So, slight problem with that plan: I have absolutely no clue where to start.
There are over three million people in Los Angeles. The Staples Center seats twenty thousand; Dodger Stadium holds fifty-six thousand. Finding someone in L.A., especially if they don’t want to be found, is like finding a needle in a haystack. Or, as Mom would say, like bailing out a battleship with a bucket.
But I’ve promised Mom, and I’m almost certain that, if I weren’t planning to sneak out just as soon as she falls asleep, she’d be in support of my plan. In support of anything that means finding the Bible.
I set Mom up with a live stream of Fringe, Season Four—so confusing it’s sure to lull her to sleep.
“You have everything you need? A refill on the tea, maybe?” I hike my thumb toward the kitchen.
“I’m not an invalid, Indie.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You need to rest.” I take her half-empty cup to the kitchen.
“Just, maybe one more thing?” she calls to my back. And the way she says it—guiltily—lets me know she wants her cigarettes.
“Seriously?” I answer. But I’m already going to the freezer.
“Thanks, doll! I’ll quit just as soon as I’m feeling better.”
“Yeah, yeah.” A blast of cold air hits my face as I open the freezer. I grab a pack of cigarettes from the carton and pad back to the living room. “Virginia Slims? What happened to the Marlboros?”
Mom’s brows draw together. “Marlboros? What are you talking about?”
I remember the Marlboro butts in the shop’s attic, and my spine tingles.
“What, honey?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Two cups of tea and three cigarettes later, and Mom’s sawing logs.
So now I’m sitting in the front seat of the Sunfire, the engine vibrating beneath me, gripping the steering wheel as I stare at our house in the headlights.
I could trawl the area around the shop and look for Leather Jacket Guy, talk to some people, maybe see if anyone saw him or which direction he went. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. It’s a pretty solid plan, the only real plan I can see. So why can’t I move?
It definitely isn’t because I’m scared. Nope. Not possible. I’m not afraid of the dark, and it isn’t like hundreds of hoboes will jump on the hood of my car if I dare slip below fifty on Melrose at night—probably. I can handle this by myself.
But just for fun, I run through the options of friends I can enlist for help.
Bianca?
I bark a laugh. That’s a good joke. “Hey, Bianca, can you please leave this fun party to help me find my mom’s witchcraft Bible?” Yeah. Not likely.
There’s Devon.…
I remember his helpfulness tonight and groan, sinking my fingers deep into my hair. Nope, Devon is out too. None of my friends can help me. Not unless the emergency is of the fashion or hair variety.
For some weird reason, Paige flashes into my head.
Paige is a nice girl, if annoying, and she comes with the bonus that she’s not the gossiping type. Plus I bet she’s the only person in L.A. without plans on a Friday night. The more I think about it, the more it seems like a fantastic idea. Sure, some people might say I’m “using” her, but those people just don’t have the complex understanding of human behavior that I do.
I exit the car, and with a handful of pebbles collected from the edge of the driveway, scamper through the narrow space between our houses until I stare up at Paige’s bedroom window. It’s higher than I expected, and my first throw misses by a wide margin. But on my second attempt, I hear the rock tink against the glass. I throw a second pebble, and then a third, for good measure.
Then I wait, wringing my hands as I pace in the tall grass. What could be taking her so long? Is she trying to prove a point or something? Or maybe she fell asleep with her iPod headphones on. Yeah, I bet that’s it.
I cup my hands around my mouth and whisper-yell, “Paige! Paige, it’s me. Open the window.”
I lose patience when she doesn’t answer immediately, and resort to actual yelling. A light flicks on in her room, and relief floods my body. A moment later the window slides up and a familiar face peers down at me. Only it’s not Paige’s.
“Indigo, is that you? It’s after midnight. What are you doing?” Mrs. Abernathy squints down at me, her usually perfect bob pulled up in curlers on the top of her head.
I think about diving behind a bush, but it’s too late. She’s seen me. So I wave up at the confused woman leaning over the window ledge. “I’m sorry I woke you, Mrs. Abernathy. I was just trying to wake Paige up. I’m having a … a boy emergency.”
My cheeks flood with heat, and I’m glad of the dark so she can’t see the telltale signs of the lie on my face.
“Oh. Well, I’m very sorry, but Paige isn’t home.”
I blink up at her, the words not registering. “What do you mean she’s not home?”
“Paige is spending the night at a friend’s house.” The way she says it is almost like an apology, and suddenly I couldn’t feel more pathetic, standing under Paige’s window in the dark while she’s off having a good time somewhere else.
“Jessie Colburn’s?” I guess.
“Yes, that’s the one. Very sweet girl.”
