The Complete Hush, Hush Saga, Page 2Becca Fitzpatrick
“What do you do in your leisure time?” I asked.
“I don’t have free time.”
“I’m assuming this assignment is graded, so do me a favor?”
He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head. “What kind of favor?”
I was pretty sure it was an innuendo, and I grappled for a way to change the subject.
“Free time,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I take pictures.”
I printed Photography on my paper.
“I wasn’t finished,” he said. “I’ve got quite a collection going of an eZine columnist who believes there’s truth in eating organic, who writes poetry in secret, and who shudders at the thought of having to choose between Stanford, Yale, and . . . what’s that big one with the H?”
I stared at him a moment, shaken by how dead on he was. I didn’t get the feeling it was a lucky guess. He knew. And I wanted to know how—right now.
“But you won’t end up going to any of them.”
“I won’t?” I asked without thinking.
He hooked his fingers under the seat of my chair, dragging me closer to him. Not sure if I should scoot away and show fear, or do nothing and feign boredom, I chose the latter.
He said, “Even though you’d thrive at all three schools, you scorn them for being a cliché of achievement. Passing judgment is your third biggest weakness.”
“And my second?” I said with quiet rage. Who was this guy? Was this some kind of disturbing joke?
“You don’t know how to trust. I take that back. You trust—just all the wrong people.”
“And my first?” I demanded.
“You keep life on a short leash.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re scared of what you can’t control.”
The hair at the nape of my neck stood on end, and the temperature in the room seemed to chill. Ordinarily I would have gone straight to Coach’s desk and requested a new seating chart. But I refused to let Patch think he could intimidate or scare me. I felt an irrational need to defend myself and decided right then and there I wouldn’t back down until he did.
“Do you sleep naked?” he asked.
My mouth threatened to drop, but I held it in check. “You’re hardly the person I’d tell.”
“Ever been to a shrink?”
“No,” I lied. The truth was, I was in counseling with the school psychologist, Dr. Hendrickson. It wasn’t by choice, and it wasn’t something I liked to talk about.
“Done anything illegal?”
“No.” Occasionally breaking the speed limit wouldn’t count. Not with him. “Why don’t you ask me something normal? Like . . . my favorite kind of music?”
“I’m not going to ask what I can guess.”
“You do not know the type of music I listen to.”
“Baroque. With you, it’s all about order, control. I bet you play . . . the cello?” He said it like he’d pulled the guess out of thin air.
“Wrong.” Another lie, but this one sent a chill rippling along my skin. Who was he really? If he knew I played the cello, what else did he know?
“What’s that?” Patch tapped his pen against the inside of my wrist. Instinctively I pulled away.
“Looks like a scar. Are you suicidal, Nora?” His eyes connected with mine, and I could feel him laughing. “Parents married or divorced?”
“I live with my mom.”
“My dad passed away last year.”
“How did he die?”
I flinched. “He was—murdered. This is kind of personal territory, if you don’t mind.”
There was a count of silence and the edge in Patch’s eyes seemed to soften a touch. “That must be hard.” He sounded like he meant it.
The bell rang and Patch was on his feet, making his way toward the door.
“Wait,” I called out. He didn’t turn. “Excuse me!” He was through the door. “Patch! I didn’t get anything on you.”
He turned back and walked toward me. Taking my hand, he scribbled something on it before I thought to pull away.
I looked down at the seven numbers in red ink on my palm and made a fist around them. I wanted to tell him no way was his phone ringing tonight. I wanted to tell him it was his fault for taking all the time questioning me. I wanted a lot of things, but I just stood there looking like I didn’t know how to open my mouth.
At last I said, “I’m busy tonight.”
“So am I.” He grinned and was gone.
I stood nailed to the spot, digesting what had just happened. Did he eat up all the time questioning me on purpose? So I’d fail? Did he think one flashy grin would redeem him? Yes, I thought. Yes, he did.
