All Our Yesterdays (15 page)

“Maybe. Hope so.”

He reaches through the jagged teeth of the broken window and pops open the lock on the driver’s door. He slides behind the wheel and opens the passenger’s door for me, and I watch him dig into the wire beneath the steering wheel and go to work on hot-wiring the car the same way he did a dozen times in our years of running.

After several tries and lots of swearing, the car roars to life beneath us, and we take off in the direction the Crown Vic went. Back toward Georgetown.

Back toward home.

Marina

The front exit is choked with mourners and press, and the ambulance bay has to be kept clear, so the officers and men in dark suits lead us to a small fire exit door on the side of the building that’s only used for emergencies. One of the agents—I think his name  is Morris—goes to get the car, while his partner, Spitzer, waits with us inside the door. Spitzer assures us they’ve combed the parking lot and tightened security around the perimeter of the hospital, but I’m still tense with waiting for the sound of a gunshot because now I feel like they can come from anywhere at any time.

When Morris pulls up, Spitzer and an officer guard James from both sides as he climbs into the car. Finn goes next, slipping in the opposite door, and then me, practically diving in the door nearest us so that James is sandwiched between us. Spitzer climbs into the passenger seat, and we set off toward Georgetown. The sky outside the window is a steely gray, the night almost over. I’m not sure whether I’m surprised that so much time has passed or shocked that it’s been so little.

“Want us to take you home first?” Morris says, glancing at Finn in the rearview mirror.

“It’s fine,” Finn says. “I’ll take the Metro.”

Morris frowns. “You sure?” he says. “I don’t even think the Metro is open this early, and—”

“I’m sure,” Finn interrupts, and I realize I don’t know where he lives.

James is silent, watching the streets roll past outside the window.

“You okay?” I say. It’s an idiotic question, but I have to say
something
.

He doesn’t hear me.

We turn onto our street, and I’ve never been so glad to see it before. The Shaws’ house is dark, but the kitchen light is still on in mine. Luz has probably been cooking up a storm since she left the hospital. I’m not letting James stay in his home; the investigators have been in there, and there will be reminders of Nate everywhere. We’ll stay at mine. The agents can protect him just as easily at my house, where there will also be a thousand pancakes and beds with freshly washed sheets waiting for us.

“You can take us to the house with the light on. James is going to stay with me.” I pause. “You can stay, too, Finn. If you want.”

Before either boy responds, a flash of light explodes in my eyes. I scream and cover my face, expecting an explosion of noise and blood and pain. Morris swears and the car accelerates sharply beneath us. I force my eyes open and blink away the floating halos of light that swim in my vision.

“Are you okay?” I grab at James blindly. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” James says shakily. “What was that?”

“Photographers,” Spitzer says. “Camped out across the street. News crews’ll be here any minute.”

“Son of a bitch!” Finn says.

I sag back into my seat. I can’t even summon rage for the creeps who would invade James’s privacy like this. I’m too relieved he hasn’t been shot.

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather go?” Morris asks. “We can secure your house, but there’s nothing we can do about the press.”

James is still pale. “No, I don’t want to go back there. You can drop Marina off, though. The photographers will go away once they see I’m not with her. I’ll go to a hotel, I guess.”

I start shaking my head before he’s even done with the sentence. “No way.”

“I’ll be—”

“You say you’ll be
fine
,
and I swear I’m shoving you out of this car!” I snap. I hate it when James gets like this, so perversely determined not to be a bother to anyone, like last year when he broke his wrist and insisted on scrawling his equations in an unreadable script with his bad hand rather than letting me write for him. He doesn’t see how much I
want
to be bothered by him, how that means I’m actually important to him. “I’m not letting you stay alone in some hotel.”

“Then I’ll go back to the hospital.”

“There’s even more press there! You’ll be mobbed!”

“I don’t need you to take care of me, Marina.”

“You need
someone
to—”

“Guys,” Finn says.
“Guys!”

We both turn to look at him.

He’s slunk down in his seat and is staring up at the roof of the car. “You can both stay with me, if you want.”

James blinks. “Really?”

“Sure.” Finn sighs. “Why not?”

James’s voice is soft. “Finn, you don’t have to.”

I look back and forth between the two boys in confusion.

“You can’t go home or to Marina’s, and you can’t go to the hospital,” Finn says. “You go to a hotel, and someone who works there will recognize you. Jesus, man, you were just
shot
at. No one would ever think to look for you at my place. It’s the best option you’ve got.”

“So where are we going?” Morris asks.

“Columbia Heights,” Finn says. “Gresham Place.”

I go still. Finn stares resolutely out of the window, not looking at us. I’m not stupid; I’ve noticed Finn’s cheap shoes and the fact that he takes the Metro everywhere when he’s old enough to drive, so I knew he must be on financial aid. But I always figured he was some middle-class teacher’s kid or something, because poor people just don’t go to Sidwell. But Columbia Heights? It’s, like,
beyond
poor. Mom would have a two-Xanax-level fit if she knew I was spending time with a boy from that part of town.

We make our way across the city as the sun begins to rise, and both boys are silent. I try to look out of the window at the streets around us as inconspicuously as possible. Misty gray light is creeping into Columbia Heights, illuminating the shuttered storefronts and cracked pavement. It sends the people who linger on the streets scurrying toward home like rats looking for a hole to hide in until dark. Some streets aren’t bad. The main drag is lined with chain restaurants and boutiques, but stray a couple of blocks from Starbucks and Urban Outfitters, and you’re in gangland.

