Catherine Read online

  “Waiter, busboy, janitor, whatever. This isn’t like you, Cath.” Jackie linked her arm through mine—a light, playful gesture, though her voice sounded exasperated. “You don’t chase after guys. What is it about this one?”

  I rummaged around in my locker, digging for my American history notebook, which was nowhere to be found. Jackie was right about one thing: I didn’t chase after guys. There weren’t any worth chasing at Idlewild Prep, where all the boys—and I do mean boys—lived to party. The musicians who played The Underground were more interesting—at least they had plans and talent—but they all had their own sneaky agendas, and anyway, I’d never needed to run after any of them. “I’m not chasing Hence.”

  Jackie waited for me to say more, and when I didn’t, she sighed. “Then why have you been going straight home after school lately? You haven’t been to my house in over a week.”

  I poked my head all the way into my locker. Where the hell was that notebook? “Even if I was chasing him—which, by the way, I’m not—what would it matter?”

  “I’m concerned, is all. You don’t know anything about this guy, Cath.”

  She reached into my locker and slipped my notebook out and into my arms, knowing without my having to say anything what I was looking for and where it was hiding.

  The gesture made me even more annoyed. “Exactly. He’s a mystery. He intrigues me.” I slipped the notebook into my bag and briskly zipped it shut. “Writers are supposed to be interested in the world around them.”

  Jackie gave me her trademark skeptical look—one raised eyebrow, mouth quirked to one side.

  “Besides, even if I did like the guy—which, I repeat, I do not—it’s not like I gave you crap when you liked somebody.” By somebody, I meant my very own brother; I’d listened to her obsess about him for years, and believe me, it wasn’t always a picnic.

  “You have too given me crap. When I was acting like an idiot. Over somebody.”

  This was true. I’d lectured her a million times about how she’d be better off forgetting Q instead of sobbing her heart out whenever he fell for a new girl in his string of foreign exchange students: Monique from Marseilles, Danica from Copenhagen, Kristina from St. Petersburg, Tessa from Bologna—Q’s own version of the “it’s a small world” ride at Disney World, all of them sophisticated and supermodel-skinny. With her hourglass figure, dimples, and golden-brown skin, Jackie was adorable, and Q was an ass not to see it.

  “Okay. When I start acting like an idiot, you can lecture me all you want.” Was it really that big a deal that I’d been spending more time at home lately? The only real difference was that instead of doing my homework at Jackie’s, I’d taken to doing it in the club, sitting on a barstool, swinging my legs, chewing on my pencil, and spying on Hence while he worked. Once or twice, I’d glanced up from the page to find his eyes on me. I’d wave and he’d look away, throwing himself into his mopping as if I were his boss and had caught him goofing off.

  One thing I did know so far: When it came to his music, Hence wasn’t a poseur. Once, when I went down to the club to look for a book I’d been reading, as I was about to turn the corner into the main room I heard an acoustic guitar and a voice that sounded like amber and woodsmoke. I froze and listened, not wanting to startle him. Though I didn’t recognize the song, I caught some of the lyrics. There was a line about hawks circling in the sky, and another about sleeping on a bus-station bench. I’m pretty sure the song was a Hence original. The melody was haunting, and I was struck by the loneliness in his voice, a sorrow that could only have come from real-life experience.

  “He’s an intriguing character, is all,” I said to Jackie.

  “An intriguing character,” she repeated, trying to make it sound like a double entendre, which it didn’t remotely.

  But as wrong—and annoying—as Jackie was, I knew her heart was in the right place. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come over to the club this afternoon? That way you can spy on him with me. The way we used to do with Quentin.”

  “We’re not twelve anymore,” Jackie said, but at least she was smiling. “But okay. I’ll come over.”

  It occurred to me that maybe she was hoping to bump into Q, so I reminded her that he had a night class on Thursdays and wouldn’t be home.

  “Oh, I know,” she said. “I mean, not that I’m keeping track of your brother’s schedule. I’m not doing that anymore.” She sped her words up, as she always did when she was flustered. “I just figured he wouldn’t be around much now that he’s in college. Anyway, you know I’ve written him off. I’ve moved on.”

  I shot her my own best skeptical look and she changed the subject to the sculpture class she’d started taking at the 92nd Street Y, and how they were working with live models, which meant a naked dude, and how that would have been okay, except instead of putting his robe on when he was taking a break, he liked to walk around the classroom, checking out the students’ work and making chitchat about the weather and the Yankees, like he didn’t realize he was buck naked.

  Pretty soon we were doubled over laughing, drawing stares from the cheerleader and basketball star contingent, and I was remembering all over again why Jackie was my best friend. It wasn’t as though I trusted or even liked a lot of people. Most of the girls at school thought I was a snob, but they were the snobs, wanting to make nice because of who my dad was or looking down at me because we lived on the Bowery instead of Sutton Place, and because I didn’t spend my summers in the Hamptons—not because we couldn’t afford it, but because summer was The Underground’s busiest season. They thought I was strange. Maybe I was strange. But who wanted to be just like everyone else?

