CHAPTER NINETEEN
NateMonday, October 15, 4:30 p.m.
My mother's upstairs, trying to have a conversation with my father. Good luckwith that. I'm on our couch with my burner phone in hand, wondering what Ican text to Bronwyn to keep her from hating me. Not sure Sorry I lied about mymom being dead is going to cut it.It's not like I wanted her dead. But I thought she probably was, or would besoon. And it was easier than saying, or thinking, the truth. She's a coke addictwho ran off to some commune in Oregon and hasn't talked to me since. So whenpeople started asking where my mother was, I lied. By the time it hit me howfucked up a response that was, it was too late to take it back.Nobody's ever really cared, anyway. Most of the people I know don't payattention to what I say or do, as long as I keep the drugs coming. ExceptOfficer Lopez, and now Bronwyn.I thought about telling her, a few times late at night while we were talking.But I could never figure out how to start the conversation. I still can't.I put my phone away.The stairs creak as my mother comes down, brushing her hands on the frontof her pants. "Your father's not in any shape to talk right now.""Shocking," I mutter.She looks both older and younger than she used to. Her hair's a lot grayerand shorter, but her face isn't so ragged and drawn. She's heavier, which Iguess is good. Means she's eating, anyway. She crosses over to Stan'sterrarium and gives me a small, nervous smile. "Nice to see Stan's stillaround.""Not much has changed since we last saw you," I say, putting my feet on thecoffee table in front of me. "Same bored lizard, same drunk dad, same fallingapart house. Except now I'm being investigated for murder. Maybe you heardabout that?""Nathaniel." My mother sits in the armchair and clasps her hands in front ofher. Her nails are as bitten off as ever. "I—I don't even know where to start.I've been sober for almost three months and I've wanted to contact you everysingle second. But I was so afraid I wasn't strong enough yet and I'd let youdown again. Then I saw the news. I've been coming by the last few days, butyou're never home."I gesture at the cracked walls and sagging ceiling. "Would you be?"Her face crumples. "I'm sorry, Nathaniel. I hoped ... I hoped your fatherwould step up."You hoped. Solid parenting plan. "At least he's here." It's a low blow, and nota ringing endorsement since the guy barely moves, but I feel entitled to it.My mother nods her head jerkily while cracking her knuckles. God, I forgotshe did that. It's fucking annoying. "I know. I have no right to criticize. I don'texpect you to forgive me. Or believe you'll get anything better than whatyou're used to from me. But I'm finally on meds that work and don't make mesick with anxiety. It's the only reason I could finish rehab this time. I have awhole team of doctors in Oregon who've been helping me stay sober.""Must be nice. To have a team.""It's more than I deserve, I know." Her downcast eyes and humble tone arepissing me off. But I'm pretty sure anything she did would piss me off rightnow.I get to my feet. "This has been great, but I need to be somewhere. You canlet yourself out, right? Unless you want to hang with Dad. Sometimes he wakesup around ten."Oh crap. Now she's crying. "I'm sorry, Nathaniel. You deserve so muchbetter than the two of us. My God, just look at you—I can't believe howhandsome you've gotten. And you're smarter than both your parents puttogether. You always were. You should be living in one of those big houses inBayview Hills, not taking care of this dump on your own.""Whatever, Mom. It's all good. Nice to see you. Send me a postcard fromOregon sometime.""Nathaniel, please." She stands and tugs at my arm. Her hands look twentyyears older than the rest of her—soft and wrinkled, covered with brown spotsand scars. "I want to do something to help you. Anything. I'm staying in theMotel Six on Bay Road. Could I take you out to dinner tomorrow? Onceyou've had some time to process all this?"Process this. Christ. What kind of rehab-speak is she spewing? "I don'tknow. Leave a number, I'll call you. Maybe.""Okay." She's nodding like a puppet again and I'm going to lose it if I don'tget away from her soon. "Nathaniel, was that Bronwyn Rojas I saw earlier?""Yeah," I say, and she smiles. "Why?""It's just ... well, if