Our five-car caravan made it to Carvel just before it closed. We ordered cones with sprinkles and sat on the curb. The Southampton streets were eerily quiet.
“Cheers to the honorees. Here’s to you for making a difference,” Alice said, tapping her cone against each of ours. I wasn’t sure if she was being serious.
“Sadie Sullivan’s over there,” a voice behind me shouted. “She’s from my school.”
“It’s Greg O.,” Gordie whispered.
Greg O.’s mom quickly ushered him away, probably afraid I was one of the many people who had been horrible to her son.
“I feel so bad for that kid,” I said. “With that whole Mayan blog thing.”
“What’s the Mayan blog thing?” Alice said, sticking a spoon into Jean’s cone.
“Hey, get away from my ice cream,” Jean said, pulling his cone away. “I barely know you, woman.”
“Greg O. is obsessed with Mayan civilization, so he spent, like, forever making a website about the Mayans and tried to get everyone to visit it,” I said.
“Yeah, so the pricks at our school left asshole comments and Greg ended up hitting himself in the middle of the cafeteria, which made the pricks roll around laughing. It was awful,” Gordie said.
“That’s so upsetting. I feel like crying,” Val said. “Is the site still up?”
Jean pulled his phone out of his pocket and we crowded around, scrolling through Greg O.’s Mayan blog. It was littered with comments.
Did the Mayans have sex with Greg O.?
Did Greg O. have fun eating dried-out Mayan feces?
Almost worse than the asshole comments was the fact that nobody, not one single person, had posted a nice word on Greg O.’s blog.
We clicked on the many tabs, in awe of Greg O.’s meticulous volume of work.
“This is heartbreaking,” Val said. “He added all the photos and maps. Look, he updated the part about astronomy this morning.”
We sat there dejected, tired, and sad.
Gordie took a deep breath. “I think we should fix that.”
“How?” Val said.
“Let’s post some uplifting shit on the site. Greg O. will love it,” Gordie said, tossing a clump of napkins into the trash can.
“I’m in,” Val said.
“Man, you guys really are a bunch of do-gooders,” Jean said before the homegrown heroes left in our caravan of cars, full from the ice cream and armed with a mission.
Later, I snuggled under my quilt and logged on to Greg O.’s Mayan blog. KINKY 3 had written: Just found this cool Mayan site. Mayans are awesome!
PIERRE wrote: Dude! I love this site. I want to know more about how Mayans sacrificed people.
I signed in as CAKES and wrote: What kinds of things did the Mayans wear?
Great site! CECIL wrote under my comment. And under that, HERMANITA wrote: My friend told me about this site. I’m especially excited because I might have some Mayan blood.
In between Greg O. posts, we hypothesized via group text about what might be in that suitcase.
Jean: What if it’s human remains? It smelled funky in that shed.
Gordie: That was mothballs.
Alice: I bet it’s Confederate money.
Gordie: Could be a dead Confederate.
Alice: Or a dead Canadian. Because… Nova Scotia.
Val: I’m sleepy.
I woke up in the middle of the night, my sheets drenched in sweat, my head throbbing deep below the scar. I sat up, confused, and tried for hours to get back to sleep, but a sense of dread hung over me. I finally gave in and made my way down to the alcove in my parents’ room, where I curled up with my blanket and my Flopper and finally fell asleep.
SEVEN
I HONORED MY promise to Mr. Upton—one of them, at least. After work, I had Daniela wait in front of the hospital while I ran up to deliver the pint of perfect peaches and, I hoped, get more information about how he wanted me to redeem his dead lizard-father’s evil deeds.
The room was dark and quiet, except for the steady beeping of a machine hooked to a sleeping Mr. Upton. Sissy was asleep in the chair, with a thin white blanket draped over her. I tiptoed in and set the pint of peaches on the table next to the pink barf bucket and Sissy’s needlepoint. The cross was nearly finished.
Alice agreed to pick me up after dinner so we could go to Gordie’s and find out what was in that suitcase. She jumped out of the Subaru and greeted Dad, who was hosing down the truck.
“Woody! It’s me, Pooch, from Girl Scouts.”
“I know you, Pooch from Girl Scouts. Mills Town Road, white house.” Dad had an uncanny memory. He remembered all his customers, past and present. “How’s your buddy?”
Alice shrugged. “She’s okay.”
As we drove toward the main road, she said, “Did you remember it?”
“Yes.” I pulled the key out from under my leprechaun T-shirt. I had attached it to my silver chain.
“I have to do a quick drive-by first.” Alice checked her rearview mirror and pulled out in the opposite direction of Gordie’s. “I’m still trying to find Izzy.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Since Izzy’s become a nasty smackhead, she keeps disappearing. I know that sounds harsh, but I’m friggin’ furious right now.”
“How did this even happen?”
“Well, let’s see, Izzy had a riding accident last spring and ended up getting hooked on Oxy. When the Oxy ran out, she started hanging out with this dealer named Hector, who got her hooked on heroin.”
“Alice, I don’t even know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. She’s gone, Sadie. Like a zombie. For a long time, I was taking care of her and protecting her from getting caught. I figured she would eventually get sick of living this way. But it’s just getting worse. When I finally threatened to tell her parents a few days ago, she disappeared.”
“Did you tell her parents?”
“No. Her parents are not cool people. They’ll make things worse—trust me.” Alice stopped the car abruptly in front of a run-down house on the corner near the gas station. I’d passed that house a million times and never noticed it. “Wait here.”
She marched up to the front door in her long lime-green skirt and combat boots and pounded on the door. Nobody answered.
“I tried,” she said. “That was the last trap house I could think of. Let’s go to Gordie’s.”
“What’s a trap house?” I turned to look at the house.
“A dirtbag drug house,” Alice said. “Damn, you’re sheltered.”
“Why do they call it a trap house?”
“I don’t know. Because they trap people in misery for the rest of their lives?”
On the way to Gordie’s, Jean texted us, Do I have the wrong address or does Gordie live in a mansion?
Nope. That’s Gordie’s house, I texted back.
We parked in front of the towering hedgerows shielding the Harris estate from the rest of the world. I was used to excessive wealth framing the edges of my town. But it never really affected the way we lived. Yes, Parker’s mom was a socialite, and Seth’s stepdad was a movie producer, and Shawn Flynn’s dad ran a hedge fund, but my dad drove an ice cream truck, and Shay’s dad was a tennis coach, and Ellie’s parents were teachers, and D-Bag’s parents were chiropractors.