Damn! They'd called from an untraceable line. I should have known.
I hung up and went back into the dining room.
"I wish Ruth would stop calling us during dinner," my mother said. "She knows we eat at six thirty. It really isn't very thoughtful of her."
I didn't see any reason to disabuse her of the idea that it had been Ruth on the phone. I was pretty sure she wouldn't have liked hearing the truth. I plunked down into my seat and picked up my fork.
Only suddenly, I couldn't eat. I don't know what happened, but I had a piece of pasta halfway to my lips when suddenly my throat closed up and the table—and all of the food on it—went blurry.
Blurry because my eyes had filled up with tears. Tears! Just like Mark Leskowski, I was crying.
"Jess," my mother said, curiously. "Are you all right?"
I glanced at her, but I couldn't really see her. Nor could I speak. All I could think was, Oh, my God. They are going to do to me what they did to Heather.
And then I felt really, really cold, like someone had left the door to the walk-in freezer at Mastriani's wide open.
"Jessica?" my dad said. "What's wrong?"
But how could I tell them? How could I tell them about that phone call? It would just upset them. They would probably even call the police. That was all I needed, the police. Like I didn't have the FBI practically camped in my front yard.
But Heather … what had happened to Heather … I didn't want that to happen to me.
Suddenly Douglas shoved his salad plate to the floor. It shattered with a crash into a million pieces.
"Take that," he yelled at the bits of lettuce with ranch dressing littering the floor.
I blinked at him through my tears. What was going on? Was Douglas having an episode? I could tell by the expressions on my parents' faces that they thought so, anyway. They exchanged worried glances....
And while their attention was focused on one another, Douglas glanced at me, and winked....
A second later, my mother was on her feet. "Dougie," she cried. "Dougie, what is it?"
My dad, as always, was more laconic about the whole thing. "Did you take all your medication today, Douglas?" he asked.
Then I knew. Douglas was faking an episode—to get them off my back about the crying thing. I felt a wave of love for Douglas wash over me. Had there ever, in the history of time, been such a cool big brother?
While my parents were distracted, I reached up and wiped the tears from my eyes with the backs of my wrists. What was happening to me? I never cried. This thing with Amber, and now with Heather, was getting way personal. I mean, now they were after me. Me!
Between the Feds thinking Douglas was the killer, and the real killers threatening that I was going to be their next victim, I guess I had a reason to cry. But it was still demoralizing, seeing as how it was such a Karen-Sue-Hankey thing to do.
While I was trying to get my emotions under control, and my parents were questioning Douglas about his mental health, the phone rang again. This time, I practically knocked my chair over, diving to get it.
"It's for me," I said quickly, lifting the receiver. "I'm sure."
No one so much as glanced in my direction. Douglas was still getting the third degree for his assault on his dinner salad.
"Jessica?" a voice I did not recognize asked in my ear.
"It's me," I said. And then, turning my back on the scene in the dining room, I said in a low rapid voice, "Listen, you loser, if you don't quit calling me, I swear I'm going to hunt you down and kill you like the dog that you are."
The voice went, sounding extremely taken aback, "But, Jess. This is the first time I've called you. Ever."
I sucked in my breath, finally realizing who it was. "Skip?"
"Yeah," Skip said. "It's me. Listen, I was just wondering if you'd thought about what we discussed today at lunch. You know. The movie. This weekend."
"Oh," I said. My mother came into the kitchen and went to the pantry, from which she removed a broom and dustpan. "Yeah," I said. "The movie. This weekend."
"Yeah," Skip said. "And I thought maybe, before the movie, we could go out. You know, for dinner or something."
"Uh," I said. My mother, holding the broom and dustpan, was standing there staring at me, the way lions on the Discovery Channel stare at the gazelles they are about to pounce on. All her concern for Douglas seemed to be forgotten. This was, after all, the first time I had ever been asked out within her earshot. My mother, who'd been a cheerleader herself—and Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen, County Fair Princess, and Little Miss Corn Detassler—had been waiting sixteen years for me to start dating. She blamed the fact that I hadn't been out on a million dates already, like she had at my age, on my slovenly dress habits.
She didn't know anything about my right hook.
Well, actually, I think she did now, thanks to Mrs. Hankey's lawsuit.
"Yeah, about that, Skip," I said, turning my back on her. "I don't think I can go. I mean, my curfew is eleven. My mom would never let me stay out for a movie that didn't even start until midnight."
"Yes, I would," my mother said loudly, to my utter horror and disbelief.
I brought the phone away from my ear and stared at her. "Mom," I said, flabbergasted.
"Don't look at me that way, Jessica," my mom said. "I mean, I am not completely inflexible. If you want to go to a midnight show with Skip, that's perfectly all right."
I couldn't believe it. After the grief she'd been giving me about Rob, I was pretty sure she was never letting me out of the house again, let alone with a boy.
But apparently it was just one particular boy I was banned from seeing socially.
And that boy was not Skip Abramowitz.
"I mean," my mother went on, "it's not like your father and I don't know Skip. He has grown into a very responsible young man. Of course you can go to the movies with him."
I gaped at her. "Ma," I said. "The movie doesn't even start until midnight."
"So long as Skip has you home right after it ends," my mother said.
"Oh," came a voice from the receiver, which I was holding limply in my hand. "I will, Mrs. Mastriani. Don't worry!"
And just like that, I had a date with Skip Abramowitz.
Well, it wasn't like I could get out of it after that. Not without completely humiliating him. Or myself, for that matter.
"Mom," I yelled when I had hung up. "I don't want to go out with Skip!
"Why not?" Mom wanted to know. "I think he's a very nice boy."
Translation: He doesn't own a motorcycle, has never worked in a garage, and did really well on his PSATs.
And, oh, yeah, his dad happens to be the highest-paid lawyer in town.
"I think you're being unfair, Jessica," my mother said. 'True, Skip may not be the most exciting boy you know, but he's extremely sweet."
"Sweet! He blew up my favorite Barbie!"
"That was years ago," my mom said. "I think Skip's grown into a real gentleman. You two will have a wonderful time." She grew thoughtful. "You know, I just found a skirt pattern the other day that would be perfect for a casual night out at the movies. And there are a few yards of gingham left over from those curtains I made for the guest room. . . ."
See, this is the problem with having a stay-at-home mom. She thinks up little projects to do all the time, like making me a skirt from material left over from curtains. I swear sometimes I'm not sure who she's supposed to be, my mother or Maria von Trapp.
Before I could say anything like, "No, thanks, Mom. I just spent a fortune at Esprit, I think I can manage to find something to wear on my own," or even, "Mom, if you think I'm not planning on coming down with something Saturday night just before this date, you've got another think coming," Douglas came into the kitchen, holding his dinner plate, and said, "Yeah, Jess. Skip's really neat."