“I’m sure.” Tears prick my eyes. Of course she has a friend now. Of course she has plans. What did I think, that I could push and push her away and she’d always be there, waiting for me in case I ever got bored of Bianca?
“I’m sorry, Indie,” Mrs. Abernathy says. “If you need to talk to someone you’re welcome to come inside.”
I take a deep breath so my voice doesn’t shake when I speak. “Thanks, but that’s okay.”
I trudge back to the car, idling in the driveway, and sink into the front seat. For a moment I’m resigned to doing this thing on my own, but then I give myself a hard shake. This is not the Indigo that I know and love. I won’t give up that easily. So Paige made a friend? Jessie’s got nothing on me.
I throw the car into reverse and peel down the street. In minutes I’m parked up on the curb across from the Colburn residence, a huge Spanish-style home on North Vista. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s her house. Only so much confidence can be placed in gossip from the hallways at school.
I text Paige:
Come outside
A minute later:
I’m not home. Is something wrong? It’s late.
I know. I’m outside Jessie’s. Hurry.
I watch the quiet house for signs of life. No light flicks on inside, but a moment later the front door edges open, and Paige cautiously pokes her head outside.
I wave her over in big, impatient gestures.
She pulls her sweater up on her shoulders and crosses the street.
“Indie? What’s going on?” She probably thinks someone died. Which is just about the only good reason for doing what I’m doing.
I take a deep breath. “It’s my mom’s Bible. Someone stole it and she’s freaking out.”
Paige blinks at me. “Her Bible? And this couldn’t wait until the morning?”
I exhale. “No, it can’t wait. It’s really important to her. Like, vital.”
Paige shakes her head. “Where’s Bianca? Why isn’t she helping you?”
Oh. It’s like that now? You’d think the girl would recognize a bone when one was being thrown.
“Because I didn’t ask her,” I retort. “I asked you.”
She shifts from foot to foot. “Well, can’t you call the cops or something?”
I don’t believe this is happening. “I did. They can’t help.” I realize how small my voice has become. Paige must too, because her shoulders soften and she glances behind her at the house.
“I can’t just leave.”
“Why not? You’re always trying to get us to hang out, and I’m sure Jessie would understand.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I sound jealous. Which I’m so not.
“It’s just a shitty thing to do,” Paige says.
Yeah, it’s shitty, I want to say. So what? But of course Paige doesn’t treat her friends this way. She probably bakes Jessie cupcakes when she’s had a bad day or something. I nod and shift the car into drive.
Paige sighs. “Just give me a minute to talk to Jessie.”
A stupid grin spreads across my face. Paige rolls her eyes before sprinting off across the street.
Minutes later she’s shuffling back to the car, this time with a giant duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She dumps the bag on the backseat before climbing into the passenger side.
“I hope you’re happy. I had to make up a lie so she’d let me off the hook. I hate lying.”
“Thanks, Paige. I mean it.” I smile across at her.
“Yeah, whatever.” Her reflection gazes out the window.
Somehow I thought she’d be happier about this.
A few minutes pass in silence, and I don’t know what to say to cut through the awkward tension.
Luckily, Paige finally speaks. “So what happened, anyway? It sounds pretty crazy.”
I heave a relieved sigh. And suddenly words are spilling out of my mouth faster than I can organize my thoughts. “The Bible, it went missing and Mom’s going crazy. I said I’d find it, but I have no clue where to start. See, Mom had this accident and she blacked out. And there was this guy, and he lifted the shelf off her, but he was at the game too, and he knew about my mom being hurt, which is, like, really, really weird, right? And now—”
“Stop,” Paige interrupts. “What. On earth. Are you talking about?”
I deflate.
“Tell me what happened,” Paige says, clapping her hand on my shoulder. “And start from the beginning.”
I fill her in on the history of the Bible and the events of the night. And it feels good—really good, actually—to get it all off my chest.
When I’m finished, Paige lapses into a deep silence. I can practically see the gears shifting in her head. “Okay, so we have to search the area around the shop,” she finally says. “When you lose something, you’re supposed to retrace your steps. Same thing for people, right?”
I smile. “That’s just what I had in mind.”
Silence once again takes over the car. But it’s a comfortable silence now.
“You got a text.” Paige picks up my cell from the dash, but I yank it from her before she can see anything.
Devon’s sent me no fewer than a dozen texts since the concert. They started out nice: where u at? cant believe you left. Then: is everything ok? As the night progressed there was: thinking of you :) And my favorite: this party sucks without you. That one made me smile, even if I currently hated him for not leaving the concert with me. A few beers later came: wht r u wearng? :P And how can I forget: i’m hrny.
Nice.
“Well, aren’t you going to see who it is?” Paige asks.
