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“I met Stacy at the pool with Cynthia this summer, nimrod, and she totally asked me about you, so I just put like two and two together.”

Okay, I felt stupid for not having thought of that, because Cynthia lived at Sunnybrook, too, and took Neecey to the pool there all the time. But at least it made me hold off on asking her whether she’d ratted me out to mom—it seemed her list of charges against me was long enough already.

Neecey dropped her chin and exhaled harshly, but tried to be calmer when she spoke again. “Sure, mom and I are totally curious about what you write in your journal because you’ve been like all
dedicated for nearly a year now, but your counselor said we’re not even supposed to like
ask
you about it until you come to us and tell us you’re ready to share, which we figure will be like
never
.”

“That’s not true, Neecey,” I tried to protest, “I will—”

“No you
won’t
, Genie, because you’re completely warped and think nobody really cares about you and that everybody’s out to get you.”

That stung more than it should have, and the lump in my throat started to tighten again when the door creaked open and a blast of music and light flooded the room. Darren peeked his head around the door and for a second I was almost glad to see him.

“Dudes, one burger bandage, coming up.” He smiled.

Neecey stood up from the sofa, walked over to Darren, and retrieved it from him. Then she came over to me, removed the towel and the lump of soggy meat from my face, and fastened a fresh, ice-cold chopped sirloin patty in its place.

“There,” she said. “With a little luck, you won’t look
exactly
like the Elephant Man for the next two weeks. You totally don’t deserve my help, though, or Darren’s either.” Neecey paused—a little too maliciously, I thought. “You have something you want to say to him,
don’t you
, Genie?”

She’d just pushed a fresh hot plate of crow under my nose and it was time for me to dig in. I stood up and looked straight at Darren with my free eye. I knew I didn’t have any choice in the matter, so I bit the bullet and said, “Thanks, D, you know for—”

He put his hand up, waving me off. “No sweat, little dude. I promised your sis I’d look out for you and you gave me a prime chance to come through. So we’re square.” Then he flipped his hair back and said, “Check it, Neece, the crew cranked up the after party and it’s totally choice. How ’bout we go kick it and get the little dude some eats? He’s gotta be full-on ravenous.”

“I don’t know, Darren, I’m so totally pissed at him.”

“Ah-ight, I totally get it, the little dude pissed you off severely and
you’re still sore at him. But it’s like you got all the time you need to be pissed and sore tomorrow. Right now there’s a total fiesta goin’ on, and the little dude’s my guest, so I’m obliged to show him some hospitality and shit.”

Neecey folded her arms across her chest while she mulled it over. “All right,” she finally said to Darren, “I guess he’s allowed to eat.” Then she pointed at me and said, “But don’t think you’re getting off easy, Genie, because I am
so not
done with you.”

Funny, I’d never thought she was.

“Hear that, little dude?” Darren beamed. “Official party reprieve, effective most pronto.”

Fucking Darren. I’d always pegged him as the villain, but here he was, saving my ass again.

The three of
us walked out of the back den and into the kitchen, where the crew and a handful of girls were drinking and dancing and laughing and having what looked like an awesome time. Darren called for everyone’s attention and introduced me to them as the new paperweight champion of the world, and they all whooped and whistled and cheered. Then he sat me at the breakfast bar in the center of the kitchen and gave me a hamburger, a cooked one, with cheese and a toasted bun and ketchup and everything, and after I’d scarfed that down, he got me another. Then Squat came over and handed me half a cup of foamy beer, and just like that it was official—I was partying for the very first time in my life, and not minding it at all.

