I Know You Remember Page 9

  Thoughts of Seb Collins disappear, though, when I get up to find Ingrid. Because she’s sitting at a small round table, right in between Tabitha and Marcus.

  “How do you know Seb?” Ingrid asks as I slide in next to her.

  “I used to live next door to him,” I say, swallowing my own question about why she’s sitting here with Zahra’s friends instead of with her own. She made no bones about the fact that she didn’t much care for Tabitha last night.

  Tabitha’s wearing oversize black shades and is picking at the corner of an energy bar. When I lean toward her I catch a faint whiff of alcohol, and I’m not sure if it’s coming from her water bottle or if it’s just last night’s excess leaving her pores. On the other side of Ingrid, Marcus is busy looking at his phone.

  The pained silence speaks volumes about how welcome Ingrid and I are at this table.

  God, this lunch period is nothing if not proof that I’m not the only awkward person in the world.

  “How’re you feeling today, Tabitha?” I ask politely.

  She takes a swig from her water bottle. “Never better,” she says. “But I’m sorry you got so fucked up, Ruthless. I didn’t know your tolerance was that low.”

  Ah. We’re back to passive-aggressive digs, in the cold sober light of day.

  “You were pretty out of it yourself last night,” Ingrid says cheerfully. “I’m glad to see you’re hydrating, though. Binge drinking can be so hard on the skin. You want to get that moisture back in there.”

  Marcus mouths holy shit in my direction. Neither Tabitha nor Ingrid seem to notice.

  “Anyway,” I say loudly. “I still have your suit. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” She might be looking at me, but I can’t tell; the shades are so dark.

  I think about the night before—the sketchbook in Tabitha’s bedroom, filled with studies of Ben. Think about the casual way she hopped from guy to guy in the hot tub, like they were interchangeable. Had she hooked up with Ben the same way? Or had it been a crush, unrequited and unfulfilled? I look down at the table and pretend to study my fingers, but I let my eyes flick toward her.

  “Have you heard anything new about Zahra?” Ingrid asks.

  Tabitha just gives a sullen shrug, but Marcus shakes his head. “No. But at least they got the story up on the news. I was kind of worried they wouldn’t. Black girls don’t always get good press.”

  An awkward silence falls over the table. Ingrid and I look at each other, our eyes round. Tabitha just smirks and sips from her Gatorade.

  He’s right. I’d never thought of it like that, but he’s right.

  “I’m glad someone in the newsroom gives a shit, I guess,” I finally say. Ingrid nods fervently.

  “So what did Ben say last night?” I ask. “About Zahra, I mean?”

  “We didn’t talk about it,” Tabitha says. She takes off her shades and squints blearily across the table. “Her, I mean. We didn’t talk about her. I was a little indisposed. Ben just hung out and made sure I didn’t die of alcohol poisoning.”

  “We talked a little,” Marcus says. “He’s pretty pissed. The cops had him in the station for, like, nine hours yesterday. But I guess he’s got a really good lawyer, so . . .”

  I blink with surprise. “That was fast.”

  “Well, yeah.” Tabitha takes another sip from her drink. “He’s not a moron. You don’t talk to the cops without a lawyer.”

  I nod slowly, but I can’t help but wonder about that. I get being calm in a crisis—I’m sure there are people creeped out by my calm in the wake of Mom’s death. But it feels like another level entirely to think immediately about hiring a lawyer before you’re technically even a suspect. And what does Marcus mean, Ben was “pissed”? That’s not how I’d expect someone worried about their ex to react.

  “I heard they were fighting about another boy,” Ingrid says suddenly.

  A flush spreads across Tabitha’s forehead.

  “Hi, do you even know Ben?” she asks. “What do you even care?”

  I hold my breath for a moment, cutting my eyes back at Ingrid. She doesn’t seem fazed.

  “I don’t know him well,” she says. “I mean, I know who he is. But Sophie Advincula told me Ben accused her of cheating.”

