Under Cover (8 page)

She parked facing the athletic field and
didn’t answer. She lowered the air conditioner, but kept it on and
finally was ready to talk. “What did you hear?”

That was blunt. I said, “Huh?” even though I
knew what she meant.

“About me. You must have heard
something.”

“Who would I hear it from?”

She saw through my stupid question. “Around
school. You know how people gossip.”

“Come to think of it . . .” This much was
true, “I did hear something in the girls’ room.”

She got a sullen look and stared out at the
field. “What did you hear?”

“I don’t remember every word.” That, too, was
true. I felt awkward discussing it with her. “Something about,
um—your father, um—” What’s a polite term for what happened? Maybe
just blurt it out. “Your dad got in some sort of trouble for,
um—fooling around.”

“That’s
what they said? Are you sure
you heard it right?”

“I told you I don’t remember the exact
wording. They said that’s why he gave you all those presents. The
jewelry and things. And the car.”

I couldn’t look at her. She’d always bragged
about those gifts, as if her dad was such a great guy.

She sniffed. “It wasn’t like that at
all.”

“Oh?”

I could see the wheels turning as she tried
to come up with a good one. I’d done it often enough myself, and
knew the symptoms.

She took a breath. “See, what happened was…
You know my dad’s an executive with a sportswear firm in the
city.”

I knew that, but what did it have to do with
what happened at home?

“You know they use live models,” she went on.
“They design the clothes right on them. They still do it.”

“Yes,” I said. “You told me all about it a
few times. You said you were going to get a job doing that.”

She ignored me, and continued. “So, anyway,
one of their models got the real hots for my dad. He’s a
good-looking guy, you know?”

Not that good-looking. He had too much
forehead, not enough chin, and a drooping belly.

Again she wouldn’t look at me. I said, “Uh
huh?” and tried to sound encouraging.

“But he couldn’t have been less interested.”
She said it with a note of triumph. All lies, I knew. But there
might have been a tiny bit of truth to it. Where would Stacie even
begin to get an idea like that?

“And?” I prompted.

“It really bothered that woman, him ignoring
her. So she started spreading rumors. Somehow it got to the
police.”

Now, that was a stretch.

“The Southbridge police?” I said. “All the
way from New York City?”

It stopped her for just an instant. Then she
collected herself and tossed her short, blond head. “You must know,
police departments communicate with each other all the time.”

Sure I knew. But it was mostly about wanted
fugitives and other important matters. I pretended to take her
seriously.

“Wouldn’t they have to have some kind of
proof before they could take any action?” I said. “I would think
they’d have a hard time proving some rejected woman’s rumor.”

“I’m sure she had her ways.” Stacie looked
out at the athletic field. “She probably slept with them.”

“That’s proof?”

“I didn’t say it was proof. It just says a
lot about her.”

Bitchy me, I kept trying to trip her up.
“Somebody must have taken it seriously if it got all the way to
Southbridge.”

I didn’t know why I felt so mean. Or rather,
I did, and his name was Troy Zoller. I didn’t give a hoot about
Troy anymore, but the betrayal still hurt.

She pretended surprise at herself. “Did I say
it was the city police? That’s where the firm is, but that crazy
woman took it all the way to Southbridge just to make trouble.”

“She must have been desperate,” I said.
“Where’s your dad now?”

“He has an apartment in the city. It’s more
convenient for work.”

And more convenient for obeying what was
probably an order to keep away from Stacie.

“So, is he—” I tried to think of the word,
“in the clear?”

She made a face and didn’t answer. I took it
to mean he wasn’t. None of her story was true.

But I couldn’t leave it alone. “Did they fire
the model?”

She gave a startled twitch. Because the whole
thing wasn’t real, so she hadn’t thought of any follow-through.

She examined the leather cover on her
steering wheel. “Sure they did. What do you think?”

“I think I’d better be getting home.” I
reached for the door handle.

Chapter
Eight

Stacie drove me home.

As I walked in the door, Grandma turned off
her vacuum cleaner. “Where did you go off to?”

Still keeping track of me. It was a lifelong
habit.

