Dead Wrong Read online

  I round the corner and see the cap bobbing through the crowd only a storefront or two away. I slow, not wanting him to see me, at least not at first. He darts into the roadway, looking both ways to cross and I shrink into a doorway so he won’t see me. He crosses and lopes down a stairwell, disappearing out of sight.

  I have to wait a few minutes for traffic to clear before I cross. He went down the stairs of a used clothing store called Retro Star, a hipster spot that I’ve overheard Curtis and his friends talk about, but have never entered.

  I only hesitate a few seconds.

  Inside, the store is dim and nobody is behind the counter. All the clothes are on such tall racks, I can’t see very far into the store. I start to slowly wander, trailing my hands on a rack of fake fur coats, standing on tiptoe to see if I can see guy in the hat.

  “Can I help you?” I jump. The voice belongs to a small guy with a tiny mustache.

  “Uh, just browsing.” I pick up a green sweater and pretend like I’m considering it.

  “Cool,” he says, fishing a cigarette out of the pocket of his vintage-bowling shirt. “I’m gonna go burn one on the steps. Let me know if you need any help.”

  “Uh. Okay.”

  So far as I can figure it, that leaves me alone in the store with that kid. The store is silent. If he’s here, he’s not making any noise. I wonder if there is a back door he ducked out of.

  I realize I’m being dramatic and take a breath. I’ll pretend like I’m shopping and see if he’s in here. Right then, I hear someone swear, softly. I jerk my head around. A bank of dressing rooms is under the stairwell right behind me. I crouch down and underneath the bottom of the partial dressing room door, spot black boots with the laces untied. I hear the rattle of a hanger and more swearing. I creep closer. What is he saying?

  The click of the door latch sliding open sends me flying into the nearest dressing room. I slide the lock closed and lean against the wall, heart pounding.

  “Hello?”

  Oh shit.

  “Is someone else here?”

  “Um, yeah.” I fumble with the green sweater on the hangar and send my sunglasses skidding across the floor. When I reach down to grab them, I see those black boots right on the other side of the door. My heart leaps into my throat.

  “Can I ask you something?” His voice is husky.

  My eyes widen and I look around frantically. I’m trapped in a dressing room the size of a coffin. I’m alone in this basement store with a guy who might have had something to do with how Danielle died. Might have got her hooked on drugs or something that made her drowned. But his voice ... it sounds ... nice.

  “Okay?”

  “I just need an opinion. From a girl ... er, woman.”

  My opinion? I slide open the latch and poke my head out. He’s fidgeting with a blue wool scarf. He’s pulling at it and wrapping and re-wrapping it, making faces at the mirror on the wall opposite.

  I crack the door open more.

  He turns and gives me a crooked smile. No wonder Danielle fell for him. Even though he’s probably a homeless punk, he’s totally Danielle’s type — the kind of boy who will always be out of my reach. I stare, eyes wide, waiting for him to speak, feeling mousy next to his mega watt smile.

  “Okay. Be totally honest with me here.” He sounds serious. “I like this scarf because it reminds me of my grandpa. Like, the old guy had one just like it, so I sort of thought I’d try one on and see what it looks like, you know. But I need to ask — do I look like a wuss? I mean, do you think other guys would want to kick my ass if I’m wearing it?”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. His eyes crinkle in response under his tweed newsboy cap and he lets out a loud laugh, but then sobers. “No, but I’m serious. What do you think?”

  I narrow my eyes and take advantage of the opportunity to take him in from head to toe. He has on a worn black tee and faded gray jeans half tucked in to scuffed black combat boots with the laces untied. His eyes are green and slanted a little. But it’s his mouth I can’t stop looking at, with a full upper lip. I draw my eyes away from his mouth and up to his eyes. The knowing look in them makes me nervous. I answer, talking too fast.

  “It’s not the scarf so much as how you’re wearing it.”

  He fiddles with it more. I stare at the tattoos on his fingers — who gets tattoos on their fingers, anyway?

