Burning Blue by Paul Griffin Read Free Book Online

were designed to let a moron pull at least a B. You’ll kill them. If you don’t come back to the Hollows. Are you? Coming back, I mean?”
    “I’m not sure. I’m being told I need to hunker down for a while, hang home with my mom. She’s been awesome, total rock.”
    “Why didn’t you call her? You know, to pick you up?”
    “I can’t have her dropping everything for me anymore. As it is, she’s pretty much stopped her life to help me get through this. She needs to take a break from me every once in a while. From it.”
    I wondered how I’d react if I saw it. I’d read that burn wounds were the worst. Catastrophic disfigurement. Identities just erased.
    We came to where the main road tied into a tunnel of very old, well-pruned elms, no cars at the curbs. A sign said: PRIVATE COMMUNITY, NO PARKING, VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED . “I’m just down the street,” she said.
    I lived on a street. This was a drive with estates on either side. I had a cousin who lived in Englewood, plenty of money there but gaudy rich, lots of lawn statuary, half the saints in the Gregorian calendar sticking out of the
Ficus benjamina
. Nothing so cheesy as a prefabricated statue in this part of town, though. Just wide fields of flawless lawn. The mowing lines were invisible, as if the grass had been hand-combed.
    “Your clothes are soaked,” she said. “You can borrow some of my father’s. We’ll go visit my friend, and then I’ll drive you home.”
    “Your car’s in the shop,” I said.
    “Our housekeeper’s. We have this old Subaru wagon for when she runs errands.”
    “Why didn’t you call her for a ride?”
    “She’s in Florida for the week.”
    “Your friend,” I said. “The one in the hospital?”
    Nicole clicked her phone to play me a message.
“Nicole Castro, I wait for thee. Will I be eleven by the time you show up? This is my subtle reminder that E-Day is next week. I’m currently soliciting several presents, with a new OtterBox topping the list. Pink preferred, though lemon yellow is fine too, anything bright. Also, all forms of gift cards will be accepted, but I
definitely
wouldn’t mind a Dolce and Gabbana
certificate.”
    Nicole laughed. “She’d so never wear Dolce, you know?”
    I laughed and nodded, like of course I knew the wardrobe inclinations of this person I’d never met. We’d come to a guardhouse in the middle of the street. The attendant came out with an umbrella for us. “Nicole, let me call the car to take you to the house.” His eyes ticked toward the main road. An older model Civic was parked off the shoulder, somewhat camouflaged by the woods. Somebody was leaning through the driver’s-side window, aiming a telephoto lens at us. The guard frowned. He shined his flashlight toward the camera as he clicked his radio. “John, he’s back again.”
    “I see him,”
came back through the radio.
    A tug on my sleeve. Nicole pulled me behind the guardhouse. “Rag mag reporter,” she said. She peeked around the gatehouse.
    Across the road, a security company SUV zipped up to the photographer’s car, and the photographer sped out of there. I memorized the plate number, MBE-7921. “Let’s go,” Nicole said.
    “Can’t. I’m running seriously late for work.”
    “So that much was true.”
    The west side bus was coming. “See ya,” I said. I started for the pickup spot.
    Nicole hurried alongside to cover me with the umbrella. “Next week, right?”
    “Next week?” I said.
    The bus rolled in with foot-high waves. We backed up to keep the water from rolling over our ankles. “At Dr. Schmidt’s,” she said.
    “Right. Take care, Nicole.”
    “I hate it,” she said. “That they call you Spaceman. I’m sorry. That must have been awful for you. The thing at the pep rally.”
    I was seeing it all over again, and so was she, apparently. No hoping anymore. Nicole Castro had seen me wet my pants.
    “On or off,” the bus driver said.
    I stuck my foot in the door to keep it open.