  Now we’re all looking at Ingrid. Tabitha’s expression hasn’t changed, but her cheeks are steadily darkening. It gives the impression of a soda bottle being shaken, the fizz mounting but the cap still firmly on.

  “I don’t even know who that is,” Tabitha says with forced calm. “So I don’t know how she’s supposed to know something I don’t.”

  “She was at the party last Friday,” Ingrid says. I’m starting to see something beneath the veneer of sweetness and light. She may be sincere, but she’s also relentless. “Anyway, she also said Ben called Zahra some really bad names.”

  Tabitha’s lip coils like a rearing snake. That’s when I know it’s true. Ben broke up with Zahra because he thought she was cheating—and Tabitha knows it.

  “Oh, bad names? God forbid,” she sneers. “Grow the fuck up, Ingrid.”

  Ingrid just gives a little shrug. “I’m just saying, it’s probably good he got a lawyer.”

  Before Tabitha has a chance to answer, someone slides in next to me on the bench. It’s Jeremy, a paper McDonald’s bag clenched in his fist.

  And with him is Ben, squeezing in on the other side, right between Tabitha and Jeremy.

  My lungs clench, the air suddenly too heavy to breathe. I squeeze over as far as I can, dizzy with nerves. Neither Jeremy nor Ben seems to notice the tension at the table.

  Jeremy looks around at us all. “I know, I know, fast food at peak running season. But French fries are God’s own hangover cure.”

  No one answers. Next to him Ben’s in the process of unwrapping a Big Mac, silent and efficient.

  “And no, I didn’t invite you, Tabitha, because you always nag,” Jeremy goes on. “Not all of us can live off PowerBars and . . .”

  He trails off, looking around the table. “Uh. What’s up? Was there some kind of news?”

  “No,” Marcus says quickly, glancing at Ben. “Nope. No news.”

  I glance at Ingrid. Is she ballsy enough to say anything to Ben’s face? But she just smiles.

  “Hey, Ben,” she says. “Thanks again for looking out for Ruthie last night.”

  Ben glances up at Ingrid, then looks at me. “Sure,” he says. His voice is low and quiet, but not unfriendly.

  I expect him to say something more, to acknowledge the tension at the table. To ask a question. But he doesn’t. He just smears some ketchup on his burger, puts the bun back, and takes a large and eager bite, as if everything were completely normal.

  What happened that night? And how many people know about it? I pick at the rest of my food, listening as the conversation dies out and the rest of the table eats in silence. It’s clear that I’m not going to get the truth from Ben’s friends.

  Which means I’m going to have to find out for myself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON I DRIVE back to school just before five. The building is mostly dark, but the athletic center—the wing of the school with the gyms, the pool, the locker rooms, and all the equipment—still blazes bright. I find a parking spot near the glass entryway, and wait.

  All the fall sports teams are wrapping up for the night. From where I’m parked I can see the football team heading toward the glass doors, lugging tackling dummies and other equipment behind them. Kids in swim team letter jackets come out, hair slicked and wet. The lights over the courts are still bright as the tennis team’s coach delivers a final lecture before dismissing them for the night.

  And there, stepping out of the darkness, come the runners.

  They practice on the trails. On that same arterial network where I rode my bike l
ast night—on the same network that swallowed Zahra up into its darkness a little less than a week ago. The cross-country team emerges from the woods like ghosts springing out of the ether, invisible one moment and there the next. I recognize most of them by now—the girl with the hoops, a few boys from the hot tub, their bodies slumped with exhaustion. Their breath billows and steams away from them. I watch as some of them make their way to the school—to shower, probably—while others go directly to their cars.

  The four of them come last. Tabitha, Jeremy, Marcus, and Ben. Ben has an arm around Tabitha’s shoulders. I can’t quite make out their expressions. But they wouldn’t be hooking up just days after Zahra’s disappearance, even if Ben and Zahra did break up.

  Right?

  They stand in front of the door for a few minutes, talking. Marcus and Jeremy break away first, heading into the school with a wave. Tabitha and Ben stand another moment, his arm still around her shoulder. Then they hug—a long, lingering hug.

