I stay in the journalism room after school lets out to work on my articles, spreading the responses from Vlad and Marisabel out on the table next to my computer.
Full name: Vladimir Roman SmithsonAge: The common age for one at this schoolHow many brothers and sisters do you have? What are their ages? Seven. Deceased.Favorite Color: GrayFavorite Animal: WolfFavorite Hangout: This is a stupid question.What are the top five songs on your playlist? This is a nonsensical question.Scar you're most proud of and where it came from? Left arm, swordfight with my father.If you were a car, what car would you be and why? I am not a car, nor do I wish to be one.If you could only have one book on a deserted island, what would it be? The Prince and The Lost Daughter.When you were little, who was your favorite superhero? Casanova.Are you a morning or night person? Night.What's the weirdest thing you eat at home? No comment.What is the greatest problem in the United States? Elitist groups.What one word would you put on your gravestone? Impossible.What do people like best about you? Whatever I tell them to like.
These bogus answers hardly seem worth the trouble, not to mention that I didn't ask the dumbface what two books he'd take to a desert island. Marisabel's are even worse. She answered most of the questions with "I don't know" and the rest with doodled flowers. That's it, I think, crumpling the pages into one tiny ball of suck. I'm done banging my head against this stone wall; I don't care if I have to begin my article, "Vlad likes three things: fencing, himself, and killing off his siblings." I don't care if I have to lie and-oops-report that Vlad likes finger painting with dolphin blood in his spare time. We're now entering full investigative mode.
I spend the next few hours tweaking my data, fleshing out Vlad's non-answers with anything I've heard floating around the hallways, not caring at this point how accurate this information is. By the time I look up from my computer, it's already a quarter to six, so I shut down my documents and head to the front exit. The sun is still bright enough that the windshields of the few remaining cars in the lot wink light back at me. One of them is Vlad's Hummer, its shadowy bulk looming behind my Jeep like a closet monster.
I've got ten minutes before James is set to show up-time to figure out who these people are, once and for all. After checking to make sure that the parking lot is deserted, I peer through the Hummer's windows, but the tinting means I can't see anything except for the light shining in from the opposite side. I tug at the handle in frustration, astonished when the door pops open. Unlocked. An invitation to snoop.
The first thing I find is a shopping bag full of clothes with the security tags still attached; some of them have rips down the side as though someone had tugged too hard while trying to remove them. Whatever else they might be, they're definitely A-plus shoplifters, but that still doesn't tell me enough. I need names; I need dates; I need anything that could pass as a cold, hard fact. I shove the dresses and pants back in the bag and check the glove compartment, but it's empty; there's not even a car registration.
I move to the back, cursing when the movement causes the heavy door to creak shut behind me. I find a week's worth of unfinished worksheets on the floor and a small cooler nestled behind the driver's seat. I've hardly seen any of them eat lunch, so it's odd that they'd be packing snacks. I wrestle off the top, but it's empty.
"Who's with me?" says a dim voice. Vlad's voice.
My blood turns to ice. I hit the ground and lie as flat as possible, praying that the tinted windows and large seats will shield me from view. There's the scrape of feet against gravel and the soft thud of someone leaning against the car only inches from my head.
"The more we stand outside in the light, the worse it will be," Neville says impatiently, his voice vibrating through the metal behind me and making it hum.
"The car stays here as long as I do. Crack a window and wait in the vehicle or walk home. You choose."
My breath hitches. Don't wait in the car. Please, don't wait in the car.
"We'll walk," Neville says, and I almost choke on the relief. "This is not wise. Especially if you think you are close."
"Close?" Vlad gives a short, strangled laugh. "Hardly. At this point we are close to starting over."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Vlad says darkly, "I chose incorrectly. It's not Caroline."
A weighty silence surrounds the Hummer on all sides. Caroline's not what? The girl of his dreams? America's Next Top Mob Member?
