Torn. Part 9

Working at the diner wasn't really a glamorous job. The grease from the grill seeped into my hair and clothes, even though I spent most of my time in front, waiting tables. The ap.r.o.n-green and white gingham with a ruffle, and a little cap to match-wasn't exactly a look Abercrombie & Fitch was promoting for the fall. But the tips, especially from the regulars, weren't bad, and every one brought me a little closer to New York. There was Mr. Nelson, who ordered a poached egg, whole wheat toast, and grapefruit juice every day and stayed until he finished his daily crossword. Father Armando ordered "as the Spirit moved him." Mrs. Ahern always ordered a side of sausage and tucked it into her purse for her Yorkie, Ferdinand, to eat when she got home.

It was no surprise the tips from my cla.s.smates tended to bite, but we were far enough away from St. Brigid's that they didn't come in all that often. Unfortunately, St. Sebastian, our brother school, was only a few blocks west. Which meant I waited on a lot of sixteen-year-old boys, who tend to base their tips on how well you fill out your T-s.h.i.+rt.

I didn't get a lot of tips from that group.

In the days since Verity died, Kowalski had become a regular-corned beef hash and a fried egg, which clogged my arteries just looking at it-and he always left exactly 15 percent. He pulled the singles out of his cracked leather wallet and counted out the pennies carefully, placing a perfectly stacked pile on the edge of the table, every time. He liked things neat, which didn't inspire much confidence.

I was clearing booth four when Tim, the cook, shouted from the kitchen. "Mo! Your phone's ringing!"

Over the clanking of plates and cutlery, and the rise and fall of eight booths' worth of conversation, I could hear a snippet of Liz Phair. I dashed for the kitchen, sliding the tray of dirty dishes onto the counter.

"Mo? It's Lena."

"Hey! What's up?" Lena Santos was my coeditor for the school newspaper and middle hitter on the varsity volleyball team. She was blunt, and a little p.r.i.c.kly, and definitely hyperactive, but I liked her. She'd been at the funeral, weeping but trying hard to keep it together. No hysterics, which I appreciated.

"Jill McAllister's party is tonight. Are you going?"

The McAllister end-of-summer parties were famous-a St. Brigid's tradition. Five daughters, whose psychiatrist parents routinely spent the summer in Europe, leaving the house empty for a back-to-school party kids were still talking about in December. Only a few undercla.s.smen were allowed in, but every senior in the school was invited. Verity and I had been planning for this since freshman year. Jill was the youngest sister, a senior like us, which meant this was the last McAllister party, ever. But the thought of going on my own made me panicky, the first step into senior year without Verity leading the way.

"I don't think so." There was no way I was ready to go to a party. I tucked the phone against my shoulder while I carted the tray to the dishwasher.

"Mo, come on!"

"I'm not really up for a party."

"You can't not go. Everyone will be there."

"Exactly." I started loading dishes into the box.

"And you can't spend the year hiding, either," she said. Lena wrote good stories and better editorials-smart, pull-no-punches columns that said exactly what people were thinking but didn't want to say. Last year, I liked that about her.

"I'm not hiding, just tired," I said. "Besides, everyone's going to ask questions."

"They'll ask questions no matter what. There are a ton of rumors going around. People are saying all sorts of crazy stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like Verity was dealing drugs, and someone came after her? She wasn't in New Orleans this summer, but rehab?"

"That's c.r.a.p." My voice rose, and I glanced through the swinging door to the front. "I talked to her every day. Do you think they let people in rehab do that?"

"I'm not the one who needs convincing."

"So if I don't go . . ."

"It looks like you're hiding something." Lena paused for a minute. "It would do you good to get out."

"I am out. I'm at work."

"The Slice does not count. Come on, Mo. We miss you."

I concentrated on wiping down my tray supercarefully and putting it back on the stack.

"Mo!" called Tim. "Order up!"

"Verity would tell you to go," Lena said. "You know she'd want you to do this year up right. She'd expect you to."

"Mo!" Tim shouted again.