  The light appears between them again as their bodies separate. And then he turns and walks out into the parking lot. I sink down low in my seat as he passes near my car and watch his progress in my rearview mirror. He stops and talks to a football player for a second. A little further on, a few girls in cheerleader’s uniforms run toward him, one throwing her arms around him. I’m sure they’re all talking about Zahra. I’d bet anything some of these kids are the same ones spreading rumors, talking about the fight he had with Zahra, all but accusing him behind his back. But to his face, they’re all camaraderie and fist bumps.

  Finally, he makes it to a truck parked back near the entrance. I watch as he climbs in and starts it up. I wait until he’s already pulled out of the lot before I follow.

  I look around one more time, and am not surprised to see Tabitha, still standing in the doorway, still watching him.

  * * *

  —

  THE STREETS ARE CHOKED with rush hour traffic, a smear of red brake lights across my windshield. Ben is easy to tail. The truck sits tall in traffic, and his muffler desperately needs a tune-up. I’m so busy watching him I almost drift into the other lane. Someone lays on their horn and I correct, my heart beating out a frantic tattoo. Crap. I duck down as low as I can in the driver’s seat, praying he doesn’t see me.

  If he does, he doesn’t let on. Maybe a quarter mile down the road from the school, he turns left at a light.

  The subdivision is full of tidy little houses, most of them older. In the dark I can mostly only see the bright lights in the windows—kitchens framed with eyelet lace, living rooms with the news flickering on the TV. I trail a few blocks behind Ben’s truck, marking his turns. It’s not even a full minute before I see him pull into a driveway. I park a few houses down against the curb and watch.

  It’s a boxy red house with a wheelchair ramp at the front door and hanging baskets of flowers under the eaves. A yellow porch light illuminates a handmade wooden sign that says PEAVY. Ben gets out of his truck and heads up to the front door, letting himself in.

  I sit there for maybe ten minutes. My fingers start to seize up in the cold; I huddle further into my coat, pull my hood up over my ears. I’m not sure what I think I’m going to discover, watching the exterior of his house. For a second I think about giving up and going home. Ben’s probably in for the night anyway—taking a shower and eating dinner and starting homework and texting friends, doing all the normal after-school stuff.

  Then I think about the blood on his shoe, and my jaw tightens.

  I have to learn more about him, and I’m not going to get answers from his friends. This might be the only way to find out who Ben Peavy really is.

  Then his front door opens again, and I duck low in my seat.

  He steps out, carrying an armful of uneven packages, wrapped up in white paper. He throws them into the back of his truck. Then he climbs in the driver’s seat and turns the engine.

  My eyes dart down the street after him. Then, too curious to stop myself, I follow.

  He steers past the small-craft airport, past the hospital. Down a dingy commercial street and into a neighborhood of cheap apartments and boxy, vinyl-sided houses. He finally pulls up to one; in the dark I can’t make out much besides a metal mailbox at the gate, painted to look like a leaping salmon.

  I watch as Ben gets one of the packages out of the truck. He knocks on the door in a rhythmic pattern. Knock-knock, pause, knock-knock. The door swings inward and I catch a glimpse of a woman, bundled up in an oversize sweater. From here she looks Native, her complexion almost the same as Ben’s, but I’m too far away to be sure. Ben talks to her for a moment. She nods, says something back. They both laugh. Then she goes inside and shuts the door.

  He gets back in the truck, and he’s off again. He drops off two more packages in the same neighborhood, always knocking the same way. Alarm bells are going off in my mind. What the hell kind of door-to-door delivery requires a secret knock?

  The fourth stop is a duplex with peeling gray paint. Knock-knock, pause, knock-knock. The door opens. It’s a man covered in tattoos, maybe just a few years older than we are. Ben tucks the package under his arm to fist-bump him. Then, instead of handing it over, he goes inside, still holding the package. The door shuts behind them.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, watching the door. Finally I get out of the car. I walk calmly, quietly across the street to the duplex, as if I belong there.