"Not her?" Neville says, and unlike Vlad, his voice is downright chipper. "Well, then perhaps this is the perfect time to rethink what we're doing here. I, for one, think that you might be better off forgetting the Danae and staying here. People seem to rather like you," he says, "and there are so many things to do. Do you know that there is a club devoted entirely to the creation of little walking machines that fight one another? Amazing. I'm almost tempted to-"
A growl splits the air. The car tips from the force of someone being slammed against it, and the movement causes the passenger-side door to creak open. If anyone walks around to the other side, they will see me. I tuck my feet as close to my body as possible and bite my tongue to stay silent.
"I apologize if I gave the impression that this is a group decision," Vlad says with threatening precision. "We are not here to join organizations or socialize with lonely girls in the washroom. If I find that you are doing so, you will be out. And I would like to see you all take care of yourself, I really-"
He stops sharply when the car starts to ding, warning that there is an open door. Oh God. Blood rushes into my ears, thrumming so loudly that for second I don't hear anything. I look up, but all I can see is the swirl of Neville's reddish hair pressed against the window.
"What is that?" Vlad asks.
"It is the Humdinger. Violet left the door ajar again," Neville says. The car rocks as he pushes away from Vlad and walks around the back. I'm trying to think of excuses, but my mind goes blank as he pulls open the door enough to shut it. I can see his arm up to the elbow, the tattoo on his forearm standing out in stark relief to his pale skin. If he moves forward three more inches, I'm done for.
"Oh, I do not care about the Danae, or the girl, or this horrible place!" says a tremulous voice that I recognize as Violet's. I look at Neville's tattoo, the central "D" staring at me like an ominous eye. "D." Danae. It's a possibility. Now I just have to get out of here.
"I am sorry that I left the door open," Violet continues, "but it has been such a horrific day and I would very much like to go home."
Neville shuts the door without looking inside. "Then let's go."
There's a lull, and then the fading crunch of gravel as they walk away.
"Where were we?" Vlad says smoothly when we can no longer hear anything. "Ah yes, into the woods."
The foliage crashes as several people plunge into the trees, followed by the snapping of twigs. I wait for all sounds to cease before screwing up enough courage to sit up and check that the coast is clear. When it is, I scramble out of the car and gulp down the fresh air. Leaning against the bumper of my Jeep, I try to process what I've overheard. A quick check of my watch tells me that it's 6:05. James is late, and to be completely honest, I'm a little iffy now about giving him a ride home. I should peel out of here now, grateful that I've survived one close call.
I should.
Before I have time to second-guess myself, I step into the brush. Midwestern woods are many things, but scary is not one of them-they're about as intimidating as your grandmother's afghan. The predominance of pine trees gives them a nice scent, and even though that means you come out able to freshen a car, it's nice not to worry about big, slavering animals that want to chew on your face. That's why I'm caught off guard by the sudden chill that eclipses me the second I move out of the evening sun. The trees are top heavy enough to smother most of the evening light, casting their thick trunks into gloom.
Voices echo in front of me. "Ingrate" cuts through the murmur, and I stop-individual words mean that I'm too close. We walk this way until the pale orange light shining out of the leaves in front of me suggests that they've reached the central clearing. I stretch my ears as far as they will go. When it sounds like Vlad is no longer moving, I crouch behind the largest bush I can find, located about ten feet to the left of the makeshift trail. Trying not to make any noise, I peer through the branches.
Vlad is pacing back and forth, pausing every so often to kick at rocks and twigs on the ground. "Can you believe him?" he seethes. "He said that he wanted to help, and then what do I hear today? Maybe I should forget about the Danae and stay here because people like me, as if that is so difficult to believe."
"I told you from the beginning that I thought he was weird," Marisabel says from where she's stretched across a pitted picnic table.
"And I told you it was fine!" Vlad snaps.
Marisabel just shrugs, rolling on her back to stare up at an open copy of Twilight. Her long brown hair cascades over the edge. It sways as she shakes her head back and forth.
"This is not right at all," she says. "Edward is dreamy, though. Maybe you could get some tips."
"Oh, could I?" Vlad asks, playful, before stalking into view and twisting the book out of her hands. Pages flapping, it sails over her head and crashes into the trees behind her.