Seconds Away Page 6

  "Spoon?"

  "Yeah?"

  I could still back off, but I didn't. "What's Ema's deal?"

  "What do you mean?"

  I gestured toward where she'd just disappeared. "Where does Ema live, who are her parents, that kind of thing."

  Spoon pushed the glasses up his nose. He seemed lost in thought.

  "Spoon?"

  "No one really talks to me directly. So this is all stuff I've overheard."

  I thought about that, about this town, about what it has done to him. Spoon wasn't so much actively bullied or picked on as he was ignored. Week after week, month after month, year after year--ignored or worse. He had found an escape by pouring himself into things that don't turn away from you--musical theater, books, random facts, his imagination. He was like a sponge, absorbing all of this information and goodness, but he didn't really have anyone to wring himself out on, as it were.

  Except now, I guessed, he had me.

  "Well," I said, "you're a great overhearer."

  Was that even a word?

  Spoon smiled. "Really? You think so?"

  "Sure. So tell me. What have you overheard about Ema?"

  He made a face as though he was mulling that one over. "No one seems to know much," Spoon said in a faraway voice. "But . . . there are stories."

  "Like?"

  "You know her real name is Emma, not Ema, right?"

  I did. It seemed that Buck had helped give her that nickname in Spanish class, noticing that her real name was Emma and that she was kind of emo.

  "She moved into town three years ago. I've never been invited to her house. Big surprise, right? But it isn't just me. I don't know anyone who has. Rumor has it, she lives in a cabin in the woods, you know, and her dad does something illegal. Like making moonshine or something."

  I frowned. "Making moonshine?"

  "Moonshine is a slang term for an illegally produced distilled beverage. There are other terms for it. Hooch, Devil's Brew, White Lightning--"

  "I know, I know," I said, putting a hand up to slow him down. "It just sounds kind of weird."

  Spoon's eyes were wide now. "They also say her dad's an alcoholic. And he hits her a lot. They say she's got all those tattoos to cover up her bruises."

  Could that be true? I didn't know what to say, but it suddenly felt like something heavy was sitting on my chest.

  "I Googled her once," Spoon said. "Emma Beaumont. But there was nothing relevant. In fact, there is no listing of a Beaumont in town."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Nothing," Spoon said. "In short, I don't know what Ema's 'deal' is. But I like her a lot, don't you?"

  "I do," I said. And then, corny as it sounded, I added, "I like you a lot too."

  My words startled him. Spoon looked up at me, blinked a few times, and then puffed out his chest. "I like you a lot too."

  Spoon and I both just stood there, saying nothing.

  "We're having a moment, aren't we, Mickey?"

  "Right," I said, "and now I think it's time to end it."

  "Agreed," Spoon said. Then: "Mickey?"

  "Yes?"

  "Don't you think it's time you told me all about Abeona?"

  He had a point. He had more than earned his stripes. "Yeah, Spoon. Maybe we should talk."

  "As we walk," he said. "I have to get home, remember?"

  "Right. The Musicals I Love Foundation meeting is over."

  "Exactly. Do you want to be vice president?"

  "Sure, why not?" I said. "It'll look good on my college applications. One thing, though."

  "Yes?"

  I threw my arm around him. "We need to work on a name change. . . ."

  CHAPTER 14

  I didn't know what to do with what I'd just learned.

  Ema was my best friend. I know that might sound pathetic--we had only known each other a few weeks--but it was the truth. We were more than that, really, though I couldn't quite figure out what that meant yet.

  But if she was in danger. If someone was hurting her . . .

  She had told me to butt out.

  But could I?

  From three houses away, I spotted Uncle Myron standing in the front doorway. For a moment, I just stood there and watched him. I tried to sort out my feelings for him, but they were all over the place.

  Myron saw me and raised his hand in a wave. I waved back and hurried over to him.

  "Are you okay?" he asked. "How are you feeling?"

  I knew that he meant well, but I wished he'd stop it. "I'm good."

  "The news reports say Rachel's wounds are not life threatening."

  "Yeah, that's what they said in school," I lied.

  "Do you have a lot of homework?"

  "Some."

