“Sounds fascinating.”
“But that was the opening I needed,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “After the Head went on endlessly about our zero-tolerance drug policy, I eased into my question. Asked myself, what would Charlie do? So I said, do we have any information about drug use on campus? Even any rumors? Anyone get wind of anything, talking to students?”
“What did-” I begin again.
“So, there’s a silence. Everyone looks at each other. The Head, Ebling, Bursar Pratt, the dean of boys. There’s Alethia’s empty chair, which was disturbing. Silence.”
“Did you say where you’d heard…?”
“Of course not. Anyway, they all looked bemused, I suppose is the word. All said they hadn’t heard a thing. Nothing drug related, any more than the usual whispers, at least. No. No. No. All around the table.” He takes one hand off the wheel to illustrate “all around,” then turns the car onto Bexter Academy Drive.
“Do I get a gold star?” he says. “And what did you find in the BEX?”
On the floor by my feet, my tote bag sings out the seventies’ TV theme song from Charlie’s Angels. Franklin programmed the ringtone into my phone as a surprise. It only rings that way when it’s him calling.
“Your master’s voice,” Josh says.
“Hardly,” I say. I flip open the phone. “Hey, Franko. Did Wixie call you back? Any news about the blue Mustang?”
“You have ESP, Charlotte? Yes, Saskia called. She’s checking with Tyler and Taylor for the number. She says they’re ‘wack,’ by the way, and she’ll call me back when she tracks them down,” he says. “But switch gears. I just got a call from engineering. The undercover cameras are fixed. We can go to the Longmore tonight. Stake it out. You up for it?”
Nothing. Zero. Nada. We got absolutely nothing.
Our story may be on life support. Breathing its last. If our story dies, I’m not far behind, journalism-wise. Maybe this New York thing is my lifeline.
We’d tried the valet scheme Saturday night. Nothing. Deciding the likelihood of the valets recognizing our car-or caring-was small, we’d tried again Sunday night. Nothing.
It’s Monday. We’re doomed.
“Tick, tick,” I say, stirring skim milk into my coffee-type beverage. After sitting almost all night in the front seat of the news car, my black pants are a mass of indelible wrinkles. My black turtleneck has tiny lint balls across the front after six hours of being chafed by a seat belt. My boots are toasting my feet into sweltering blobs and I forgot to bring backup shoes. I want to go home. J.T., Franklin and I are sick of stakeouts. We’re wiped out. Frazzled. And bemoaning our fate around a wobbly plastic-topped table in the Rat.
The station’s cafeteria is in the basement of Channel 3. It’s more like a graveyard for ancient vending machines. Windowless, and with the constant faint odor of decaying fruit and rancid yogurt, it’s the only place to get coffee without going outside into this afternoon’s sleet. After tasting the vending-machine coffee a few years ago, someone dubbed this place the Dead Rat Café. Not surprisingly, the name stuck.
Franklin’s morosely dunking a tea bag. J.T. has water. Much wiser.
“Monday. Two weeks until the February book. And we have zero,” Franklin says.
“Zero,” I repeat. I take a sip. Mistake. “You think they put their valet scheme on hold? After Michael Borum confronted them?”
“Maybe they only do it on certain nights. Or when certain people are working there,” Franklin says.
“Or aren’t working there.” J.T. tips back in his chair, precarious. He’s wearing a khaki canvas vest with a million zippered pockets. His jeans are wrinkled, too. “Or maybe-”
“We’re doomed,” I say, interrupting him. I’m shredding a paper napkin into strips, punctuating my litany of impending disaster. “This was my idea. I blew off the fake-organic-food story. And I left us with nothing. Kevin will flip. I’ve never failed on my sweeps story. This is it. The time I’ve always dreaded. The time it all falls through. Sorry, guys. We’re doomed.”
And Kevin might rethink his New York offer. That, I don’t say out loud. I look at Franklin, hoping he has an idea that will pull me out of my dead-story spiral.
“What if Kevin yanks the station car?” Franklin’s making it worse instead. “And the overtime for J.T. is probably in the stratosphere.”
J.T. tips his chair back into place with a metallic thunk. His bottle of water wobbles on the table. “Listen, McNally. I say, let’s give it another go. Maybe two. The suits have spent this much on the project, they might as well spring to see it through. Who needs sleep, right? How about tonight?”
Of course we can’t give up. Of course we should try again. But tomorrow is Tuesday. I can’t be tired on Tuesday.
“How about tomorrow night instead?” I say. “Tuesday’s Penny’s first day at school. I’m taking her, and if we stay up all night tonight, I’ll be a zombie.”
J.T. punches Franklin in the arm. “Parrish, come on. You up for Tuesday night? I know you don’t want to let this baby go.”
Here we go. I stiffen, waiting for Franko to escalate. But Franklin shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “You think the hidden cam setup is the best it can be? Seems like it is.”
Well, well. Détente. Franklin’s on board. J.T.’s turning out to be a quite the team player. And also a good stakeout buddy, which is a critical skill. It still haunts me that he doesn’t even know his own real name. Just Tommy.
Just a minute.
The boys’ conversation blurs into a buzz as I focus on what I should have realized before now.
Only one good reason Fiona Rooseveldt left school for a year. I don’t care what her family pretended back then. She disappeared to have a baby.
I begin to count on my fingers again. And I don’t need to be a math whiz for this computation.
Does Fiona have another secret?
Chapter Sixteen
“I can’t find my sock!” Penny’s wail echoes across the stair landing. I creak my eyes open. Five a.m. It’s Tuesday morning. I struggle to calculate. Penny has to be at Bexter at eight. Even in my bleary state, I can figure it’s too early to be worrying about socks. But it’s the first day of school. That happens once in a lifetime. And it’s comforting to have a pal to share it. Even a stepmom-to-be.
I throw off the quilt, leaving Josh still zonked with one arm draped to the floor, and pad down the carpeted hall into Penny’s room. She’s perched on the side of her bed, also wearing one of Josh’s Bexter T-shirts, but she’s added pink ballet slippers. Her hair is pillow flat on one side, spiked on the other. Botox drapes on her lap. A battered stuffed giraffe named Diz, who used to be spotted but who is now a weathered generic gray, is in a serious necklock under one of Penny’s spindly arms. In the other hand, Penny’s holding up one navy blue sock; stark evidence of impending disaster.
“Pen?” I slide into place beside her, lowering one arm across her shoulders. Botox arches her tail, and plants it across my lap. “How you doing, kiddo? It’s pretty early.”
“I know.” A wail. “But I’m trying to get ready. Like you said to. And my other sock is gone. And I don’t have another other sock. And I’ve got to wear socks.”
Penny’s Bexter uniform of plaid skirt, navy V-neck sweater and white shirt is displayed on the puffy pink-striped chair by her closet. I untangle myself from cat and nine-year-old, and pick up the skirt. Underneath, stuck by static to the woolen plaid, is one knee-length navy blue sock.