Finding Mary Jane Page 3

  Please know I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Last I counted, you owe $5000.

  Don’t do anything stupid.

  -Marla

  Maybe it’s because I’m so freaking tired, but none of this letter makes any sense. Who is Max? I’ve heard his name several times at the smoke shop, but never actually met him. I read the letter a few more times, trying to figure out why Ben would owe someone money and why that constitutes a breakup from Marla.

  But it is the very last line that doesn’t make any sense at all.

  PS- You have until Wednesday.

  Chills prickle up my arms, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. That was three days ago.

  Chapter 6

  I call Ben’s phone one more time for good measure, and although I know it will go right to voicemail without even ringing, I can’t shake that small hope in my chest that maybe he’ll pick up. When he doesn’t answer, I listen to the computerized female voice telling me to leave a message after the beep. I know these words by heart now. When the beep comes, I sigh into the phone. “Ben. It’s me. I found Marla’s letter in your room. Where are you? Please come home.”

  I sigh again, listening to the nothingness on the other line. Would he even listen to this? “I love you,” I say, just in case he does listen, and then I hang up.

  Somehow, I manage to sleep for the rest of the night, waking up around ten in the morning to the sound of dogs barking next door.

  I roll over in Ben’s bed, feeling around for my cell phone. It’s at the foot of the bed, under the sheets. I must have had a rough sleep, although I don’t remember any of it. No dreams, nothing. But now that I’m awake, all the dread and anticipation for what might happen to Ben rushes into me full force, causing my fingers to tremble as I look at my phone.

  One new message.

  I almost don’t want to click on it. If it’s from Ben, then everything is fine. If it isn’t from Ben, then everything still sucks. For this brief moment, I’m hanging in limbo and it’s the most relief I’ve felt all week. Taking a deep breath, I click on it.

  It’s from Jill.

  WANT TO GO TO THE MALL AND BUY FAKE DESIGNER SUNGLASSES?

  Of course I don’t want to do that, GOD why would I want to do that? Sure, it’s our favorite thing to do when we have some extra cash, but can’t she tell from my lack of calls and messages lately that I just want to be left alone? I type NO and stop myself before I hit send. Not wanting to be a total jerk to someone who doesn’t deserve it, I type BUT THANKS THOUGH.

  Still dressed in my ratty jeans and a shirt of Ben’s, I slip on my flip flops and go down to the kitchen. The house is empty—duh—I don’t know why I keep expecting someone to be here. I’m not in the mood for breakfast, or lunch considering what time it is, so I just sit on a barstool and alternate staring at the clock on the wall and the marble counter top in front of me.

  The head shop opens at noon.

  I will be there the moment Marla unlocks the doors and flips on the open sign. She has some explaining to do.

  An hour ticks by, one minute hand swish at a time on Mom’s old kitchen clock. It’s a rooster with a clock in the center of it. Dad bought it for her one year on her birthday. She doesn’t even like roosters. Nothing in our house or in our lives had ever had anything to do with roosters, yet he bought her a freaking rooster clock for her birthday. That’s the reason they divorced. Well not that one thing, but several little things like that.

  I’ve spent the last five days worrying sick about Ben, and now as I sit at the kitchen counter, I don’t think about anything. It’s as if the obsessive-worry part of my brain has met its quota for the month and therefore won’t function anymore. That’s fine with me really. I enjoy staring at the patterns in the marble better than thinking about Ben. Wondering if he’s dead.

  No, of course he isn’t dead.

  Why would I even think that?

  I lose track of time and end up leaving the house ten minutes before noon. Okay, so I won’t get there exactly as she’s unlocking the doors, but I’ll probably beat most of the customers. It’s not like potheads wake up before noon so they can take care of all their pot-smoking needs before lunch.

