Nicole kissed the girl’s forehead and turned to me. “See?” she said. Then to Emma: “You were eating raspberry sherbet.”
“That mind-reading thing? Annoying.”
“It’s all over your face.” Nicole took Emma to the bathroom.
“I have your father’s book,” Mrs. Castro said.
“You and like three other people,” I said.
“It was a best seller, at least in art history circles.”
“Must’ve been before I was born.”
“It was, actually. It’s a definitive text, you know? I met him once.”
“Seriously?”
“Briefly. At a show he was covering. We didn’t get a chance to speak. My husband saw to that.” Her eyes were glazing over. “He and your father had words.”
“My father hit on you?”
“No, no, of course not. They were arguing about one of the paintings. Rafael can be a bit insecure, and maybe your dad had a little too much wine, and. . You know what, Jay? It was a long, long time ago. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Really, sweetheart, it was nothing more than a little tiff. Don’t mention this to Nicole, all right? She gets mad at me when I talk about her father behind his back, and she’s right to do so. Secret kept?”
“I’ll let my father know you liked the book.”
She smiled, but sadly. She nodded toward the bathroom. Nicole had left the door open. She and Emma were in a tickle fight at the sink. Nicole had an amazingly cool laugh, loud, nothing fake about it.
“Isn’t it just awful?” Mrs. Castro said. “She was so beautiful.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Because I don’t want you driving at this hour,” Mrs. Castro said. We were crossing the atrium that led to the parking lot. “It’s not you, Nicole-”
“It’s the other people on the road, I know, I know.”
“With the glare?” Mrs. Castro said. “It’s impossible for
“Then maybe you shouldn’t drive either,” Nicole said.
“You’re not supposed to be driving without an adult in the car anyway, especially after dark.”
“Everybody-”
“You’re not everybody. Are we really fighting about this?”
“What about the car?” Nicole said.
“I’ll come back later with Sylvia. Jay, we’ll drive you home.”
“That’s okay, it’s the exact opposite direction.”
“What’s with you two? Here’s how it works: Mom says, you do, everybody’s life is so much easier, see? We’ll grab a bite at the diner on the way.” She stroked my hair. “I love his hair,” she said to Nicole. “So soft.”
“I know. I hate him. He doesn’t even put anything in it.”
“I want to braid it.”
“Just one long one, though,” Nicole said. “Right down the back.”
“Yes, Snoop braids would be too much.”
“Listen to you, getting all Snoop,” Nicole said.
“Hello, Snoop is my age. Drop it like it’s
“Oh my god, Mom, stop!”
I was trying to remember when Nicole had touched my hair. Must have been while I was recovering from the seizure at the stables.
“Call your mother, Jay,” Mrs. Castro said. “Let her know you’re eating with us.”
I didn’t want to get into the whole thing about my mom or the fact that my dad was gone for the week. I pulled my phone and texted Grabbing dinner w a friend and sent it to my Gmail. I smiled at Mrs. Castro. She put her arm around me and said, “Thanks.” She was walking between Nicole and me, her arms over our backs. “Put your arm over my shoulder,” she said. “Now shorten your stride.”
“Just do it,” Nicole said. “Now look.” She nodded at our feet. The three of us were walking in step.
“I don’t get it,” I said, but they both laughed. And then they stopped laughing when we came to the exit. They scanned the parking lot, and then we hurried to Mrs. Castro’s Mercedes.
Mrs. Castro paid the check, and then she and Nicole headed for the bathroom. Just as I was about to step outside, I saw Shane Puglisi’s battered old Honda in the back of the parking lot. The car was empty. I scanned the lot for Puglisi but didn’t see him. I doubled back through the diner to the fire exit and crossed the alarm wires to fry the circuit. I’d forgotten my pocketknife, but out back I found an old-fashioned glass soda bottle in a recycle rack. I wrapped it in wet cardboard I pulled from the Dumpster. I cracked the bottle until the neck was a short sharp point. I tucked it point up under the right front wheel of Puglisi’s Honda with the point between the tire seams. If I’d had more time, I would have just let the air out of the tire. On the way back in, I told a waitress the fire alarm door was broken. “How do you know?” she said.
“I went through it, and the alarm didn’t go off.”
Mrs. Castro and Nicole were waiting for me by the register. They were laughing and talking in low voices until they saw me, and then they stopped talking but kept laughing.
“He’s outside,” I said. “The photographer dude.”
Now they stopped laughing. They followed me out the back way. Two waitresses were checking out the door. The one I’d talked to said to the other, “See?”
Puglisi was out front, his eyes on the entrance. He didn’t see us coming around the side of the building as we headed for Mrs. Castro’s Mercedes.
“Nicole!” somebody behind us said. We spun into the camera flash. It was Puglisi’s partner Meyers, the dude who acted like he was trying to pick up Nicole in CVS. We hurried for the car, bunching around Nicole.
“Show it to us, Nicole,” a third dude yelled from Nicole’s blind side, jumping up from between two parked cars with another camera flash.
Puglisi was in on it now too. The three of them circled us and clicked away. Mrs. Castro reached into her bag and pulled what appeared to be a foot-long club. She swung it, and it extended into a reflective silver umbrella. We clustered behind it as we pushed forward for the Mercedes.
“How bad is the burn, Nicole?”
“What about the eye? Did they have to take it out?”
They were right on top of us but careful not to touch us, because, I would find out later, any physical contact was considered assault.
Puglisi’s telephoto lens was in Nicole’s face as Mrs. Castro opened the car door and pushed Nicole into the back. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?” Puglisi said.
“I’m not her boyfriend,
The three of them laughed at that.
“How are things down at 14–98 34th Avenue?” I said. That was Puglisi’s address.
“Things at 14–98 are fabulous.” He kept right on clicking away.
I grabbed his camera and smashed it on the pavement.
“Seriously, dude?” Puglisi said. “Fuck you.” He pulled another camera from his pocket. The flashes were messing with me. I was dizzy.
“Get into the car, Jay,” Mrs. Castro said.
“Jay, is it?” Puglisi said. One of his crew, the CVS dude, ran for Puglisi’s Honda.
We were pulling out of the lot when Mrs. Castro said, “Call the police, Jay. Tell them we’re being followed.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that.” I looked back toward the diner. The three of them were around
