Again with feeling, p.11
Again with Feeling, page 11
part #6 of The Last Picks Series
“Keeping an eye on you so you don’t do something stupid.”
“Wait, how long have you—” I held up a finger. “In the first place, three of those waffles were defective.”
Keme’s expression didn’t change much, but he did, somehow, manage to look disappointed in me.
“And second, what do you mean you’re keeping an eye on me?”
“Bobby said—”
“What?”
(I might have lost control of my volume at that point.)
Keme must have realized he’d already said too much, though, because he just set his jaw and stared back at me.
“What exactly did Bobby say to you?”
He stared back at me.
“You realize this is completely inappropriate,” I said. “He doesn’t have any right to—to spy on me.” I wanted to be mature enough to stop the rest of it, but it came spilling out. “Is this what he’s going to do after he moves out? Have you tell him everything I do?”
For a moment, Keme’s composure broke, baring the unhappiness that lay underneath. “Dash—”
“And what—if I go do something, you’re going to follow me?”
Keme tightened his arms across his chest and looked away.
That confirmed my suspicion.
“You’re going to call Bobby?” I asked, my voice rising again—disbelief mixing with outrage.
“He’s worried about you,” Keme mumbled. “He just wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“He needs to worry about himself because the next time I see him, I’m going to wring his neck.” I took a deep breath. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to go live your normal life like a normal teenage boy, and you’re not going to spy on me because Bobby has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Meanwhile, I’m going to leave and go live my life independently and autonomously like an adult.”
But when I stepped around Keme and started for the stairs, he trailed after me.
“Keme, I’m serious. Go play Xbox or scroll on TikTok or bother Millie at work.”
He just stared at me.
When I turned for the stairs, he took a step after me.
“Keme!”
His face darkened, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes, but he hunkered down like he was going to root himself in place if I tried to make him leave.
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, Indira’s voice floated up the stairs. “What’s all the yelling about?”
Here’s the thing about Indira. She’s so smart. And composed. And calm. And mature. And all of those traits make me painfully self-conscious when I’m working myself up for a royal hissy fit.
I still managed to sound surprisingly petulant, though, when I said, “Bobby is making Keme spy on me. It’s not necessary, and on top of that, it’s not appropriate to put Keme in that position. And—” Genius struck. “—it’s teaching Keme bad life lessons about, um, trust and relationships and stuff.”
Admittedly, it lost some steam at the end, but I still thought I’d made a very good point.
Indira, though, only looked up at me from the bottom of the stairs. Then she called, “Keme, could you help Millie and Fox finish unloading the van?”
Keme glared at me—if looks could kill—as though this were somehow my fault. He stomped past me, which was pretty impressive in slides, and thundered down the stairs. A moment later, the front door banged shut, and then Indira and I were alone.
To my surprise, she came up the steps, her pace slow and measured. When she reached me, she asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Like the Jeep rolled on top of me.”
A hint of a smile touched her face. She looked lovely today, of course. She always did—cream-colored trousers; a white top; a long, lightweight gray wrap that looked like the intersection of bathrobe and cardigan (in a good way). “Maybe you should take it easy today.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ve got things to do.” I struggled for a moment, and then the words burst out of me: “And I know Bobby is stressed about the move, and he’s probably tied himself in a million knots about making everything perfect with Kiefer because, you know, he’s Bobby, and he’s not sleeping well, and he had that awful panic attack yesterday after we got in that argument—” As I listed all the things Bobby was dealing with right then, my anger started to melt. “—but this is crossing a line.”
Indira listened. Then she was silent, and one of Hemlock House’s very expensive clocks ticked away the seconds. Finally she said, “Bobby had a panic attack after you got in an argument.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He was super dysregulated, you know, no sleep, lots of stress, and then we fought and…” I couldn’t read the look on her face. “What?”
