“I said my brother can take you to the play tonight if you need a date. We could double.”
The school play. Hamlet. It was tonight. I flashed back to my conversation with Marcia. You know, the play’s the thing and all.
The play’s the thing.
Archimedes knew the play wasn’t really the thing.
Do the math and find me after the show.
What did it mean?
Rankin pounded away on the blackboard. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and whispered to Anh, “I’m not feeling well. Tell Rankin I went to the nurse.”
I was gone before he turned around.
8
I picked up the city bus at the corner of Route 1, got off as close as I could to the police department, and walked the remaining three blocks. I presented my school ID and signed the police log book, then fidgeted in my seat while I waited to be called, avoiding eye contact with the weary faces in the corridor. Each one eventually disappeared through the thick metal door. A phone rang over and over behind the Plexiglas window and I chewed my nail, waiting for someone—anyone—to pick it up. I’d never been in a police station, and being here made me twitchy, like I’d broken one of Mona’s rules.
“For chrissake, who the hell drank the last of the decaf and didn’t put on a fresh pot?” The office chatter died, and the booming voice became louder. “Where the hell are all my detectives? I don’t have time to be taking statements from snot-nosed kids. That’s what I hire all of you for!” The metal door buzzed and slammed open, and a scowling bear of a man filled the frame.
“Nearly Boswell? Come with me.”
I followed him into a sterile gray room with mirrored walls, a sturdy table, and two metal chairs—like the setting of every cop drama I’d ever seen on TV. I clutched my back pack, feeling smaller than usual under my oversized clothes. I wanted to tuck my knees up into my shirt like I did when I was in middle school. Mona used to get so pissed, saying I’d stretch my clothes all to hell. I’d hollered back that at least I was wearing clothes. No back talk wasn’t one of Mona’s rules, but being anywhere near a police station was.
Coming here was stupid. What was I going to say? Hello, Officer. I think there may be a crazy stalker at my school. My suspicions were literally paper-thin, based on two lines of text from a newspaper clipping. There was no quantifiable evidence to suggest my theory had anything to do with Emily at all, and it was probably just a dumb prank anyway.
The officer set a small bottle of water in front of me and sat down. He crossed one leg and locked his hands behind his head, the butt of a very large holstered gun casually revealing itself through the gap in his jacket. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Nicholson.
“So, Miss Boswell.” He snapped my ID down on the table. “I understand you are a junior at West River High School and you think you have information about an incident that occurred last weekend? Are you friends with Emily Reinnert?”
“No.” Jeremy was a friend. Anh was a friend. Emily was more of an acquaintance who I was forced to talk about algebra with.
Lieutenant Nicholson sighed and his eyebrows drew together. “Did you witness something you think is relevant to the incident?”
“No . . . I mean, yes . . . I mean possibly.” I shook my head. “What I mean is, I think I may have witnessed something, sort of.”
“Let me get this straight.” He glanced very deliberately at his watch and crossed his arms over his chest. “You think you may have witnessed something, sort of? What exactly do you think you may have witnessed?”
When I didn’t answer right away, his stare burrowed into me, like he was digging around in my head. The harsh fluorescent lighting accentuated the tight wrinkles around his mouth. It wouldn’t matter what I said next. He wasn’t going to believe me.
“I’m sorry to waste your time. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come.” I stood up and started to sling my pack over my shoulder.
“Sit down, Miss Boswell.”
I looked between the lieutenant and the door. I was sure there was some law that said they couldn’t detain me if I hadn’t done anything wrong. Wasting the lieutenant’s time wasn’t a criminal offense.
“You know, I hate writing truancy reports. It gets messy. Too many people involved. Parents, teachers, principals . . . Whatever you have to say must be pretty important. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have skipped school to come and say it. So why don’t you just say what you came to say and let me be the judge of what’s a waste of my time.” He looked pointedly at my chair, making it clear he wasn’t giving me a choice. If I walked out of here now, my mother would get a phone call, and a truancy report would definitely blow my chance at the scholarship.
I dropped into my chair and laid the two Missed Connections ads side by side on the table.