“I won’t call!” I called after him. “Not—ever!”
“Have you finished your column for tomorrow’s deadline?” It was Vee. She came up beside me, jotting notes on the notepad she carried everywhere. “I’m thinking of writing mine on the injustice of seating charts. I got paired with a girl who said she just finished lice treatment this morning.”
“My new partner,” I said, pointing into the hallway at the back of Patch. He had an annoyingly confident walk, the kind you find paired with faded T-shirts and a cowboy hat. Patch wore neither. He was a dark-Levi’s-dark-henley-dark-boots kind of guy.
“The senior transfer? Guess he didn’t study hard enough the first time around. Or the second.” She gave me a knowing look. “Third time’s a charm.”
“He gives me the creeps. He knew my music. Without any hints whatsoever, he said, ‘Baroque.’ “ I did a poor job of mimicking his low voice.
“He knew . . . other things.”
I let go of a sigh. He knew more than I wanted to comfortably contemplate. “Like how to get under my skin,” I said at last. “I’m going to tell Coach he has to switch us back.”
“Go for it. I could use a hook for my next eZine article. ‘Tenth Grader Fights Back.’ Better yet, ‘Seating Chart Takes Slap in the Face.’ Mmm. I like it.”
At the end of the day, I was the one who took a slap in the face. Coach shot down my plea to rethink the seating chart. It appeared I was stuck with Patch.
MY MOM AND I LIVE IN A DRAFTY EIGHTEENTH-century farmhouse on the outskirts of Coldwater. It’s the only house on Hawthorne Lane, and the nearest neighbors are almost a mile away. I sometimes wonder if the original builder realized that out of all the plots of land available, he chose to construct the house in the eye of a mysterious atmospheric inversion that seems to suck all the fog off Maine’s coast and transplant it into our yard. The house was at this moment veiled by gloom that resembled escaped and wandering spirits.
I spent the evening planted on a stool in the kitchen in the company of algebra homework and Dorothea, our housekeeper. My mom works for the Hugo Renaldi Auction Company, coordinating estate and antique auctions all along the East Coast. This week she was in upstate New York. Her job required a lot of travel, and she paid Dorothea to cook and clean, but I was pretty sure the fine print on Dorothea’s job description included keeping a watchful, parental eye on me.
“How was school?” Dorothea asked with a slight German accent. She stood at the sink, scrubbing overbaked lasagna off a casserole dish.
“I have a new biology partner.”
“This is a good thing, or a bad thing?”
“Vee was my old partner.”
“Humph.” More vigorous scrubbing, and the flesh on Dorothea’s upper arm jiggled. “A bad thing, then.”
I sighed in agreement.
“Tell me about the new partner. This girl, what is she like?”
“He’s tall, dark, and annoying.” And eerily closed off. Patch’s eyes were black orbs. Taking in everything and giving away nothing. Not that I wanted to know more about Patch. Since I hadn’
t liked what I’d seen on the surface, I doubted I’d like what was lurking deep inside.
Only, this wasn’t exactly true. I’d liked a lot of what I’d seen. Long, lean muscles down his arms, broad but relaxed shoulders, and a smile that was part playful, part seductive. I was in an uneasy alliance with myself, trying to ignore what had started to feel irresistible.
At nine o’clock Dorothea finished for the evening and locked up on her way out. I flashed the porch lights twice to say good-bye; they must have penetrated the fog, because she answered with a honk. I was alone.
I took inventory of the feelings playing out inside me. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t even all that lonely. But I was a little bit restless about my biology assignment. I’d told Patch I wouldn’t call, and six hours ago I’d meant it. All I could think now was that I didn’t want to fail. Biology was my toughest subject. My grade tottered problematically between A and B. In my mind, that was the difference between a full and half scholarship in my future.
