“I know zilch about you. Because that’s what you tell me.”
We stare at one another, and is that—hurt on my brother’s face? How is it possible, when I’m the one who’s been hurting all this time? I think back to that day at Spare Me, when Daniel was showing off in front of his friends, and the satisfaction I’d felt at plotting my revenge. I ruined Ms. Reyes’s entire livelihood for that. It can’t be because I’ve been wrong about my brother all this time.
“My Sugar Babies,” I say abruptly. “You took them, you jerk. So don’t try to pretend like you haven’t been giving me a hard time for years.”
“This again?” Daniel rubs a hand over his jaw. “Can you please explain what you’re talking about with the freaking Sugar Babies? Because I do not understand.”
“The Sugar Babies that Mateo left for me on our porch in eighth grade,” I say, folding my arms. Daniel still looks blank, so I add, “Come on, you remember. He left them with a note, inviting me to go see Infinity War. You took them before I had a chance to read it, and that’s basically why Mateo and I stopped being friends. Or anything else.”
A dawning understanding flits across Daniel’s face. I feel a quick stab of satisfaction until he turns to Cal and says, “You gonna leave me hanging?”
When I look toward Cal, he’s gone pale, his hands shoved into his pockets as he stares at the floor. “Huh?” I ask. Cal doesn’t say anything, and I turn back to Daniel. “What are you talking about? What does Cal have to do with this?”
My brother waits a beat, eyes on Cal. When Cal still doesn’t speak, Daniel huffs in annoyance. “Seriously? Okay then. Well, here’s what I remember, Ivy. I came home one day and Cal was on the porch, holding a packet of Sugar Babies and a piece of paper. I asked what he was doing, and he said he was going to surprise you, but since you weren’t around, he’d give them to you some other time. And he asked me not to say anything.”
“Cal?” I feel almost woozy, my brain spinning in too many directions. “Is that true?”
Cal is pressing himself against the wall, like he’s hoping he can fall right through it and wind up in some other dimension, far away from Daniel and me. Finally, when he realizes that isn’t going to happen, he nods resignedly and says, “Yeah. It is.”
MATEO
When I get home, I step into a disaster area.
I thought I was prepared for this, but it turns out nothing prepares you for seeing your house torn apart. I hardly recognize the rooms I grew up in; it’s like someone built an alternate version for a postapocalyptic movie set. A sick sense of dread pulses through me as I survey the wreckage, and I have to remind myself that it could have been worse. Compared to what happened to Boney, we got off easy.
I close the door behind me and stand motionless for a few long minutes, listening. The house is silent, with a deserted stillness that tells me whoever did this is long gone. They probably came here right before, or after, they hit Charlie’s.
What had Charlie said? Houses get broken into all the time. Maybe, but not like this: two in a row in the same town, on the same day one of our classmates died. I can’t report this. All I can do is clean it up before Ma and Autumn get home.
I gaze around, trying to figure out where to start, and the enormity of the task overwhelms me instantly. Rather than admit it’s impossible—half our dishes are smashed, for crying out loud—I head for the refrigerator. There’s a quarter bottle of store-brand cola left, which I know is flat because I had a glass last night and there wasn’t a bubble in sight. I don’t care; I unscrew the top, tip it to my mouth, and drink the entire thing in under ten seconds. It tastes as bad as expected, but at least it soothes the dryness of my aching throat.
Maybe I’m getting strep, like Ivy said this morning. Wouldn’t that be ironic.
No. I’m not thinking about Ivy. I wipe my mouth, leave the empty bottle on the counter with the rest of the mess, and pull out my phone before sitting down at our kitchen table. There’s a new text from Autumn with a picture of a bus ticket: Bronx-bound.
Relief washes over me, but it’s a smaller wave than expected. Mostly, I just feel alone.
I scroll past dozens of notifications until I see a new text from my dad. It’s time-stamped for right around the time I was chasing Autumn’s murder van around greater Boston. It’s official: I’m starting at White & West on Oct 1. See you soon!
I huff out a humorless laugh. My father actually did it; left his roadie gig so he could take an assistant manager job at a music store nearby. So I can help out more, he’d said when he told me he was applying. I didn’t pay much attention at the time, because I figured it was just a bunch of empty talk, like always.