Darren had cranked the stereo and was dancing around with Burger and Squat—popping and whopping and moon-walking on the kitchen’s white tile floor in socks they’d fetched from upstairs—and once in a while Squat would shout “D-break!” and they’d go into this crazy kick-boxing routine right on rhythm. They were lauding Darren’s triumph over Tommy Sharpe, all three of them, reenacting
it to song—bragging and boasting and having a blast—and they were funny as hell to watch. Through my right eye, the one that wasn’t covered, I just glimpsed Roni sneaking into the den with a blonde in a tight red dress that left little about her figure to speculation, closing the door behind them. Chakha and Cynthia were still in their swimsuits, and every few minutes they darted into the kitchen or back outside, like Captain Caveman after one of the Teen Angels. They were both sopping wet, giggling, and blushing the whole time. I didn’t see Lyle, because he was outside at the barbecue pit manning the grill, but I saw the short, curvy brunette and the wispy redhead who were supplying him with various meats and fixings from the refrigerator and freezer. And Sticky, the pipe-cleaner klepto, had his dark hair slicked back and was wearing mirrored sunglasses, long white coveralls with a zipper down the front that was open to his waist, and about half a wheelbarrow of fake gold chains across his bird chest. He was drinking keg beer from a bucket-sized brandy snifter and entertaining not one, or two, but
three
dark-haired honeys with Elvis impersonations, flipping up his collar, saying, “Hey, baby, don’t make the King smack ass,” and tossing fake karate moves into the air so they all fell out laughing.

I was mostly watching, taking in the sights and sounds of it all, and mowing down whatever edible thing chanced within my reach. I had to give it to him, Lyle could hook the grub up with the best of them, and if this was all the crew was really up to, it wasn’t anywhere near as despicable as I’d thought. Yeah, a teenage party like this was probably every parent’s worst nightmare, but it seemed Darren and the crew were just out for good times, and that they’d gotten pretty skilled at getting them.

After a little while, Sticky sidled up next to me at the breakfast bar and said, “You
totally
should’ve seen yourself pillaging Razor’s nut-sack, little dude, like all berserk and out of nowhere. You’re hardcore sinister, for real.”

Darren came around the other side of me and said, “Totally.
You’ve kicked a teacher’s ass and fronted a deuce of high-school football players all by yourself—and you haven’t even started seventh grade yet. Once we get the word out, you’re gonna be the most feared kid in the history of junior high.”

“You’re gonna be a legend, little dude,” Burger agreed from behind the refrigerator door. “Total legend.”

I didn’t know if they were right about that and I didn’t really care. I’d never done anything to try to be popular, and I didn’t think I wanted to be, especially on the back of some watered-down bullshit like that. But if kids passed the story around and gave me less trouble because of it, then I knew I probably wouldn’t bother correcting them. That was one thing I could definitely use more of—less trouble—and letting people believe what they wanted to believe didn’t seem like the worst way to get it.

I had to admit it, being at the after party and getting congratulated by everybody was a lot of fun, and I was having a good time. But I still felt out of place. Maybe it was because I still didn’t know what had happened with the sign or who had really done it, or because I’d proven beyond all reasonable doubt that I was the worst fucking detective the world had ever seen. Shit, Marlowe would not have appreciated my skills the tiniest little bit, and now that I thought about it, neither would my client. So maybe it felt like something was off because I’d been wrong about most everything and everyone over the past few days, and probably much longer than that. Or maybe because I realized I’d not only humiliated my sister in front of her friends by throwing another fit in public, but I’d embarrassed myself, too. Or maybe I was just having trouble accepting that people around here were being friendly to me, because they’d never been that way before. Then again, I couldn’t put my finger on it, and I was in no position to judge. Maybe I wasn’t out of place. Maybe nothing was off. Maybe all of it was just in my head.

