CHAPTER 9

THE ELLIOTTS MANUFACTURE METH!

So that’s why Chad and Brandon stand in the park all day, even in the rain, and can’t go home whenever they want. They’re standing lookout in case the police show up.

As I read on, other details fall into place. Mr. Elliott’s stained fingers. His rotting and missing teeth. The weird smells in the hallway.

Mr. Internet also tells me what I did all day long with Chad. It’s called smurfing—going from drugstore to drugstore to collect the medicine that will be turned into meth once you pour a bunch of really nasty chemicals all over it. Muriatic acid. Anhydrous ammonia. Red phosphorus. Sulfuric acid. Stuff you find in Drano, industrial solvents, and fertilizer. Even the names of the chemicals are scary.

My hands shake so badly I can barely type the words into Google.

But I keep reading until I hear a knock at my bedroom door.

I let out a little shriek. It takes a couple of tries before I lock the little arrow onto the close button.

“Come in,” I call to Dad.

“You screamed. Everything okay?”

“I was finishing my homework. You surprised me.” In fact, I’ve done zero homework tonight.

“You look pale. Do you feel all right?”

“I’m kind of tired.” I fake a yawn. “Chad and I rode all the way to College Park.”

“Did you have a good time?”

I nod. I’m glad he didn’t ask me about it at dinner. Instead he talked about jamming with Mr. Elliott, what a good time he had and how maybe they could play some folk festivals together this summer.

Now I don’t know what to tell Dad.

Your friend manufactures drugs.

The New Kid I wanted to be my friend manufactures drugs. He got me to help him—without telling me. And now my name’s in two pharmacies’ logbooks.

But Dad and Mr. Elliott played such happy music together this morning. The music made my feet, my whole body dance. Dad’s guitar and Mr. Elliott’s banjo chatted with each other like friends sharing stories, and I didn’t need the words to understand how they felt. Tonight Dad practiced those same songs, and they made me happy too. I danced all the way upstairs to Mr. Internet.

No, I can’t tell Dad what the Elliotts are doing. I’ll have to get them to quit doing it all by myself. Even though I couldn’t help Chad with his science homework, I’ll have to try harder. This time, I can’t fail.

I have to be the superhero.

• • •

Ms. Latimer lets me get away with not finishing my homework just this once. And since I’m not paying attention—I couldn’t get to sleep last night, turning over in my mind what I’d say to Chad—she leaves half an hour early. That gives me plenty of time to wait in the park for the middle-school bus.

The park is deserted before the bus arrives. Brandon, I imagine, is inside. Still sick. The Perez twins get off first, but they act like they don’t see me. I stay in the shadow of the bus, not wanting to talk to them either. Chad steps off, waits for the bus to rumble away, and waves good-bye to Mike and Eddie.

Does he already have new friends? He’s been here a week. New Kids don’t hang out with me much longer than that.

He flips his hair from his eyes and walks toward his house, humming a tune and kicking stones on the way. Not noticing me. Yesterday, I was his friend because he could use me, but today I’m invisible.

“Hey, Chad,” I call out.

He turns his head in my direction.

“I have to talk to you.”

“Make it quick. I got stuff to do.”

I meet him halfway, in the grass between the walkway and the sidewalk. Overhead, small, light green, and shiny leaves have started to break free from buds. My words have to break free too, but they’ve flown out of my head, leaving me standing mute like one of the dead branches.

“I . . . you . . . you used me yesterday,” I begin. Not the voice, or the words, of a superhero.

“What are you talking about?” He shifts from one foot to another.

“I went online and found out what we were doing.” My mouth is dry, and I can barely get the words out. “They call it smurfing.”

Chad spits onto the ground, inches from my feet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You live on your computer. And in your stupid comic books.”

“Were you really going to give Brandon four hundred and eighty pills?” I force myself to look into Chad’s eyes. Pale blue irises, like a hazy sky.

Chad blinks. “What’s it to you? I spent the day with you. My dad let you use our bike and bought you a comic book because your dad’s a dirt-poor loser.”

“No, he’s not!” I scream. Heat rises to my face, to my ears, all the way down my arms to my fingers. My fingernails dig into my palms.

My vision blurs. I’m no longer a superhero. Evil mutant rage has seized me, the same rage that slammed my lunch tray into Melanie Prince-Parker’s nose. My fist strikes Chad’s chest.

He stumbles backward. “You’re crazy!”

“I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t you dare!” Chad is breathing hard, spit flying from his mouth. “We’ll kill you and your dad. And no one will believe you anyway, ’cause you’re psycho.”

I charge him, head down. He steps to the side, and I trip over his foot and sprawl on the grass. He laughs. I jump up, swinging. My fist lands on his shoulder. His fist catches the side of my head, but I barely feel it.

I grab a handful of his hair. It’s coarse, like bits of rope in my hand. He grabs my collar and his fingernails dig into the back of my neck. Our feet tangle, and we both fall to the grass, me on top of him. Hot breath whooshes past my face. I try to pin his wrists to the ground, but his skinny arms are stronger than I thought. He pushes me to the side, then rolls on top of me. I smell cinnamon and hear the pop of chewing gum. His body is solid and warm. Underneath it, I can’t move.

I wriggle my right arm free. I lean to the left, pull my arm all the way back so that my elbow touches the grass, ball up my fist. With all my strength, I slam my fist against his bruised ear.

Chad screams and rolls off me. He rocks back and forth, covering his ear with his left hand, his screams turning to whimpers.

I stand and brush myself off, ready to celebrate my victory until I realize that I’m not going to become Chad’s friend by beating him up. Nor will I get him and his parents to stop making meth by beating him up. In fact, his parents and the people they work with will probably come after Dad and me now.

If I don’t make up with Chad right away, I’ll make everything worse.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “I can bring you an ice pack.”

Chad clears his throat. “I told Dad not to have me ride with you.”

I rub my neck, where Chad scratched me. “I’m not stupid. I can figure things out.”

“I know. But your dad told my dad you don’t have any friends. So my dad thought . . .”

“I’d do anything to have a friend?” I clench my fists and Chad cringes, though the person I wish I could punch is my own father. Or Chad’s father. Both of them got me into this. And anyway, both of them are right.