Yeah, we should be a lot safer here.

Finn directs Morris to his house, and at least it could be worse. Gresham Place isn’t Georgetown, but it’s not
quite
the Murder Central we passed a few blocks ago. Finn’s small row house is in bad need of a new coat of paint, and the lawn is wildly overgrown, but there aren’t any bars on the windows, and there’s a bench and two pots of pansies on the tiny porch.

“Home sweet home,” Finn says in a flat voice as Morris parks the car by the curb.

James and I follow him up the porch steps and into the house. The lights are off, but even with nothing but the watery sun through the blinds, I can see that the place is worn and cramped and cluttered. None of the furniture matches, and practically every surface has something on it that shouldn’t be there: a stack of old newspapers, a half-f coffee cup, a discarded sweater. There’s a pile of dishes in the sink and a stack of folded laundry on the sofa, like someone hit the pause button on life. This would never happen in my house. Even without Luz, I think it would drive my mother crazy enough that she’d clean up herself. Or at least make me do it.

“Sorry for the mess,” Finn mutters, shoving a stack of unopened mail into a drawer and sweeping a handful of crumbs off the countertop and into the sink.

“It’s fine,” James says. I can’t say anything. I’m trying not to be the terrible snob that Finn thinks I am, but I’ve never known anyone who lives like this. The whole house could practically fit inside my living room. I imagine what Tamsin and Sophie would say if they knew.

“Finn, honey, is that you?” a voice calls from another room.

“It’s me, Mom!”

“Can you come help me in here? Your father got called in early.”

Finn barely glances at us. “I’ll be right back.”

When he’s gone, I turn to James, who’s moving the stack of laundry so he can sit on the sofa. “Did you know Finn lived here?”

He shakes his head. “He would never tell me; we always stayed at my house. I knew his family didn’t have the kind of money ours do, but I didn’t think it was this bad.”

I perch on the arm beside him. “How can they afford to send him to Sidwell? Even with financial aid?”

“He’s on a full scholarship. He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“You mean Finn’s
smart
?” I ask, only half joking.

“I hide it pretty well, huh?” Finn asks as he turns the corner back into the living room. There’s a sharpness to his grin, like a knife’s edge. “James, you can take my room.”

“No, that’s okay,” James says. “I don’t want to kick you out—”

“I insist, so shut up, okay? It’s the first door on the left.”

James sighs. “Okay. Just a couple of hours. Then I’m going back to the hospital.”

“Of course.”

James stands, and I’m about to get up and hug him when I see Finn watching me. I stop myself, suddenly self-conscious.

“Good night,” I say.

“Good night.” For a second James looks like he’s going to say something else, but then he turns and leaves.

Finn lifts the lid of the wooden trunk that serves as a coffee table and pulls out a pile of extra pillows and blankets.

“You can take the couch,” he says. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Okay.”

He cuts his eyes up at me. “You could do me the courtesy of arguing for at least a
second
.”

“Oh. I, uh . . .” It never even occurred to me to offer to take the floor myself. But it
is
his house. “I guess I can take the floor. . . .”

That makes him laugh. “I was joking, M.”

Thank God.

We make a decent pallet for him on the floor, laying the back cushions from the couch down in the small space between the coffee table and the doorway to the kitchen. My bed is more easily made, just a pillow and an old quilt that smells like lavender and mothballs dumped onto the sofa. It’s not Egyptian cotton and hypoallergenic down, but I swear it feels even better than that when my body sinks into the cushions. I’m half asleep before my head hits the pillow.

“Marina?”

“Hmm?”

He pauses so long, I nearly fall asleep in the silence.

“You in love with James?” he finally asks.

My eyes fly open. Those five little words in Finn’s hushed voice chase away any thought of sleep. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I know.”

I roll over and find him looking up at me, his hands folded behind his head. I can barely meet his eyes. “Then why do you care?”

He shrugs. “I just do.”

“Well, I’m not, okay?” I say, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel. “He’s my best friend, that’s it.”

Finn’s expression doesn’t change. “Okay.”

“Can I go to sleep now?”

“Sure.”

I roll over again, turning my back to him.

“Good night, Marina.”

His voice is so oddly kind when he says it that I burrow deeper into the quilt to get away from the sound of it and don’t say anything back.

Twelve

Em

Finn and I catch up with the Crown Vic at one particularly long light and follow it from a discreet distance to James’s house. I tuck my hands under my legs to keep them from fidgeting as we approach. I’m going to see my house again. I haven’t seen it since the night I snuck out to meet Finn and escape from D.C. I even left my key in the flowerpot beside the front door after locking it behind me, because I knew I was never coming back.

We watch from around the corner as the Crown Vic turns onto my street. A group of photographers jumps at it, and the driver hits the gas. Finn goes after them, and my house flies past the window so quickly that it’s little more than a blur. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

“Where are they going?” I ask as the Crown Vic turns east.

He frowns. “Not sure.”

We follow them for a few more minutes, and then Finn abruptly steers our car into a gas station. The Crown Vic flies through a green light ahead of us.

“What are you doing?” I say.

“Getting gas.”

“But they’re getting away!”

Finn gets out of the car and goes to pay the attendant. I open my door and clamber out.

“Finn!” I call after him.
“Finn!”