It’s enormous. A beacon of wealth and privilege.
Lex told me he has no places to escape to, but that doesn’t make any sense. It appears he has plenty of space to hide here, considering the garage alone is bigger than my whole house.
Gulping through my intimidation, I toe the kickstand and jump off the bike. I’m second-guessing this idea with every anxious step toward the grandfront entryway. Potted plants, lush rosebushes, and perfectly cut grass lead me up the walkway until I’m standing on his pristine front stoop. The doorbell looks like it came straight out of the future as I extend my hand.
Then I hesitate.
Commotion sounds from inside the house, a racket of bellowing voices and crashing noises. I blink, frowning, wondering if maybe I have the wrong house.
I double-check the address, which looks to be accurate. Though I guess I can’t be certain Natalie and her cheer squad got it right.
Dallying in place, I wait a few more minutes, trying to make out muffled words.
I hear a lot of “fucks.”
Am I witnessing a home invasion?
Joplin watches those true-crime documentaries every night and takes meticulous notes on how to avoid, dodge, and outrun a predator. There are bullet points. Chapter headings even. My mind races as I think about what my sister would say right now:run.
But I don’t run. I press the futuristic doorbell contraption.
A long-winded, theatrical bell chimes throughout the house, and the ruckus from inside promptly ends. Silence follows.
I think I might puke.
But I’m here, and I have his backpack, and I’m doing a good thing.
I press the doorbell again, waiting on the stoop, but still, no one answers. With a sigh, I bite my lip, debating whether to call the police and report a disturbance. Instead, I turn back for one last attempt. I knock, rapping my knuckles against the frame.
Another minute passes until finally, I hear the sound of footsteps. A shadow is visible through the stained glass, making its way toward me. I take a moment to smooth out my damp tank top, inch down my sopping-wet shorts, and fiddle with my chaotic flyaways until I’m as presentable as possible, given I was just doused with a watering hose and then rode my bike three miles through heavy traffic and up steep hills.
The door cracks open. A woman pokes her head out, her golden-blond hairlooking far worse than mine and a giant pair of sunglasses hiding her eyes. “We don’t need any Girl Scout cookies.” She moves to close the door.
I pop a hand out. “Wait, please. I’m not selling anything.”
The woman falters, inches the door open another fraction. She looks like a wreck in designer clothing. Glamorous and tortured.
“Who are you?” she demands.
“My…my name is Stevie. I’m Lex’s friend. From school.” I clear my throat, shifting from foot to foot as her attention sweeps down my body. I’m wearing worn-out jelly shoes, once the color of Ariel’s fin, now a desaturated shade of teal. Childish, I realize. “Sorry to show up unannounced, but Lex left his backpack at my house. His script. I figured he’d need it since I won’t see him again until Tuesday.”
She lowers the sunglasses, just marginally. There’s an ambiguous bruise above her cheekbone, and my gaze is glued to it as her blue-gray eyes thin with what looks like scorn.
“What was my son doing at your house? He said he was at an audition in the city.”
Oh.
Shit.
My mouth fumbles for words, flopping like a fish. “I…well, we were practicing our lines for the show. The director suggested it.”
More ice shimmers in her eyes. Judgment and loathing. “My son isfriendswith you?”
I blink at her, nearly going catatonic. “Um…I guess. Sort of. I’m really sorry if I—”
The woman, who I presume to be his mother, leans farther out the threshold, getting right in my face. “Do not come here. Ever again.” Each word is sharp and punctuated.
My face ignites. “I’m sorry.” Swallowing, I loosen the backpack straps until they slide down my arms. I hand her the bag, my hands trembling. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Can you give this to him?”