  "Come on," Myron said, starting for the car. "I want to show you something."

  "What?"

  "It's a surprise." He started toward his car. I followed. "And it might explain why I won't be around much the next couple of weeks."

  Not be around much? That would be welcome. Don't get me wrong. I understood why I had to stay with Uncle Myron. He was trying. I was trying. But I wanted my mother back. Dad, well, Dad was dead. Dead is dead. But Mom was just . . . broken, I guess. When something is broken, it can be fixed, right?

  I flashed back to that photograph of the Nazi who looked like Dad's paramedic. For a second, just a second, I debated telling Myron about it. But what would he do? He would think I was crazy. And even if he didn't, well, did I want him involved in this? Did I trust him enough to share? Hadn't even Shaved Head warned me not to?

  Good questions.

  I slid into the passenger seat. Myron drove a Ford Taurus. We spent the first two minutes sitting in uncomfortable silence. I'm okay with uncomfortable silence. Uncle Myron is not.

  "Soooo," Myron said, stretching the word out, "how was school today?"

  Really? I thought, holding back the sigh. "It was okay."

  "I'm so glad you have Mrs. Friedman. She was my favorite teacher back in the day."

  "Yep."

  "She brings history to life, you know?"

  "I know."

  I looked out the window.

  "Basketball tryouts start Monday, right?"

  Let it go, I thought. "Yep."

  "Good luck with that."

  "Thanks."

  As we drove past the Coddington Rehab Center, I could feel Myron tense up. He hit the accelerator a little bit harder, trying to be subtle. I got it. My mom was inside there. After her most recent relapse--and, yes, it was a bad one--I was told that I couldn't visit her for at least another two weeks. I didn't like it. I thought that maybe their "cure" was too cruel. But I would listen. Still I looked out the window and imagined what was going on up that little hill. My mother was going through withdrawal now. I pictured her alone in some dark room, doubled over in pain as the poison left her veins.

  "She'll be okay," Myron said.

  Like I was in the mood for platitudes. I changed subjects.

  "Where are we going?" I asked.

  "Just wait one more minute. You'll see."

  He turned down a side road. Up ahead I could see a driveway with a dark ornate gate, like something you'd see in some scary old movie. Two stone lions guarded the entrance. Myron pulled up and stopped the car. He leaned out the window and waved to the guard. With a slow creak, the gates swung open.

  "Are we still in Kasselton?" I asked.

  "On the border, yes."

  I expected to see a house right away, but the driveway winded up a hill. I don't know how long the ride was but I'd guess that it was nearly half a mile from the entrance until I saw the . . . well, "house" really wouldn't do. Neither would "mansion." It was more like a dark castle, a nightmare version of the one in Disney World. There were towers and spires, and it had an almost fortresslike feel.

  "A famous mobster lived here for nearly fifty years," Myron said. "When your dad and I were kids, well, there were all kinds of rumors about this place."

 
"Like?"

  Myron shrugged. "Just stories. Like with Bat Lady's house. Probably nothing to them."

  He should only know.

  "So who lives here now?" I asked.

  "You'll see."

  We stopped the car. There was a moat around the castle. I don't think I'd ever seen that before. A burly bodyguard nodded at us. Myron nodded back. We crossed the bridge. Myron knocked.

  A few seconds later, a man in black tails and slicked-back hair greeted us at the door. "Good evening, Mr. Bolitar."

  He spoke with a thick British accent and looked like something you'd see on one of those boring British historical shows.

  "Good evening, Niles."

  Was this guy a butler?

  "Meet my nephew, Mickey."

  Niles smiled at me, but there wasn't much warmth there. "Charmed."

  "Yeah," I said. "Charmed."

  "You may wait in the drawing room," he said.

  I don't know where the term drawing room comes from, though I bet Spoon could tell me. There were no crayons or sketch pads or anything like that. The chairs were covered in red velvet. I stayed standing because the furniture looked old and like it might snap if we sat. I noticed Myron stood too. There was an antique globe and lots of dark woods.

  Niles came in holding two cans of Yoo-hoo. Myron smiled happily. Yoo-hoo, for those who don't know, is like a chocolate soda. Myron loves it. I think it tastes like dirt.