  We slipped into the club, and I led Jackie to the kitchen, where Hence was filling the ketchup and mustard dispensers. He looked startled at our approach. “Hence, I’d like you to meet my friend Jackie.” Okay, so it was weirdly formal, but at least it was a beginning.

  “Oh. Hi.” Hence glanced down at his hands and wiped them on his jeans. Then he reached out his right hand.

  Jackie shot me a quick “who does that?” look as she shook it. “The famous Hence,” she said.

  He cocked his head to one side questioningly.

  Jackie continued. “That’s an unusual name: Hence. Is that your last name or your first? Where did you say you came from?” To my horror, she was going all Private Investigator on him. “Cathy couldn’t remember.”

  Hence looked first at me, then at her. “No place you’ve heard of,” he said, sounding annoyed. His dark gaze fell on me again, and I gave him an apologetic smile.

  Before Jackie could say another word, I threw both arms around her shoulders, gave her a little warning squeeze, and laughed as though the situation weren’t desperately awkward. “We’re going to go hang out in Washington Square Park. I heard they’re filming a movie there,” I told Hence, though we hadn’t made any such plan. “You must have a break soon, right? Want to come?” I gave Jackie one more warning squeeze and released her. “I promise my nosy friend here won’t interrogate you any more.”

  “I can’t.” Now Hence was staring down at his sneakers, like he did the day we met. Oh, great: I was actually losing ground.

  “What if we helped you with that?” I waved toward the army of yellow and red dispensers. “It wouldn’t take long.” Without even looking at her, I could feel Jackie’s eyes boring into me, asking what on earth I was thinking, offering her up for unpaid manual labor.

  “The club’s expecting a delivery.” Hence cast a glance around the room. “I’m the only one here.”

  “Some other time, then.” I grabbed Jackie’s hand and tugged her toward the door. “See you around.” I gave him a cheery little wave over my shoulder. He waved back warily and returned to his work.

  The minute we were on the sidewalk and safely out of earshot, I released Jackie’s hand and spun to confront her. “What was that?”

  “You’re asking me? I’m not the one offering to do the waiter’s work for him. Oh…
excuse me. Busboy-slash-janitor-slash-mystery man.”

  “As if it would kill you to fill some ketchup dispensers.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “You didn’t even try to get to know him.”

  “I did try. And you stopped me.” She thrust her chin out. “Why are the most basic facts about this guy such a huge question mark?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Sooner or later he’ll let his guard down.”

  “But why is his guard up?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll find out. As long as my so-called best friend doesn’t scare him off by treating him like a suspect.”

  “I’m not your so-called anything.” Jackie sounded hurt. “He seems shady to me.”

  “If he was trying to hide something about himself, he could lie,” I said, more to myself than to Jackie. “He could just make up a hometown, right? And a last name.”

  “So, why? Why be so mysterious?”

  “I think he’s been hurt,” I said. “It’s like he’s escaping something.”

  “So you’re psychic now.”

  “Just observant.” The matter settled, I started down the street.

  Jackie, hurrying after me, called from behind, “I know how you are, Cathy Eversole.”

  Her words stopped me in my tracks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jackie’s voice got smaller and sweeter now, as if her tone could make up for what she was about to say. “When you set your mind on something, you don’t listen to common sense. You know how you get. Like that time you got a cold because you had to climb into the fountain at Washington Square Park. In January.”

  “There was a thaw that day….”

  “Or the time your dad took us horseback riding in the country. Remember?”

  Of course I remembered. I’d pleaded for a chance to ride Thunder, the biggest and glossiest horse at the stable, despite the trainer’s warnings that he wasn’t for a beginner like me. My dad had made sure I got my way, and Thunder had bolted down the trail with me just barely hanging on.

  “You could have been thrown,” Jackie said. “You could have been killed!”

  “But I wasn’t,” I said.

  “Hence reminds me of that horse. I swear, he has that same look in his eye.”

  As mad at her as I still was, that last bit made me laugh. “I promise not to let him give me a piggyback ride. Now can we please, please, please change the subject?”

  To my relief, Jackie nodded, like she’d been storing up that speech for a while and was glad to have it over with. Though we had fun the rest of that afternoon, the way we always did—poking into boutiques on MacDougal Street, trying on B-52s dresses and stiletto heels at Vintage Threads, cooling off in the spray of the fountain at Washington Square Park while watching the passing parade of street performers, drug dealers, and NYU students through our matching wraparound sunglasses—I couldn’t help but notice the knot gathering in my stomach, as if something big was about to change between Jackie and me. Or maybe it already had.

  As if Jackie’s paranoia hadn’t been enough to deal with for one day, Quentin had to go and flip out that same night. Q had always been touchy. He’d be perfectly normal one minute, then the littlest thing would set him off. His face would cloud over and his eyes would harden and you wouldn’t even know he was the same person. I’d always thought of the scowling, bitter-tongued version as “Bad Quentin.”

  Not that long ago, Q had been his normal self most of the time, annoying but nice, still calling me Catheter (which I hated, but not as much as I hated the fact that he’d stopped) and still up for a late-night run to the video store or a game of backgammon. But since he started taking college classes, it seemed like we’d been seeing a lot more of Bad Quentin around the house.

