“I’m staying here,” she said resolutely. “I need to be nearby in case Delilah needs me. I told her to call me if she needs me and I’ll be over right away.”
“How are you going to get home?”
“I’ll wait and see if she calls me. If she doesn’t, I’ll get a cab.”
I was quiet for a long moment, looking at her while she looked at Delilah’s hulking, enormous house in the distance.
“Okay,” I finally said. “I’m leaving. Just—text me when you get home, okay?” I wasn’t sure exactly why I still cared about this girl who had lied to me all summer, but there was still something in me that believed in her, that wanted to see her win—whatever that meant.
“Sure,” Jacinta said without taking her eyes off the house.
I left her there, in the darkness, my way off the property lit by the late-summer full moon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I managed to sleep, thanks to this stuff my mom has called valerian root. It smells awful, but it works. She wasn’t home, so I went into her bathroom and got one of her two medicine kits. She’s got an herbal one with hippie-dippie stuff and then a regular one with pills. The valerian root was in the first one. I fell asleep in the living room with a cable news network on. I just needed something to keep me company.
I woke with a start the next morning and saw my mother’s face on the morning news. Flanked by her business partners, she was ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange.
“And just moments ago, cooking and lifestyle guru Anne Rye celebrated the initial public offering of stock in Bake Like Anne Rye!, Inc.,” the news anchor said over footage of my mother ringing the bell. “But the Food Network star and frequent morning talk show guest wasn’t the only one to benefit from her company’s IPO. Everyone on the floor at the NYSE this morning was treated to a cupcake buffet—a first in the Stock Exchange’s more than two centuries of existence.” And there was a shot of my mother serving cupcakes to an endless line of smiling men in dark suits.
I felt a tiny bit of pride well up within me, and for a moment I was kind of psyched for her. I could say a lot of things about my mother, but I couldn’t say she was lazy. The woman worked harder than almost anyone I knew, even my dad—and he was utterly devoted to his students and players.
When the segment on my mom was over, I flipped the channel to the local news, turning it up loud so that I could hear it when I padded into the kitchen. It droned on in the background while I made coffee. It was just background noise until I heard the anchor say, “And in Long Island news, a Babylon girl critically injured last night in a hit-and-run in East Hampton died early this morning.” I rushed back into the living room and saw a high school yearbook photo of Misti flash across the screen. “Nineteen-year-old Misti Carretino was riding her bicycle along Route 27 when an unknown driver. . .” I sank into the couch and watched the rest of the report.
“Shit,” I whispered. I grabbed my phone and texted Jacinta, Misti died. I knew I should feel something for Misti, and I did, but the stronger emotion churning inside me was a growing sense of alarm about Jacinta. What was she going to do?
I know, came the immediate reply. Am watching news. Come over.
I threw on an outfit that would’ve given my mother nightmares (ratty T-shirt and drawstring shorts that said “HOT” on the butt—Skags got them for me as a seventeenth-birthday present as a joke). When Jacinta let me into her house, I was surprised to see that she was basically wearing the same thing—a frayed Seminoles T-shirt and what looked like a pair of old gym shorts. They hung so loosely on her lean frame that I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d fallen off in front of me. Jacinta’s hair was messy, and she wore no makeup. She looked like the world’s tallest, palest eleven-year-old.
“Hi,” she said, sounding tired. “I made breakfast.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said. “I didn’t eat yet.” We walked through various rooms, their glamorous luster dimmed somewhat in the daytime, and reached her magnificent kitchen. On the table, she’d laid out two bowls, two spoons, two glasses of orange juice, a carton of milk, and three boxes of cereal.
“Oh,” I said. “How nice.” I realized that I sounded the way my mother sounds when she wants to make the best of a less-than-ideal situation.
“I love cereal,” Jacinta said, dropping into a chair and motioning for me to do the same. “It’s basically all I ate growing up. I mean, not in New York but—after. And TV dinners. But mostly cereal.” She poured herself a bowl of Froot Loops, and I poured myself a bowl of Kix. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had plain old cereal for breakfast (or orange juice that wasn’t fresh). Even back home in Chicago, I liked to at least have a home-baked muffin in the morning. I’d make a batch each week and put in all kinds of nuts and grains and good healthy things. My dad called them “fiber bombs,” which I guess they were, but they were still delicious. And I always cooked at sleepovers—huevos rancheros, French toast, real easy stuff.
Kix tasted better than I remembered, though I kept thinking we should add a protein and a fruit to round out the meal. I guess that’s just my weird programming.
“So what happened last night?” I finally asked. “I mean, after I left you.” I didn’t really know what else to say to her, so I figured I’d start with that.
Jacinta stirred her Froot Loops with her spoon. “I stayed in the bushes and texted Delilah, but she didn’t text back. So I sneaked up to the house and looked in one of the windows, and she and Teddy were sitting down and talking.”
“How did they look?”
“They looked calm. No fighting. I don’t think he did anything to her. So I figured I should leave before they saw me, and I did.”
“How’d you get home?”
“I walked.”
“You walked?” I asked in disbelief. “From the other side of the Pond? That’d take, like, an hour.”
“It did,” she said. “But I didn’t mind. It was nice to walk. Helped clear my head.”
We ate in silence for a couple more minutes, our spoons clinking against the bowls. It occurred to me then, for the first time, that I might get in all kinds of trouble if the police ever found out that I knew what I knew. Awkward silences sometimes give rise to uncomfortable realizations, I guess—especially when you’re maybe in danger of being an accessory to a hit-and-run. My heart started beating faster, and I felt my palms begin to sweat. I felt a little surge of fear rise within me.
“Jacinta,” I said, putting my spoon down and looking right at her. “When are you going to tell the police about the accident?”
She looked startled.
“It’s been over twelve hours,” I said, my voice rising a little bit. “She’s dead. They’re going to start asking questions.”
“You know I can’t go to the police,” Jacinta said. “They’d put Delilah in jail. I can’t let them do that. She’ll do the right thing when she’s ready. She’s been through a lot.”
“Been through a lot,” I said. “Like drunk driving over some girl on a bicycle and just going home?”
“It wasn’t like that,” she said. “It was more confusing than that. And then after she broke up with Teddy. . . it must’ve been a difficult night.”
“Wait, what? When did she break up with Teddy?”
“Well, last night. Remember I said she was going to?”
“Yeah, but—I mean, did she call you or something?” I was confused.
“No,” Jacinta said. “But I assume that’s what they were discussing when I saw them through the window.”