Spontaneous. Aaron StarmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
in police stations can burn the sun off a sunbeam, and sweat suits from police stations have pit stains the size of pancakes, but you don’t complain about those things, considering that you’ve lived through two spontaneous combustions. You simply go home washed and dressed in gray cotton and when your parents ask you what you need, you tell them you need to be alone, and they respect that, for the time being. Then you flop down on your bed with your laptop and you see the story invading every corner of the internet.
ANOTHER EXPLOSION ROCKS SCHOOL
MORE TERROR AT COVINGTON HIGH
WE RANK THE TOP TEN SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTIONS IN HISTORY
So you close your laptop and turn to your phone, which is blowing . . . spontaneously combusting. There are a ton from your friend Tess, but the last text that comes in is from a number you don’t recognize.
It says:
You were there for both of them. That must have been invigorating.
Not scary. Not sad. Not difficult.
Invigorating.
You should be creeped out, but you’re not. Because it’s the first time that someone gets it right. Both explosions were exactly that. Invigorating. A terrible thing to admit, but it’s in those moments of admitting and accepting your own terribleness that you realize other people can be terrible too. And if they can be terrible too, then maybe they can be vulnerable too, caring too, and all the things that you are and hope to be.
You fall in love, which is the stupidest thing you can ever do.
other stupid things that were done
Since I had no new information about the explosions, the morning meeting with Special Agent Carla Rosetti and her suspiciously quiet partner, Special Agent Demetri Meadows, was as unproductive as the ones I had with the cops. The big difference this time was that my mom and dad weren’t there. A lawyer named Harold Frolic was my counsel instead.
Frolic was a business attorney who helped my parents with any legal issues concerning their deli, Covington Kitchen. As delis go, it was an exceptionally profitable one, with a signature sandwich called the Oinker, which was a hoagie stuffed with different cuts and preparations of pig—prosciutto, pancetta, pork loin, and pork shoulder—and topped with Muenster cheese, pickles, and a garlicky sauce. The sauce was made from a secret recipe and my parents bottled and sold the stuff at local grocery stores under the name Oinker Oil. The plan was to go national with it someday and Frolic was helping them with that process. In the meantime, he was also helping me by saying, “You don’t have to answer that,” to every question Rosetti posed.
“But she should answer that,” Rosetti would invariably reply or, “It would help with the investigation. Doesn’t she want the investigation to succeed?” Her partner, Demetri Meadows, simply sat there, feet up on the table, staring me down, occasionally petting the graying stubble on his cheek like he was stroking a fucking cat.
Frolic was unflappable, though. The only thing he let me talk about was what I saw, which again, wasn’t much. Brian Chen popped. He was there, then gone. Then there was blood. Exactly like with Katelyn.
“You ever have beef with Brian Chen?” Rosetti asked me. “A reason to want him dead?”
Have beef. That’s funny. Who says that? Special Agent Carla Rosetti, that’s who. I wanted to answer, “I kissed him on a bus once and he pretended to be asleep instead of kissing me back. I was tempted to push him out the emergency exit, because that’s a messed-up way to treat a dame. So sure, I had beef, but that was a long, long time ago. I got over the beef.”
Frolic didn’t let me get a word out, though. “Don’t answer that,” he said for the millionth time. And then, “Are we done here?”
Meadows stroked his cheek as Rosetti shrugged and said, “Appears you two are.”
Frolic looked like he wanted to gather up a bunch of papers and stuff them in his suitcase before storming out of the station, but he didn’t have any papers or a suitcase. He took notes on an iPad and wore a shoulder bag. So there was a tense moment where we all just stood there. Until, of course, Rosetti stepped back from the table and, quite literally, showed us the door. I regretted not shaking her hand on the way out. I was sure of my innocence, but I liked her, so skipping the gesture of respect was kind of a dick move.
My parents met us in the parking lot and Frolic high-fived my dad like I imagine guys do at strip clubs. Then we divided up into two cars and caravanned to the Moonlight Diner, where Frolic ate a burger and blabbed on and on about my rights. I listened to maybe ten percent of what he said (Constitution this and permanent record that), because I spent most of the time with my phone in my lap, staring at that text from the night before.
Invigorating. Invigorating. Invigorating. What do you say to that? I considered a few responses.
Who’s this and how’d you get my number?
Invigorating how? Explain yourself, mystery texter!
I. Lurve. You.
What I finally settled on was:
Fuck you sicko.
About ten seconds later, there was a reply:
You don’t mean that.
Then the volley of texts began.
Me: Hmmm . . . so you can read minds?
Mystery texter: I know you feel things.
Me: Perv.
Mystery texter: Come on. You have a soul. You have ideas.
Me: Flattery will get you NOWHERE.
Mystery texter: I only want to talk to you.
Me: Then what?
Mystery texter: IDK.
Me: You a dude?
Mystery texter: More or less.
Me: You breathtakingly ugly?
Mystery texter: Not physically.
Me: OK. Here’s the dealio. You found my number. Now find my house. Ring the bell. Get past my parents. Prove you really want to talk to me.
If you don’t show up, then I won’t ever know who you are and shit won’t have to be awkward.
Up to the challenge?
Mystery texter: Challenge accepted.
“At least do us the courtesy of occasional eye contact as we discuss your future,” Dad said.
My eyes moved up from my lap, skipped his scowl, and moved on to Mom’s disappointed/sympathetic face. She mouthed, We fuckin’ love you. Which wasn’t weird because Mom swears a fair bit. Yeah, I know. Apples falling far from trees and all of that.
“I was checking the weather,” I said.
Dad motioned with his head to the window across from our booth. “Not a cloud in the sky.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m getting weird texts.”
Like everyone, I sometimes lie to my parents. I can never sustain it, though. I always end up telling them the truth. The more truth your parents know, the fewer things they suspect. No joke. If you’re a kid who constantly lies to your parents then, news flash, they know you lie and they probably think you’re a complete degenerate.
“Weird texts, as in threats?” Mom asked.
“No,” I said. “Some curious guy.”
Frolic took a bite of his burger and said, “Forward them all directly to me.” He used a voice that was supposed to sound wise and lawyerly, but considering he had a gob of ketchup on his cheek, it sounded a bit more like a skeevy old man asking a teenager to share her private correspondence with him.
“They’re not of the