Dead Wrong Page 6

  Beth shrugs. “My dad won’t tell me. Only tells me to stay far away from them.”

  “That story about her running away is bullshit, though,” another girl with blond hair says. “She wasn’t going to run away.”

  Beth arches an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say that. But if she were going to run away, she wouldn’t have left without Raven. When she talked about running away, it was with him.”

  “Who’s Raven?” I ask, but I already know. It’s that kid in the newsboy cap.

  Beth lets a big breath of air out, blowing her bangs into the air. “This gutter punk Danielle had become infatuated with. I mean, yeah, if you hosed him down at a car wash and gave him a make over, he’d be pretty hot, but he’s a street rat. I told her he was disgusting ...” Beth bends over, putting her face in her hands and crying.

  Her blond friend looks up at me. “They sort of had a falling out over it — because Beth said Danielle was too good for him. And Danielle got mad and they haven’t talked for a while. And now Beth is kicking herself for not making amends and now — ”

  It’s too late. I fill in the blanks for her. The friend leans over and soothingly rubs Beth’s back. “It’s okay, sweetie. I know Danielle had already forgiven you.”

  “No, she hates me. Hated me,” she corrects herself, closing her eyes. “She hated me because I thought she was too good for that homeless punk. I only wanted her to see she was better than that.” When she says this, Beth looks up at me, tears streaming down her face.

  We stare at each for a few seconds. “You did the right thing, Beth. You did what any good friend would have done and said. She was lucky to have you for a friend.”

  The words cost me much less than I thought they would to say. It’s the truth, though, and Beth needs to hear that.

  She bites her lip and nods; a new flood of tears seeps out the corners of her eyes.

  “Thanks Skel— I mean, Emily.”

  I nod and leave, making sure the door closes quietly behind me.

  LATER, I’M IN BED WIDE awake. It’s dark and quiet outside. Images of the funeral today keep running through my head.

  I can’t stop remembering Danielle’s body bobbing in the lake. Then my imagination takes over and I see her face blue and bloated scraping at the coffin, trying to get out as they lower it into the ground. Darren throwing himself on the casket as it dips out of sight. Danielle’s mother wailing and pulling her hair out in grief. I know that didn’t, couldn’t, happen, but it’s all I can think about. Horrific scenes. I sit up and snap on my bedside light.

  I lean over and grab the strap of my tote, which I keep slung across my desk chair near my bed. I dig around and unearth the picture of Danielle and me, staring at it for a long time. What happened to you? How did you end up dead?

  I grab my phone and listen to Danielle’s message again. What were you going to tell me, Danielle? What put that fear in your voice?

  I start to get sleepy, so I put my phone down on my nightstand and close my eyes. In my mind, I replay what Beth told me. Did that guy, Raven, have anything to do with her death? When I met him, he didn’t really seem like a jerk. But what do I know? I know nothing about boys. I’m seventeen and never been on a date in my life. My experience with boys is somewhere in the range between zero and nothing.

  Beth said police had questioned the three of them. I remember seeing two gutterpunks get on the bus at the transit center the next day. Raven was with them. They had big backpacks and it looked like they were leaving town. From what I heard gutterpunks hopped trains to travel.

  I pull my laptop into bed with me and search the MTC bus schedule. Where does Bus 23 go from Uptown? Could it go up to the train-switching yard in Northeast Minneapolis?

  Bingo. What if they were the two of the people, along with Raven, who were questioned that night? If so, why did they leave town? And if the three of them did have something to do with Danielle’s death, why did Raven stay?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Today is the last day of school and Danielle’s been dead two weeks.

  I tell my mom I’m meeting a friend this afternoon to celebrate the last day of school.

  I’m lying. It fills me with guilt. I’m going to go look for Raven. Maybe, like last week, he hangs around the shops in Uptown on Friday nights.

  The last week of school flew by. I spent every lunch hour sitting with Curtis and his friends. When I walk by the table with Beth and her friends nobody gives me dirty looks. Yesterday, it even seemed like Beth gave me a small smile. But I might have imagined it.