that's who you're with, we can't have messed you up toobadly.""I'm not with Bronwyn. We're murder cosuspects, remember?" I say, and letthe door slam behind me. Which is self-defeating, because when it comes offits hinges, again, I'm the one who'll have to fix it.Once I'm outside, I don't know where to go. I get on my bike and head fordowntown San Diego, then change my mind and get on I-15 North. And justkeep riding, stopping after an hour to fill up my tank. I pull out my burnerphone while I'm doing it and check messages. Nothing. I should call Bronwyn,see how things went at the police station. She's gotta be fine, though. She hasthat expensive lawyer, along with parents who are like guard dogs between herand people trying to mess with her. And anyway, what the hell would I say?I put my phone away.I ride for almost three hours until I hit wide desert roads dotted with scrubbybushes. Even though it's getting late, it's hotter here near the Mojave Desert,and I stop to take off my jacket as I cruise closer to Joshua Tree. The onlyvacation I ever went on with my parents was a camping trip here when I wasnine years old. I spent the whole time waiting for something bad to happen: forour ancient car to break down, for my mother to start screaming or crying, formy dad to go still and silent like he always did when we got to be too much forhim to take.It was almost normal, though. They were as tense with each other as ever, butkept the arguing to a minimum. My mother was on good behavior, maybebecause she had a thing for those short, twisted trees that were everywhere."The first seven years of the Joshua tree's life, it's just a vertical stem. Nobranches," she told me while we were hiking. "It takes years before it blooms.And every branching stem stops growing after it blossoms, so you've got thiscomplex system of dead areas and new growth."I used to think about that, sometimes, when I wondered what parts of hermight still be alive.It's past midnight by the time I get back to Bayview. I thought about getting onI-15 and riding through the night, as far as I could go until I dropped fromexhaustion. Let my parents have whatever fucked-up reunion they're about toget into on their own. Let the Bayview Police come find me if they ever want totalk to me again. But that's what my mother would do. So in the end I cameback, checked my phones, and followed up on the only text I had: a party atChad Posner's house.When I get there Posner's nowhere to be found. I end up in his kitchen,nursing a beer and listening to two girls go on and on about a TV show I'venever seen. It's boring and doesn't take my mind off my mother's suddenreappearance, or Bronwyn's police summons.One of the girls starts to giggle. "I know you," she says, poking me in theside. She giggles harder and flattens her palm against my stomach. "You wereon Mikhail Powers Investigates, weren't you? One of the kids who maybekilled that guy?" She's half-drunk and staggers as she leans closer. She lookslike a lot of the girls I meet at Posner's parties: pretty in a forgettable way."Oh my God, Mallory," her friend says. "That's so rude.""Not me," I say. "I just look like him.""Liar." Mallory tries to poke me again, but I step out of reach. "Well, I don'tthink you did it. Neither does Brianna. Right, Bri?" Her friend nods. "We thinkit was the girl with the glasses. She looks like a stuck-up bitch."My hand tightens around my beer bottle. "I told you, that's not me. So youcan drop it.""Shhorry," Mallory slurs, tilting her head and shaking bangs out of her eyes."Don't be such a grouch. I bet I can cheer you up." She slides a hand into herpocket and pulls out a crumpled baggie filled with tiny squares. "Wanna goupstairs with us and trip for a while?"I hesitate. I'd do almost anything to get out of my head right now. It's theMacauley family way. And everybody already thinks I'm that guy.Almost everybody. "Can't," I say, pulling out my burner phone and starting toshoulder my way through the crowd. It buzzes before I get outside. When Ilook at the screen and see Bronwyn's number—even though she's the only onewho ever calls me on this phone—I feel a massive sense of relief. Like I'vebeen freezing and someone wrapped a blanket around me."Hey," Bronwyn says when I pick up. Her voice is far away, quiet. "Can wetalk?"
