Blues for Zoey by Robert Paul Weston Read Free Book Online Page A

were wizards of finance at an uber-bank downtown. Accordingl y, his family lived on Meadow- lane Road, the wealthiest street in Rosemount. The hous e was a long bungalow-style mansion made of huge gray stones . A broad, U-shaped driveway curved aroun d out front. By the time we dr opped Nomi off and drove u p to the house, it was already jamme d with cars. We had to park three blocks over.
    As we walked up, the music thumped through the windows, ev ery one of which was blazing, and flickering with the shadows of people. One of those silhouettes, I thought, was Christina Muñoz.
    The inside of Topher’s house was just as expansive (and expensive) as the outside. In the entrance, there wer e curved white walls, plants on pedestals, and a grand, swirling staircase up to the second floor. The carpet was so thick you sunk an inch with every step.
    I didn’t recognize anyone.
    We carried the beer into the kitchen, which was packed with more unfamiliar people. Suddenly, Alana squealed at a girl she knew. A second later, she vanished into the next room. Calen and I could n’t fit our beer into the fridge, so we left the box on the floor.
    The door at the far end of the kitchen was cordoned off with masking tape. I recalled from earlier years that beyond that tape were the bedrooms, a big study full of books, and a music room Topher’s family called “the Salon.”
    Although Toph’s parents turned a blind eye to his annual summer party, even doing him the favor of going away for the weekend, that masking tape was their one standing r ule: that side of the house was off-limits.
    This year, Toph seemed especially worried about trespassers. Not only was there more tape than usual, there were tiny words written all over it: KEEP OUT! FUCK OFF! Or, for guests who had drunk themselves into a state of illiteracy, an easy-to-understand doodle of a skull and crossbones.
    â€œ So ,” I said to Calen as we opened the first of our warm bee r, “you happen to see Christina on the way in?”
    â€œWhoa, dude, we just got here. If you go looking for her right away, she’ll think you’re needy. Girls hate that.”
    Calen had a point. I tried to relax. This entailed leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen counter , beer clutched in one hand, my other one dangling down at my side, lamely patting my leg in time to the music. With the first pat, I hit something sharp. It was the corner of the CD Dave Mizra had given me that morning.
    When I took it out, Calen gave me a weird look. “Dude. What’ s on the cover?”
    â€œI think it’s from the seventies,” I said, as if that would explain everything.
    â€œThat a ceeee-dee ?” someone asked from the kitchen table.
    At first, I was just happy to see someone I recognized. Devon Whitney. He was sitting at the head of the table, his Afro gather ed back in a green headband, aptly embroidered with the word SKILLZ .
    Devon didn’t go to Rosemount, but I kn ew him from running track. He was one of the fastest kids in the city. Ever since high school star ted, he had consistently and authoritatively kicked my ass in the 400.
    â€œWho listens to ceeee-dees anymore?” he mocked. The other guys ar ound the table laughed.
    In my defense, I said, “A friend gave it to me.”
    Across from Devon was this older kid in a button-do wn shirt checkered like a picnic blanket and a pair of huge, black, thick-rimmed glasses. “That Freudian Slap ?” he asked.
    I wasn’t sure if it was wise to admit this or deny it. “Uh … yeah?”
    â€œ Stellar . Shain Cope, right? Whoev er your friend is, tell him he’s got good taste. Lemme see.”
    I passed over the CD and the kid in the glasses nodded in appreciation. “Too bad he killed himself,” he said at last.
    â€œShain Cope?”
    â€œYeah, I think so. He’s dead, anyway. Happened in the eighties.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know. The liner