It took less. I slipped on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and headed into the yard. Not surprisingly, Ema was in black, fully “gothed” up in vampire mode. Her earrings had skulls and crossbones on them. The silver stud she normally wore in her eyebrow had been replaced with a silver hoop.
She jammed her hands in her pockets. Her eyes drifted toward the basketball hoop. “Must help,” she said.
“What?”
“Basketball,” Ema said. “Having a passion like that.”
“It does.” Then I asked, “Do you have one?”
“A passion?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flicked to the right. “Not really.”
“But?”
She shook her head. “This whole thing is weird.”
“What is?”
“You being nice to me.”
I sighed. “You’re not going to start that again.”
“I’m the fat outcast. You’re the new hot boy being eyed by Rachel Caldwell.”
“Rachel Caldwell? You think?”
Ema rolled her eyes. “Men.”
I almost smiled and then I remembered. It’s funny how you can let yourself forget for seconds, how even in the heat of the horrible you can have moments when you fool yourself into thinking it might all be okay.
“Listen, I’m the real outcast here,” I said. “I’m the new boy with the dead dad and junkie mom.”
“Your mom’s a junkie?”
More blurting. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Ema had moved a little closer. She stared into my eyes with the softest look.
“You better not be looking at me with pity,” I said.
She ignored my outburst. “Tell me about your mom.”
And again-don’t ask me why-I did. I’d never had a friend like her, I guess. That would be the easiest explanation. She had known that I was in trouble, and now, at one in the morning, she had made it her business to be here for me. But I think that there was something deeper at work. Ema had that way about her. She just got it. It was as though she already knew the answers and just wanted to make it better.
So I told her. I told her everything. When I finished, Ema shook her head and said, “Garlic bread. Wow.”
That was what I meant-about her getting it.
“You must be so angry,” Ema said.
I shook my head. “It’s not her fault.”
“Bull. Do you know what an enabler is?”
I did. An enabler is someone who helps a loved one act in a destructive matter. In a way, she was right. I was making excuses. But how do you make someone understand…?
“If it wasn’t for having me,” I said slowly, “my mother would have been one of the greatest tennis players in the world. She would have been rich and famous instead of a widowed junkie with nothing.”
“Not nothing,” Ema said. “She has you.”
I waved her away, afraid to speak because I knew that my voice would crack.
Ema didn’t push it. Again she somehow knew that would be the wrong move. We sat outside together in silence for a few minutes. It was nearing two in the morning.
“Won’t your parents wonder where you are?” I asked.
Her face closed like a steel gate. “No.”
And now I knew not to push it. A few minutes later, we said good-bye. Once again I asked her if I could walk her home. She frowned at me. “I’m serious,” I said. “It’s late. I don’t like you walking alone. Where do you live?”
“Another time,” she said.
“Why?”
“Just… another time, okay?”
I wasn’t sure what else to say here, so I went with, “Okay.” Then I added, “But promise me one thing.”
Ema looked wary. “What?”
“You’ll text me when you get home.”
She offered up a small smile and shook her head. “You can’t be for real.”
“Promise me or I walk you home.”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh, “I promise, I promise.”
Myron’s backyard was against the neighbors.’ Ema headed out that way. I watched her walk away, her back hunched a little, and I wondered how it was, when I swore I wouldn’t connect with anyone, that she already meant so much to me. I watched until she vanished from sight, then I started back to the house. The basketball was lying on the ground outside. I picked it up and spun it on my finger. I looked at the hoop, but no, it was too late. I might wake up the neighbors. I spun the ball again and headed for the back door when something made me stop.
I pushed my back against the wall of the house so I could stay out of sight. My heart started thumping hard in my chest. I put down the ball and slowly slid toward the right, near the garage. I kept low and peered around the corner toward the street in front of Myron’s house. And there, parked on the corner maybe two hundred yards away from the house, was a black car with tinted windows.
It looked like the same car I’d seen today at basketball-the same car I’d seen at Bat Lady’s house.
I debated my next move. I remembered Mr. Waters telling me to call him if I saw the bald guy again, but come on, it was two in the morning. His cell phone was probably off. And if not, did I really want to wake him and his whole family and-what?-wait for him to maybe drive over? The car would probably be gone by then.
No, this was on me.
I wasn’t particularly afraid-or maybe curiosity just won out over fear. Hard to say. When I was ten, my family spent a year in the Amazon rain forest in Brazil. The local chieftain was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, using an offshoot of what was more popularly known as Brazilian jujitsu. I’ve practiced martial arts ever since, in those obscure corners of the globe, mostly as a way to keep in shape for basketball. To date, I had only used these skills once. They had worked-maybe a little too well.
Whatever, it gave me confidence, even if it might be false confidence. I sprinted behind the Gorets’ house next door. My goal was to move from house to house and sneak up on the car from behind. Three houses to go. No reason to stall. I peeked out from behind the Gorets’ azaleas and dashed to the Greenhalls. They owned a farm up north and were never home.
A minute later I was hiding behind a bush maybe ten yards away from the black car with the tinted windows. Now that I was this close, I could make out the license plate. A30432. I took out my cell phone and checked the plate number Ema had texted to me. The number was the same.
No doubt now-it was the same black car.
I glanced out from the bush. The car’s engine was off. There were no signs of movement or life. The black car could be just parked and empty.
So now what do I do?
Do I just approach and start slamming my palms on the window, demanding answers? That seemed somewhat logical. It also seemed kind of stupid. Do I sit here and wait? For how long? And what if the car drives off? Then what?
I was still hunched behind the bush, trying to decide what to do, when the decision was made for me. The front passenger door opened and the bald guy stepped out. He still wore the dark suit, and despite the hour, he even had the sunglasses on.
For a moment the man stood perfectly still, his back to the bush. Then he slowly turned his head and said, “Mickey.”
Gulp.
I had no idea how he had seen me, but it didn’t matter now. I stood up. He stared at me from behind those sunglasses, and in spite of the heat, I swear I felt a chill.
“You have questions,” the bald man said to me. He spoke with one of those exaggerated British accents that