  My mom is so happy I have a friend, she doesn’t ask one single question about what we are doing tonight. Instead, she texts me that she’ll be staying late at Sam’s place.

  He’s been scarce since that argument they had the morning I found out about Danielle, so I’m relieved to hear this.

  “Have fun!” I text her back. “Be home b4 11.”

  “Be careful. Mrs. St. James will b home.”

  Mrs. St. James is the retired lady who lives across the street and knows everything that goes on in our neighborhood. When I don’t answer, my mom sends one more text.

  “Use credit card treat friend to dinner. Love, Mom.”

  My mom trusts me. She knows I don’t lie and when I say something I mean it. Lying to her today makes my stomach hurt.

  I don’t want to do anything to hurt my mom. She already worries about me so much. I try as hard as I can each day to eat what I’m supposed to. To get enough calories so I don’t dip down on the scale. Most days it’s easy. Some days it’s still hard and I struggle to do the right thing, which means eating. But I don’t ever want to go back to that place I was before — when the eating disorder ruled my life.

  Dr. Shapiro told me from day one that the eating disorder was not me. She even wanted to give it a name, like Sludge or something, but I thought that was stupid. But she always talks about it as a separate entity than me.

  At my worst, I was completely taken over by the eating disorder. When my mother insisted I eat my food at dinner, I would completely freak out: scream and shout and roll my eyes. Once I even threw a glass of milk across the room.

  All I know is that when I started eating again — after about a year — I was happy again. It was the first time I’d felt that way since before my parents took me aside one day and told me they were getting divorced.

  Even though I sometimes still get “The Fat Feeling.” I try to eat. I know if I don’t, my eating disorder could come back. During the worst of it, I didn’t care about anything — except not eating.

  When my mom threatened me, showing me pictures of women who looked like skeletons, I didn’t care. I knew what I saw when I looked in the mirror and it was a fat girl.

  When Dr. Shapiro made me visit her other patients in the hospital, I looked past the feeding tubes in their nostrils and instead envied the way their clavicle bones peeked out of their hospital gowns. When she took me to the morgue to look at dead bodies, I thought, well, I’ll look good in my coffin, and started planning what dress they should bury me in.

  Only now, years later, do those thoughts seem wacked. At the time, it all made sense. But it could happen again. When I get too skinny, my brain doesn’t work right. My medicine is food. And if I don’t take my medicine, the voices come back. I know this now. I’ve seen the other side. I don’t want to ever go there again.

  Instead of meeting Curtis, I’m going to Uptown to hunt for Raven. And when I find him, I’ll lure him with a free dinner. He’s homeless, right? Maybe I’ll get him talking by offering to buy him a meal.

  I have no idea how to get him to talk about Danielle, but hopefully I’ll think of something.

  Danielle didn’t drown. At least not without a little help from something or someone. I know it. I just need to prove it.

  I GET OFF THE BUS NEAR the Uptown movie theater, where I saw Raven last time. I wait, in case he walks by. I do this for about fifteen minutes until the guy behind the counter starts looking a
t me weird. I head to the Retro Star thrift store again, skipping down the stairs to the basement door. Inside, a different clerk is working, a girl with a pierced chin, an uncomfortable looking pin sticking through with small balls on each side. I make my way through the store, but it is empty.

  I leave and stand out front, trying to decide where to go and what to do. How can I find this guy? Don’t homeless guys just hang out and be public nuisances?

  Groups of teenagers crowd the streets of Uptown. Kids with motorcycle jackets and green hair catch my eye, but these aren’t the gutterpunks. These kids are clean. Their clothes are wanna-be punk — bought at Hot Topix or even Bloomingdale’s. I’m not an expert on punk, but I am an expert on what rich kids wear and where they shop. I’ve been standing by the sidelines my entire teenage life, looking at what the other kids at school are wearing and knowing that unless I scored something similar at the thrift store, I’d forever be an outcast.