  Lawson’s historical district is made up of one long street called The Strand, lined on each side with two and three story shops from the 1900s. The original brick road remains, dividing each side of what used to be Lawson’s booming commerce. Now all of the important stores, banks and city hall buildings are located a few blocks away on Main Street. Greene Shoppe’s side of the road is a collection of eclectic shops and places that look as though they should have gone out of business decades ago, but for some reason that makes no economic sense, they are still open for business. I’ve only been inside three of the stores, two antique shops and one coffee place called Java Jazz.

  Careful not to step on a puddle of water nestled between the cracks of the dilapidated sidewalk along the strand, I wish I had a car to get there faster. I pass the old movie theater, its screen lifeless ever since a tornado ripped the roof to shreds, deeming the place irreparable. I smirk as I pass the marquee still advertising the last movie played there, Gone With The Wind, wonder how a tornado’s winds were able to rip off the roof but not the plastic letters a mere ten feet away. They are now weathered and cracked to a crisp.

  A boy wearing threadbare jeans and a black Alkaline Trio shirt sits on the sidewalk leaning his back against the concrete theater wall. His hair is black and long, knotted and stringy and somewhat resembles a botched dreadlock job. The clumps of hair are so uneven, tangled in every which way, that it probably got that way from simply never washing it. He holds a black triangular shaped guitar plugged into a mini amp.

  He strums the strings carelessly but precisely as a song of passion mixed with hair metal chords and pent up teenage angst blare through the nine inch speaker. A black top hat flipped upside down sits in front of him for tips. A piece of cardboard is propped on the hat. Written in comic book style handwriting are the words, “Ninjas killed my parents. Must get revenge. Need money for ninja lessons.”

  I glance around. I don’t know who he expects to fill his hat because I am the only person on the streets and my pockets are empty.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice raspy.

  I don’t want to talk to him but I’m only a few feet away so it’s not like a have a choice. “Hi.”

  “Got any requests?” The grunge kid taps his guitar, smiling at me with oddly white and clean teeth.

  “Um,” I say, reaching into my pockets to illustrate my point. “I don’t have any money, sorry.”

  “Pretty girls get songs for free.”

  My first instinct is to retort with something smart-assed, like saying how I don’t see any pretty girls around. Instead of blushing, batting my eye lashes and swooning like most girls would do, I always dismiss compliments. They never really mean anything coming from teenage guys. That, I’m sure of.

  I take another step forward, intent on walking away but still not totally convinced that I should. He’s still staring at me waiting for a song request, so I roll my eyes and kind of squish up my face in a nervous motion that I hope portrays something like, “Oh you think you’re so funny? Well guess what? You’re not!” But it probably looks more like I’m having a Nano-second seizure.

  He shrugs, removing the guitar strap from around his neck and lets the guitar sit flat in his lap. “Suit yourself.” Next to him is a metal cylinder resting on a flattened paper bag. He picks it up, holds it to his mouth and fishes in his pocket for a lighter. I’ve seen that thing before in Ben’s room. It’s a pipe. Flicking on the lighter, he holds the end of the pipe and sucks in air through the end in his mouth. When he exhales, smoke pours out of his lips like a fog machine.

  Why is everyone in this damned town obsessed with marijuana except for me? He sees the look on my face. “Forgive me.” He bows his head. “Would you like a hit?” He holds the pipe and lighter out to me. They are both purple. I sha
ke my head in a violent no.

  “You really shouldn’t do that,” I say. He snorts, giving me this apathetic look that I’m sure his mother has seen on him a million times. Assuming he has a mother.

  “Yeah, I know,” he says, shoving the paraphernalia into the paper bag and folding the top closed. “But you’re only conditioned to think it’s bad. It’s really not.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I say. “I would love to listen to your well thought out argument about weed, but I really have to go.”

  The door of the head shop had barely closed behind me when I hear a squeal of delight. Marla’s black flats tap across the floor as she runs over to me, grabbing my elbow as if she’s checking that I’m real. “Lexie!” she squeals.