"I'll think about it." I didn't wait for Lena to reply, just flipped the phone shut and tossed it back in my bag, not looking at the T-s.h.i.+rt-wrapped lump in the corner.

I grabbed the western omelet and French toast and backed through the swinging doors, trying to ignore the irritation I felt. Everyone seemed to know what Verity would want me to do. I wasn't so sure. Dropping the plates off with the older couple in booth three, I spotted a new customer at the counter. I headed back to grab the coffeepots off the burner, only to come face-to-face with my mother on the other side of the pa.s.s-through to the kitchen.

"Who was on the phone?"

"A friend from school."

"It sounded like you were making plans to go somewhere." Already, my mom's face was taking on a taut, lemony look, her lips thinning and pursing. It was her standard response, right before she said no.

"There are some people getting together tonight. I thought I might go."

Mom folded her arms across her chest. "I don't think that's a good idea."

My stomach tightened in antic.i.p.ation of the fight to come. "It's just some girls from school." And a bunch of guys from Loyola University, but I didn't mention that. If my mother were a superhero, she'd be Panicwoman, capable of flattening cities with the sheer force of her overreactions, of tensing up so quickly she levitated.

"You're still recovering."

"I'm well enough to work," I pointed out. "If I can pull an eight-hour s.h.i.+ft, a few hours at a party should be fine." I didn't even want to go, but I had a sudden vision of my senior year, and college, and the rest of my life. My mother hovering, Colin watching me through the window, Verity gone, and me, stuck here in the diner, safe and sound and bored to death. Compared to that, an evening facing down my cla.s.smates' questions about Verity sounded de-fricking-lightful.

"It's not safe. You shouldn't be going out by yourself." She reached up, adjusting the order tickets hanging from the overhead rack.

"I won't be by myself. I'll be with people from school." Colin's truck was parked right across the street, and I waved a coffeepot toward the window. "Colin can take me there and back."

Obviously, I'd lost my mind.

Mom considered that. Colin was a nice Catholic boy who came with my uncle's approval and liked her cooking, whose sole purpose in life was to keep me safe. "Will he be with you the whole time?"

"No! G.o.d, Mom! I'm not bringing a bodyguard to a high school party." I could only imagine the effect he'd have on my chances of having a normal night-not to mention his effect on the other St. Brigid's girls. Colin might be a pain in the a.s.s, but I wasn't blind. He'd be a lamb to the slaughter. A broad-shouldered, dangerously handsome, gun-toting lamb.

I shook my head to clear the vision of Colin fighting off some of my less inhibited cla.s.smates, sans gun.

For a minute, Mom looked like she was actually considering it, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Whatever she saw behind the lids made her frown.

"No. I'm sorry, Mo."

"But . . ."

"You're still on the mend, and you don't need to be out after dark for something so trivial. Invite a friend over," she suggested. "You could rent a movie and make some popcorn. That would be fun."

"You can't keep me at home for the rest of my life." I clenched the ruffled hem of my ap.r.o.n to keep from shaking. This was payback for refusing to visit my father, I was sure of it.

"I wish I could," she snapped. "You're all I have."

I'd heard that argument a million times-it's the Fitzgerald girls against the world, we only have each other, we need to stick together. It was my mother's theme song, and had been ever since my father was carted off to federal prison. The tune was getting old, though, and I wanted my own life.

"I'm going."

"You're not." Her face was pale, her mouth set. "Don't push me, Mo. I didn't raise you to speak to me like this."

The bell on the counter rang out.

"You raised me not to speak at all," I hissed, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the orange-handled coffeepot, rattled by my outburst. At the Formica counter sat a guy in a close-fitting black T-s.h.i.+rt, baseball cap tugged down low over his brow, menu obscuring the rest of his face. He'd probably heard everything.

"What can I get you?" I said, trying to sound believably cheerful. "The crumb-topped cherry pie is really good today."

The menu dropped, and Luc grinned up at me. "Well, well," he drawled. "Ain't you the social b.u.t.terfly? Vee's house, police station, dinner guest, parties . . ."

"Seriously? You're stalking me?" My voice dropped to a whisper, and I shot a furtive glance toward the battered red truck outside. "You're not even good at it. You're going to get me in trouble!"