“Illegal to text and drive,” I say.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
We slog through the insane bar-hour traffic. The sidewalks pulse with people, and lines several blocks wide of girls dressed in six-inch heels and miniskirts snake outside clubs wedged between nail salons and all-night check-cashing joints. Car horns, thumping basses, and sirens fill the thick night air, and neon lights brighten the inky sky.
We circle the area of Melrose Avenue where the shop is located, then every main and side street from La Cienega to North Highland, craning our necks to scan every man, woman, and child we pass. Nothing. Not one person remotely resembling Leather Jacket Guy. It’s not like I had much hope to begin with, but now it’s becoming increasingly clear we aren’t going to find him.
My phone buzzes for the zillionth time in ten minutes.
“I guess we must be the only people not at Jarrod’s party tonight, huh?”
Paige’s arms are loosely hugging her drawn-up knees as she stares at the whirring L.A. landscape outside the window. A realization strikes: I’ve always thought Paige secretly wanted to go to our parties, that she was just pretending she’d rather curl up on the couch with Atlas Shrugged on a Friday night because she wasn’t invited. It didn’t make sense to me that she didn’t want to be popular. But she never cared.
My phone stops buzzing, only to restart a millisecond later. Unease flutters in my stomach.
When I left the concert, I was sure I’d never talk to Devon again and not lose a wink of sleep over it. But now? I’m not so sure. Devon could have brought anyone in the world to that concert and he chose me, only to have me ditch him halfway through. And sure, his prioritizing leaves a bit to be desired, but could I really blame the guy for not wanting to run out of the place based on the word of some freaky stranger in leather? I probably would have done the same thing in his shoes.
I’m suddenly desperate to see him.
“Would you mind if we made a quick stop at the party?” I ask.
Paige rolls her eyes. “God, tell me you’re not serious.”
“You don’t have to come in,” I say.
Actually, it would be perfect if she didn’t. Hanging out with Paige at a party? Social suicide. Not to mention the fact that Bianca would kill me. Like, actual death would happen.
“So what you’re asking,” Paige says carefully, “is would I mind waiting in the car while you check up on your boyfriend?”
Yes!
“No! Of course not. You’re totally welcome to come in. And I’m not checking up on him.”
“Whatever.” Paige absently swipes her bangs from in front of her glasses. “We’ve already done this street.”
I look around and see that she’s right. We’ve pretty much covered every drivable inch of the Fairfax district, and now we’re going over the same ground. I signal right and pull the car over onto the side of the road. “So what now? Where would a guy like him hang out?”
“What about bars? We could try Johnny’s or the Griffin.”
“Good, but it’s not like we can get in.”
“So what? We can hang around outside and wait for him to come out.”
Fingers tap on the window. Paige and I let out bloodcurdling screams.
“Need some help?” The guy—Leather Jacket Guy—bends in front of the driver’s-side window, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Lock the doors!” Paige yells.
I scramble to locate the button in the dark. And the whole time I’m panicking, dude’s just giving me the same infuriating smile.
“Drive, Ind! Get the hell out of here!” Paige shakes my arm.
But wasn’t I just looking for him? It seemed like such a great plan until only a quarter-inch of glass separated me from a potential psycho.
“What are you doing? Step on the gas before this weirdo busts out a gun or something.” Panic cracks Paige’s normally steady tone.
I guess now’s as good a time as any to roll the window down.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Paige clambers over me to try to halt my hand.
“It’s him, Paige,” I say, trying my best to keep anxiety from showing in my voice.
“Oh, I like the way you say that,” the guy says. “Makes me sound all mysterious.”
Paige obviously hasn’t heard me. “Are you on drugs or something? Get this window up, now!”
I push her back into the seat with alarming force. She cowers against the door.
“Sorry, it’s just you weren’t listening. I said it’s the guy”—I gesture to him—“the guy from the shop.”
Paige swallows. “Oh. Okay. Uh …”
I feel the same way. Now that I’ve found him—or did he find me?—I have no clue what to do next.
“Is there a problem?” he asks, playing innocent.
Hundreds of questions trip over each other to get out of me.
“Okay,” the guy says. “I’ll guess, then. Flat tire? Out of gas? Feminine issues? It’s feminine issues, isn’t it?”
Ugh. This guy is seriously disturbed. “Why are you following me? And my mom—how’d you know? Did you have something to do with it?”
“Do you think I had something to do with it?” He braces his hands on the roof of the car, and a slice of bare stomach shows from under his T-shirt’s hem. And great—he’s caught me looking, and now his stupid grin couldn’t be any wider.
I avert my eyes from his midsection and consider his question. “No,” I say finally, recalling the help he gave me.
He laughs. “And they say cheerleaders are brain-dead.”