  He starts to take off the scarf. “Never mind. Stupid idea anyway.”

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I step forward and standing on tiptoes, unwind the scarf from his neck. I wonder if he will smell since I’m pretty sure he’s homeless, but then his scent hits me — some mix of spicy deodorant and musk.

  It’s not a laundry soap clean smell, but it’s not repulsive, either.

  My face flushes with heat. I know if I raise my eyes, his mouth will be mere inches away from mine. I’ve never kissed a boy before but all I can think about is his mouth. Look at him. You’re not in his league, a tiny voice says. Then I laugh at myself. A homeless street kid not in my league? What would Dr. Shapiro say this says about my self-esteem?

  With shaking hands, I loop the scarf around his neck and then step back as fast as I can.

  “There,” I say, with only the slightest tremor in my voice. “That’s a little better.”

  He squints his eyes into the mirror, turning this way and that. “Yeah, but I still look ridiculous, right?”

  I press my lips together and nod, serious. He’s right. It’s not a good look for him.

  He flings it off and gives a wide smile. “Maybe when I’m seventy, it will make me look dapper. Right now I just look like a douche.”

  I turn to walk away before he sees the blush I can already feel creeping up my neck.

  His hand on my arm stops me.

  “Wait. What’s your name?”

  I turn and swallow. “Emily.”

  I can tell immediately the name means nothing to him. Danielle never mentioned me. I know I should ask him about Danielle now, but something stops me. Is he flirting with me? A few days after his girlfriend died? What kind of jerk is he?

  “I have to go.” I fling open the door and race up the stairs, past the startled salesclerk.

  I dart around the nearest corner and don’t relax until I’ve taken a long, winding loop back around to Hennepin Avenue and hopped on the bus.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, I wake with a heavy feeling of dread. Today is Danielle’s funeral. I don’t know if I can handle it. I’m afraid I’ll go screaming up and down the aisles of the church or do something else crazy.

  My mother comes into my room and in a quiet voice tells me we have to go. I’ve slept late. I don’t have a dress so my mother loans me a stretchy black skirt. I pull on a baggy black sweater and my Converse sneakers and brush my long hair until my eyes sting and my mother tells me it is time to go.

  She forgot to remind me to eat breakfast. That’s a first. I don’t say anything as she locks the door to the house.

  In the car, my mom remembers. Of course. She hands me a granola bar from an emergency stash she’s kept in her car since I was hospitalized. I chew and swallow the dry mess down hoping I don’t immediately throw it up. I’ve never purposely thrown up my food — I was the type who simply refused to eat until I nearly died.

  But the way my stomach feels today — sour and flip-floppy — I know puking is a possibility. We pull up at the church. The parking lot is already crowded. My mother offers to drop me off near the front door while she parks, but I’m terrified to be alone and shake my head violently. I’ve managed to keep the granola bar down but the movement of my head makes me nauseous again.

  Inside, the mass of bodies pressed into one space and the soaring ceilings make me dizzy. Or maybe it’s just the funeral itself. I feel more than see my mother nodding at others as we walk in. People are lined up in the aisle on their way to see the casket at the altar. Casket. I swallow hard. I know it’s up there somewhere, but I’m afraid to loo
k.

  I stare at the marble floor and shuffle my feet forward. The line is slow. I cast glances to the side of me wondering if that boy in the cap will be here with his friends, but quickly look back at the floor before I meet anyone’s eyes. Finally, I force myself to look toward the front of the church. A giant white casket is draped in a purple cloth. Bouquets of lavender and purple flowers — Danielle’s favorite colors — cascade down the steps of the altar and crowd every bit of floor around the casket. At the foot of the altar, on each side, easels hold giant poster boards covered with photos. I vaguely wonder if any of the photos include me? I doubt it. I absentmindedly touch my tote bag. Inside is the photo of Danielle and me in fifth grade — proof of our friendship. Why do I feel like I need proof of my importance in her life? Why do I feel like I need permission to be here? But I do. I feel like one of her crappy friends is going to jump up and push me, telling me I don’t belong here.

