smile that she returns with a tight one of her own.
“You too. Hey, Ind, can I talk to you for a minute?”
And here it is.
“Be right out,” I tell Bishop, then push him outside and close the door, turning to face my aunt.
Penny sits on the stairs “So what’s with this guy?” she asks.
“We’re friends,” I answer simply.
“Friends?” Her sleek eyebrows arch up high.
“Yes, friends. You know, buddies? Pals? Confidants?”
“I don’t know that I like you guys hanging out so much,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “How old is he?”
I laugh. “Are you seriously lecturing me about boys right now? Do I need to remind you about Stan, or Michael, or Aaron, or—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” she interrupts, her hands raised in defense. “I’m irresponsible, and I’ve made some bad choices, and I’m twenty-eight and have nothing to show for it, but I’m your guardian now and I take that job seriously. I have to nag you, so let me do that, okay?” A deep frown is etched into her brow. Aunt Penny, who might as well be pictured in the dictionary under “party girl.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, my tone softening. “I’ll be careful.”
She gives me a grateful smile.
When I go outside, Bishop is nowhere to be seen. But then a horn honks from a car parked across the street, and I follow the sound to find him waving at me from inside a cherry-red muscle car with a yellow stripe across the body. I saunter up and place my hands on the roof, bending to look at Bishop through the window.
“You have a car,” I say.
“It appears that way,” he answers, grinning.
I exhale. “Okay, so then why have I been driving everywhere? Why haven’t I seen it till now?”
“Because I just picked it up yesterday after you left. I hate cars. Bad for the environment.”
“Oh, so you’re an environmentalist now?”