She bobbed her head at a bodega that sat kitty-corner on the next block. “In there,” she said, and we crossed the street. She opened the door, a bell on the handle jingling as we moved inside.
“Yo,” she said, a hand in the air to wave at the clerk as she walked straight to the fountain drink machine.
“Scout,” said the guy at the counter, whom I pegged at nineteenish or twenty, and whose dark eyes were on the comic book spread on the counter in front of him, a spill of short dreadlocks around his face. “Refill time?”
“Refill time,” Scout agreed. I stayed at the counter while she attacked the fountain machine,
yanking a gigantic plastic cup from a dispenser. With mechanical precision, she pushed the cup under the ice dispenser, peeked over the rim as ice spilled into it, then released the cup, emptied out a few, and repeated the whole process again until she was satisfied she’d gotten exactly the right amount. When she was done with the ice, she went straight for the strawberry soda, and the process started again.
“She’s particular, isn’t she?” I wondered aloud.
The clerk snorted, then glanced up at me, chocolate brown eyes alight with amusement.
“Particular hardly covers it. She’s an addict when it comes to the sugar water.” His brow furrowed. “I don’t know you.”
“Lily Parker,” I said. “First year at St. Sophia’s.”
“You one of the brat pack?”
“She is mos’ def’ not one of the brat pack,” Scout said, joining us at the counter, as she poked a straw into the top of her soda. She took a sip, eyes closed in ecstasy. I had to bite back a laugh.
Lips still wrapped around the straw, Scout opened one eye and squinted evilly at me. “Don’t mock the berry,” she said when she paused to take a breath, then turned back to the kid behind the counter. “She tried, unsuccessfully, to join the brat pack, at least until she realized how completely lame they are. Oh, and Derek, this is Lily. You two are buds now.”
I grinned at Derek. “Glad to meet you.”
“Ditto.”
“Derek is a Montclare grad who’s moved into the wonderful world of temping at his dad’s store while working on his degree in underwater basketweaving at U of C.” She batted catty eyes at Derek. “I got that right, didn’t I, D?”
“Nuclear physics,” he corrected.
“Close enough,” Scout said with a wink, then stepped back to trail the tips of her fingers across the boxes of candy in front of the counter. “Are we thinking Choco-Loco or Caramel Buddy?
Am I in the mood for crunchy or chewy today?” She held up two red and orange candy bars, then waggled them at us. “Thoughts? I’m polling, checking the pulse of the nation. Well, of our little corner of River North, anyway.”
“Choco-Loco.”
“Caramel Buddy.”
We said the names simultaneously, which resulted in our grinning at each other while Scout continued the not-so-silent debate over her candy choices. Crispy rice was apparently a crucial component. Nuts were a downgrade.
“So,” Derek asked, “are you from Chicago?”
“Sagamore,” I said. “New York state.”
“You’re a long way from home, Sagamore.”
I glanced through the windows toward St. Sophia’s towers, the prickly spires visible even though we were a couple of blocks away. “Tell me about it,” I said, then looked back at Derek.
“You did your time at MA?”
“I was MA born and bred. My dad owns a chain of bodegas”—he bobbed his head toward the shelves in the store—“and he wanted more for me. I got four years of ties and uniforms and one hell of an SAT score to show for it.”
“Derek’s kind of a genius,” Scout said, placing the Choco-Loco on the counter. “Biggest decision I’ll make all day, probably.”
Derek chuckled. “Now, I know that’s a lie.” He held up the front of the comic book, which featured a busty, curvy superheroine in a skintight latex uniform. “Your decision making is a little more akin to this, wouldn’t you say?”
My eyes wide, I glanced from the comic book to Scout, who snorted gleefully at Derek’s comparison, then leaned in toward her. “He knows?” I whispered.
She didn’t answer, which I took as an indication that she didn’t want to have that conversation now, at least not in front of company. She pulled a patent leather wallet from her bag, then pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from the wallet.
I arched an eyebrow at gleaming patent leather—and the designer logo that was stamped across it.
“What?” she asked, sliding the wallet back into her bag. “It’s not real; just a good fake I picked up in Wicker Park. There’s no need to look like a peasant.”
“Even the humblest of girls can have a thing for the good stuff,” Derek said, a grin quirking one corner of his mouth, then lowered his gaze to the comic book again. I sensed that we’d lost his attention.
“Later, D,” Scout said, and headed for the quick shop’s door.
Without lifting his gaze, Derek gave us a wave. We walked outside, the sky still gray and moody, the city eerily quiet, and toward St. Sophia’s.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me get this straight. You wouldn’t tell me—your roommate—about what you were involved in, but the guy who runs the quick shop down the street gets to know?”
Scout nibbled on the end of one of the sticks of chocolate in her Choco-Loco wrapper, and slid me a sideways glance as she munched. “He’s cute, right?”
“Oh, my God, totally. But not the point.”
“He has a girlfriend, Sam. They’ve been together for years.”
“Bummer, but let’s keep our eyes on the ball.” We separated as we walked around a clutch of tourists, then came back together when we’d passed the knot of them. “Why does he get to know?”
“You’re assuming I told him,” Scout said as we paused at the corner, waiting for a crossing signal in heavy lunchtime traffic. “And while I’m glad he’s supportive—seriously, he’sso pretty.”
“It’s the hair,” I suggested.
“And the eyes. Totally chocolatey.”
“Agreed. You were saying?”
“I didn’t tell him,” Scout said, leading us across the street when the light changed. “Remember what I told you about kids who seemed off? Depressed?”
“Humans targeted by Reapers?”
“Exactly,” she said with a nod. “Derek was a near victim. He and his mom were superclose, but she died a couple of years ago—when he was a freshman. Unfortunately, he rushed the wrong house at U of C; two of his fraternity brothers were Reapers. They took advantage of the grief,
made friends with him, dragged him down even further.”
“They”—how was I supposed to phrase this?—“took his energy, or whatever?”
Scout nodded gravely as we moved through lunch-minded Chicagoans. “There wasn’t much left of him. A shell, nearly, by the time we got there. He was barely going to class, barely getting out of bed. Depressed.”