  The shop is even darker than usual with its curtains drawn and only half the lights turned on. Transfixed by new dancing fairy lights strung along every rack and counter, I don’t pay much attention when Marla reaches behind me and locks the door.

  “So.” She claps her hands together and holds them in front of her chest. “Ben sent you. That’s cool, I can’t work with that.” She looks me over and frowns. “What did he send you with? You don’t even have a bag. Is it outside?” She glances behind me as she says it, even though no one can see through the covered windows.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, trepidation creeping over me. Didn’t she just lock the door? What’s going on here? I look around, hoping to see Bluntz—or anyone really—but see only racks and racks of drug stuff instead. The smile on Marla’s lips fades into a thin line. “Ben didn’t send you with anything?”

  The money.

  “Ben isn’t here,” I say, scratching my cheek. “He didn’t send me. I came on my own.”

  Marla’s hands go to her hips and her knuckles go white as they dig into her skin. “What do you mean he isn’t here?”

  Mental alarms are going off in my head, screaming that something is wrong. “I found your note.” I feel dirty saying it, letting it out on the open that I snooped through Ben’s things.

  The thick line of eyeliner makes Marla’s glare a million times more severe. I stammer, “I, um, well he’s not home. He hasn’t been home all week and I found the note and I thought maybe you knew where he was.”

  The only sound is Marla’s slow, heavy breaths as she stares at me, processing what I just said. I’m compelled to keep talking, babbling about whatever I can think of just to rid the air of this suffocating silence. But right as I open my mouth, Marla holds a finger out, shushing me.

  She turns around and says, “Cody.”

  Bluntz appears from behind the beaded curtain, wearing black framed glasses that I’ve never seen before. He rests his hands on each side of the door frame. “What do you want?”

  “We have a visitor,” Marla says, gesturing to me. Bluntz ducks around a jewelry rack to get a better view of me. His face does a mini seizure of its own; first shock, then horror, then acceptance. I doubt Marla notices this like I do.

  Marla continues, her voice all high and on the verge of delirious. “Baby sis here says that Ben is missing. He hasn’t been seen all week.”

  Bluntz’ forehead creases. “I see.”

  Marla takes a step closer to me, and then backs away as if she can sense all my fear and it burns her skin. “I guess Ben will have to learn the hard way that if you can’t pay a debt, you will forfeit your collateral.”

  “Marla,” Bluntz says warningly.

  She snaps her fingers and points at me. “Take care of her, will you? I have a business to run.”

  I am so confused. And it only gets more confusing as Bluntz makes his way toward me. I smile, and open my mouth to say hi. He doesn’t look at me as he walks up and grabs my arm with his hand. He walks us to the back of the store, pushing me in front of him.

  I think about trying to break free, but it’s not like I can’t trust Bluntz. Maybe he’s taking me up to the terrace again, where he’ll apologize for Marla’s rudeness. We get near the doorway with the stairs, and he pushes me past it to another doorway. One that says DO NOT ENTER. It’s in the darkest corner of the store, by all the old clearance merchandise.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper so Marla can’t hear. He doesn’t say anything, he just grips my arm tighter as he chooses a key from his keychain and unlocks the door. I try to wiggle around to face him, but he doesn’t let me. His grip is really starting to hurt my arm, and it’s so tight it’s making my fingers get tingly.

  He pulls open the door, and like the terrace stairs, there’s nothing but blackness in front of me. “Bluntz?” I say, the panic rising in my voice. This is so not good.

  “Shut up,” he says. It sounds more regretful then mean. “Just shut up and walk.”

  Crushed to the core, I do as he says and I shut up. I lift my foot high, preparing to land on the stairs in the darkness in front of me, and take a step.

  The stairs don’t go up this time, they go down. I realize this just as my body flies forward and tumbles down the longest flight of stairs in the history of architecture. Pain shoots through my hands and knees and head. And then everything goes black.