  That’s how I feel — like I don’t have a right to be at Danielle’s funeral.

  I want to stand and scream to all those snotty kids from our schools. I want to shout, “She called me last week, you know.”

  I imagine myself doing this — imagine all the heads turning to look at me. Imagine Beth coming over and hugging me, crying, telling me that Danielle had told her that she could never replace me as a best friend.

  I am shaken out of my daydream by my mother’s hand on my elbow — we are at the front of the church. It is our turn to say our “goodbyes” as my mom says. The casket is closed. My mother kneels before it and steeples her hands in prayer. I slump beside her. What do I say?

  I clasp my hands tightly together and squeeze my eyes shut.

  Danielle? Just saying her name in my head makes tears slip out of my closed eyes. I’m so, so sorry I didn’t call you back. I know you needed me and I let you down. I just can’t help but feel that if I had called you back you wouldn’t be dead right now. I don’t understand how you drowned. I don’t think you did. I don’t care what the police said. You were a fish. Fish don’t drown. I promise to find out what happened to you, Danielle. I promise.

  As soon as those words come into my head, a giant sob rises into my throat and tears pour down my face. She was calling me for help. I fall back on my ankles. It’s my fault she’s dead. My mother pats me on the back, trying to soothe me. I wipe my snot and tears on the sleeve of my sweater.

  I stand and follow my mother. She turns to hug Danielle’s parents in the front pew. They are standing, greeting other mourners, as if it is a wedding party. I barely recognize Danielle’s mother. Her eyes are unfocused and her hands are trembling. She takes both my hands in her own and looks down at me, her lower lip quivering.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Meyers.”

  Her lips turn up slightly and she nods her thanks. I turn away, disappointed, and as if all those years we were friends didn’t mean anything to her. Guilt floods me. I’m at my friend’s funeral and all I’ve thought about since I walked in was worrying about people acknowledging me as her friend?

  But Mr. Meyers, a burly ex-football player, sweeps me up into a big bear hug and whispers in my ear. “Thanks for always being such a good friend to ... my daughter.” He chokes on the word daughter as if it costs him a great effort. He releases his hold, not looking at me and turns to the next person in the line.

  I bite back my tears.

  But it is her twelve-year-old brother, Darren, who sends me over the deep end. He’s wearing a black suit, the whites of his socks showing under his too-short pants. His black hair is slicked back, making him look like a runty, miniature version of his father. His eyes are red and puffy. His face is all crunched up like he just got socked in the gut. Seeing him like this destroys me. Sends a stab of pain through me so sharply I can’t breathe.

  I’ve known this kid since he was little. I’ve pushed him on the swings. I’ve played hide-and-go-seek with him and Danielle. I’ve battled him in video games. He was like a little brother to me for so many years. Seeing him torn apart like this is almost more than I can take.

  I reach down to hug him and draw him close like he is a life preserver. I can’t let go. He clings to me just as tightly, sobbing into my shoulder until my shirt is wet. I pat his back, my eyes clenched closed, tears squeezing out the sides. I have no words. What can I say? I don’t let him go until my mother physically pulls me away from him. I turn toward the back of the church and don’t look back.

  Back in our seats, the minister, a man with a pimply face who looks like a high school kid, starts to tell us that Danielle’s death is a blessing because her death has given all of us an opportunity to get to know God first hand. I start to get up in disgust, but my mother’s hand on my leg stops me.

  Then he starts to talk about Danielle. But he didn’t know her. Not really. Even if her family went to this church, he didn’t know her. He talks about what a good big sister she was. He talks about her love of animals. He talks about how spirited and feisty and outgoing she was.

