Speakeasy didn’t feel right without Val. Gordie was busy introducing Jean to the throngs of girls fawning all over him. Keith had a minor freak-out when we couldn’t find his headphones, but we recovered them from deep in Gordie’s cluttered trunk.
“He’s really sensitive to sounds. He wears the headphones and then he’s good to dance,” Gordie said as we followed Keith, Zoe, and David into the ballroom. The infamous Sylvie practically attacked Keith.
Alice and I went out to the back hill, where a few people sat around a bonfire.
Val texted, I feel like I’m in prison. Send pics. What am I missing?
I texted her a picture of Alice lying in the grass. The boys ditched us to flirt with women. You’re missing nothing.
“I stopped by Izzy’s this morning,” Alice said. “She was outside playing badminton with Tanner.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“Maybe, except I’ve known Izzy her whole life. She’s never played badminton and she’s never hung out with Tanner. It’s almost like she was putting on a show. And she was abnormally nice. Another red flag.”
“People change. Maybe she’s trying to get a new lease on life.” I didn’t even believe what I was saying.
“Maybe.” Alice rummaged around her vegan leather satchel for gum. “Izzy’s mom cried when she saw me. She’s really unhinged, that one. I’ve never seen an ounce of emotion on her Botoxed face. Now she can’t stop blubbering.”
“Can you blame the woman?” I said. “Her daughter is being stalked by lizards.”
“There are lizards everywhere, Sadie. Swarms of lizards.”
“I know.”
“I just know in my heart if Hector’s out of the picture, it’ll be so much harder for Izzy to get the shit.”
“Keep stabbing the poppet.”
“I will.”
When we went back inside, Jean was dancing with a group of girls. Keith and David were jumping up and down in the middle of the dance floor, and Zoe was swaying near the stage. Gordie played harmonica next to Sylvie, who was singing a song in Spanish. Of course perfect Sylvie spoke Spanish.
I sent a recording of the beautiful moment to Val with the caption Mucho barfo.
Val texted back immediately: Jealous?
Maybe I was a little jealous of Sylvie. The night wasn’t nearly as magical as our first night at Speakeasy. But the energy of the room crept up through my soul and pulled me into the swarm of thumping, moving, gyrating bodies. It was only when Gordie called Keith up so the whole room could sing “Happy Birthday” that I noticed the smile on Sylvie’s face droop ever so slightly. Part of me wondered if it was because Keith had grabbed the mic and was telling everyone about the Woody’s Ice Cream hat Sadie had bought him.
When we were all standing around Gordie’s car, waiting for David to find Keith and Zoe, who, according to David, were definitely making out, Gordie whispered something to Jean.
“Why are you whispering?” Alice said. “That’s rude.”
“Can’t we have any guy things?” Gordie said. “You’re like my mom.”
“If you must know, he asked me if I got any chicks’ numbers. And I did not, because I’m into Umi.”
“Wow. This chick must be pretty special,” Gordie said.
“Can you stop saying chick? You sound ridiculous,” I said.
“Oh, okay, Political Correction Officer.”
“Umi gets me to the core,” Jean randomly announced.
“Dreamy,” Alice said as David, Keith, and Zoe came from behind Speakeasy.
“Were you right, David?” Alice winked. He nodded and rolled his eyes.
When I got home, I collapsed onto my bed fully dressed and still damp with sweat. I played with Flopper’s whiskers, fell into a deep sleep, and didn’t wake until Mom flicked me with her clawlike nails and threatened a ten o’clock curfew if I couldn’t get myself up for work.
EIGHTEEN
JEAN’S CAR FLEW into the farm stand parking lot so quickly adrenaline shot through me. It ushered in a flood of images: the sedan, the baby’s cries, my head crashing down on the toolbox.
“What the hell, Jean? You can’t drive like that,” I yelled when he flung open his dented car door.
He ignored me. “Why do you never check your damn phone?”
I motioned toward the truck of crates I was helping unload behind the farm stand. “Uh. I’m working.”
“Sadie, the cops busted the trap house.”
“Wait. What?”
“Yeah, I got a news alert and I rushed over there. They have the whole property taped off. There are, like, twenty patrol cars—unmarked cars, DEA, I think.”
I was shocked.
“I can’t believe they took our note seriously. Do you even know how amazing this is?” I shoved Jean.
“Who knows if it was the note? Maybe the cops were watching that house for a while.”
“Whatever. It’s done. They busted that awful place,” I said, grabbing Jean’s hand.
I had missed dozens of texts.
Take that, you soulless lizards, Val texted.
Did they nab Hector? Alice texted.
We had no idea.
That night, Mom and Dad had the news on in the background. They didn’t even notice the news lady standing in front of the Westhampton rental house, her back to the yellow police tape. Hers was the headline story about how the East End task force and multiple other agencies had worked in tandem to take down the psychiatrist turned drug lord. The news liked that angle.
I hummed with adrenaline, attached to the newsfeed on my phone, as I spent the night on the porch with my parents and the neighbors.
“Oh, Dad, I have a cute picture to show you.” I grabbed my bag from the front hall table and riffled around for the Izzy picture. “Look, it’s Alice when she was little. She’s with her friend Izzy. And look who’s smiling in the background.”
Dad studied the photo. “Well, I’ll be damned. I had a lot more hair back then.”
“You’re not balding, Woody,” Mom said, looking at the picture.
“No, but it’s thinning. Look how thick it was. That was before the new truck.”
I almost told them Alice’s best friend was mixed up in drugs and that she was supposedly healing in her perfectly appointed house. I would have told them the light version of the story and left out the part about me risking my life to go into a trap house. But even the light version was too heavy for my parents. I didn’t want them to think I was going to get mixed up in drugs, or that Alice was, in some way, a bad influence.
Alice texted us, Almost time for eleven o’clock news. Somebody watch channel seven. Want to see if they give Hector’s name.
I went inside and sat in front of the TV, mindlessly overeating salted almonds while the newspeople reported on a massive fire in an abandoned lot. How is this nonsense news? Jean texted.
The headline popped up before they showed the video of the heroin house. FORMER NEW YORK PSYCHIATRIST ARRESTED IN MASSIVE EAST END DRUG BUST. There was nothing about the drug dealer known as Hector. There was nothing about the people rotting away in that house, or their festering scabs.
Fuck the news, Alice texted. Hector slipped away like the slimy piece-of-shit worm that he is.
I’m thinking of signing onto all our anti-trolling sites with our avatar, like streamlining, taking it to the next level, Gordie texted.