‘ Gross. What’ d you do?’
‘ Nothing,’ I answered, yanking the last of the stray thread from the comforter. ‘ I did nothing.’
Granted, I’ d been pinned by the air bag with a banged head and no clue about where Marissa was. But really, all I’ d done was hang there. Twiddling my thumbs. Singing la-de-da. Waiting to be rescued while the entire time I crushed Marissa Jones to death. The worst part: At no point did the police or hospital staff comfort me with ‘ She died quickly.’ They always say that, and in its absence, I was left to assume that the opposite must be true.
I stood to leave. ‘ Well, it’ s late, I’ m going to sleep,’ I said as I clicked off the light, and out of habit I repeated what my mom said to me every night even when I’ d been too old for her to tuck me in. ‘ Sweet dreams.’
THE ALARM SOUNDED, and I smacked it off. Ugh. I felt nauseated from sleepiness. Three a.m. Why didn’ t I pull an all-nighter? At least I’ d already be up instead of having to wake up.
After dragging myself out of bed, I dressed in the jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt that I’ d left out. I yanked my hair into a ponytail, then went to check on Deedee, who sat on the edge of her bed looking as if she’ d been pulled from the dustbin and set there. ‘ It’ s the middle of the friggin’ night,’ she groaned. She wore the same clothes she’ d slept in and-after throwing on her tennis shoes-pronounced herself ready. Then she crawled under the covers and told me to wake her up again when it was time to go.
Pride forced me to make at least a cursory attempt at makeup. My eyes were slits, so I tried as best I could with mascara and eye shadow. Later, when the puffiness receded, I’ d get to see if my aim was on the mark or if I wound up resembling Bette Davis in All About Eve. Whatever. If Troy was hoping for foxy ride-along companions, he needed to switch to the afternoon drive-time shift.
The Van Nuys Airport was small and catered to commuter planes and helicopters. Deedee and I made it there a few minutes early and easily found Troy’ s hangar. He was there already, dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, drinking coffee and looking over some papers. Outside the hangar we passed a bright yellow helicopter with ‘ K-JAM-Getting L.A. Jammin’ ‘ emblazoned on its side.
‘ Morning, ladies!’ Troy called when we approached.
‘ Morning implies sunlight,’ I replied grouchily. ‘ This is not morning.’
‘ So,’ he said, clapping his hands together, ‘ let me show you around. How about I start with the coffeepot?’
He showed us the operation there. His circumstance was unusual, he explained, because most traffic reporters worked for a traffic reporting service-he was an independent who worked directly for the radio station. K-JAM was the top-rated morning show. That’ s why Lizbeth had been drooling to get on air.
‘ You ever meet Fat Boy?’ Deedee asked Troy, referring to K-JAM’ s morning DJ, who-at least based on the billboards I’ d seen around town-had earned his nickname legitimately. He was about four hundred pounds of pure wacky Latino, and in the billboards he wore thick glasses, a hat, and nothing else but a Speedo.
‘ Sure. I’ ll be on air with him this morning, but we won’ t see him. He’ s at the radio station.’
‘ Fat Boy’ s so funny,’ Deedee said. ‘ I like it when he calls people pretending to be a old lady.’
‘ You listen to K-JAM?’ he asked her.
‘ Yeah, while I get ready for school.’
‘ So what’ s your opinion of my traffic reports?’ he asked her, leading us toward the helicopter.
She gave it some thought, then said, ‘ You could be funnier. Crack jokes. You do a good job talking about the traffic, I guess. I can’ t be sure since I don’ t drive yet.’ She grinned at him. ‘ For all I know, you make it up-there’ s not any traffic at all.’
‘ So you’ re on to me already.’
A stocky man sporting a baseball cap and a beard came over holding a doughnut bag. Troy introduced him as his co-pilot, Dickie Ruiz. ‘ Dickie and I need to go over a few things. You might want to hit the ladies’ room,’ Troy suggested. ‘ You won’ t have another chance for a couple of hours.’ Deedee and I must have looked panicked, because he said, ‘ I can make an emergency stop if you need it.’
‘ I gotta pee every ten seconds these days,’ Deedee whispered as we made our way to the bathroom.
‘ How are you feeling?’ I asked. ‘ You going to be up for this?’
‘ Oh yeah. This is the coolest thing I’ ve ever done.’
We met back up at the helicopter a few minutes later. Troy said, ‘ Good news, June. We’ re down a sponsor, so I’ ll have a chance to throw you a couple questions in the seven o’ clock hour. Anything you want me to focus on?’
While I was trying to decide, Deedee said, ‘ Ask her what’ s her favorite song.’
‘ Thanks,’ I said, ‘ but it needs to be more about ridesharing. Maybe you could ask about the new rail line to downtown?’
‘ Boooooring,’ Deedee said.
Troy said he’ d see what he could do to keep things lively and then opened a door to the helicopter. ‘ Ready?’ he asked. He and Dickie helped us climb in back, where there was just enough room for Deedee and me to sit comfortably.
‘ Where are the parachutes?’ I asked as I buckled in. ‘ Does my tray table serve as a flotation device?’ I was babbling because my belly was starting to do nervous flips. I’ d never been in a helicopter, and even though I’ m not afraid of flying, I wasn’ t sure what to expect. Plus I’ d be talking live on the radio, so it was a double whammy of nerves. I felt I had a lot riding on this, knowing Lizbeth’ s position was open.
Troy fiddled with some controls, and Dickie handed Deedee and me headsets-the huge kind that fit like earmuffs. Each one had a thin microphone that pulled forward. ‘ Once he starts those chopper blades, it’ s going to get loud in here. You’ ll need these to hear what’ s happening on the radio station. Use the mikes to talk to us here in the chopper-it’ s easier than shouting. June, we’ ve powered the mike on yours so you can talk on air, too.’ He smiled. ‘ Do I need to remind you of the words you can’ t say on the radio?’
‘ No, that’ s okay.’
‘ I wanna hear them!’ Deedee said.
‘ Fuck’ s a no-no,’ Dickie replied. ‘ You can’ t say fuck.’
‘ What about shit?’ Deedee asked. ‘ Because I swear that sometimes they bleep it out, but there are other
