I wake up to a blank laptop screen and the bleat of our landline. I stagger off the couch and find the phone in its cradle in the kitchen. On the way I catch a bleary glimpse of the time on the clock radio: 8:03 AM. Sickeningly early. Ever since classes ended, I’d forgotten this time existed. I’m going to start a religion that bans getting up before noon on holidays. Maybe it would be a good fit for Pianvia. Everything else is banned there.
I hit the Talk button mid-bleat. “Hello?” I sound as if I’ve been gargling with those Russian golf balls.
“Roz Inbow here. Who am I speaking with, please?” Forget the “please”; the voice has all the cozy charm of a falling anvil. Roz. Instantly I’m awake, remembering last night. Unfortunately, I’m not awake enough to keep from blurting, “Spencer.”
“Bernard’s brother. Let me speak to Bernard, please.”
“Uh, it’s awfully early.”
“It’s way past the time he’s used to. Let me speak to him, please.”
“Just a sec.”
I climb the stairs with the phone on Mute. My heart is pounding, but not from the climb. Bun’s door is half open. I have no idea what time I dozed off, but I know he wasn’t back then. He’d better be here now. I have no clue what I’m going to tell Roz if he isn’t.
Roz, if you haven’t guessed, is Bun’s CRAP release supervisor. She can yank him back to Creekside and add more time to his sentence if he screws up—like by hanging with his street posse or not checking in.
I look in Bun’s room: empty. Oh. No. If things were halfway normal around here, I’d be handing this off to Deb or Jer. Scratch that. I wouldn’t even be up. But things aren’t normal. I try the only thing I can think of: I imitate Jer. People tell me I sound like him on the phone. Of course, the last time I pretended to be someone else, it almost got four people and a dog killed. I do a frantic throat-clear—la-la-la count to ten—to ditch the Russian golf balls. Then I lift the phone again and try to mellow it out. “Hello?”
“I’m calling for Bernard,” Roz’s voice clangs. “Who am I speaking to, please?”
“This is”—throat clear—“Jerry O’Toole, Bun—Bernard’s father. What can I do for you?”
“Roz Inbow here. I need to speak to Bernard. He was due for a ten-PM check-in call last night that he failed to complete.”
“Riiiiight. Well, we were having some family time last night, Roz, and I guess we all forgot. My bad. But he’s right here, sound asleep. The Monopoly game ran a little late. I’m just up myself. How ’bout I have him call you later?”
There’s a pause at the other end. Maybe Roz is swallowing a nail or two. Then I hear a sigh and she says, “By ten o’clock. At the latest. You have the number.”
“Cool. Sure do. I’ll make sure he calls. Have a good one.”
“Uh-huh. Oh, and Mister O’Toole? I thought you were away.”
“Just back,” I say fast, and I hit the Off button before I get in any deeper.
But I am in deeper, aren’t I? Now I’ve really got to find Bunny. I check my phone for messages. There’s one from AmberLea last night—meet hotel lobby @1. Nothing from Bun. I call his cell: no answer. I text, call me NOW then call roz b4 trubl.
I deal with an urgent need to pee and then go back to the kitchen. I put in toast, pour juice and think about my next move. Bun’s already messed up my time with AmberLea; she’s only here a few days.
Sipping juice, I stare dully at the back-door jumble of shoes and boots. I look a little closer, then go down the hall and look at the front-door jumble. Bunny’s skates aren’t there. His boots are. All he’s got are the boots, which he never wears, and the sneakers I brought back from the rink. He couldn’t have come home and left still wearing skates. Could he? Then why was the door unlocked? A prickle runs up my neck. I look around again. Last night’s plain old mess turns sinister. Why was Deb’s rocker on the dining-room table? Why was sheet music scattered around the room? Did someone break in and search the place? But who? And for what? Nothing seems to be missing—except Bunny and his blades. Which means either he’s still wearing them or he got shoes someplace else.
The toaster dings in the kitchen. The only place I can think Bunny might be is where the Fifteenth Street Posse hangs. Oh, great. On the other hand, I’m so creeped-out thinking someone might have searched the house that a little outing might be nice. If I can’t find Bun, I’ll call Deb on her cruise. Jer’s cell service is useless on Salt Spring Island.
I crunch down the toast, change my T-shirt (did I really leave my room this messy?), get my curling sweater and grab the keys to the minivan from their hook in the kitchen. Jer said the van was for emergencies only; I’d say this counts. On the way out, I double-check that the door locks behind me. Then I go looking for my brother.