She made a sound that might have meant anything. Then she said, “Bobby didn’t ask Keme to spy on you. Bobby said he was worried about you. He was…upset last night, after you went to bed.” And I got the feeling that upset wasn’t the word Indira had originally been thinking. “Keme took it on himself to keep an eye on you. Because he loves you. And because he’s worried about you too.”
I mean, yes, at some level, I knew Keme and I were…attached, maybe? I don’t know—whatever word you’re supposed to use for your brother. Like, you can’t get rid of them, and they steal your stuff all the time, and one time they gave you a dead leg that, like, really hurt. But the logical part of me, the part that understood this relationship, was having a hard time reconciling the words love and worried with the same boy who had, less than a week before, told Millie, Watch this, and then proceeded to strangle me with my own hoodie strings. (A surprisingly effective method of killing someone, I decided after I could breathe again. I was eager to have Will Gower try it on an annoying teenage hoodlum who ate all the snickerdoodles before he got any even though Will Gower had told him they were his favorite. Er, his favorite that week.)
“Frankly,” Indira said, “we’re all worried about you, Dash. This has become much more serious after yesterday’s events. And we don’t want you doing it alone.”
“Okay, but if it’s dangerous, then I don’t want you—”
“This discussion is over now.”
And she turned and went downstairs.
I was still kind of reeling as I followed her. Did that kind of thing always work? Or did it only work on me? Would it work if I tried it on Bobby the next time he started in on one of his lectures (lectures was a kind word, right?) about why I shouldn’t crush up packets of Smarties and then blow the dust in Keme’s hair?
(Keme had been so mad. It was amazing.)
When I got to the kitchen, Indira was directing Millie and Keme as they put away various baskets, display racks, and cake stands. Fox had found the rest of the whipped cream, and they were dipping Oreos in it. (Which, okay, was genius.)
“One time,” Fox said, “I made out with a guy who had fallen off his motorcycle and then gotten run over by another motorcycle. Oh, and then a horse stepped on him.” They gave me an unnecessarily pointed look, snapped off a bite of Oreo, and added, “Just saying.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” I said. “Keme, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up. It means a lot to me that you care—”
The boy had frozen as if transfixed, and his eyes were slowly widening in horror. He was even giving tiny, abortive shakes of his head.
“—uh,” I fumbled for the rest of the sentence, but the best I could come up with was: “I love you too.”
If you could have seen his face.
“And another time,” Fox said, “I made out with a guy who had been kicked in the—” A polite cough. “—nuggets at the same time that someone blew an air horn in his ear.” Another crisp bite of Oreo, and a pointed look for Keme. “Just saying.”
“Fox, quit teasing them,” Indira said.
“That was teasing?” I asked.
Keme was trying to assure Millie in a whisper, “I don’t love him.”
“Everyone focus,” Indira said.
You’d better believe we all focused.
“We’re going to help Dash with his investigation today so that Bobby can have some peace of mind,” Indira said.
“That’s sweet, but—” I tried.
“Not to mention keep Dash from getting himself killed,” Fox said.
“That was less sweet. I really don’t want you all risking—”
“There,” Indira said. “That’s settled.”
And somehow, it was. Just like This discussion is over now. Would it work, I wanted to know, if I said it when I was trying to convince Bobby that no, three extra-large pizzas were not too much, on account of the miracle of leftovers?
“Fox, you’re driving. Millie, you’ll do research. Keme, you’re going to watch Dash’s back.”
His little chest puffed right up. He ruined it, kind of, by checking to see if Millie had heard.
“And I’m bringing my gun,” Indira said. “Now, Dashiell, where are we going?”
Chapter 12
My original thought was that I might catch Candy at work, but it turned out, the Neptune’s Depths Seafood Processing plant was closed on Sundays (who’d have thunk?). So instead, we drove into Astoria.