  By the time Jackie and I parted ways it was too late to start dinner, so I grabbed some take-out pad thai for Dad and me, figuring Q could fend for himself when he got home. Dad and I were eating with our feet up in front of the TV; he liked to catch the evening news, even if he mostly talked his way through it. He’d spent the day at a club in the Meatpacking District, listening to the Splendid Weather rehearse, and he was full of stories about what a prima donna the lead singer was turning out to be. When we heard the key in the apartment door, I tensed up, wondering which Q we’d be dealing with that night. The door burst open with more than the usual force and I knew right away that it wasn’t going to be pretty. He swept into the room, night air clinging to his jacket, and positioned himself between us and the TV.

  “Look who’s home,” Dad observed wryly. “Classes going well?”

  I braced myself. Q wasn’t what you’d call a natural born student, but Dad never concerned himself with what might set him off. I figured we were in for another fight about how Dad was paying Q’s tuition and he damn well better start taking school seriously. If so, maybe I could wait till they got into it and slip out of the room without being missed.

  Q shrugged Dad’s question off. “School’s school. I’ll be glad when I’m done.” Though of course Q’s first semester of college had only just started.

  “Want some dinner?” Oblivious, Dad peered into his take-out carton. “I’ve eaten most of mine, but your sister will share. Right, Cath?”

  “I don’t want dinner. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.” Q took a step closer to Dad’s chair, hovering over him. “That new guy you’ve got working downstairs. I saw him poking around in your office.”

  Dad laughed. “I asked him to straighten up my mess,” he said. “He’s a bright boy, and it’s not rocket science.”

  Q bristled. “How well do you even know him? Your safe is in there.”

  “What did you say to Hence?” I asked, but Q and Dad didn’t even seem to hear me, as focused as they were on staring each other down.

  “The safe is locked,” Dad said. “I’m the only one with the combination.”

  “What about your records? I saw him nosing around in your file cabinets. How do you know he isn’t working for one of your competitors?”

  Dad chuckled again, but I wasn’t amused. “Are you seriously accusing Hence of being a corporate spy?” I asked.

  Both of them heard me that time, and Q started like I was a piece of furniture that had just come to life.

  “Because that would be paranoid,” I added.

  “Why should you care?” Q’s blue eyes narrowed to splinters.

  “He’s her friend,” Dad supplied, thinking he was being helpful, I guess.

  “Not exactly—” I began, but Q cut me off.

  “Since when?” Because Q hadn’t been around much, he must not have heard the story of how Hence was hired. He hardly ever paid attention to the club unless he was forced to, so this sudden concern was more than bizarre. “How do you know him?”

  I certainly didn’t feel like going into the whole story. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I had a conversation with him, just like you could, if you wanted to treat him like a human being.”

  “Since when do you hang out with Dad’s employees?”

  “Since when do I answer to you?”

  Dad got to his feet. “The Underground is my business. Someday the club will be yours, and you can run it the way you see fit.” Dad stood almost half a foot taller than Q, and he could be pretty imposing when he wanted to. “You didn’t reprimand my employee, did you?”

  Q didn’t answer.

  “Because if you’ve been causing trouble, I’m going to have to waste my night off undoing it.”

  “No.” Q glowered. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Without another word, Dad snatched up his empty take-out carton and strode Clint Eastwood–style from the room.

  “As if I’d ever want to run this place,” Q hissed, for my benefit, before stomping off to his bedroom.

  Relieved the whole dustup was over, I joined Dad in the kitchen, where I helped him unload the dishwasher. “What was that about?” he asked me in an amused whi
sper.

  I shrugged.

  “With Quentin you never know what you’re going to get,” Dad added. “But in his own way, he was looking out for us. You know that, right?”

  I didn’t feel like admitting it at that moment, but I knew Dad was right. After all, when Q wasn’t being Bad Quentin, he could be the nicest, most generous brother in the world. On my last birthday, he had given me a big, clumsily wrapped box, and inside, floating around, were two slips of paper—tickets to see R.E.M. at Madison Square Garden.

  “Oh my God!” I flew at him and threw my arms around his neck.

  “You don’t have to crush me.” He freed himself from my hug.

  “You’re coming, too, right?” I asked. “We’re going together?”

  “Well, yeah.” Like I’d asked the world’s stupidest question. But it wasn’t such a dumb thing to ask, really. It’s not like he was all that into music, and when he did listen, it was always to heavy metal, which I hated. R.E.M. wasn’t his style at all.

  But he did go with me, and we had a really nice time, even though our seats weren’t the greatest and Q got bent out of shape at this one guy who had the misfortune to be sitting beside me, and who had chatted with me in a perfectly harmless way before the show.

  “What are you looking so cranky about?” I asked Q when the guy climbed over our laps to get to the concession stand.

  “If that jerk tries anything with you I’m going to have to deck him.”

  “He asked if he could buy me a soda. He didn’t ask me to make out with him.”

  Q winced. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Nothing.” I batted my eyelashes. “I’m a complete idiot.” I knew from long experience that I should tread carefully whenever Bad Quentin threatened to overtake Q, but sometimes I can’t seem to help myself. I guess I take after Dad that way.