I can’t keep up with his pace and, for a minute, I stop trying. “I know where it came from,” I call after him. “I need you to tell me how you got it.”
“And I need you to forget that I even exist.” Without slowing down he turns around and keeps walking in that unique, boulder-busting way of his. I scramble after him like a mini dog desperately trying to catch up.
He slows for a couple of high fives with some of his basketball pals and a fist bump with the yearbook photographer. For her he pauses and strikes a casual pose. She complies by shooting his photo. I hang back, waiting until the last second to lunge forward so I don’t photobomb him.
I’m ready to beg.
“I get it. I seriously do. I don’t know how that strip of fabric got in your van, but I can tell you it came from a very dangerous person. It’s really important for us to talk. It’s probably even a matter of life and death. And I promise, no setup. Nothing bad.”
He bites the corner of his lip and glances at the basketball court. “After school?”
“Now.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what game you’re running—”
“No game.” I raise my hand and cross my heart. I’d stick my finger and make it bleed if that would convince him. “Please. Five minutes. That’s all I need.”
“Fine.” Journey’s jaw is tight. “My van.” He lightly touches my lower back to guide me through the crush of approaching students.
I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m going to say. I haven’t thought this far ahead. And now I can’t even think straight because I can feel Journey Michaels’s fingers on my back, even through the fabric of my shirt, and they are warm.
I’m surprised that Journey’s van is an old, hulking commercial vehicle the color of rust. I squint at it. Or maybe it’s not the color, it’s the condition. The passenger door squeals in protest when he opens it for me. It’s also high off the ground so getting in is a struggle. But I manage it.
While he moves around the outside, I take in the inside. This vehicle is easily ten years older than we are. There are only the two front seats, and the whole back is empty. The floor has been repaired with slats of wood that appear dry and splintery. Light streams in from small, square windows on the double back doors. The gap between my seat and the driver’s seat is huge. If the giant stick-shift column jutting out of the floor wasn’t in the way, I could fit a table in here between us.
After a second, Journey opens the driver’s door and gets in. He turns sideways on the seat, sliding his feet and legs into the area where the gearshift is located. I shift sideways in my seat, too. Now we’re facing each other, our knees only a few inches apart. The combined smell of his soap and sweat wafts toward me as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I inhale deeply without trying to be obvious.
“Okay,” he says. “Get to it.”
“I’m going to ask you again, just tell me the truth. Okay? I won’t freak out.”
He keeps a wary gaze on me. “This better not have anything to do with me going to jail.”
“Did you sneak into my bedroom last night?”
He scrambles for the door handle. “That’s it. I’m not down for some crazy setup.” I grab his arm to keep him from bailing out of the van.
“Just answer me. Yes or no!”
“No!” He practically screams it. “What do you think? I don’t want to be anywhere near you right now. And I certainly wouldn’t risk going into your bedroom. I don’t even know you. Are you insane?” He yanks his arm out of my grasp.
“Fine. I believe you. Don’t go.”
He pauses but keeps his hand on the door handle.
“What were you doing at Miss Peters’s?” I ask.
He throws his head back. “I want to hear your side of things first.”
Just the two of us in this intimate space is intense. I struggle to get my thoughts in order. But I’m distracted by things I didn’t know. Like how his lashes and eyebrows form a dark frame around light gray eyes which are the color of steel.
“Right. Okay. That’s fair.” I grope for words. “I went there to drop something off. She knew I was coming.”
“Me, too.” I can tell from his tone that he finds this odd.
“What were you dropping off?”
“You first,” he says.
I shake my head. “No, you this time.”
“A toothbrush. Okay? I was dropping off a toothbrush.” He indicates that it’s my turn.
“Cigarette butts, coffee cup, and a bloody towel.”
At exactly the same time, we point at each other and say, “DNA.”
“Geez, was Miss Peters trying to make a career out of DNA, or what?”
“She didn’t tell you her plan? She has … well, had a degree in forensic chemistry. She was trying to get the school and the police department to pool their resources and share a forensics lab to handle both classes and crime.” There’s no mistaking Journey’s sadness. He misses her as much as I do.
“I only knew about the class.”