  The windows are covered with foil. My mom used to do the same thing—it’s the cheapest way to keep the sun out in the middle of summer so you can get some sleep. It was always kind of a ritual to take the foil down in the fall. Here, no one’s bothered, even though the days are getting shorter all the time. Broken appliances line the side of the house—an ancient washing machine, a stained toilet. I walk cautiously around the edge of the house, looking for a crack in a window.

  In the back, I find one, looking into a cramped kitchen. I stand on tiptoes, trying to see some sign of Ben and the man inside.

  Something clicks behind me. I straighten and turn. The barrel of a rifle stares back at me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “WHO THE FUCK ARE you?”

  It’s the tattooed man, the one Ben went inside with. He keeps the gun trained on me.

  I can’t take my eyes off it. Its long black muzzle, the glossy wooden stock. Distantly I’m aware I should be doing something—putting my hands up, maybe, or trying to back away, but I stand frozen and stare.

  “Hey. Hey!” Ben comes rushing around the corner then, panic pulling his eyes wide. “Solomon, man, calm down. Put that thing down, okay?”

  “The fuck you doing looking in my windows?” The guy doesn’t lower the gun at all, but he does look up at me, nostrils flaring.

  “I . . . I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t mean to. I mean . . .” I trail off. I don’t know what to say. My body feels too heavy and awkward to move, so I don’t bother.

  “She’s not spying on you,” Ben says. “She’s spying on me.”

  His voice is quiet and calm, but there’s something chilling about that. I can feel the hair on my neck arching upward. Suppressed anger is always scarier, somehow. Maybe it’s just because you’re holding your breath, waiting for it to erupt.

  “That’s right, isn’t it?” he asks. “I had a feeling about that car but I thought it was my imagination.” He jerks his head toward my car. “She thinks I did something to Zahra.”

  The guy with the gun looks confused. He looks at Ben like he’s waiting for instructions.

  Ben takes a step toward me, so our faces are just a few inches apart.

  “Just what do you think I did, anyway?” he asks softly. “What do you think you’re gonna learn, following me? What, you think I . . . I killed her and I’ll go back to the scene of the crime, or something?”

  I shake my head. My throat is tight, and I can’t seem to make myself spea
k. His eyes flash.

  “I loved her.” The words rip out of his throat, sudden and ragged and loud. “Okay? I fucking loved her more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I’d never hurt her. God, I can’t believe I feel like I have to explain myself to you. I. Loved. Her.”

  My lips tremble. Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, I think, but I can’t help myself. “Why are you using the past tense?” I ask.

  He gives a frustrated snarl, turning away to slam his fist against the side of the house. I jump back, startled.

  “You see?” he asks the other guy. “See how quick I go from being a, quote, ‘credit to my people’ to being just another fucking dirtbag Native criminal? Man, I told you.” He turns back to me. “Whatever, think what you want. You’re not the only one.”

  I swallow hard. Suddenly I feel like I’ve made a mistake. A big one—and it’s not just because I have a gun trained on me.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he says. “Stay away from me and my family, or I really will hurt someone.”

  He turns and storms back around the side of the house, leaving the man with the gun behind, looking uncertain.

  He lowers the muzzle a little, trying to save face. “You heard him,” he says. “Get gone.”

  I summon all my strength, straightening my spine. Then slowly, deliberately, I walk back to my car.

  I don’t realize how shallowly I’m breathing until I’m half a mile away, heading back to my house. I roll down the window, gulp at the fresh air. The image of that muzzle—its round darkness, its unblinking eye—is seared into my mind. I blink hard, trying to clear it out.

  Now I’ve seen Ben’s temper—seen the rage that was hard to imagine before. But I also feel a creeping sense of guilt. I hadn’t stopped to think about how scrutinized he must feel. About how unfair it is that he’s probably had to work doubly hard to get the attention a white boy would get. And how unfair it is for that admiration to be gone the moment he’s suspected of doing something wrong.