  Chapter 7

  Someone’s tapping their foot against the floor. It’s dark in here except for the glow of a television across the room. I’m not opening my eyes though. I’m in ridiculous amounts of pain. Everywhere hurts.

  It feels like I shouldn’t remember everything that happened. Like I should be waking up right now with amnesia accompanying my pulsing migraine, because not knowing anything would better than knowing what I do know.

  Bluntz isn’t my friend.

  Ben is gone.

  Marla is fucking psycho.

  My eyes don’t need to be open to know I’m on a hard floor with something soft shoved under my head. It smells like men’s cologne. The tapping sound stops. I breathe slowly and evenly, hoping that whoever is in the room doesn’t know I’m awake yet.

  Footsteps fade across the floor, getting farther away until I hear them go upstairs. A door opens and closes. I hold my breath. The clunk of a deadbolt slides into place. I’m stuck.

  After an extremely long time that could be just minutes or hours in my dazed condition, I haven’t heard anything else and I’m ready to sit up.

  I open one eye, and then the other. I’m in a storage room that’s filled with boxes on one side and a small living area on the other. It has a tweed couch, a small television and a mini refrigerator. Why am I laying on the floor when there’s a couch?

  My wrist hurts as I push myself into a sitting position. Blood rushes to my head and my vision gets little purple splotches all in it for a moment. I assess my injuries: major migraine, knot on my forehead, sprained wrist and bruised knees.

  Bluntz’ hoody is crumpled into a makeshift pillow for me. When I see the hoody, I picture him—not as the gorgeous guy who bowled with me—but as Marla’s cowardly minion who ruthlessly shoved me down here. He can die for all I care.

  Anger surges through me, radiating through my nerves. I need to get out of here. I need to go home and find Ben and—and, well I have no idea what I’ll do. Can I call the police without getting Ben in trouble?

  I pull myself onto my knees, wait for the blood rushing in my head to subside, then I grab the concrete wall and try to stand. My shaky knees threaten to buckle, so I use the wall for support. My whole body is trembling, but I’m not cold. With my back on the wall, I look around this small room. The couch and TV, boxes of junk, the stairs I feel down that lead to the locked door—my only means of escape.

  It hits me now. And it’s the most terrifying realization in the world, and probably the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but at the same time it’s funny. It’s hilarious that it took me so long to realize this. I am totally fucked.

  Chapter 8

  The door swings open and slams against the wall. I’m sitting with my back pressed to the wall and my knees pulled to my chest and apparently I had fallen asleep like this because my head jerks up a
t the sudden noise. The purple splotches fill my vision again. Two shadows walk down the stairs. They reach the bottom stair just as my vision comes back. It’s Marla and some guy.

  Marla’s beautiful face is twisted into a pissed off sort of scowl. The guy was probably hot at some point in his life, but now his head is shaved, his arms are all tatted up with angel and devil type references and he has entirely too many gigantic muscles. He’s so freaking huge, I think the sleeves are cut off his shirt because his arms just wouldn’t fit into them.

  I sit a little straighter and clench my knees. Marla crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Tell Max what you told me.”

  Max bends down on his knee as he awaits my reply. Even down here he’s still way taller than me. “Um,” I say, scrambling to remember what I had told Marla. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Max smiles. “Babe, I need you to tell me exactly what you said when you came to the Greene Shoppe today.” He glances back at Marla and she flinches. “If your story doesn’t match Marla’s, then she has a lot of explaining to do.”

  He reaches down and brushes hair out of my eyes, wincing when he sees the big knot of my forehead. “And if your story does match hers, well, someone has to pay for this mistake.”

  Something in his eyes makes me see past the muscles and tattoos. He’s not so bad. He just wants to know what’s going on. And maybe he’ll let me out of here. “I just came here to ask Marla if she knew where my brother was,” I say.

  “And your brother is?”

  “Ben.”

  Max gives me a sympathetic nod. “Why were you trying to find Ben?”