She didn’t need my whole itinerary. “I ran
into Stacie Marr,” I said.

“Yeah? How’s she doing?”

Grandma knew all about the thing with
Stacie’s dad. I said, “She tried to make me think it was a big
rumor some woman made up. A model who worked for him.”

“In New York? How’d it get all the way to
Southbridge PD?”

“I asked her that. She did a quick reshuffle
and said the model went straight to them. Either she didn’t plan
the story very well, or she thinks I’m a total idiot.”

“Hmpf,” said Grandma. “I’m sure our
Southbridge guys would look for something to back it up before
they’d run him in. They did run him in, didn’t they?”

“I think so. Maybe they’re still
investigating. I could ask Maddie’s boyfriend.”

“If he’ll talk. Cops like to keep their
secrets.”

“I pretended to go along with her,” I said,
“but now I wish I hadn’t. It’d be fun to see what she comes up
with.”

“She still living at home?”

“She didn’t say, but he isn’t. He has a place
in the city.”

“Just as well, keep him away from her. Horny
old guy.” Grandma wound up the vacuum cord.

“She thinks he’s good-looking,” I said.

“Phooey. I never thought so. She must be on
the defensive, or something.” Grandma had known the Marrs when they
lived on Riverview.

The afternoon had left me exhausted, mostly
from frustration. I couldn’t face a whole summer not earning any
money, and with Ben going away at the end of it. What was my life
coming to?

Maybe it wouldn’t make a lot difference about
Ben going away. Not if I was losing him, which was how it seemed,
with Miss Brown Shorts, and all. There were too many other chicks
out there for him to bother with me.

I plodded through the week hardly seeing Ben
at all, even at school. He was busy boning up for exams. I could
understand that. What I couldn’t understand was why he took that
stupid job when it was almost the end of his senior year and he had
finals coming. Was it to get away from me? Or was I being
ridiculously self-centered and it had nothing to do with me?

Let’s face it; I didn’t understand Ben at
all. Maybe I wasn’t as good with Asperger’s as I thought.

I especially wasn’t prepared for the way he
kept ignoring me. Or not so much ignoring me as treating me like
one of the public instead of someone who should have been special
to him. I wasn’t just any old customer at Frosty Dan, I was
me,
Cree Penny. You would never know it from the way he
acted. I might have to go back to my dream of Broadway just to stay
alive. A girl needs something to live for. But I wanted to live for
Ben.

Thoughts of Broadway got me job-hunting
again. Friday afternoon I tried calling Phil Reimer to ask if there
was anything at
The Chronicle
that I could do, like
answering phones or making coffee. Phil wasn’t there and the person
who took my call said there was nothing at the moment.

Or any moment, most likely. The story of my
life.

I went down to the basement where Grandma
stacked all the old newspapers in a recycle bin. I dug out the want
ads and took them upstairs to my room.

There wasn’t much. Not even enough to keep me
awake. I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep until I heard a car outside.
It couldn’t be Mom. She never came that early.

It was Ben’s truck in the driveway.

Grandma shouted from downstairs, “Hunk’s
here!” I heard her going outside.

I ran a comb through my hair and tried to
remember what day this was. Friday? Late afternoon or early
evening. Ben should have been at work. Was this some kind of
emergency? I hurried downstairs.

I almost melted at the sight of his smile.
Grandma had been flirting with him, as she always did, but the
smile was for me.

“Feel like eating?” he said.

“Eating?”

“Like when you put food in your mouth, and
chew it, and swallow.”

It sounded gross the way he said it, but that
was Ben.

I said, “Can I do a quick change first? I
feel grubby.”

I took a fast shower. Very fast, so as not to
keep him waiting. He looked so crisp in his clean white shirt. I
put on a clean white shirt of my own and my designer jeans with
embroidery on the rear.

I assumed he meant something like Burger
King. Instead he drove to the village marina on the Hudson
shore.

Next to it was a restaurant called Waterside.
It had arching windows and a wraparound deck. Half of it stood on
pilings above the water. It was the most elegant restaurant in
town. Mom and Grandma took me there for my twelfth birthday.

