LITMIR.BIZ

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breathe.

      “Oh my God,” I gasp. I grab her arm, haul her around the corner and safely out of sight.

      It’s the boy. The boy from the wake, who leaned up against my house and smoked cigarettes and glared a lot. The boy who obviously had some connection to my sister, but at the time I’d been too preoccupied to even consider his, like, existence, never mind what that connection could be.

      Well. Now I know. Sort of, anyway.

      “Hey,” Laney says. Her eyes widen. “I know him!”

      “You—you do?”

      “I mean, I don’t know him, but I know of him. His name’s Jacob. Jake Tolan.” She frowns. “He looks way different without blue hair.”

      “Blue hair?” I sneak a furtive glance around the shelf. He has one of those sticker guns in his hand, is labeling a stack of vinyl records and putting them away in alphabetical order.

      I have seen him before. Blue-haired boys stand out at Grand Lake High. And then something clicks—Tolan. I know that name. It was on one of those forms I discovered while rifling through June’s drawers. Her National Honor Society papers, the ones she filled out to log her tutoring hours.

      “That’s him,” I realize. “He’s the one who gave June those CDs.”

      “Wait, seriously?” Laney peers around behind me, scrambling to get a second look. “How do you know?”

      “I’ll explain later.” At her skeptical look, I add, “I promise. Just—go look around or something. I want to talk to him alone for a second.”

      She raises her eyebrows, but then she nods and goes to browse the shelves. I step out from around the corner and begin to peruse as nonchalantly as possible. I thumb through the D’s, watching Jake out of the corner of my eye before sliding out a record at random.

      “That’s a good pick.”

      I jump a little when I realize he’s at my shoulder, still wielding the sticker gun. If he recognizes me, he masks it well.

      When I just stare at him blankly, he leans over and taps the cover with one finger. “Miles Davis. Kind of Blue. Circa 1959, I believe. It’s one of the most definitive jazz albums of all time. You listen to a lot of jazz?”

      “Yes,” I lie. I pause. “No. I mean. I’m just looking.” Feeling bolder, I say, “Any recommendations?”

      He thinks for a moment. “John Coltrane is a must, and you’ve gotta listen to Charlie Parker. Oh, and Thelonious Monk. That man could play the hell out of a piano.”

      “When you put it so eloquently …” I pop the Miles Davis back into its rightful place and turn to him again. “What about Tom Waits?”

      Jake looks confused. “What about him?”

      “I’ve heard he’s good. Any recommendations?”

      “Tom Waits isn’t really jazz. I mean, he is, but he isn’t. There is one album—” He stops mid-sentence and stares at me, and I swear I can actually see him working out the connection, how he gave the same one to June. Which means he knows that I know. Abruptly he turns his back on me and returns to the stack of records, stabbing the sticker gun against them with vicious concentration. “I’m busy. You can look for it yourself.”

      “Right. Well, take it easy, Jake,” I say. I make sure to pause for effect before adding, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

      Not the smoothest hint drop ever, but it gets my point across. This time his head snaps around so fast it’s a wonder it doesn’t come flying clean off his neck. I know I’ve struck a chord with that one, even if I’m not exactly sure what it means. His mouth opens, but if he says anything, I don’t hear it because I’m already halfway down the aisle.

      Jacob Tolan can suck it. He’s not the only one around here who can make a mysterious exit.

      chapter three

      “That is so weird,” Laney says.

      I glance at the column of people ahead of us and nod. “I know.”

      “No, I mean, that is so weird,” she stresses. “Like—I cannot even!”

      We’re waiting in line at Windermere’s local coffee shop, The Windermere Coffee Co. Creative name, I know. Our repeat business here is not due to customer loyalty but because somehow Grand Lake manages to be so obsolete that even the all-seeing Starbucks corporate machine has skipped over the town entirely.

      “So what are you going to do about it?” Laney asks.

      “What can I do? He knows I know. I don’t even know what I know, but I’m pretty sure I know something. You know?”

      This line of thinking is confusing to follow even for me, but because Laney is my best friend, she nods and says, “Oh, yeah, I so know.”

      Laney orders a soy venti latte with, like, five shots of three different flavored syrups, hazelnut and mint and vanilla. It sounds gross. I like to keep it simple: skinny chocolate mocha, extra whip. After the bored-looking girl behind the counter takes my order, I look around the crowded shop, hugging my arms around my middle. It feels weird, being out in the real world again. Around people just living their lives like normal. Their presence is oppressive. The very fact that the world is going on as usual, like nothing ever happened, makes me want to scream. I know it’s irrational to expect everything to grind to a halt because of June, but still. A wave of anxiety builds in my chest, my head pounding so loud it drowns out the noise of people talking and tapping away on their laptops.

      The snap of the cashier’s chewing gum brings me back down to reality.

      “That’ll be two dollars and ninety-five cents,” she says.

      Before I can reach for my wallet, Laney hands over a ten-dollar bill, covering for the both of us. I’m about to insist on buying my own when I catch the eye of two guys, both college age. One is tall, kind of slick looking and gives off major smarminess vibes. The other is pudgy and acne ridden, like one of those guys from the “before” shots in commercials for Proactiv. They’re huddled at a nearby table, whispering and sneaking long looks our way.

      “Hey, princess, is that you?” the tall one suddenly calls out.

      Laney turns, and the moment she makes eye contact with the guy, all of the color drains from her face. Her eyes dart from him to the door, like she’s going to bolt, but then she smoothes out her expression and walks over to them, fists balled at her sides. I have no idea what is going on. I take the change from the cashier and trail behind her, juggling both of our drinks.

      “I love a girl who comes when she’s called.” The tall one leers, and the greasy fatty bumps his fist into the guy’s shoulder and laughs, saying, “Nice,” like that was some display of razor-sharp wit instead of being totally gross.

      I expect Laney to punch him in the face, or at the very least tell them off, but she does neither.

      “What do you want, Kyle?” she asks stiffly.

      Kyle? I glance at her, surprised. She knows this guy?

      “What, we can’t share a friendly hello?” The guy—Kyle, apparently—grins, and I notice how bright his teeth are. “Last I knew you had no problem sharing more than that.”

      His gaze travels up and down her body lazily and lingers. The whole leering thing is giving me major creeps. Laney’s face scrunches up funny; I wait for her to lay the smack down, the way she always does when some loser hits on her, but she just stands there, speechless. Finally I nudge her elbow and hand her the latte.

      “We should go. I’ve got that—thing,” I say lamely.

      Acne Guy snickers. “Oh, right. Wouldn’t want to miss that

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