Harlan Coben: Shelter

I hadn’t talked to her privately yet. I hadn’t talked to any of my teachers outside of class. I’d kept to myself. That was my way. I know I got “new kid” stares. One day, a group of girls were giggling in my direction. One came up to me and said, “Can I, like, have your phone number?”

Confused, I gave it to her.

Five minutes later I heard giggling and my phone vibrated. The text read: My friend thinks you’re cute.I didn’t respond.

After class, I approached Mrs. Friedman.

“Ah, Mr. Bolitar,” Mrs. Friedman said with a smile that lit up her face. “I’m glad to have you in my class.”

I wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so I went with, “Uh, thank you.”

“I never had your father,” she said, “but your uncle was one of my favorite students. You resemble him.”

My uncle. The great Myron Bolitar. I didn’t like my uncle and was really tired of hearing how swell he was. My father and my uncle were very close growing up, but then they had a major falling-out. For the last fifteen years of my dad’s life-basically from the moment I was conceived to the moment he died-the two brothers hadn’t spoken. I guess I should forgive Uncle Myron, but I’m not much in the mood.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bolitar?”

When some teachers call you Mister or Miz, it comes across as either patronizing or too formal. Mrs. Friedman hit the right note.

“As you probably know,” I said slowly, “Ashley Kent has been absent.”

“And so she has.” Mrs. Friedman was a short woman and it took some effort for her to look all the way up at me. “You two are close.”

“We’re friends.”

“Oh, come, Mr. Bolitar. I may be old, but I see the way you look at her. Even Ms. Caldwell is upset she isn’t catching your eye.”

I reddened when she said this. Rachel Caldwell was probably the hottest girl in the school.

“Anyway,” I said, dragging out the word, “I was thinking maybe I could help her out.”

“Help her out how?”

“I thought maybe I could get her homework and then, you know, pass it on to her.”

Mrs. Friedman had been cleaning off the blackboard. Most teachers used a Smart Board, but as Mrs. Friedman liked to joke, she was “old-school-literally.” She stopped and looked at me. “Did Ashley ask you to get her homework?”

“Well, no.”

“So you just took it upon yourself?”

This was a dumb idea. Even if she did give me the homework, where would I bring it? I didn’t know where Ashley lived. “Never mind,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

She put down the eraser. “Mr. Bolitar?”

I turned back to her.

“Do you know why Ashley Kent has been absent?”

My heart started doing a slow thud. “No, ma’am.”

“But you’re worried.”

I didn’t see any point in lying to her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“She hasn’t called you?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“Strange.” Mrs. Friedman frowned. “All I can tell you is that I got a note saying that I shouldn’t expect Ashley back.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“That’s all I know,” Mrs. Friedman said. “I guess she moved away. But…”

Her voice trailed off.

“But what?”

“Never mind, Mr. Bolitar.” She started wiping the blackboard again. “Just… just be careful.”

At lunchtime I waited on line at the cafeteria.

I always figured that there would be more drama to a high school cafeteria. Yes, it was full of cliques. The jocks here were called “Lax Bros” (Lacrosse Brothers). They all had long hair, big muscles, and started every sentence with the word Yah . There was a table for the “Animes”-white kids who think they’re Asian. They loved manga comics and video games that matched. The pretty girls weren’t so much pretty as skinny with too-high heels and expensive clothes. Then there were the gamers, the hipsters, the skaters, the druggies, the geeks, the theater kids.

There didn’t seem to be much class warfare here. These kids had been together for so long that they didn’t really notice. The so-called outcasts who sat alone had been sitting alone for so many years that it wasn’t so much cruelty as habit. I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

A kid who would definitely fit into the geek camp came up to me with a tray in his hand. His pant cuffs were set at flood level. His sneakers were pure white with no logo.

He pushed up his Harry Potter glasses and lifted his tray in my direction.

“Hey, you want my spoon?” he asked me. “I barely used it.”

I looked at the tray. “Barely?”

“Yeah.”

He raised the tray a little higher so I could see. The spoon sat in his syrupy fruit cup.

“No,” I said, “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Are they out of spoons or something?”

“Nah. They got plenty.”

Oookay. “Then thanks, no, I’m good.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

When I finished buying lunch, Spoon-that was how I thought of him now-was waiting for me.

“Where you going to sit?” he asked.

Since Ashley had vanished, I’d been eating alone outside. “I’m not sure.”

Spoon started to follow me. “You’re big and you keep to yourself. Like Shrek.”

Not much to say to that.

“I could be your Donkey. You know?”

Oookay. If I went outside, he’d follow, so I looked for a safe place inside to sit.

“Or your Robin. Like Batman and Robin. Or Sancho Panza. You ever read Don Quixote ? Me neither, but I saw the musical Man of La Mancha . I love musicals. So does my dad. My mom, not so much. She likes cage fighting, like the MMA. That’s Mixed Martial Arts. Dad and me, we go to a musical once a month. Do you like musicals?”

“Sure,” I said, scanning the cafeteria for a safe haven.

“My dad’s cool like that. Taking me to musicals and stuff. We’ve seen Mamma Mia three times. It’s awesome. The movie, not so much. I mean, Pierce Brosnan sings like someone shot him in the throat with an arrow. Dad gets discount tickets because he works at the school. He’s the janitor here. But don’t ask him to give you access to the girls’ locker room, okay? Because I asked and he said no dice. Dad can be strict like that, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

There was a nearly empty table in the so-called outcast corner. The only person sitting there was my unappreciative damsel in distress-Ema or Emma-I still hadn’t learned her name.

“So about being your Donkey?”

“I’ll get back to you,” I told Spoon.

I hurried over and put my tray next to hers. She had the heavy black makeup thing going on, shoe-polish black hair, black clothes, black boots, pale skin. She was goth or emo or whatever they called that look now. Tattoos covered her forearms. One snaked up her shirt and around her neck. She looked up at me with a face that could not look more sullen without actually being punched.

“Oh, great,” she said. “The pity sit.”

“Pity sit?”

“Think about it.”

I did. I had never heard that one before. “Oh, I get it. Like I pity you for sitting alone. So I sit with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “And here I pegged you for a dumb jock.”

“I’m trying to be a Renaissance man.”

“You have Mrs. Friedman too, I see.” She looked to her left, then her right. “Where’s your preppy girlfriend?”

“I don’t know.”

“So from sitting with the prissy pretty girl to sitting with me.” Ema/Emma shook her head. “Talk about a big step down.”

I was getting tired of thinking of her as Ema/Emma. “What’s your name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I heard a kid call you Ema. I heard Ms. Owens call you Emma.”