clue why she’d want to call me about a run-in with him and Dana. A pit was forming in my stomach.
“Mike and Dana?”
“Yeah. So, Mike told me about the party at Dana’s house. I mean, I don’t even think she likes me, but Mike said I should definitely come. I haven’t been hanging out with a lot of people from school, so I was kind of tempted.”
Julia was getting revved up. Words were tumbling out of her mouth like they did when she got nervous. It used to happen when she’d read lines from a play. I helped her prepare for an audition once—one of those stupid things that I’d thought was just an excuse for us to hang out, like playing tennis or night-swimming in the lake.
The play was The Crucible , and Julia was a pretty terrible actress. The nerves colored her cheeks and mangled her words and flattened her voice to a monotone. If you thought about it, it took a lot of bravery to act so badly in front of someone else. I sat in her room back then, listening to her practice, and I thought: I couldn’t do this . We went over and over the soliloquy, and she butchered it every time, and I might have fallen in love with her a little bit then, too.
She got cast as Bewitched Girl Number 3, but I never saw her perform. Opening night was just after Homecoming.
Her voice paused, and I could hear the crickets again as she hesitated on some kind of verbal cliff. “I thought maybe you’d want to come along to the party?”
“Like, go with you?”
A rushed laugh came over the phone. “I mean, not like a date or anything.”
“No,” I said. “Obviously.”
“Christopher, c’mon.” Her voice was whiny, like I’d offended her. “I just want some company, you know? Dana’s going to have a million friends there. So what do you say?”
I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t back out on Mike, either. “Well, actually, Mike already told me about it.”
“Oh, great,” Julia chimed. “So we’re on?”
“Ummm, yeah I gu—”
“Awesome. I’ll pick you up.”
I hung up the phone, more confused about Julia than ever.
8
T he suffocating popcorn smell was gone, but other than that, the Courier ’s office felt the same as it had before. I stood at the entrance, proudly clutching the phone number I’d gotten from the guy at the Lighthouse Motel. I followed the rough-edged sound of Tina’s voice to a cubicle with pictures of NASCAR drivers tacked to the walls and Dr Pepper cans strewn about the desk. She hung up the phone midsentence when she saw me.
“Look who’s here,” she said, and snatched the scrap of paper out of my hand. “Whaddaya got?”
“A phone number Mitch called three times from his room.”
Tina nodded slowly. “Nice work, genius. What’s it for, the country club?”
“The country club?”
“Yeah.” She rummaged through a teetering pile of books on her shelf and pulled out an old Petoskey High yearbook she’d gotten from somewhere. She turned to a flagged page with a picture of Mitch sporting a ridiculous-looking mustache. “Says here he caddied at the country club back in high school. That’s the only thing I’ve been able to find out about him, except that we missed his funeral. They had it yesterday.”
“Oh.”
Tina had learned more about Mitch Blaylock in half a day than I had in three. “I just called around to the cemeteries, took about five minutes. But this is a real start,” she said, flicking at the phone number. “So c’mon . . . who was he calling?”
“I figured we’d look in a reverse directory.”
If you’ve seen enough movies with crusading journalists, you learn that newspapers have these phone books ordered by phone numbers instead of names. Tina didn’t seem impressed by my knowledge.
“Hmmm. Yeah, we could do that. Or how about this?” She picked up the phone and dialed the number. “Sometimes you just gotta get your hands dirty, Chris.”
“Oh, okay.” I stared at a picture of Tony Stewart spraying beer at his crew, feeling
“Mike and Dana?”
“Yeah. So, Mike told me about the party at Dana’s house. I mean, I don’t even think she likes me, but Mike said I should definitely come. I haven’t been hanging out with a lot of people from school, so I was kind of tempted.”
Julia was getting revved up. Words were tumbling out of her mouth like they did when she got nervous. It used to happen when she’d read lines from a play. I helped her prepare for an audition once—one of those stupid things that I’d thought was just an excuse for us to hang out, like playing tennis or night-swimming in the lake.
The play was The Crucible , and Julia was a pretty terrible actress. The nerves colored her cheeks and mangled her words and flattened her voice to a monotone. If you thought about it, it took a lot of bravery to act so badly in front of someone else. I sat in her room back then, listening to her practice, and I thought: I couldn’t do this . We went over and over the soliloquy, and she butchered it every time, and I might have fallen in love with her a little bit then, too.
She got cast as Bewitched Girl Number 3, but I never saw her perform. Opening night was just after Homecoming.
Her voice paused, and I could hear the crickets again as she hesitated on some kind of verbal cliff. “I thought maybe you’d want to come along to the party?”
“Like, go with you?”
A rushed laugh came over the phone. “I mean, not like a date or anything.”
“No,” I said. “Obviously.”
“Christopher, c’mon.” Her voice was whiny, like I’d offended her. “I just want some company, you know? Dana’s going to have a million friends there. So what do you say?”
I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t back out on Mike, either. “Well, actually, Mike already told me about it.”
“Oh, great,” Julia chimed. “So we’re on?”
“Ummm, yeah I gu—”
“Awesome. I’ll pick you up.”
I hung up the phone, more confused about Julia than ever.
8
T he suffocating popcorn smell was gone, but other than that, the Courier ’s office felt the same as it had before. I stood at the entrance, proudly clutching the phone number I’d gotten from the guy at the Lighthouse Motel. I followed the rough-edged sound of Tina’s voice to a cubicle with pictures of NASCAR drivers tacked to the walls and Dr Pepper cans strewn about the desk. She hung up the phone midsentence when she saw me.
“Look who’s here,” she said, and snatched the scrap of paper out of my hand. “Whaddaya got?”
“A phone number Mitch called three times from his room.”
Tina nodded slowly. “Nice work, genius. What’s it for, the country club?”
“The country club?”
“Yeah.” She rummaged through a teetering pile of books on her shelf and pulled out an old Petoskey High yearbook she’d gotten from somewhere. She turned to a flagged page with a picture of Mitch sporting a ridiculous-looking mustache. “Says here he caddied at the country club back in high school. That’s the only thing I’ve been able to find out about him, except that we missed his funeral. They had it yesterday.”
“Oh.”
Tina had learned more about Mitch Blaylock in half a day than I had in three. “I just called around to the cemeteries, took about five minutes. But this is a real start,” she said, flicking at the phone number. “So c’mon . . . who was he calling?”
“I figured we’d look in a reverse directory.”
If you’ve seen enough movies with crusading journalists, you learn that newspapers have these phone books ordered by phone numbers instead of names. Tina didn’t seem impressed by my knowledge.
“Hmmm. Yeah, we could do that. Or how about this?” She picked up the phone and dialed the number. “Sometimes you just gotta get your hands dirty, Chris.”
“Oh, okay.” I stared at a picture of Tony Stewart spraying beer at his crew, feeling
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