Deb sounds half asleep when she answers her cell phone. Welcome to the club, I think.
“Is everything all right, hon?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. I tell her what’s happened.
“Give that to me again, Spence,” she says after I read her the SPCA text. Her voice has cleared. I read it off my cell screen again: we got buny trade 4 musik w8 4 contact SPCA. “It sounds as if he’s been kidnapped or something. Should I call the cops?”
“No,” Deb snaps. Then her tone mellows out. “Listen, Spence, I think you were right before: Bun’s met up with some gang kids. Now maybe he’s even a little scared to come home. You know his logic isn’t always, well, logical. I remember that girl you met. She’s covering for them. I’ve read up on this. Gang people don’t trust outsiders.”
“Yeah, but I don’t even know if she was in the—”
“She had everything but the tattoo,” Deb cuts in. She’s in full prof mode now. “They also tend to talk in code. That text was from someone else, right?
“Yeah, but—”
“So the others sent it.” Her voice is almost cheery now. “They’re telling you Bunny’s with them, to sit tight and wait for contact. It sounds as if they like his iPod too. God knows what he’s traded it for. Not another tattoo, I hope.”
“Yeah, but who’s SPCA? The gang is Fifteenth Street Posse.”
Deb gives a teacher-y chuckle. “It’s a joke, Spence. SPCA means Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. They’re preventing cruelty to a Bunny. Get it? It’s not half bad.”
“Yeah, but—”
“So here’s what you do: nothing. I’ll deal with this. Stay out of it. Don’t call the police. Don’t call Roz; I will. Send me her number—it’s on the fridge. Dad’s off in his yurt, so you can’t reach him anyway.” She’s talking fast now. “You did the right thing calling me. Call me again if you get any more messages, from anyone. Give Bunny time, and I’ll give him hell when I get home. Don’t worry, Spence, it’ll all work out. Now, I’ve got things to do. And I bet there’s a little tidying you could do.”
I pass on that one. “Last thing,” I say. “Guess what happened at the cottage?”
“Spence, I have to run. Aunt Vicki wants me to go to hot yoga with her. I’ll check back with you. Tell me then. Love you.”
It takes three tries to start the van before I can drive home. I find Roz’s number on the fridge under a skull-shaped Grateful Dead magnet; blame Jer for that one. I call Deb back, just to hear her voice, but I get her voice mail instead. Maybe she’s found Roz’s number already and she’s calling her now. I leave a message anyway.
The Bun file is now handed off. Life is good again. I’m meeting AmberLea at one and visiting a megastar. I’ll tell her about what happened at the cottage. We’ll hang out. Maybe Toby will disappear in a Gap store. There are almost ten days of vacation left, my parents are away, there are movies to watch and a basement shelf filled with boxes of mac and cheese.
So why am I still weirded out? Deb isn’t, and before she left she was all dithery. But maybe she’s way ahead of me on this; philosophy profs aren’t paid to think life is simple. Or maybe the cruise has totally mellowed her out.
Still, things are nagging at me. Like SPCA: where have I heard that lately? And why would Jade/Jane suggest tracking Bun’s phone if she was covering up? And why are Bun’s boots here and not his skates? I think about our unlocked door again. Did Bun and the Fifteenth Streeters really make this mess?
Maybe what I need to settle me down is some morning mac and cheese. I’m still hungry; I didn’t exactly eat well yesterday. I duck down into the basement to get a box. The light’s been left on in Deb’s office. I go to turn it off and I freeze. The place is a disaster: cabinets open, drawers dumped, books and papers scattered, the computer light glowing. Deb is a neat freak. Bun and his buds wouldn’t have done a food-and-shoe search here. Instantly I’m four years old again, and every shadow is a monster. I zoom upstairs and phone Deb. Voice mail again. I leave a message for her to call me.
Then I go on the shared computer in the den. It takes forever to boot up. I’m panting as I wait. I take a deep, slow breath and go to the website for Bun’s phone. The user name and log-in are written on a yellow sticky note on the monitor. I enter and click on the location tab. Up comes a map of Toronto. There’s a red dot. It’s in the west end, down near the lake—not too far from here. I zoom in closer to look. Then I download the link to my phone, put on my curling sweater and grab the keys to the van.
Stay out of it, Deb said. I have no idea what “it” is, but I don’t think staying out is an option anymore—especially when I don’t want to stay in here.