  In college, I’ll finally be free. I’ll be at Minneapolis Technical and Community College studying art, where people won’t judge me for wearing thrift store clothes.

  I stop in at Tall Tales and find a used copy of Flannery O’Connor’s “Wise Blood” for three bucks. I pass the art store — normally one of my favorite places to browse and dream — without giving it a second look. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to draw again without having horrible images of Danielle’s bobbing body pop into my head.

  Outside again, people who are filing down the sidewalks into the restaurants and bars jostle me. As I pass Chino Latino, I flick a quick glance into the dark interior of the restaurant, but only see some purple neon. People at school have talked about going there and how cool it is.

  I pass a fancy spice store, expensive lingerie shop, and hipster hair salons. Every once in a while, I catch myself staring at the reflection of my stomach as I pass by. Old habit. I wander through Urban Outfitters, more interested in the eclectic mix of books and jewelry than the trendy clothes.

  Finally, depressed by all the window-shopping, I decide to catch the bus home. I’ll just tell my mom our study session had to end early, before dinner, because my “friend” had something else to do. I’ll heat up some leftover tater tot hot dish at home. I now wish I’d really hung out with Curtis like I told my mom. Now, I’ll spend the rest of the night alone, as usual. Great way to celebrate the end of junior year.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “She was wearing her shoes — those ugly boots.”

  Doc Martens.

  Beth didn’t even wait for me to say hello when I answered my cell, squinting at it in the dark

  “What?” I look at the clock. It’s midnight.

  She sounds wide-awake. “Danielle. I heard my dad talking to someone — a cop buddy of his. When they found Danielle — in the lake — she was wearing shoes still. And all her clothes.”

  I’m still trying to process that Beth has called me in the first place. And called me to talk about Danielle? Has there been some sort of truce between us? I close my eyes and think about what she just said. I try to remember if I could see boots or clothes on that body in the water. I can’t remember anything but her blond hair fanned out in the water and her shoulder blade bobbing.

  “Yeah ... yeah, you’re right. Even if Danielle was maybe drinking or something, who thinks about walking into a lake with boots on? If she was wanted to go in the water, she would’ve at the very least taken off her boots and rolled up her jeans.”

  “I know. That’s why I called. It doesn’t make sense.”

  I think about it for a second. As far as I know, the lakes in the Uptown area don’t have steep banks or areas where someone could just accidentally “fall” in. Most of them have graduated shores or beaches, including the Lake of the Isles.

  My mind is racing.

  “I think it’s about time I took a little field trip out to that lake again. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  I don’t know how or why, but somehow — maybe because of our conversation at the funeral — Beth and I have become conspirators on this — on trying to understand Danielle’s death. It makes me uneasy and relieved at the same time.

  Yesterday during my appointment with Dr. Shapiro, I told her about Beth and how she didn’t glare at me in the halls anymore and how that one time I think she even gave me a small smile.

  “But I don’t trust her,” I’d said. “She’s probably just going to turn on me like ...” Danielle did.

  Instead of replying with one of her pat, sure answers, Dr. Shapiro sighed and pushed her glasses back on her head.

  “Emily. You’re going to have to take a chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you had that new friend, Curtis, right?”

  “Yes.” I don’t know where she is going with this.

  “He’s invited you to go to his house and parties and other activities outside of school right?”

  I nod.

  “And you’ve said that even though you want to go, you always say no.”

  “Well, other things just come up.” It’s not entirely true.

  “The point is you are avoiding people who want to get to know you. You are looking for excuses to keep everyone at a distance.”

  “I ... I .. I don’t ...” She’s right.

  She rubs her nose between her glasses, which she’s slipped back on.

  “I can’t tell you that Beth is a good person to have for a friend. I can’t tell you that she’s trustworthy. I can’t tell you that Curtis is a good friend, either. I don’t know. And right now, you don’t either. But I do know one thing, if you continue to isolate yourself for fear of getting hurt again, then you will lead a very lonely life.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sitting on the bus on my way to the lake, I’m peering out the window looking at the bluest sky I’ve seen in months. I swear we have the fluffiest, most beautiful clouds in the Midwest.