  Myron took his and started to shake the can. Niles turned to me and I said, "No, thanks."

  Niles left us alone. I turned to Myron. He was gazing at his can of Yoo-hoo as if it were his new girlfriend. I cleared my throat.

  "Well?" I said.

  Myron gestured for us to sit. We did. Gingerly.

  "So remember yesterday when my friend called?" Myron began.

  "Yes."

  "He asked me to do him a favor and watch out for someone."

  I narrowed my eyes. "Watch out?"

  "Yes."

  "Like you're watching out for me?"

  He swigged the Yoo-hoo. "Well, not quite."

  And then she walked into the room.

  Like calling this place a "house" was inadequate, saying she "walked" also seemed far too tame. Accurate, yes. I mean, she didn't do anything extraordinary. Not really. She didn't glide into the drawing room or ride in on a white horse or anything like that. But she might as well have.

  She made an entrance and she made it just by entering.

  I didn't say "wow" out loud, but I almost did.

  We both quickly stood, not because we were being gentlemen, but because something about her entrance demanded it. There, in the flesh, was the talk of the town, the movie poster come to life, Angelica Wyatt.

  "You must be Mickey," she said.

  Angelica Wyatt was, in a word, stunning. She stepped over to me and took my hand in hers. "Such a handsome young man."

  I looked over at Myron, who was smiling like a dope, and I realized that I probably was too. "Uh, thanks."

  Even with movie stars, I remain the essence of smooth.

  "It's so nice to meet you," she said.

  "Uh, same."

  I had to stop wowing her like this.

  "Let's sit," Angelica Wyatt said.

  We did. Myron and I took the couch. Angelica Wyatt took the chair across from us. She crossed her legs, making an event of it. Her smile was enough to curl a man's toes.

  "Thank you for loaning me your uncle," she said. "It seems that there are some who think I may need extra protection during this shoot."

  I looked over at Myron. I didn't quite understand. Myron was an entertainment agent. How was he supposed to protect a famous actress?

  Maybe, like my dad, Myron had some hidden talents too?

  Angelica Wyatt seemed to be studying my face. "Your resemblance to your uncle is obvious," she said. "But I also see a lot of Kitty in there. You have her eyes."

  At the mention of my mother, I could feel a lump form in my throat. "You know my mother?"

  "I did," Angelica Wyatt explained. "Years ago. When she was a tennis prodigy and I, well, I guess you'd call me a young starlet."

  I didn't know what to say.

  "How is she?" Angelica Wyatt asked.

  I glanced at Myron, but he turned away. So. He hadn't told her. "She's having a tough time right now," I said.

  "I'm sorry to hear that," she said. "When I heard about your father . . ." She swallowed hard. "They were so close. I'm just so sorry."

  "Did you know my father too?"

  Now she was the one who glanced over at Myron. I could feel something weighing me down, crushing my heart in a hundred different ways.

  "I did, yes."

  "Can you tell me how?"

  Myron squirmed a little. Angelica Wyatt looked away, and a small smile toyed with her lips. My mother was only thirty-three. I figured that Angelica Wyatt was maybe a year or two older.

  "It was a fun time," Angelica Wyatt began. "Maybe too fun, if you know what I mean."

  "I don't," I said.

  "We were young celebrities, I guess you'd say. Your mother was getting a lot of attention for her tennis--not to mention her good looks. I was starring as the college-age daughter in a TV series." Her smile was wistful. "Your mother . . . she was so funny. She had this wonderful laugh, and this way about her. People were drawn to her. Everyone wanted to be near Kitty Hammer."

  She stopped. Myron had his head down. I remembered my mother's laugh. It was a sound I had taken for granted, of course, and would now give anything to hear again.

  "And my father?" I said.

  "Well, he came along and changed everything."

  "How?"

  Angelica Wyatt considered that. "They say love is like a chemical reaction. Have you heard that?"

  "I guess."

  "That was what happened. It was like your mother was one person before they met and like that"--Angelica Wyatt snapped her fingers--"she was someone different." She smiled. "We were all so young. Too young, in fact. It was all too much, too fast."

