Sweet 16 to Life Read online

  “Strange because I’d never seen him before.”

  “Despite you being in everybody’s business twenty-four /seven, there may be a few people on this block you don’t know.”

  “Like who?” I ask, because we both know that isn’t true.

  “So he was staring at the house. Half the neighborhood is out here staring at it. People are weird that way. They like to watch fire for some reason.”

  “Nope. You couldn’t see the fire at that point. The only reason I knew your house was on fire and called 911 was—”

  “You called?”

  “Yeah, and only because I went out on my back porch and could see smoke coming from the back of your house, but the wind’s direction made it trail away behind your house, not up above it. A minute later, I was banging on your front door and I know for a fact there was no way anyone could know about that fire from standing in the front of the house.”

  “Maybe dude smelled smoke.”

  “Maybe, but why stare at a particular house when you don’t know where the smell is coming from? Most people would look up and down the street, trying to figure out which house it is. He already knew.”

  MJ turns away from watching the firefighters to look at me for the first time since I told her about the fire-watcher. She gives me a good hard stare, the kind that has probably made more than a few people pee their pants, but since she’s my friend, I’m not so much terrified as concerned. Okay, maybe I’m a little scared.

  “Leave it alone, Chanti.”

  Her voice is so cold that anyone else would definitely leave it alone. But I’m not anyone else. I’m her friend. And as Lana says, I just cannot leave well enough alone even when I know that’s probably the best course of action.

  “Look, Chanti, there is no way we’re calling the cops. Big Mama’s stuff is in there.”

  “What stuff?” I ask, thinking I might learn what was in the basement that was so important.

  “You know,” MJ says, emphasis on the word know.

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

  She looks at me like I might be the dumbest person on the planet. Oh, right . . . her grandmother’s Numbers operation, an illegal gambling game. Big Mama has been running that pretty much since we moved here, long before Lana became a cop. Lana turns a blind eye to it and acts like she doesn’t know. Just like she pretends not to know Ada Crawford is a call girl. Lana says they’re small fry. Living right under our noses while they operate their business gives her opportunities. She won’t tell me more than that, but I always figured she meant more opportunity to catch the bigger fry.

  Plus, there’s the deal I made with MJ when she learned Lana was an undercover cop—if she kept her cover, Lana would never bust Big Mama. Lana doesn’t know about this arrangement, but I always figured as long as Lana was holding out for the big fry, I could delay having that conversation. But I often imagine the day Lana finally busts all the criminals on our street and, in my head, it always looks like something from a Matt Damon or Angelina Jolie movie.

  “There’s stuff? I always thought it just involved old grocery store receipts and cocktail napkins with numbers written on the back of them, the stock pages of the newspaper, and a couple of phone calls made to certain people,” I say, stressing the certain people part.

  “Believe me, there’s stuff. Incriminating stuff.”

  “Well, I don’t want to get Big Mama arrested. Maybe once they clear you to go inside, you can get rid of all the evidence and then call the cops.”

  “Nobody’s calling the cops, including you.”

  “But this guy could be dangerous, MJ. Houses are like potato chips to an arsonist—they can’t torch just one. Especially after he’s seen how easily these old houses light up.”

  “I told you—this wasn’t arson.”

  “And not only was he staring at the house,” I say, ignoring her protest, “I’m pretty sure he was smiling.”

  MJ gives me a look that’s scarier than the first, if it’s even possible.

  “Not like that, MJ. He was the opposite of that. You are definitely not smiling.”

  “’Cause there ain’t nothing funny about this.”

  “Exactly my point. Why would he be smiling about something as serious as a fire? We aren’t smiling. Nobody on this street is smiling,” I say, looking around the crowd, mostly as an excuse not to look at MJ, who I’m sure is thinking of ways to kill me, or at least to shut me up.

  “Would you just listen to me when I tell you to leave it alone? And this is the last time I’m telling you to leave it alone.”

  “But MJ . . .”

  “There ain’t no arsonist unless you consider me an arsonist.”

  “What?”

  “You said the fire was in the back of the house, right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So I think maybe I started the fire.”

  Chapter 4

  Right after MJ drops that bomb, she leaves to find the fireman who was threatening to arrest her. She’d rather talk to him than be interrogated by me, because that’s exactly what I plan to do the minute the trucks leave and everyone on the street goes back to their beds or morning coffee. Except I can’t wait that long, and I know I won’t get a straight story from MJ on how the fire started, anyway. So I follow her and help myself to the conversation she’s having with the fireman.

  “Luckily, the fire was contained to the porch and didn’t damage the kitchen wall or do any structural damage,” the fireman is saying when I join them.

  “That means nothing inside the house got burned?” MJ asks.

  “The door between the porch and kitchen got a little singed and you have some smoke damage on the walls around the door, but nothing more than that. We’ll let you go in as soon as we finish our report. You’ll need to air it out though. It’ll probably take a few days for the smoke smell to completely clear. It might be a good idea to stay somewhere else tonight.”