It was another beautiful summer day, and Astoria was beautiful too. If you’ve never visited—or you’ve never seen The Goonies (shame on you)—it’s not actually on the coast. It’s a waterfront city, yes, but it’s on the Columbia River. For over a hundred years, it’s been a major port in the Pacific Northwest: timber, fur, import and export, commercial fishing, all that stuff. As in many port cities, there’s a rift between the blue-collar workers who do the actual shipping and fishing and loading and unloading and processing, etc., and the business owners and managers and old-money families. So, for example, in addition to being a working port, Astoria also has a scenic river walk. It has tract homes, like the ones where Arlen, Candy, Neil, and Jane lived, but it also has big old Queen Annes up on the hill. (Side note: check out Airbnb. There’s this one house where you can rent a room, and the room used to be the nursery, and there’s this creepy old-timey bassinet in the room, and you have to sleep with that thing in there with you, and when Keme saw the pictures, he said it looked, quote, haunted as—well, a word that you can’t put in an Airbnb listing). The Columbia River Bar (that’s the spot where the river meets the ocean) is one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the world. Even huge commercial freighters occasionally capsize and go under there—no joke, not too long ago, it happened to a shipment of jeans, and people kept finding them washed up on the shore. In fact, it’s so dangerous that, for years, it kept all those intrepid sailor-explorers from discovering the mouth of the river, even though they were sailing right in front of it.
In other words, Astoria was not Hastings Rock. It was beautiful in its own way, as I said, but it was a working city, a grittier city. The bumper sticker from Neil’s truck came back to me: We ain’t quaint. Hastings Rock was quaint. I had the feeling that if Astoria ever had a chance, it would give Hastings Rock an atomic wedgie and shove it in a locker.
We found the Skin Art Collective (excuse me while I throw up a little) in a strip mall on the outskirts of town. I say we, but it was really Millie—remember, she was on research duty. And honestly, there was something simultaneously endearing and satisfying about watching Fox try to keep their cool while the Maps app on Millie’s phone announced, “At the next light, turn left,” and then, a nanosecond later, Millie repeated, “AT THE NEXT LIGHT, TURN LEFT.” It was hard to tell in the rearview mirror, but I thought Fox’s eye was twitching.
The strip mall itself was a two-story brick building with big display windows on the ground floor and smaller windows above that suggested space originally meant to be residential. The Skin Art Collective occupied one of the end units, with a disturbing sign that showed a needle, thread, and skull. There was, less disturbingly, a dispensary (Rad Roots), a pipe store (Smoke & Barrel), a real estate office (Aspire Property Group), and a Chinese restaurant (Imperial Taste). The asphalt was worn and potholed, and weeds grew behind the parking stops. I wasn’t sure what Aspire Property was aspiring to, but it probably included a sidewalk with fewer used needles and disposable contacts packages. Also, I know what you’re thinking, and both Keme and I looked at Imperial Taste at the same time—but as soon as I opened the van door, the smell of rancid oil rolled over us, and we silently agreed to pass (this time).
I was halfway to the tattoo parlor when the sound of footsteps alerted me.
“Oh no,” I said. “You’re all staying in the van.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Indira said. “We can’t make sure you’re safe if we’re in the van.”
“I’m being ridiculous? Indira, I’m going to confront this woman about, among other things, lying to me, and I’m going to try to get her to tell me where she was the night her brother disappeared, so I’m basically accusing her of murder. Also, I don’t even have Bobby to distract her with his muscles and oh-so-vanilla sexiness.”
I hadn’t meant for that last part to slip out.
Millie beamed at me like I’d just earned a gold star.
Keme looked like he was trying not to throw up.
Fox choked on their spit.
Indira, patting Fox on the back, said, “All right. We’ll wait outside.”
“No, you can’t just lurk on the sidewalk like a bunch of—” I managed to stop myself from saying weirdos, but maybe the message came through because Indira shot her eyebrows. “Uh,” I said, “okay. Perfect.”