  "How so?" I asked.

  "How old are you now, Mickey?"

  "Almost sixteen."

  "By the time your mother was sixteen, she was already on magazine covers. She was being touted as the next big thing in tennis. Gossip magazines wrote about her. And then, not too many months later, she would fall in love with your father."

  We all stopped. The room was silent. Angelica Wyatt left out the big part of the story, of course--the elephant in the "drawing room," if you will.

  Not too many months later, Kitty Hammer would be pregnant. With me. She would be forced to stop training at the peak of her career. She would never play again. She would lose everything.

  Why?

  Because she was pregnant, yes, but also because those closest to my parents were against the marriage. They would put pressure on the new couple. They would tell them that they were too young, that they were being foolish, that there were too many things they didn't know about each other. They would even say horrible, scandalous things about my mother in the hopes that my father would see the "light."

  I turned and glared at Myron. The old anger resurfaced.

  "Pardon me."

  It was Niles the butler.

  "Ms. Wyatt, you have a phone interview with Variety."

  She sighed and rose. Myron and I did likewise. She took my hand in her hands and looked at me. There was something comforting in her eyes, something warm and genuine. "We'll talk again, okay?"

  "I'd like that," I said.

  And then she was gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  Again the car ride started in silence. Again Myron had to break it.

  "So what time are basketball tryouts?"

  "I don't get it," I said, trying to keep my temper in check. "Why you?"

  "What?"

  "Why would you be 'watching out'"--I made quote marks with my fingers--"for Angelica Wyatt?"

  "It's how I land clients sometimes," he e
xplained. "See, Angelica Wyatt is leaving her agency. I was hoping--"

  "I thought you sold your company."

  "I did," Myron said.

  "So?"

  "So it's complicated."

  "I don't understand. You, what, get hired out as a bodyguard?"

  "No."

  "Then what?"

  We hit a traffic light. Myron turned and met my eye. "I help people."

  "Help people how?"

  "I watch over them. I solve tricky problems. And sometimes . . ."

  "Sometimes what?"

  "Sometimes I rescue them."

  Myron started driving.

  "Is that what you think you're doing with me?" I asked. "Rescuing me?"

  "No. You're family."

  "So was your brother. Why didn't you rescue him?"

  I saw the pain flash across his face. But I wasn't done.

  "You could have, you know," I said, and it was like a dam broke. "You could have rescued both of them. Mom and Dad. Right from the start. You could have understood that they were young and scared. You could have accepted that they loved each other instead of trying to break them up. Mom could have delivered me and gone back to her tennis. She could have been the great star she was supposed to be. Mom and Dad wouldn't have had to run away--they could have raised me right here. I could have had a real relationship with my grandparents. You and I, we could have been uncle and nephew. We could have played ball together."

  Myron stared straight ahead. A tear ran down his cheek. My eyes started to brim up too, but I'd be damned if I would let any tears escape.

  I didn't let up. "And if you had done any of that, Mom wouldn't be a shell of herself sitting in rehab today. She'd be laughing that laugh. And Dad would be alive, and we'd all be hanging out. Do you ever think of that, Myron? Do you ever look back and wonder, what if you had believed in them?"

  I felt suddenly spent and exhausted. I closed my eyes. My head dropped back on the neck rest.

  A few moments later, Myron spoke in a soft, pained voice. "I do think about that. I think about it every day."

  "So why, Myron? Why didn't you help?"

  "Maybe you can learn from my mistakes."

  "Learn what?"

  "It's like I said before." Myron pulled into the driveway, his face darkening. "There are always consequences to being a hero. Especially when you're sure you're doing the right thing."

  CHAPTER 16

  When we got home, Myron and I went our separate ways. I did homework with the television on, hoping to catch updates of the shooting at Rachel's house, but the cable news had no mentions of it.

  I thought a lot about Rachel sitting in that hospital bed. I thought about Ema and the rumors Spoon had heard. I thought about my mother going through detox. I thought about my father dead and Bat Lady's cryptic words. I thought about Myron's warning about the dangers of being a hero.