I’d lost track of Neecey for a while but caught sight of her as she was coming inside from the deck, telling Darren it was almost
eleven-thirty and that they had to get me home. When I heard that, I stood up from my stool at the breakfast bar, finished the few dollops of froth left in my beer, and removed the chopped sirloin patty from my eye. Darren set off to round up Sticky and get the show on the road, and I headed for the bathroom to wash my face. Just as I got to the door, I felt a small, cold hand slip into mine. Yeah, I was taken by surprise because I thought she’d be long gone by now, and because I couldn’t bring myself to look at her yet because of what I’d done. But she leaned her head against my shoulder and just stayed where she was, holding my hand.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

No, I didn’t understand Stacy. I couldn’t figure out what she’d be thanking
me
for, or the way her mind worked, and I knew right then it would probably take me ages to grasp the littlest bit of it. But I was happy that she was standing beside me, and I was willing to take my time.

TWENTY-TWO

Either Sticky was drunk or he was a rotten driver
or he was paying too much attention to the tape deck instead of the road, because we were going too fast, veering and swerving all over the place, but he somehow managed to keep “We Are the Champions” by Queen blasting on a continuous loop throughout the entire ride. Besides Sticky, it was Darren, Neecey, Cynthia, Chakha, Stacy, and me, and the top was off Sticky’s Jeep and we were crammed together and the music was blaring and we were all singing along at the top of our lungs, as if we’d taken the party with us instead of having left it. Sticky was in the driver’s seat, Darren was in the passenger seat with Neecey in his lap, and to my left, Chakha’s and Cynthia’s arms and legs were so tangled up that it was hard to tell who was sitting on whom. You didn’t have to be Dr. Ruth to know that I’d never be Manning the Lookout again. No fucking way. But with Stacy sitting on my lap, it was kind of difficult for me to she’d a tear at its passing.

The plan was to drop Stacy off, then me, then the others would return to Darren’s for a little while, although I didn’t ask what for,
and then they’d all get in the Jeep again later and drop Neecey and Cynthia at Cynthia’s place, where they were staying tonight. It seemed like too much driving and too many trips and too much backtracking, but I had Stacy’s butt cheeks bouncing around on my thighs and we were all belting out “No time for losers, ’cause we are the chaaaaamp-yons” as loud as we could, so I just sat back and sponged it all in while it lasted.

We pulled up in front of Stacy’s apartment, and she hopped off me, over the side of the Jeep, and onto the pavement, practically before we’d even stopped. I still hadn’t said anything to her since we’d met up in the kitchen, and I didn’t know what to do, so I just kind of sat there, twiddling my thumbs. Sticky looked over his shoulder from the driver’s seat, lifted his sunglasses, and said, “Little dude, you have to like walk her to the door, or she’ll think you got no chivalry and whatnot,” and he nodded his chin at me to get out. So that’s what I did.

Stacy was standing at the curb, waiting for me, and as soon as I’d reached her, she took my hand again. It was a short walk to her apartment, maybe twelve yards, but I was nervous all the way. Everything was quiet, until Sticky howled, “Little duuu-uuuu-uuuude!” into the night, and the others hit and punched him and told him to shut up, and I felt myself blushing. My heart started pounding as we got to her door, because I still didn’t know what to say, but Stacy turned to me, gave me a quick kiss, slipped something into my hand, and bolted inside and out of sight before I had a chance to catch my breath or blink.

I looked down into my palm, steadied it with my other hand for a second, then unfolded the piece of paper and saw her name written out in big, loopy cursive and her phone number underneath it. Yeah, I got the digits, and it felt like I’d won the lottery and Super Bowl MVP, both at the same time, only a million times better. And I noticed something else, a tiny detail that really jumped out: Stacy didn’t spell her name with
a y
at the end, the way our teachers spelled
it and the way I’d always written it in my journal. No, she spelled it with an
i
—Staci—and for some reason that one letter seemed to change everything. Sure, I knew I still had a lot to feel bad about, but right now I couldn’t help feeling happier and more excited than I’d ever thought possible. Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with the
i
at the end of Staci’s name. Maybe it was the heart she’d used to dot it.

I probably should’ve known everything was going way too well and that I was due for a fall, most likely a catastrophic one, around the next corner. Sure enough, as we pulled up to our house, we saw mom’s car parked at the curb and all the houselights on.