  I don’t listen to what else he says. I rush out of the church, brushing past startled people in my pew and letting the door slam loudly behind me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I sit in the car alone outside Danielle’s house, watching my classmates walk with their arms around each other up the driveway.

  Danielle’s house has a giant wraparound porch and peonies flank the bottom of it like a wall of pink and purple. Hanging baskets of flowers dangle from the porch, but I can still see the swing Danielle and I used to rock on, drinking lemonade on those long summer nights and talking about cute boys until the stars came out.

  My mom took a weird way to get here and I know it’s because she didn’t want to drive by our old house, which is around the corner. It’s almost the same as Danielle’s in its ostentatiousness. It is hard to believe I once had a giant bedroom and a playroom — a far cry from the small place we live in now, with its one bathroom and bars on the downstairs windows.

  I duck as more kids I recognize park and walk up to the house. Finally, I steel myself to go inside. I’ll go find Darren and maybe see if he knew why Danielle called me. If he has any clue about what kind of trouble she was in.

  Inside, a few girls from school stop talking and stare at me when I enter the living room. I lift my chin and walk past them. At one point, this house was as familiar to me as my own. At the top of the stairs, I turn into Darren’s room. I stare. I remember when he had puppy posters up and Legos everywhere. Now a bright blue electric guitar hangs on the wall and a small recording studio has taken over his desk.

  My nose is running so I go into the bathroom that connects to both Darren and Danielle’s room. I put my hand on the door. I close my eyes. I want to go into Danielle’s room, but I’m afraid. I’m scared of how it will make me feel. I’m scared because I know it will not be the same as it is in my memory. Just like Darren’s room proved, Danielle grew up without me.

  My hand is turning the knob when I hear Beth’s voice. She and her friends must have just walked into Danielle’s room. I’m overcome with a wave of jealousy and anger. I want to be alone in Danielle’s room and feel her presence one last time. But I’m the outcast friend.

  When I hear the word “street rat” I put my ear to the door.

  “They kept Raven and his friends there all night but had to let them go.”

  My eyes widen and my mouth opens in surprise. Raven. Is that the boy’s name?

  “Do they think ... the gutterpunks killed her?” I don’t recognize this voice.

  “If they do, they can’t prove it because they let ‘em go. Two already left town. How’s that for acting guilty?”

  At these words, I remember seeing that guy at the bus transit stop saying goodbye to two people. I shove open the bathroom door and one of the girls huddled on Danielle’s bed gives a small scream.

  “Jesus Christ, Skeletor, you scared the shit out of us.” Beth’s voice is sneering.

  “Tell me what you just said. Tell me again.
” My voice leaves no room for argument. Beth’s eyes meet mine.

  “Were you eavesdropping? That’s so rude.”

  I stand in front of her. “Tell me what you said.” I feel my fingers curl up into a fist and anger surge through me.

  Beth swallows hard. She settles back down on the bed and nearly imperceptibly scoots away from me. “Whatever.” A chunk of her black hair covers her eyes so I can’t see the expression in them.

  “Who are those kids you were talking about — the street rats? Did they have anything to do with ... Danielle?” I close my eyes and sadness replaces the anger. “Please tell me. I was her friend, too.” The words come out quietly.

  Beth shakes her hair out of her eyes and gives me a skeptical look with her lips pressed tightly together. After a second of watching me, for some reason, she gives in, even though she rolls her eyes.

  “My dad said they gave some story about how they’d been partying with Danielle that night and all fallen asleep by the lake. When they woke up her bag was still there they said, but they couldn’t find her. They thought maybe she’d run away. They said she’d talked about hopping a train and leaving town.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Beth nods.

  I think about it for a second and then ask. “They were the ones that called the cops?”

  “I don’t know. My dad wasn’t working that night. But another cop told him, said it was an anonymous call. When the police showed up at the beach, those punks were there. Raven told them that Danielle was missing so they brought the three of them in for questioning.”

  “Do the police think that they had anything to do with it?” That’s what “questioning” means after all, right?