"You're doin' a fine job of that all by yourself. Such a busy girl, Mouse. How you getting it all done?" He held out the empty coffee cup, and I forced myself to pour it in the mug, not his lap. "I thought we agreed you'd leave this alone. You, chere, are showing a real deficiency in the followin' directions department."

"Bite me."

His smile widened, genuine this time. "Careful what you wish for. Slice of that pie sounds good."

I turned to the back counter and cut the pie, hoping that he couldn't see my hands shake. It was a smaller slice than normal, because he was too obnoxious to deserve a full piece.

"I thought you were going back to New Orleans."

"Figured you might need watchin', on account of the aforementioned p.i.s.s-poor listening skills."

I slammed down a little stoneware cream dispenser. "I've already got a watchdog, thanks. Why'd you show up last night?"

"Did you find what you were looking for at Vee's?"

I nearly dropped the carafe but kept my expression innocent. "I needed to get my stuff."

"Mmn-hmn." His eyes over the coffee cup were sharp green and skeptical.

"What could I possibly be looking for?"

"You tell me. 'Course, even if you found something, no guarantee you'd know what to do with it."

I narrowed my eyes. "I just want to find out who killed Verity. Trust me-there was no signed confession sitting around her room."

Luc took a bite of pie and pointed the fork at me. "Trouble. You go looking, that's what you'll find. Trouble bigger than a girl like you can handle."

A girl like me? I resisted the urge to ask what he meant. "I have to check my tables."

Fuming, I wiped down tables, dropped off checks, refilled coffee, pocketed tips. The whole time, I could feel Luc, sitting at the counter, acting as if I wasn't there. It was annoying, really. The awareness of him made my skin p.r.i.c.kle, uncomfortably warm.

"Go away," I said, when I was back behind the counter. "Before Colin sees you."

"Not sure how much good Cujo'll do you, but it never hurts. You listen to him?"

"Why does everyone think they can tell me what to do?" I scrubbed at a spot of dried ketchup with more force than necessary.

"Because you let them. You going to that party?"

"She said . . ." I clamped my lips shut.

"And you're gonna do what she says? You haven't done a single thing I've asked since I met you."

"She's my mother."

In the kitchen, Tim rang the bell again.

"You want an omelet, you gotta break a few eggs," Luc said, taking another bite.

"Yeah, well, I'm always the one stuck cleaning up the mess."

He shrugged. "Guess you got a decision to make. Keep things tidy, or get what you want. Can't have both."

I gathered up the order. When I looked back, Luc was gone, and there was a twenty under the empty mug.

After work, I curled up in bed and examined the snow globe again. Did Luc know this was what I'd taken? Did Evangeline? Maybe she'd ordered him to come after me. It was hard to believe anyone would be interested in such a gaudy little trinket. The harlequin figurine inside leaned drunkenly against a lamppost. It sat atop a half-open treasure chest stuffed with gold coins and ropes of brightly painted gems. A single lonely ruby was nestled against the dull bra.s.s hinge of the chest.

It must have had snow once, right? Taking it out had been Verity's idea of a joke-or a clue. I tried to unscrew the gla.s.s portion from the base, but it wouldn't move. I tried prying the two apart, unsuccessfully. Turning it upside down, I examined every inch of the base for some sort of plug, but it was completely sealed. There had to be a way to get inside, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how. Not before my mom got home, anyway.

My phone rang and I reached for it, still shaking the snow globe.

"So?" said Lena immediately. "You're in, right?"

"I can't. My mom is freaking out."

"We're seniors! You have to!"

I flopped back on my bed, frustrated.

"Blow her off," Lena said.

"She's practically got me under house arrest." I peeked out the window at Colin's truck. "I'm lucky I don't have one of those ankle monitors."

"It'd be a pain come soccer season," Lena agreed. "So, go all Hollywood starlet and sneak out."

I continued shaking, and the chest seemed to s.h.i.+ft, jostled open by one of the ropes of gems. "What? I can't do that!"

"Come on," she urged. "You've earned the right to have a little fun."