I went to the kitchen and picked up the phone. I looked at what was left of the seven numbers still tattooed on my hand. Secretly I hoped Patch didn’t answer my call. If he was unavailable or unco-operative on assignments, it was evidence I could use against him to convince Coach to undo the seating chart. Feeling hopeful, I keyed in his number.
Patch answered on the third ring. “What’s up?”
In a matter-of-fact tone I said, “I’m calling to see if we can meet tonight. I know you said you’re busy, but—”
“Nora.” Patch said my name like it was the punch line to a joke. “Thought you weren’t going to call. Ever.”
I hated that I was eating my words. I hated Patch for rubbing it in. I hated Coach and his deranged assignments. I opened my mouth, hoping something smart would come out. “Well? Can we meet or not?”
“As it turns out, I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“I’m in the middle of a pool game.” I heard the smile in his voice. “An important pool game.”
From the background noise I heard on his end, I believed he was telling the truth—about the pool game. Whether it was more important than my assignment was up for debate.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Bo’s Arcade. It’s not your kind of hangout.”
“Then let’s do the interview over the phone. I’ve got a list of questions right—”
He hung up on me.
I stared at the phone in disbelief, then ripped a clean sheet of paper from my notebook. I scribbled Jerk on the first line. On the line beneath it I added, Smokes cigars. Will die of lung cancer. Hopefully soon. Excellent physical shape.
I immediately scribbled over the last observation until it was illegible.
The microwave clock blinked to 9:05. As I saw it, I had two choices. Either I fabricated my interview with Patch, or I drove to Bo’s Arcade. The first option might have been tempting, if I could just block out Coach’s voice warning that he’d check all answers for authenticity. I didn’t know enough about Patch to bluff my way through a whole interview. And the second option? Not even remotely tempting.
I delayed making a decision long enough to call my mom. Part of our agreement for her working and traveling so much was that I act responsibly and not be the kind of daughter who required constant supervision. I liked my freedom, and I didn’t want to do anything to give my mom a reason to take a pay cut and get a local job to keep an eye on me.
On the fourth ring her voice mail picked up.
“It’s me,” I said. “Just checking in. I’ve got some biology homework to finish up, then I’m going to bed. Call me at lunch tomorrow, if you want. Love you.”
After I hung up, I found a quarter in the kitchen drawer. Best to leave complicated decisions to fate.
“Heads I go,” I told George Washington’s profile, “tails I stay.” I flipped the quarter in the air, flattened it to the back of my palm, and dared a peek. My heart squeezed out an extra beat, and I told myself I wasn’t sure what it meant.
“It’s out of my hands now,” I said.
Determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, I grabbed a map off the fridge, snagged my keys, and backed my Fiat Spider down the driveway. The car had probably been cute in 1979, but I wasn’t wild about the chocolate brown paint, the rust spreading unchecked across the back fender, or the cracked white leather seats.
Bo’s Arcade turned out to be farther away than I would have liked, nestled close to the coast, a thirty-minute drive. With the map flattened to the steering wheel, I pulled the Fiat into a parking lot behind a large cinder-block building with an electric sign flashing BO’S ARCADE, MAD BLACK PAINTBALL & OZZ’S POOL HALL. Graffiti splashed the walls, and cigarette butts dotted the foundation. Clearly Bo’s would be filled with future Ivy Leaguers and model citizens. I tried to keep my thoughts lofty and nonchalant, but my stomach felt a little uneasy. Double-checking that I’d locked all the doors, I headed inside.
I stood in line, waiting to get past the ropes. As the group ahead of me paid, I squeezed past, walking toward the maze of blaring sirens and blinking lights.
“Think you deserve a free ride?” hollered a smoke-roughened voice.
I swung around and blinked at the heavily tattooed cashier. I said, “I’m not here to play. I’m looking for someone.”
He grunted. “You want past me, you pay.” He put his palms on the counter, where a price chart had been duct-taped, showing I owed fifteen dollars. Cash only.
