“No. Don’t ‘Dad’ me,” he said. “Grades slipping, quitting gymnastics and ignoring calls from your mother may be par for the course after something like this....” Mothers leaving their families for younger men in California was apparently considered a something like this. “All the damn books say acting out is normal, and, yes, getting suspended last year for knocking over chairs is a little rough for a zero tolerance–policy school, okay, but lying, Joy? The E.R.? Police? That’s not like you. And you were lying tonight.”
“I wasn’t lying!” she insisted. Joy hated when he threw the suspension in her face. That was forever ago. Just like Mom leaving, or quitting gymnastics and giving up her Olympic dreams, not to mention her entire social life.
Dad threw his keys hard into the couch. “Oh, really? Where’s Monica, Joy?”
Joy gaped. “She ditched me!” she said, but knew the facts were stacked against her. “That wasn’t my fault! I didn’t know she was going to back out last-minute to go dance with some guy!” She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry. It was so unfair! She was half inclined to tell him what had really happened yesterday, but he already thought she was a psychopathic liar.
“When I called the Reids to tell them I was on my way, I woke them up, Joy! Monica was asleep in bed after telling her parents that she’d been here all night.”
Joy groaned. “So Monica’s a liar and I get the blame?”
“Were you covering for her?”
“No!”
“Did you make this all up?”
“No.”
He crossed his arms. “Joy, I won’t be any madder than I am right now—”
“No!”
Dad softened a little; he was still mad, but he wanted to believe her. She could tell. They had to trust one another—they were all they had left. It was like he was thinking the same thing. He deflated over his belly.
“I get that you’re angry, Joy. We’re all angry. But there’s defiant, and then there’s reckless. The constant moping and lashing out...” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Did you break the window, Joy?” he asked softly.
“No, Dad.” Joy punctuated her words with a fist on the table. Frustration shivered through her body. Why wouldn’t he believe her? Her voice broke like glass. “I didn’t! The outside pane’s broken and we’re two floors up! There was someone at the window and I was all alone and I was so scared!”
He wrapped her in his arms, rubbing her shoulders through the sleeves as if she were cold. Tears trapped under gauze were suddenly dripping off her chin. She sniffled as he rocked her slowly. Everything felt twisted and wrong.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered, but she couldn’t say what she was sorry for.
“I’m sorry, too,” he said with a squeeze. “Tomorrow I’m getting an alarm. We’ll both sleep better then.”
She gave his forearms a last bit of hug.
“Did I ruin your date?” she asked. Joy felt her dad pause.
“Do you want me to answer that?”
She thought about it. “Not tonight.”
Her dad sighed and stroked her hair. “Deal.”
* * *
Monica trailed behind Joy in the hall.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!”
Joy trusted her hair to provide some cover for her anger and the frayed, peeling patch. It looked hideous, like an old wound, gummy and gross.
“You’re sorry,” Joy muttered. “Dad’s nearly got me under house arrest.” She picked at her patch in irritation, then stopped. Dad had caught her trying to remove it this morning and threatened a serious grounding. Joy hated the way she kept bumping into things and misjudging distance. Plus the nausea. And the stares in the hall. She hadn’t felt this awkward since she’d dropped out of training. “I’ve gone from being invisible to Public Enemy Number One!”
“Sorry to infinity,” Monica begged. “Sorry to infinity plus one!”
Joy thumped her head against her locker.
“Stop it,” she said, working the combination. “Just tell me it was worth it.”
“It was worth it,” Monica said dutifully.
“Really?”
“No,” Monica said. “Not if it got you into trouble.” But a smile crept into her voice and over her lips. “Otherwise, yes. It was totally worth it!”
“Small comfort,” Joy said, but added, “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.” Monica relaxed against the bank of lockers and poked at the plastic fob on Joy’s key ring. “So, what’s up with this?”
Joy stacked books in her arms. “Dad had a security system installed. Either he doesn’t believe me and he’s locking me in, or he believes me and he’s locking everyone else out.” Neither option sounded too appealing.
“Did you find out who it was?” Monica asked. “At the window?”
Joy felt guilty feeding Monica her cover story, but the truth was just too crazy. “No,” Joy said, but something else slipped out. “It was a message.”
Monica raised her eyebrows. “Mmm-hmm? Somebody whacks your window with a baseball bat and you might take that as some sort of message,” she said. “Before we came to Glendale, my daddy was from Arkansas and he talked about growing up with all kinds of ‘messages’ left burning on the lawn.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Joy said as the locker door squeaked shut.
“What? The burglar left a Post-it?”
Joy shook her head behind her hair. She was momentarily glad she had the excuse not to look at Monica; she felt as if she’d somehow said too much. Joy didn’t know what 48 deer run midnight meant, and she didn’t know how to tell ink, but Joy could still see the glowing words and the giant tongue pressed flat against the glass. She hugged her books to her chest and scrolled through her text messages for a distraction.
Alice June Moorehead, 1550 Hewey, Apt 10C, Strwbry
4 INK: RAZORBILLS SOUTH 40 OVERPASS, 4PM—SEVER STRAIGHT & DON’T BE LATE! THX
Joy had the crazy instinct to smash her phone against the wall. She eyed the mob of students chatting and banging locker doors under a chorus of squeaky shoes and six hundred ringtones. A flash of bright orange in the crowd made Joy’s head turn, but she couldn’t see the source. She curled against her locker and cupped her hand over her phone’s screen. She checked the numbers: both unlisted. She wished she’d programmed Officer Castrodad into her contact list.
How did these people get my number?
Monica glanced at the cell in Joy’s hand. “Mom again?”
“No,” Joy said. She’d been storing the rest of her mother’s messages. Not playing them. Not deleting them. Not even thinking about them. Not yet. “Have you given anyone my number?”
“What? No.”
“Gordon or anybody?” Joy fished. “Did he borrow your phone?”
Monica’s happy face dropped several degrees, her tone dipped into low centigrade. “When I say no, I mean no. Nobody got your number from me.” She frowned. “Is somebody cyber-bothering you?”
Joy killed her screen. “No. Just being paranoid.” She started walking. Fast.
Monica jogged to keep up. “Somebody comes and breaks