Kelly, either. He was a boyfriend; he was an accessory like a new bag or a new pair of shoes but the best one of all, the one who kept you company when you were bored, the one who made you more interesting to other girls, more desirable to other boys. But I wouldn’t want to actually be alone with him. Sex was more interesting in theory than practice to me and Tracy.
Kelly left. Tracy and I didn’t say anything. Jonah had been occupying more and more of Kelly’s time since they’d been going out, nearly six months now. But this was the first time she’d walked out on a case.
Ever.
“Well,” Tracy said, answering the unasked question. “I guess we’ll begin with their apartment.”
I agreed. I didn’t know Chloe well. Her fondness for Tracy only extended halfway to me and Kelly. She was nice to me, but we’d never spent time alone. I was a little in awe of her. She had short hair that she dyed black and wore long in front of her eyes. She knew all the after-hours spots and every doorman at every club. She knew the bartenders at all the bars and probably hadn’t paid for a drink in years. Everything about her seemed effortless and natural. She was the first girl I knew to get a tattoo, a little bluebird on her back. She’d been an extra in a bunch of Ace’s movies. She wasn’t the prettiest girl—she had an overbite and a wide mouth and she was too skinny, with a nearly flat chest and bones sticking out through her vintage clothes—but boys always liked her. She had a quick smile and a fast tongue, and I’d seen her slap a girl in a club who’d pushed her away and refused to apologize.
I looked at Tracy and I figured she was thinking the same thing I was. That if
Chloe
could slip away, if
Chloe
could disappear . . .
Chloe, who seemed so solid, so real.
The Case of the End of the World had begun.
13
T RACY AND I MET REENA back at her and Chloe’s apartment. It was a one-bedroom with a big living room, which Alex the carpenter/boyfriend had split into a living room and a separate, illegal bedroom. In the living room was a futon and a coffee table and a TV on a stand and a bookshelf overflowing with books: Henry Miller, William S. Burroughs, Philip K. Dick,
The Stranger.
“Those are all Chloe’s,” Reena said. “Mine are in my room.”
“Does she read them?” Tracy asked. She crouched down to see the titles.
“Sometimes,” Reena said. “To be honest, she seems to like start one, get halfway through, and then give up.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. She likes real books but has, like, no attention span. Sometimes she’s holding a book but then when I look at her she’s just staring at the wall. I read, like, V. C. Andrews and Judith Krantz. Sometimes I read romances.”
There was nothing remarkable about the apartment: wood floors, white walls, views to fire escapes and air vents. Everything in it was from thrift shops or street corners. Reena opened the door to Chloe’s room, the real bedroom.
“There you go,” Reena said nervously, as if Chloe might come in at any second and catch us going through her stuff. “Knock yourselves out.”
We shut the door behind us.
It was less than a hundred square feet. A bed, a closet, a desk, an armchair. Messy but not unusually so. On one wall was a Joe Strummer poster, Strummer’s face positioned to watch over Chloe as she slept. On another wall was a Vanishing Center poster. The singer, CC, was bleeding from where he’d cut an
X
into the skin of his chest with a razorblade. On another wall was a group of five or six postcards.
We stood near the door and looked around the room, both thinking the same thing:
What if I were Chloe?
Tracy pointed toward a desk near the door. On the desk was a little bowl of change, a small pile of mail. That’s where she would stop first. Tracy went over and flipped through the mail. I watched over her shoulder. Bank statement, credit card offer, junk mail. You could feel that this was where her keys
Kelly left. Tracy and I didn’t say anything. Jonah had been occupying more and more of Kelly’s time since they’d been going out, nearly six months now. But this was the first time she’d walked out on a case.
Ever.
“Well,” Tracy said, answering the unasked question. “I guess we’ll begin with their apartment.”
I agreed. I didn’t know Chloe well. Her fondness for Tracy only extended halfway to me and Kelly. She was nice to me, but we’d never spent time alone. I was a little in awe of her. She had short hair that she dyed black and wore long in front of her eyes. She knew all the after-hours spots and every doorman at every club. She knew the bartenders at all the bars and probably hadn’t paid for a drink in years. Everything about her seemed effortless and natural. She was the first girl I knew to get a tattoo, a little bluebird on her back. She’d been an extra in a bunch of Ace’s movies. She wasn’t the prettiest girl—she had an overbite and a wide mouth and she was too skinny, with a nearly flat chest and bones sticking out through her vintage clothes—but boys always liked her. She had a quick smile and a fast tongue, and I’d seen her slap a girl in a club who’d pushed her away and refused to apologize.
I looked at Tracy and I figured she was thinking the same thing I was. That if
Chloe
could slip away, if
Chloe
could disappear . . .
Chloe, who seemed so solid, so real.
The Case of the End of the World had begun.
13
T RACY AND I MET REENA back at her and Chloe’s apartment. It was a one-bedroom with a big living room, which Alex the carpenter/boyfriend had split into a living room and a separate, illegal bedroom. In the living room was a futon and a coffee table and a TV on a stand and a bookshelf overflowing with books: Henry Miller, William S. Burroughs, Philip K. Dick,
The Stranger.
“Those are all Chloe’s,” Reena said. “Mine are in my room.”
“Does she read them?” Tracy asked. She crouched down to see the titles.
“Sometimes,” Reena said. “To be honest, she seems to like start one, get halfway through, and then give up.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. She likes real books but has, like, no attention span. Sometimes she’s holding a book but then when I look at her she’s just staring at the wall. I read, like, V. C. Andrews and Judith Krantz. Sometimes I read romances.”
There was nothing remarkable about the apartment: wood floors, white walls, views to fire escapes and air vents. Everything in it was from thrift shops or street corners. Reena opened the door to Chloe’s room, the real bedroom.
“There you go,” Reena said nervously, as if Chloe might come in at any second and catch us going through her stuff. “Knock yourselves out.”
We shut the door behind us.
It was less than a hundred square feet. A bed, a closet, a desk, an armchair. Messy but not unusually so. On one wall was a Joe Strummer poster, Strummer’s face positioned to watch over Chloe as she slept. On another wall was a Vanishing Center poster. The singer, CC, was bleeding from where he’d cut an
X
into the skin of his chest with a razorblade. On another wall was a group of five or six postcards.
We stood near the door and looked around the room, both thinking the same thing:
What if I were Chloe?
Tracy pointed toward a desk near the door. On the desk was a little bowl of change, a small pile of mail. That’s where she would stop first. Tracy went over and flipped through the mail. I watched over her shoulder. Bank statement, credit card offer, junk mail. You could feel that this was where her keys
Similar Books