  The fireman probably thinks MJ is relieved she won’t have to find a new place to live, but I’m sure she’s just worried about Big Mama’s gambling supplies, which must be in the basement. Now that I think about it, seems like MJ should still be worried. Even though the fire didn’t do much damage inside the house, I’m guessing whoever is making the fire report is going to walk through the house, anyway. A minute ago, MJ looked as though she was carrying the world in her arms, but now she looks like someone just took it off her hands. Maybe she figures firefighters aren’t as observant to the clues of criminal activity as a cop would be.

  “So can you tell us how the fire started?” I ask the fireman, making sure I avoid looking at MJ, who I’m sure is giving me the evil eye right now.

  “We can’t confirm anything until we get the report. Are you also an occupant of the home?”

  “No, she’s just a nosey neighbor,” MJ says. “Chanti, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  Just then, I see Lana’s car coming down the street. I can take a hint—when I want to—and leave MJ and the fireman to talk. MJ calls my name and when I turn around, she nods toward Lana’s car, then slowly shakes her head. It doesn’t matter—I know the only reason Lana is back home is because she already knows about the fire, so it’s not like it’s some big secret. She probably heard 911 dispatch the call on her radio, depending on which radio band she was tuned to. Besides, MJ ought to know by now that I won’t bust her to Lana, especially not when I think she’s lying about starting the fire.

  I reach the house as Lana is getting out of her car.

  “Just as I was arriving at my stakeout location, I heard the call over the radio,” Lana says, confirming my guess. “You didn’t answer the phone when I called—not the landline or your cell, so I had to come check it out. Is everyone okay?”

  “They’re fine. No one was home. That was you calling? I thought it was the 911 dispatcher calling back and I needed the line open.”

  “You called in the fire?”

  “Yeah. I left my cell at home and came
down here while I called it in on the cordless landline. Wanted to make sure the dispatchers got the location right.”

  “So you remembered what I said about it being easier for dispatch when you call from a fixed location.”

  “Yep. Then I called MJ and Big Mama to make sure they were awake. When they didn’t answer, I started banging on the doors.”

  “Good work. But I know you weren’t trying to go inside that house,” Lana says, her tone implying it was a question, not a statement, and that I’d better agree.

  “Believe me, I didn’t forget what you taught me about a burning structure. Which reminds me—I left our fire extinguisher down there.”

  “You got close enough to the fire to use an extinguisher?”

  “No, but I also remember what you taught me about being prepared. I was just talking to the fireman when you got here. He said it was confined to the back porch, no structural damage, just smoke.”

  Lana steps back, hands on hips, and smiles. “I guess I can get back to my stakeout since you have everything under control here.”

  “Uh-huh, all under control. On your way home tonight, can you pick up some Popeyes?”

  “Good idea. I don’t feel like cooking tonight,” Lana says, opening the car door.

  “Can you also pick up the fire report?”

  Lana closes the car door without getting inside. I knew I wouldn’t fool her by sliding that request in right behind the request for a two-piece with biscuit.

  “All right, Chanti, what’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up. I just thought it would be good to know how the fire started. What if there’s an arsonist working the neighborhood? Seems like we should rule out that possibility.”

  “Look—you did a great job calling 911 and making sure no one was inside. One day you’re going to make an excellent cop—”

  “I don’t want to be cop,” I say, which is mostly true, though my history would probably indicate otherwise. I love solving crimes, but I’m too chicken to ever be a cop.

  “Did the fireman say something to indicate he suspects arson?”

  What to do? I could lie and tell her yes, that’s exactly what he said. But there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’d know I was lying since that’s what the Denver Police Department pays her to do all day. Or I could be truthful and say the fireman didn’t know yet, which would mean I’d never get to see that report. If there’s no immediate threat, Lana will forget all about it and go back to the million other things she’s juggling. Since MJ is lying about starting that fire—a mystery in itself—I know she’ll never let me see the report. So I choose to ignore Lana’s question and take another tack.

  “When I got to MJ’s house, I noticed this guy I’ve never seen before standing across the street in Ada Crawford’s yard.”

  “Well, last night was Saturday night—one of Ada’s busiest. There’s nothing suspect about that.”

  That’s just like Lana, being a cop and pointing out something I hadn’t thought of. But I am undeterred.

  “So maybe he was a client, but why was he staring at MJ’s house? Seems to me he’d be trying to get out of there quick since he’d just spent the night with a prostitute. Plus he didn’t look like one of Ada’s usual clients—too young, poorly dressed, and no car.”

  “He was probably watching the fire.”

  “Not a chance. At that point, you couldn’t tell there was a fire from the front of the house. Like I told MJ, I only knew because I saw the smoke from our back porch. You couldn’t see any flames, and the wind was blowing the smoke back toward the alley, not the street. The whole Ave was quiet, no one had come out of their houses until the sirens came down the street. But here’s this stranger just standing there and staring at the house.”

  Lana doesn’t speak right away and I know that I’ve hooked her.

  “Maybe I should go down there and talk to whoever’s in charge. Falcone will be pissed I’m late, but he can wait a few.”

  “Uh, no, you should probably get going. No need to get Falcone mad at you.” Or get MJ mad at me.