“And Keme can go inside with you.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but I realized this was a losing battle. And, all things considered, Keme was probably the best choice—he wouldn’t talk much, unlike certain other people I could name, and if push came to shove, well, I mean, he was freakishly strong. (I still think Bobby lets him win at arm wrestling, but Bobby just gets that goofy smile when I ask.)
When we stepped inside, a bell jingled on the door, and music met us. I didn’t recognize the song or the band, but it was metal, and it was, um, angry? The store seemed to be lit only by natural light, which meant no headache from annoying fluorescents but which, I thought, might turn out to be an inconvenience when it came to, oh, putting indelible lines of ink on the human body. Beyond a small waiting area with a counter and register was the tattoo parlor’s studio space, with three different stations set up with tattoo chairs, rolling carts covered in supplies, and machines that looked like they’d been designed by someone whose true passion was torture. I mean, it’s a needle going into your skin. Like, millions of times. Tell me I’m wrong.
Maybe Keme saw it on my face because he snorted.
At the back of the shop, Candy sat sidesaddle in one of the tattoo chairs. She’d lost the kimono today, and she was wearing a pair of poisonously green snakeskin boots, Daisy Dukes, and (rather optimistically, in my opinion) an ombre tube top that had probably been described as “tequila sunrise.” She was talking to a man with stringy, graying hair. He wore a leather vest (no shirt underneath, of course), boot-cut jeans, and big, stompy-looking boots. The first smell I’d caught when I’d stepped into the tattoo parlor made me think of disinfectant, but now I caught a whiff of something else—a scent I occasionally noticed lingering around Fox.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, getting up from his seat. He was taller than I’d realized. Bigger too. I decided that, if necessary, today would be the day that I’d let Keme vent all that teenage aggression he’d been bottling up. Plus—bonus—Millie would get to watch.
“Uh, hi,” I said. “I was looking for Candy.”
“And who are you?”
“It’s okay,” I said, “I can see her right there. Hi, Candy.”
Keme gave a little, subvocal groan.
“I asked you your name,” the man said.
“It’s okay, Ricky,” Candy said and patted his arm. Then, her voice flat—almost hostile—she asked, “What?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I had a few more questions. I promise I’ll be quick.”
“Questions about what?” the man—Ricky—asked.
“Uh, tattoos?” I said.
Keme gave another of those little groans.
But it got worse a moment later when Candy’s gaze slid past me, toward the big display windows, and she said, “Did you bring your mom?”
“Okay, wow—”
“And who’s that? Your—”
Someone tapped on the glass in a way that could only be described as pugnacious, and then, their voice muffled as it passed through the window, Fox called, “I’m his titi.”
“Oh my God,” I said under my breath.
“AND I’M HIS SISTER!”
(No glass in the world could muffle that one.)
“Nope,” I tried.
“And what are you?” Candy asked Keme.
“His big brother,” Keme said without missing a beat. “I’m the one who wants the tattoo.”
“He’s not—” I began.
“Oh my God,” Candy said, “I can totally see the resemblance!”
For a single, spluttering moment, there was only, um, spluttering. And then I said, “You can?”
“Candy said you’re the best,” Keme said to Ricky. “I’m thinking something minimalist. Maybe a scene from John Wick.”
“Not one single thing about John Wick is minimalist,” I began, “and you are not getting a—” But then I caught Keme’s look (the translation was somewhere between How stupid are you? and one of those wordless noises of pure frustration), and I realized what he was doing. “Uh, okay. Maybe I could chat with Candy really quickly while you talk about it. And only talk about it.”
Keme ignored me, of course, and pulled out his phone as he moved over to Ricky, apparently to show him what a minimalist tattoo of a scene from a John Wick movie might conceivably look like.
Candy stayed where she was, looking up at Ricky, clearly hoping to be included in the conversation—or at least acknowledged. But Ricky was, apparently, a true professional, and now that there was work at hand, he seemed to have forgotten Candy entirely. After a few more seconds, she heaved herself to her feet with a sigh and came over to me.