  Remembering days like this are what keep me going during the gray brown days in winter when it feels like we go for weeks without seeing the sun.

  On a summer Saturday like today, everyone is outside taking advantage of the weather. The beaches will be full, the lakes dotted with windsurfers and bobbing swimmers and kayakers. Sidewalks are packed and trails are full of joggers and bicyclists.

  I’ll be taking one of those trails for a different reason — to see where my friend’s dead body was found. Maybe seeing it in daylight will give me some clue as to how she drowned. It’s hard to believe it has already been one week since they buried her, put her underground.

  The bus dumps me in front of the Calhoun Yacht Club and pulls away in a grayish puff of diesel smoke. I hold my breath until the smoke leaves. I have to backtrack some ways to get to the walking path leading to the Lake of the Isles.

  The sun is already hot so I stick to the shaded side of the path as it winds its way around the lake. A couple sits on a blanket near the shore feeding some ducks, moms and dads push jogger baby strollers, and women with gray hair and tight spandex who aren’t even breathing hard go zipping by me on the path.

  I don’t look very athletic in my cut-off jean shorts, scuffed Converse and an oversized white peasant-style blouse I found at the Goodwill. My hair is pulled back in a smooth bun and I stuck some dangly turquoise earrings on to match an armful of jangly silver bracelets.

  I plug my ear buds in and crank up some Jane’s Addiction. As soon as I hear the first guitar riff, I’m filled with envy once again that my mom saw them live in L.A. when she was younger. She’s promised to take me to a show if they ever have a reunion in Minneapolis.

  I keep walking, slower now, looking around. I remember running by this bench on the side of the path. I’m getting close to where they found Danielle. I stop at the bench and dig around in my bag for the old water bottle I filled with tap water this morning. It is warmish but still tastes good going down. The song ends.

  “Raven, get your ass over here!” I freeze. The sound of splashing an
d swearing drifts over to me, but a tall barrier of bushes and trees lies between the sounds and me. I spot a worn path off to one side, barely noticeable. My music blares again. I tug out my earbuds to listen for that voice again.

  The narrow dirt path looks like an animal made it. I head in the direction of the voices. Swiftly, I yank off my clinking bangles and tuck them into my bag. After going several feet, I see movement through the bushes.

  I creep closer and feel the scratch of bushes against my legs. I hear the low rumble of a dog growling and instinctively shrink back into the brush. After a few seconds, I hear a sharp whistle. I wait a few seconds longer. When nothing happens I carefully part a leafy branch. About ten feet away, along a strip of sandy beach, they have set up camp. Gutterpunks.

  A small cluster of rocks has a faint trail of smoke rising from it and a few tarps and blankets are rolled up off to one side. A pile of beer bottles teeters near the fire pit.

  A Mohawked guy wearing overalls without a shirt underneath sprawls on his back, his elbows propped up on the blanket underneath. A few backpacks sit nearby. Even from here, I can see a giant heart tattoo on his neck. A banjo is propped against a nearby tree. A girl with delicate features and tiny ears sticking out from a boy’s haircut leans over and sticks a cigarette in the Mohawked kid’s mouth. He takes a puff and then she puts it back in her own red lipsticked mouth where it dangles out one side. Even from here, I can see the dirt on his forearms and on her bare calves under her flowing hippie skirt. She is tiny and reminds me of a sprite, or a fairy.

  Two other people stand closer to the shore. I creep forward a few feet and part a bigger branch to see them better. A guy — long and lean, wearing scruffy big black boots, and a newsboy cap — faces the water. Raven.

  He stands near a kid with a rat-like face — tiny buckteeth and a skinny pointy nose and chin. This kid’s head is shaved. His earlobes hang low with metal plugs in them and a bronze bolt is pierced through the bridge of his nose.