13

The next morning, I took four Excedrin and what was left of a bottle of port. My mother had left a Danish pastry the size of a very large cow pie on the kitchen table. I scooped a finger into the jam that glued it together, but when I gagged at the taste, I washed my hands carefully and made my way to school.

Angela extricated herself from her BMW. Her purse was snagged on the seat belt, and she swore at it, at the belt, and at the car. She said it was a piece of junk, and slammed the door hard.

“I told your brother you were a tramp. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I was up until very late, Peter, listening to my brother, who my parents suddenly adore, talk to me about condoms and mutual respect between sexual partners. He told me he was going to follow you until he caught you robbing a bank. What’s that you’re carrying?”

“Nothing.”

“Pretty big for nothing.”

“Actually, it’s my portfolio.”

“The stock market?”

“It’s art,” I said, choking on the words. I was hoping she wouldn’t really hear me.

“You stealing art lately, or what? Hey, remind me—I have a couple liters of something in the trunk. My parents gave this very big spasm last weekend, with salesmen from all over the West Coast passing out in the bathroom. One of them rubbed himself on me. Not for very long. Nothing really overt. I mean, clothing stayed on. Let me see the art.”

“I feel a little personal about it.”

“You shouldn’t walk around with something that big if you feel personal about it.” She tugged, and papers spilled to the concrete.

I looked everywhere, and then knelt and gathered them.

“Those aren’t bad. Did you draw them?”

“They’re just sketches. I wanted to show them to Lani.”

Angela looked at me, and then looked away, and took too long to respond. “But you showed them to me first, didn’t you?”

“Some of them.”

She stopped, and turned to face me. I dodged, but she stayed directly before me and we stood, eye to eye. “So you have this fellow-artist thing with Lani now. You don’t have to explain. And you do think I’m a tramp. That’s just great, Peter. Very flattering. I know I’m untalented, and practically a slut in some people’s eyes, but I happen to care about you just enough that I want you to care about me. I hope my brother sees you robbing a liquor store, and blows up your head!”

The cafeteria was nearly empty. A few figures leaned on elbows and sipped hot chocolate. Nobody liked to spend time in the cafeteria. It was a place without hope or character, a giant vending machine with places to sit. I like it because you could sit and read. Also, an acoustical oddity made the empty hall sound as though it were filled with murmuring maniacs. Any conversation there was impossible to overhear.

“I used to draw a lot, but I stopped.”

“I love them,” said Lani, turning pages. She turned them slowly, looking carefully at each drawing. Some of them I was ashamed to have her look at. They were crude, half-formed. “The hawk in this one is really good.”

“I need to work on the talons.”

“I like them. They look very scaly, and very dangerous.” She turned a page. “I like this man. What’s he doing?”

“That’s Inspector Ng. I did it from memory. He’s chewing on the end of a pencil.”

“He looks very suspicious.”

“He’s a suspicious man.”

“I wish Mead would come back,” she said. “I worry about him sometimes. Except I know that Mead can take care of himself. He’s that kind of person. Don’t you wonder where he is?”

“It’s very mysterious. Let me take those. I’ll stuff them in my locker. I don’t want everyone seeing them.”

“Don’t you wonder?”

“About Mead? Sure. But it’s like you say—he can take care of himself.”

She was watching me again, looking at me, seeing me in that Lani way. “What do you think he’s doing?”

I made myself meet her eyes. “I have no idea.”

“You’re an artist,” she said, switching subjects quickly. “You should never stop drawing again.”

This was what I had hoped to hear. But talking about Mead took all the pleasure out of it. “Lani, I want you to do something for me. I want you to visit Mead’s parents. Find out what they’re doing. How they’re feeling. How his dad is doing. His heart, and everything.”

“We could all go see them,” she said, thoughtfully. “A sympathetic visit, with some flowers or some candy. I think some candy would be best.”

“No, just you. This time—just you. I want to know how they’re doing.”

“And if they know anything about where Mead might be.”

“That’s right.”

To my surprise, Angela gave me a ride home, but she was cool. “Don’t forget this,” she said, indicating a paper bag at her feet.

There was a liquid sound, secret, promising.

“We have a future,” I began. But I didn’t believe it. I had no future, with Angela, or anyone else. I was a figure far off the edge of the cliff, and as soon as I looked down, I was finished.

“Sure,” she responded. “Enjoy the booze. It’s good stuff.”

It was Bombay gin, and it was very good.

The next morning, Lani told me that Mead’s parents were not at all well, nearly mad with worry.

“Nearly mad,” Lani repeated.

I felt for a wall, and leaned against it, a terrible taste in my mouth. I had been a fool. Of course they would be worried. They would be more than worried—distraught. And the telephone calls had done no good at all. Perhaps they had made Mead simply more tantalizing, a voice that would not tell them where he was.

Perhaps they had begun to guess that the voice of Mead was not Mead at all.

“How is his father?” I whispered.

“Not well,” said Lani. “I think the worry is killing him. He doesn’t look all that strong.”

“That’s terrible,” I said.

“I’m mad at Mead for being so thoughtless to his parents. You’d think he’d tell them more. Naturally, people sometimes don’t get along with their parents. But he should tell them where he is.” She tucked a sheet of music back into her notebook. “Maybe I shouldn’t be mad at him. The more I think about it, it isn’t like Mead at all to do this to anyone. Mead’s always a little thoughtless, always late, always fooling around. But he loves his parents, and he’s always worried about his father.”

I felt Lani looking at me, but I could not meet her eyes.