I choose to ignore his jab. “Tell me how you knew, then, if you weren’t there.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t there.” He rocks back on his heels, and a breeze flutters the edge of his T-shirt.
Don’t. Look. At his stomach. “Would you stop playing games?” I yell. And it’s decided: yelling at him feels pretty good. “What do you know about the book?”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cheerleader go so crazy over a book before.”
Not “What book?” And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt that he knows about the Bible. I clench my jaw, nostrils flaring. “You listen to me. I’m going to get that book back. Whatever it takes.”
“Maybe we should just call the cops,” Paige says.
Like he’s going to stick around long enough for them to arrest him. And for what? I have no proof of anything. It’s my word against his.
I unlock the door.
“Indie. What are you—”
I step outside and slam the door behind me. “Look.” I take a page out of Bianca’s playbook and poke him in the chest. “I’m not going to ask—”
And holy crap, I forgot how tall he is. This plan seems much less sound now that I’m face to sternum with a giant. What did I think, that I was going to beat the truth out of him? Perform a citizen’s arrest?
“You were saying?” His dark eyebrows pull up as though with concern, but his deep-set eyes flash with amusement.
I swallow.
“Go on, I’m intrigued.” He waves a hand adorned with chipped black nail polish and a chunky silver ring, as if to say “Continue.”
“Who are you?” I ask, my tone considerably kinder than before. “I mean, what’s your name?” I give him a wide smile, but from the look in his eyes, it’s more alarming than alluring, so I pull it back a few notches. What the hell—I scrunch up my hair at the roots, throw in a tip of my head so my hair tumbles in front of my eyes, bite my lip. This has got to work—guys are so simple.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says.
“What?” I ask innocently, but I can feel myself blushing.
“I’ll tell you my name, but not because of your little bimbo act. Maybe Quarterback Jack would fall for that sort of stuff, but not me.”
My mouth drops open.
“Oh, don’t be too offended. You’re cute and whatever. I just like a girl with a bit more going on up here.” He taps his temple.
“I’m plenty smart, jerkwad. I’ve got the third-highest GPA at my high school. And FYI, I would never be interested in a guy like—”
“Third-highest, huh? And I bet Blanca is first, right?”
“It’s Bianca. And— Ugh! Why am I arguing with you? I don’t even know you!”
He smiles, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s Bishop. Nice to meet you.”
“Bishop,” I repeat.
“That’s what I said.” He leans back against the side of the car.
“Okay.” I cross my arms over my chest. “So what’s your last name?”
“Haven’t got a last name,” he says.
“Who are you, Pink? Everyone has one.”
“Not me.”
I shield my face with my hand so he doesn’t see the tears of frustration welling in my eyes.
“Come on, Ind.” Paige tugs on my arm. “This is stupid. He’s not going to tell us anything.”
I give him my back, because great, I’m crying.
“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?” Super. My stupid voice just cracked.
He sighs. “All right, then. I’ll tell you everything.”
I glance over to see the smirk on his face that’ll confirm he’s lying, but for once he’s stone-faced.
Maybe he isn’t such a jerk after all.
“Just don’t do that anymore,” he says, gesturing to my tear-tracked face. “It’s terribly unattractive, and I do hate to be seen with unattractive girls. Bad for the reputation, you know?”
My anger surges back full force. “Just tell me what you know, already.”
“Seriously, can you clean that up?” He circles a finger at my face.
“God, you’re a—”
“Jerk? I know. So listen, you have to take me somewhere private if I’m going to tell you anything.”
“Absolutely not.” Sorry, buddy, but I’ve seen that episode of Oprah. “Never let them take you to a second location” is, like, Rule #1 of foiling predators.
“Why not?” he says. “Too busy driving around looking for me?”
I huff. “Actually, we were just about to go to a party, thank you very much.”
“Awesome, except a party isn’t exactly private. Unless it’s a party for two.” He winks at me.
Ew.
I cross my arms. “As much as I love that mental image, can you please quit playing games and tell me what you know already?”
“Sure,” he says. “As soon as we go someplace private.”
“You’ve got to know that I’m smarter than that.”
He starts to walk away, and I panic. If he leaves now, I may never see him again. And then all hope of finding the Bible will be lost. It’d ruin Mom. Completely destroy her.
“Wait!” I call out.
He spins.
I heave a sigh. Sweet Jesus, I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Fine. I’ll go with you. But we have to stop somewhere first.”
For a few seconds, both Paige and Bishop stare at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head. But before I have time to think about the dangerous situation I’ve just gotten myself into, Bishop yells, “Shotgun!” and skids across the hood of the car to land in front of the passenger-side door.
Sorry, Oprah.