“I’m not sure anyone in Helen’s family is really in a place to make that kind of judgment,” I say. Helen is Amanda’s mom’s friend, a woman who gets a new nose put on her face every other year at Christmastime. An actual new nose. Like from surgery.
“I’m serious. Eddie says he doesn’t have any friends at school and just sits around by himself, like staring at things. And also I think he has a girlfriend.”
“What?!” The word pops out. My insides start to twist.
“Yeah, Eddie said Sean keeps a picture of some girl in a frame next to his bed and he, like, makes out with it every night before he goes to sleep. And he’s always writing letters late at night with a flashlight, like love letters to her or something.”
“I don’t know what you expect me to say to that. I mean, I doubt that’s even true, and…” I pause. “What do you expect me to say to that?”
“That you’re ditching the freak with the girlfriend and coming back home immediately.”
“But I’m not going to do that.”
“I don’t get it, what are you even doing in Nebraska?”
“We’re not there anymore.”
“Then where are you?”
“Denver.”
“Denver? Why would you be in Denver?”
“Why wouldn’t I be in Denver?”
“Ellie, you don’t just meet some guy at a party, decide he’s cute, and then take off to Denver. That is so not like you. Have you been kidnapped or something? If you’ve been kidnapped, cough twice.” I roll my eyes. If she were genuinely worried, I might feel bad, but she doesn’t sound worried at all. Actually, she sounds kind of jealous. I can just imagine what she must be thinking, that she’s the one who’s always dating someone, she’s the one who should be going on a romantic last-minute road trip with a cute guy who picked her up at a party.
“I’m not even going to humor that with a response,” I say. “And I’m not really even sure why you called, actually.”
“You’re not sure why I called? Um, hi, I’m your friend and I’m worried about you. Why don’t you come home now, Ellie. I’m seeing this new guy now, Adam, and he has a friend, Cody, and I think he’d be perfect for you, Ellie. Just come home.”
She says this like it’s a command. Like she has the right to make such commands. I shake my head.
Sean has both shoes on now, and he stands up and walks back to the bathroom.
“I have to go now,” I say.
“But Ellie listen…” Amanda says. But before she finishes her sentence, I’ve already hung up.
Seventeen
It’s hot out now and there’s this manic energy in the air, like we’re bubbles in a liquid that’s just about to boil. Sean is walking fast and I’m right behind him, heading down Colfax Avenue, toward where we hope we’ll find Bijoux Ink.
The street is full and we’re dodging people as we go. Two girls are walking toward us. They’re wearing these flimsy little sundresses and the sun is behind them. I can see the outlines of their legs, their small waists. And when they get closer, it’s obvious that neither of them is wearing a bra. The one on the left is eating a red Popsicle, like something out of a men’s magazine photo shoot. The Popsicle one whispers something to her friend and then points her Popsicle at Sean. She looks down at her Popsicle and then back at Sean and wiggles her eyebrows. Both girls start laughing. I feel the blood rushing to my face. I stare at the back of Sean’s head to see if he’s noticed them but I can’t tell.
“Hey, Sean?” He doesn’t turn around. My phone starts vibrating in my pocket and I glance at it—Amanda. I hit Ignore. Sean has stopped walking now. A couple feet away a guy is leaning against a storefront smoking a cigarette. Black sleeveless shirt, jeans, shaved head, downy-looking goatee, both arms covered shoulder to wrist in black and gray tattoos.
“I think this is it,” Sean says, pausing now, looking back.
We push through the door. No one looks up. It’s loud inside, punk music and the whirring of an air conditioner. There’s a giant gold-and-crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the kind of thing you’d see in a fancy hotel lobby or at the opera. To the right two black leather couches are packed with people flipping through black binders. To the left is a huge glass case filled with jewelry—thick steel barbells, swirling ebony ear spacers, delicate gold hoops with captured rubies. There’s a dark gray curtain against the back wall, and a woman walks through it. She has choppy black hair and a fierce shark underbite. There’s a thick green snake inked all the way around her neck, its head resting on her collarbone, a bright red apple in its mouth.
Shark looks down at the clipboard next to the cash register.
“Sandrine Miller,” she calls out. Her voice is slightly hoarse like she probably spends a lot of time yelling.