“What?”
He takes one drag and then another. “You in trouble?”
The shower shuts off. She’s singing now.
I give the videotapes a kick. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
7
To my surprise, Mom crashes. We’re not even twenty minutes into the VHS tape of Superman (she likes when he catches Lois Lane) and she caves, going to bed with promises to actually get up in the morning, leaving me pacing in the dark.
There is something supremely unfair about the fact that she’ll be able to sleep tonight and I’ll be up for hours.
I check my phone repeatedly, but there’s still no return text from Wick. If Paul can get me in, it won’t matter. She’s blowing me off and that’s fine. Not even really that surprising. We’re not friends . . .
I flex my hand, somehow still able to feel her skin against my fingertips.
I swallow, shake myself. I’m being an idiot. It’s not like I need Wick to respond. I can stick to the plan, go through Joe Bender. He’s Michael Tate’s right-hand monkey. Together, they run most of the meth dealing in our area and, rumor has it, expanded into credit card scamming. Tate was arrested—and escaped months ago. I don’t think anyone’s heard from him or seen him, but Carson’s point makes sense: Someone’s got to be helping him. It’s probably Bender though. He keeps their businesses going. It’s the secret people from our neighborhood know, but people from our neighborhood don’t talk about. It can get you killed.
I lean against the kitchen counter, check my phone’s screen again. Still no text. I am officially getting blown off. I should take the hint.
I don’t think I’m going to.
Maybe it’s because I know I’m not going to sleep or because I’m tense or maybe it’s just because I can, but I open the browser on my phone and search for Wick’s new address. I know her foster parents’ names from some of the local newspaper articles, and after spending a few minutes on Google, I have an address: one of the upscale neighborhoods on the north side of the city. It’ll be a bit of a walk, but it’s doable.
I lock up and head for the street. Normally, I’d rather ride, but the Honda isn’t exactly the quietest, and with my luck, I’d wake the neighbors and they’d call the cops.
I don’t reach Wick’s until nearly eleven. Unsurprisingly, her house is dark except for one open window, the warm orange light illuminating the tree underneath. I stare up at it, knowing full well I have pretty much bypassed Concerned Classmate and rocked straight into Creepy Stalker.
Then, as I watch, something—a person—passes in front of the window.
My breath hitches. It’s Wick. So she was blowing me off. Honestly . . . I’m not really used to that. It’s not like I’m a model or anything, but girls like me. I sigh, shake my head. It would be easier to want a girl who wants me back, but there’s something about this girl. . . .
It’s aggravating and inconvenient. Carson wants answers and I’m going to get them.
I laugh. I’m an effing liar if I tell myself that’s the reason I dig the toe of my sneaker into the tree trunk and grab a low-slung branch. I kick myself higher, moving from branch to branch and praying that nothing breaks.
There’s a scrape above me, like a chair’s being pushed. Someone’s there. Wick again? Crap, if she’s going downstairs—I hustle up the last three branches as a shadow crosses above me. It’s definitely Wick. She’s all pale again, wide-eyed. She’s—she’s about to shut the window!
I smack one hand onto her window ledge, pop into the light.
“Sorry.” I twist my legs around a branch, feel it start to buckle. I am nanoseconds from a broken clavicle and I’m grinning at her like a damn idiot. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Wick’s pale eyes narrow. “If you weren’t trying to scare me, then why the hell are you climbing a tree outside my window?”
I hover. Hmmm. This could go really bad, really quick. “I wanted to see you.”
“What the frick for?”
“You never answered me.”
She blinks and those weird eyes go even lighter, brighter. “Why do you care? It’s not like we talk that much.”
“Yeah, I think we should fix that.” I stick my head inside, look around. Good. She’s alone. Her bedroom’s twice the size of our kitchen, done up with painted white furniture that doesn’t seem anything like Wick. “So can I come in?”
“Uh. Okay.”
No way. I grin. “Great!” I kick against the tree trunk and start to pull myself in. Stop. Our faces are suddenly inches from each other. We’ve never been this close and she’s not moving.
I raise one eyebrow. “Um, a little space?”