Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

She patted him on the shoulder. “I am glad to see you, you know. I just wish it was that you came over to see

me, rather than because you were freezing your butt off at your apartment.”

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I know.”

“I’m going to check on your sister.” Another pat. “Could you please feed Cisco? There’s dog food in the grocery sack.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t move.

“I’m talking about in this century.”

“Very funny,” he said. But he did manage a slow grin, and it was a heart-stopper. Again, just like his father. No wonder Heidi Brewster hadn’t shaken loose.

Jeremy actually climbed to his feet and said, “Come on, runt,” to the dog as Pescoli made her way down the short hallway and rapped on Bianca’s door before stepping inside the mess. Whereas Jeremy’s old bedroom downstairs had posters of basketball players and rock bands, Bianca’s room was a study in all things girl, from a canopy bed that she’d decorated with Christmas lights to a makeup desk and lighted mirror, where at least ten brushes of varying sizes stood in a jar next to baskets of lipstick, eye shadow, and God only knew what else. The walls were a shocking pink, a color she loved.

Bianca was curled on the bed, a silvery duvet tucked around her, a Pepsi One bottle on her nightstand, next to a pile of teen and fashion magazines that had spilled onto the bed beside her. While her laptop was playing some movie, she was texting on her cell phone.

“So what happened?” Pescoli asked as her daughter glanced up from her cell phone to offer a quick, aren’t-I-just-so-cute smile. Red-blond curls framed a face where freckles were barely visible across the bridge of her small nose and large hazel eyes. While her brother was the spitting image of Joe Strand, Bianca resembled her own father, Luke Pescoli. Fortunately—well, at least up until recently—Bianca seemed a lot smarter than her father.

Time would tell on that one.

“What do you mean?” Bianca asked innocently.

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about. Why did you cut class? If you were sick, you could have gone to the office and they would have called me.”

Bianca rolled her eyes. “You can’t always come, because of your job. And Chris said he’d give me a ride.”

“You mean his brother, Gene, did.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah. Big-time. Chris doesn’t have a license, and it’s a miracle that his brother still does.” Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe he doesn’t.”

Bianca avoided her gaze. Not answering. Which was telling.

“Come on, Bianca, be smarter than this. If Gene Schultz had gotten into another accident or—”

“He didn’t, okay?” Bianca snapped.

Pescoli pushed some of the magazines to one side and sat near the foot of her bed. “You can’t cut class.”

“Jer did it all the time.”

“Case in point.” She shook her head. “His options now are limited. Don’t make that mistake.” Seeing that this was getting her nowhere, she said, “So, why did you come home?”

Bianca sighed. “I was just tired.”

“That’s not an excuse to—”

“And I felt weird. I don’t know. Like maybe I was getting the flu. Kara White and Shannon Anderssen both have it, and I think Monty Elvstead, and they’re all in my Spanish class. So I came home. Big deal.” She glared at her mother. “I couldn’t call you. You’re always working, and I wasn’t going to, like, sit in that outer room and have weird Mrs. Compton, the vice principal, look at me all day.”

“Isn’t there a health room?”

“That’s worse. It’s . . . gross! I just wanted to come home. Geez. It’s not as if it’s against the law or anything.”

“Have you taken your temp?”

“No. And I’m not going to!”