Since it was early still, the parking lot was
nowhere near full. Ben came around and opened my door. That was a
first. I began to wish I had worn a dress, but maybe designer jeans
were good enough.

“Ben, did you get a raise or something?”

“Dream on,” he said. “You think a raise from
Frosty Dan would cover this place?”

“Then what’s the occasion?”

He pulled open a carved wooden door and
ushered me inside. The restaurant was as uncrowded as the parking
lot. We got a table next to a window that looked straight down on
the water. The whole place had a hushed coolness about it, and
genuine linen on the tables. What had gotten into Ben? He was
supposed to be saving his money.

The waitress set a basket of rolls on the
table along with a plate of raw munchies. She gave us each a menu.
Ben scarcely looked at his.

“Fried clams,” he said.

I hadn’t even begun to make up my mind. The
waitress waited, while Ben studied the plate of veggies. Crudités,
Mom would have called them. There was cut celery, baby carrots,
pickled beets, and both green and black olives. Ben took an olive
and asked the waitress, “Do you have any peanut butter?”

“Peanut butter?” She must have thought she
heard him wrong.

“Yeah, the chunky kind, if you have it.”

“I’ll see what I can find.” She sounded
doubtful.

I cringed with embarrassment. “Ben, places
like this don’t serve peanut butter.”

“I always eat celery with peanut butter.”

“It’s possible Waterside didn’t know
that.”

He gave me a puzzled frown.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I should’ve remembered. Sarcasm wasn’t part
of Ben’s thinking. He didn’t always know when people were using
it.

The waitress came back with a tiny jar of
creamy, not chunky. “I’m sorry; this was all I could find.”

Ben gave her a big smile. “Gee, thanks!”

She returned the smile, happy to be of
service. Ben was adorable, but most people wouldn’t give him a
chance, just because he was different.

I followed his seafood example and ordered
shrimp scampi. Ben slathered peanut butter onto a piece of celery
and offered it to me.

“That’s so weird,” I said as I took it.

“Didn’t you ever try it?” He fixed another
piece for himself.

“Not that. I mean asking for peanut butter in
a fancy restaurant.”

“I got it, didn’t I?”

“It must be an Aspie thing. No, I don’t mean
that.” Oh, how I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. “I mean it’s cute.
It really is.”

“Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes, and then got
busy filling another slice of celery.

I bit the end off of mine. “It’s really good
this way.”

“I know.”

“And don’t get me wrong, I like Aspies. I
like you. Even more than all the others put together.”

Why couldn’t I just shut up?

“I called Frosty Dan,” I said. “They still
don’t have anything.”

“I told you that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Thanks for trying. I
appreciate it.”

The waitress brought our salads. They were
almost a whole meal in themselves.

“I wonder why restaurants do this,” I said.
“They stuff you so full of salad you have to take the rest of your
dinner home in a Styrofoam box.”

“Styrofoam,” said Ben, “doesn’t
biodegrade.”

“Then they shouldn’t do it.”

Our seafood arrived next. My shrimp scampi
nested on pasta and swam in some kind of butter sauce.

“Oh, wow,” I said. “If Mom could see all that
butter.”

“She doesn’t like butter?”

“She wouldn’t approve. It’s way too much. The
Mediterranean diet is supposed to be healthy and Italy is on the
Mediterranean, so in my opinion it’s okay.”

“Maddie would squawk that it’s fattening,” he
said.

“Then she doesn’t have to eat it. Ben,
really, when you said eat, I thought you meant something like
Burger King. Or Taco Bell.”

“There’s no Taco Bell in Southbridge.”

“There is in Hudson Hills. I’ve seen it,
never been there.” Which brought me back to Hudson Hills. “What am
I going to do about my dad?”

“Why do you have to do anything? Can’t he
take care of himself?” Ben noticed he had a chunk of lemon and
squeezed it on his clams.

“You know what I mean. He’s my
dad.
Maybe. I wonder what was in that letter. The one he meant for
us.”

“Do you realize you’re rambling? What do you
mean by ‘maybe’?”

“About him being my dad. How can I be sure of
anything?”