Todd Strasser - Blood on my hands

I’m in the middle of trying to figure out the answer when the phone vibrates again. Thinking it’s another text from Dakota, I flip it open. But it’s not a text; it’s a call from “unknown.” I nervously lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Callie?” It’s a male voice.

“Yes?”

“Hey, it’s Jerry.”

“Oh, hi!” That’s a relief. For a moment I thought maybe it was Dakota purposefully calling from a different phone so I wouldn’t think it was her.

“So listen, I just wanted to see how the phone’s been working,” he says.

“It’s working fine, Jerry. Thanks for checking. And thanks again so much for helping me.”

“No prob. So, uh… you okay? Need anything?”

I’m just about to tell him that I’m as well as can be expected when I realize that’s not true. “Actually, there is something I need. I’m out of money and I’m scared that if I use my ATM card, I’ll give the police another way to track me. I hate asking you, but could you lend me some? I promise I’ll pay you back.”

Jerry laughs. “Are you kidding? Of course. You want to meet somewhere?”

I almost agree when I catch myself. Jerry leave his house? Why would he risk being caught helping me? Isn’t it strange how a few moments ago Dakota agreed to meet me and now Jerry calls and agrees to do the same thing? The third of Slade’s three P s pops into my head-paranoia. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Jerry. If anyone sees you with me, or we get caught, you could get into really big trouble. I think it would be a lot smarter if you just leave the money for me somewhere and I come and get it.”

There’s a pause. Then Jerry says, “Uh, well, uh, hey, listen, can I call you right back?”

“Okay…”

He’s off the line and now I can’t help feeling even more paranoid. What just happened seems odd. Like he had to check with someone else before answering me.

When the phone rings a few moments later, I almost don’t answer. Then I do. “Hey, okay,” Jerry says. “I got an idea. You know the warming room at the train station? There’s an old bookcase there. People leave books after they finish them. I’ll leave the money for you this afternoon in the last book on the first shelf, okay?”

I would feel grateful to him were it not for my suspicion that something isn’t right. Still, I know I have to pretend. “Thank you, Jerry. You’re such a sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Hey, no prob. So I’ll probably get over to the station around three. You can pick it up anytime after that. But I wouldn’t wait too long, you know? Someone might come by looking for a book to read and get a big surprise.”

I pretend to laugh at the thought of someone picking up a used book and finding money inside.

“In fact, do me a favor, okay?” he goes on. “Send me a text after you get it. Just so I know?”

I tell him I will.

“Promise?”

“Yes, Jerry, I promise. And really, thanks so much.” I close the cell phone. The more I think about it, the stranger it all seems. Jerry leave his cave voluntarily? He’s going to touch a used book that who knows how many germy hands have held? No way. Not in this lifetime.

And now I realize something else. Dakota asked where I wanted to meet and I didn’t answer. She hasn’t followed up. Or has she, by getting Jerry involved?

Two nights after school began, my phone rang. The number came up as private. After staring uncertainly at it for a moment, I decided to answer.

“Hi.” It was Dakota.

“Oh, hi,” I said, surprised.

“So what’s up?” she asked.

“Oh, well, nothing, except, you know, everything,” I said. “I mean, how come you’re not sitting with us anymore?”

“What does Katherine say?” she asked.

“You know her. She never says anything.”

“Has anyone asked her?”

“Not when I was around

What do they say when she’s not around?”

It never ceased to amaze me how certain she and Katherine were that everyone talked about them. “Everyone’s just wondering what happened.”

“And you’re sure Katherine hasn’t said anything?”

“Not to me.”

There was a short pause and then she said, “Have you spoken to Slade?”

It didn’t feel like we were having a conversation. Rather, it felt like she was running down a prepared list of questions.

“No,” I answered.

There was another short silence, then that brief blank sound when another call is coming in. “It’s my mom,” Dakota said. “Talk to you later.”

“Do you think I’m sexy?”

“Sure.”

“You’re going to do what I want you to do?”

“I said I would, and I will.”

“Good, because I did what I said I’d do.”

Tuesday 4:32 P.M.

A HUNDRED YARDS south of the train station, a bridge goes over the railroad tracks. That afternoon around four thirty, I ride toward the bridge on Alyssa Lamont’s old pink bicycle. I have the lollipop in my mouth and I’m wearing the candy-cane framed glasses and pink baseball cap. I stop on the sidewalk at the middle of the bridge and look toward the station. On both sides of the tracks are long flat platforms. On the platform on the left side is the glass-enclosed warming room.

People stand on both platforms-nannies, laborers, men and women in business clothes with briefcases, and teenagers with backpacks filled with books. A southbound train pulls into the station. People get on and off, and a few moments later, the train leaves. But strangely, two men, one at either end of the platform, don’t get on the train, nor are they now exiting the platform. They just stand there as if they’re waiting for another train. One reads a folded newspaper. The other appears to be fiddling with an iPod.

A few minutes later, the same thing happens on the northbound platform. A train pulls in, people get on and off. But when the train departs, there’s still a woman on the far end of the platform and a man on the near end.

I wait and watch. It is nearly rush hour and not long before more trains come and go and more people get on and off. But those four people remain.

There was another change at the table. Katherine turned cool to me. Once again I felt like I was out of the loop. I felt confused and uncertain of what to do. But this time I wasn’t as eager to find out why she was acting that way. I was still bothered by and unsure about what had happened at the party the night before school had begun.

Mia still came to the table at lunch, but she no longer asked whether anyone had plans or wanted to do something with her after school. She would just sit there quietly, trying to act like she didn’t care.

Most of the girls at our table ate salads or brought yogurt and fruit or vegetables from home. Everyone agreed the school food was gross. The exception was Mia, who bought a school lunch each day and clearly enjoyed pasta and pizza and fries, as well as ice cream, pudding, or cake for dessert. One day at lunch, I noticed that Katherine had a frown on her face. She was staring at Mia, who, somewhat obliviously, was sliding her finger around the inside of a plastic container, collecting the very last traces of chocolate pudding, then sticking her finger in her mouth and licking it clean.

When Mia got up to return her tray to the kitchen, Katherine immediately turned to me. “Tell that fat pig that she’s no longer sitting at this table.”

The cheerful mood around the table vanished. Everyone went silent. Mia might not have been skinny, but she hardly qualified as fat. “Why?” I asked.

“Because she’s disgusting and the way she eats is gross.”