Shelter (Book One): A Mickey Bolitar Novel

THE REST OF THE SCHOOL DAY went by slowly. I kept staring at the clock, but it felt as though the minute hand were bathed in syrup. I tried to figure out how Rachel could be involved, but nothing came to me. Then I reminded myself that it was pointless to speculate, that in just a few more hours I would know.

There were only five minutes left before the end of school—five minutes until I could get back to Rachel and hear her explanation—when the intercom in Mr. Berlin’s physics class beeped. He picked it up, listened, and then said, “Mickey Bolitar? Please report to Mr. Grady’s office.”

The class gave me a collective “ooo.”

I hadn’t met Mr. Grady yet, but I knew who he was. First and foremost in my mind, Mr. Grady was the school’s varsity basketball coach. He was a man I hoped to soon know quite well. But the reason for the class’s “ooo” had to do with his real job: vice principal in charge of discipline—in short, the school’s disciplinarian.

I collected my things and started for the front office. I wasn’t nervous. My firm belief, immodest as this might sound, was that Mr. Grady wanted to welcome me to the school. Yes, I had worked hard to keep my game under wraps, but what with my height, my pedigree as Myron’s nephew, and the way the guys down at the pickup games in Newark gossiped, it would be surprising if Mr. Grady hadn’t at least heard about me.

That, I hoped, was the reason for calling me down to his office.

Or was it?

Had I done anything wrong? I didn’t think so. I thought about grabbing Rachel in the hallway. Suppose someone had seen that. Nah, that couldn’t be it. What would a witness do? Go to Grady’s office and tell him? And then what? He’d contact Rachel and she would tell him it was nothing.

Or would she?

I got to his office and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

I opened the door. Mr. Grady sat at his desk and peered at me over his reading glasses. His suit jacket was off. He wore a short-sleeve dress shirt that probably fit a few years ago, but now it worked like a tourniquet around his neck and torso. He stood and hoisted his belt up. His pants were olive green. His hair was heavily thinning, pulled back and plastered to his scalp.

“Mickey Bolitar?”

“Yes.”

“Sit down, son.”

I glanced at the clock behind him. I really didn’t have time for this now. School let out in two minutes—two minutes until I confronted Rachel again. He saw my hesitation and said, “Sit down,” with a little more authority. I sat.

“Do you play ball?” he asked.

Ah. So I was right. “Yes.”

“Your uncle was some player.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

Grady nodded. He put his hands on his stomach. I wanted to move this along but I wasn’t sure what to say.

“When are tryouts?” I asked, just to say something.

“In two weeks,” he said. “The varsity—that’s for my juniors and seniors—will be on Monday. The JV—that’s for the sophomores and freshmen—will be on Tuesday.” He met my eye and said, “I don’t believe in playing sophomores on varsity, except in very rare instances. In fact, in the twelve years I’ve been coaching here, I haven’t had a sophomore on varsity yet, and with so many returning starters . . .”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. I had learned a long time ago that you shouldn’t talk about your game—your game should do the talking for you. So I nodded and said nothing.

The final bell rang. I started to stand, figuring we were done, when Mr. Grady said, “But that’s not why I called you down here. I mean, this isn’t about basketball.”

He waited for me to respond, so I said, “Oh?”

“I received a report that you got into a physical altercation with another student.” I must have looked confused. “Troy Taylor. In the school parking lot.”

Oh boy. I debated going with the he-started-it defense, but beginning a relationship with a new basketball coach by going after his captain seemed an unwise move. I went with silence.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It was nothing,” I said. “A misunderstanding. We moved past it.”

“I see.” He sat back down and fiddled with his pen. “I don’t know where you went to school before here, Mickey, but at this school, we have a strict no-fighting rule. If you lay a hand on another student, it’s automatic suspension with a possibility for expulsion. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

I couldn’t help it. My eyes glanced at the clock. Grady saw it.

“Someplace to go, son?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend after school.”

“That’s not going to happen today.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m letting you off easy with this one. Detention. Today.”

“It can’t be today,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I have a really important meeting after school.”

“You’re currently staying with your uncle, correct?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Grady picked up the phone on his desk. The phone was big and heavy and looked like something you’d see in a black-and-white movie on cable. “Maybe you can give me his phone number. I can call and explain why you’ll be late. If he says it’s an emergency and you can’t serve it today, fine, you can serve detention tomorrow.”

Panic made my mouth start flapping: “Troy took my friend’s laptop. He grabbed me first. I just defended myself.”

Grady cocked an eyebrow. “That really the way you want to play this, son?”

No. I calmed myself. There was really no option here. I asked whether it was okay for me to send a quick text before serving detention. Grady said that it was. I texted Rachel that I’d be out in an hour and could she please wait for me?

No reply came in.

I had never done detention before, but then again I’d never spent time in an American high school. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it was basically one hour of pure boredom. You sit in the driver’s ed classroom with other students. No phone, no gadgets, no books, nothing. Most kids put their heads on the desk and took naps. I looked for patterns in the tile floor. Then I started reading all the posted safety information on drinking and driving, texting and driving, speeding, and whatever else could happen.

I thought about my dad. I thought about our car crash and wondered if the driver of the SUV was drunk or texting or speeding. I thought about the paramedic with the sandy hair and the green eyes and how his face told me that my life would never be the same.

When the hour was finally over—the slowest hour imaginable—I grabbed my cell phone and checked for texts.

Nothing from Rachel.

Feeling dejected, I headed out the front door of the school—and there she was. I rushed over to her. “Thanks for waiting.”

Rachel nodded, said nothing. She looked distracted, unsure of herself.

“So you were going to explain?” I asked.

“You said you saw me on a surveillance video, right?”

Now I could see. She wasn’t distracted. She was frightened. “That’s right.”

“How? I mean, how did you get a hold of school security stuff?”

I shook my head. I didn’t trust her enough to tell her about Spoon. “It’s not important.”

“It is to me,” she said. “Do other people know?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Why would you have been looking at video surveillance?”

“I told you. I’m trying to figure out what happened to Ashley. Why were you at her locker?”

“Why do you think?”

“I don’t have a clue,” I said. “You told me you didn’t really know her.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

I spread my hands. “Yet there you are, cleaning out her locker.”

Rachel looked off and shook her head. “You don’t get it.”

“You’re right. I don’t. So explain it to me. And while you’re at it, why don’t you explain to me why you were pretending to be my friend?”

“Ashley asked me to do that.”

“Ashley asked you to pretend to be my friend?”

Rachel sighed, as though there were no way I would understand. “She wanted me to check up on you. She wanted to make sure that you were okay.”

“Okay?” My head was spinning. “What are you talking about?”

“Ashley didn’t want you hurt. She didn’t want you involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“It’s not my place to say. She said I shouldn’t tell you.”

My heart picked up speed. “Wait, hold up. Ashley said that?”

“Yes.”

“So you know where she is?”

She didn’t reply.

“Rachel?”

She looked up at me slowly. Our eyes met. I know that I should know better by now, but if this was an act, if I was just being played . . . No. They say the eyes don’t lie. I saw something there, in the way she looked at me, and it wasn’t just deception. “Yes,” Rachel finally said. “I know where Ashley is.”

“Where?”

“Come on,” Rachel said, finally breaking eye contact. “I’ll show you.”