I didn’t have cash. And if I had, I wouldn’t have wasted it to spend a few minutes interrogating Patch about his personal life. I felt a flush of anger at the seating chart and at having to be here in the first place. I only needed to find Patch, then we could hold the interview outside. I was not going to drive all this way and leave empty-handed.
“If I’m not back in two minutes, I’ll pay the fifteen dollars,” I said. Before I could exercise better judgment or muster up a tad more patience, I did something completely out of character and ducked under the ropes. I didn’t stop there. I hurried through the arcade, keeping my eyes open for Patch. I told myself I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but I was like a rolling snowball, gaining speed and momentum. At this point I just wanted to find Patch and get out.
The cashier followed after me, shouting, “Hey!”
Certain Patch was not on the main level, I jogged downstairs, following signs to Ozz’s Pool Hall. At the bottom of the stairs, dim track lighting illuminated several poker tables, all in use. Cigar smoke almost as thick as the fog enveloping my house clouded the low ceiling. Nestled between the poker tables and the bar was a row of pool tables. Patch was stretched across the one farthest from me, attempting a difficult bank shot.
“Patch!” I called out.
Just as I spoke, he shot his pool stick, driving it into the table-top. His head whipped up. He stared at me with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.
The cashier clomped down the steps behind me, vising my shoulder with his hand. “Upstairs. Now.”
Patch’s mouth moved into another barely-there smile. Hard to say if it was mocking or friendly. “She’s with me.”
This seemed to hold some sway with the cashier, who loosened his grip. Before he could change his mind, I shook off his hand and weaved through the tables toward Patch. I took the first several steps in stride, but found my confidence slipping the closer I got to him.
I was immediately aware of something different about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I could feel it like electricity. More animosity?
More freedom to be himself. And those black eyes were getting to me. They were like magnets clinging to my every move. I swallowed discreetly and tried to ignore the queasy tap dance in my stomach. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something about Patch wasn’t right. Something about him wasn’t normal. Something wasn’t . . . safe.
“Sorry about the hang-up,” Patch sa
id, coming beside me. “The reception’s not great down here.”
With a tilt of his head, Patch motioned the others to leave. There was an uneasy silence before anybody moved. The first guy to leave bumped into my shoulder as he walked past. I took a step back to balance myself and looked up just in time to receive cold eyes from the other two players as they departed.
Great. It wasn’t my fault Patch was my partner.
“Eight ball?” I asked him, raising my eyebrows and trying to sound completely sure of myself, of my surroundings. Maybe he was right and Bo’s wasn’t my kind of place. That didn’t mean I was going to bolt for the doors. “How high are the stakes?”
His smile widened. This time I was pretty sure he was mocking me. “We don’t play for money.”
I set my handbag on the edge of the table. “Too bad. I was going to bet everything I have against you.” I held up my assignment, two lines already filled. “A few quick questions and I’m out of here.”
“Jerk?” Patch read out loud, leaning on his pool stick. “Lung cancer? Is that supposed to be prophetic?”
I fanned the assignment through the air. “I’m assuming you contribute to the atmosphere. How many cigars a night? One? Two?”
“I don’t smoke.” He sounded sincere, but I didn’t buy it.
“Mm-hmm,” I said, setting the paper down between the eight ball and the solid purple. I accidentally nudged the solid purple while writing Definitely cigars on line three.
“You’re messing up the game,” Patch said, still smiling.
I caught his eye and couldn’t help but match his smile—briefly. “Hopefully not in your favor. Biggest dream?” I was proud of this one because I knew it would stump him. It required forethought.
“That’s not funny,” I said, holding his eyes, grateful I didn’t stutter.
“No, but it made you blush.”
I boosted myself onto the side of the table, trying to look impassive. I crossed my legs, using my knee as a writing board. “Do you work?”
“I bus tables at the Borderline. Best Mexican in town.”
He didn’t seem surprised by the question, but he didn’t seem overjoyed by it either. “I thought you said a few quick questions. You’re already at number four.”