The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“Don’t be like that, Val.”

“Like what?”

“May I use your phone?”

“Help yourself.” She dropped a plate into the drying rack.

The telephone was in the hallway. I dialed the number Valerie had written down. Miss Cisco picked up on the first ring. “Where have you been?”

“Where have I been?” I said.

“Do you realize what has happened?”

“I don’t know what we’re talking about.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Valerie’s house. What difference does it make?”

“Can they hear you?”

“I suspect. What’s going on?”

“Go somewhere else and call me back.”

“Not unless you tell me what this is about, Miss Cisco.”

“Stop calling me ‘Miss.’ I don’t like that hypocritical Southern formality. Do you have any idea what your stupid friend has done? Any idea at all?”

“You’re talking about Saber?”

She hung up. Valerie was still at the sink, her back to me. “Would you take a ride with me?” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“Please,” I said.

She dried her hands and turned. “Fine,” she said.

I put my arms around her and held her tight, my face in her hair. I didn’t care if her father saw us or not. “I love you,” I said. “I’ll love you the rest of my life.”

WE DROVE TO a local drugstore. It was cool inside, fans spinning on the ceiling. I ordered chocolate milkshakes for both of us and went to the phone booth and closed the door. I could see Valerie reading a magazine at the counter. I could also see the front door and the traffic on the street and the newspaper delivery boys rolling their papers on the corner. It was a scene no different from any other working-class neighborhood in America in the year 1952. Except for one difference. The light outside was like the glitter of thousands of razor blades. The air blowing through the door smelled of hot tar and sewer water. The sounds of the traffic were metallic, shrill with horns. I dialed Miss Cisco’s number.

“That you?” she answered.

“Yes,” I replied. I stared out the plastic panel at the street, at the jittering light, at the harshness of the colors.

“Your friend stole Grady’s convertible, didn’t he? The one he bought to replace the other one your friend stole?”

“Which friend?”

“Don’t get cute unles

s you want your friend roasted on a spit. Where’s the car, Aaron?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s your friend?”