  “The report probably won’t be complete for a few days, but I’ll submit a request for it. In the meantime, you mind your own business,” she says, opening the car door and getting in this time. “Oh, and in case I forget to tell you tonight, we have a new phone number.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You never use that line, anyway. I have to get back to my stakeout,” Lana says over the loud cranking engine of her ancient but reliable Hyundai.

  “But what if he tries to call?”

  “That’s exactly why I had it changed.”

  “You can’t keep running from him. Or me.”

  She ignores me and puts the car in gear.

  “Wait—you didn’t tell me the new number?”

  “Call your cell from the landline to get it, but don’t give it out to anyone yet, even your grandparents. Unless he bribed someone at the phone company, that’s the only way he could have gotten the old one. He might persuade them to give him the new number,” she yells as she backs the car out of the driveway. She’s using one of my classic avoidance moves—the info-dump and run. It’s usually effective, at least until it catches up with me, because the problem with that move is I only use it when I’m hiding something. Everyone knows secrets will eventually come back to bite you.

  Chapter 5

  I’ve spent the last couple of days working on my powers of forgetfulness, which is close to impossible since I remember everything. I’m trying to forget about the guy I’m sure attempted to burn down MJ’s house, the fact that MJ said she actually started the fire, and the reality that Lana is so afraid of my SD that she’s willing to change the phone number we’ve had forever. I’m also trying to accept the fact that Marco Ruiz and I are now just friends—the relationship status that isn’t. Since he didn’t like me playing amateur detective and his parents forbade me to date him after I almost got us killed by my neighbor-turned-gangster, I don’t have much choice because I’m not willing to change me just to win him. Compromise I could do, but he wants me to be someone else altogether. It doesn’t help that he recently hooked up with his ex-girlfriend, Angelique. And I mean recently, like the corpse of our relationship wasn’t even cold yet.

  At the end of the school day, I’m standing at my locker looking for my French book when I hear a male voice behind me call my name. It doesn’t sound like Marco’s voice; it’s slightly deeper but still familiar, so I flash through several scenarios in the three seconds it takes me to turn around:

  1. It’s Marco, but he went hoarse calling plays during the football game on Saturday, which he won, of course. Now I need to put on my best I’m-cool-with-us-just-being-friends face while I explain how I didn’t get a chance to congratulate him afterward because I was too busy counting all the ways I hate Angelique, who I watched cheer him on the whole game (instead of watching him) while I sat in the bleachers behind her and her shiny, bouncy, model-wavy ponytail.

  2. It’s Marco, and he must have caught a cold over the weekend and he knows I keep a mini first-aid kit in my locker—always prepared—and he’s wondering if I might have some cough drops in there, and thanks for the drugs but he’d better get home now, no time to chat about how he broke my heart.

  3. It’s Marco, and he has a sore throat from fighting with his girlfriend and his parents all weekend and now he wants to tell me how wrong he was to dump me and how desperately he wants me back.

  Since all the scenarios involve it being Marco standing behind me, I’m way disappointed to find it’s Reginald Dacey and not Marco at all, but I try hard not to show it.

  “Reginald, you’re finally back at Langdon. I thought you were supposed to come back a few weeks ago.”

  “I hope that means you’ve been looking for me,” he says, and I notice that while he isn’t Marco cute, he’s kinda cute, and a lotta presumptuous.

  “No, I just remember you telling me that at my friend Bethanie’s going-away party.”

/>   “Well, that was the plan until I met with Headmistress Smythe. She won’t transfer my fall semester credits from my current school, so I’ll have to start in January and still do my full senior year at Langdon.”

  “Which means you’ll graduate a semester late. That’s a bummer.”

  “It isn’t so bad—I can run track here this spring, which will open up my scholarship chances. Besides,” he says, lowering his voice just barely, “I get an extra semester to hang out with Chanti Evans. I’m just here today to talk to my advisor, but I lucked out running into you.”

  This is the point where I usually get totally awkward with boys—when I finally figure out they’re flirting with me and that I’m expected to flirt back—or at least say something clever. But it never seems to work out like that, especially when the boy has eyes like Reginald’s, a mix of brown and amber and apparently possessing mind control powers because I can’t stop looking into them.

  “I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t so much luck,” I say.

  “Then what was it?”

  “The teachers’ offices aren’t in this building. You were at Langdon for three years before Headmistress Smythe expelled you, so you can’t be lost.”

  “You think I planned to run into you?”

  “I’m just saying . . .” Wait, is this me throwing around the witty banter with a boy? A senior boy, no less. I’m not sure where it’s coming from, but I keep on throwing it before the spell wears off. “. . . it does seem a little coincidental.”

  Reginald smiles. Yes, definitely cute. “I remember our conversation from that party, too. You promised to look out for me when I got back to Langdon.”

  You mean when I was just using you as a flirtation device to make Marco jealous?

  “I do remember that, but you aren’t back yet. Besides, isn’t it enough that I’m the reason you’re back? If I hadn’t proven to Smythe it wasn’t you who defaced Langdon property and that she’d expelled the wrong person, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

  I’m so good at this, it’s beginning to feel like I’ve landed in a romantic comedy, with all my lines memorized and rehearsed. I was never this smooth with Marco.