Narc by Crissa-Jean Chappell Read Free Book Online Page B

only real person here. Except for Skully, of course,” she said.
    That didn’t sound right. I thought Morgan knew a lot of people at Palm Hammock. I was kind of counting on it. Of course, that depended on your definition of “knowing” someone. Her profile online—the Polaroid picture and the poem she had uploaded—showed another side that I’d never seen in class.
    “Who is that guy?” I asked. “Does he go to our school?”
    “Not in the present tense.”
    “What?” I was having a hard time, keeping up.
    Morgan smirked. “I mean, he graduated.”
    She didn’t bother to explain further.
    We pushed through the dancing crowd. I squinted in the semidarkness, wincing at the smell of beer and sweat. Couples were draped everywhere. There was no way to ignore them.
    “Give me some fire,” Morgan said, giggling. “Don’t lose the Zippo. I can only hold onto it for a few days. Or I just steal my stepmom’s.”
    A group of guys in baseball caps had gathered around a turntable. The music pounded against my chest, more beat than melody. It was too hot in there. I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and kept reminding myself to breathe.
    “Hey, are you okay?”
    Morgan was beaming up at me, her eyes almost level with my chin. She did this cute thing, puffing her lower lip and blowing her bangs aside.
    “I’m all right.” Actually, I wasn’t.
    “You don’t look all right. I mean, for a second I thought you were going to pass out or something.”
    “I said I’m all right.”
    She looked hurt. “Sorry I asked.”
    I felt like I had to explain. “It’s just that I get these …
weird feelings when I’m in a tight space.”
    “Like claustrophobia? I get that too.” She moved closer, pushing a cold bottle in my hand.
    Red Stripe. The bottle dripped all over my feet. I took a long gulp. It tasted like lighter fluid.
    “Better?” she shouted.
    I took another sip, burning a trail down my throat. Morgan kept staring. Her mouth opened and closed.
    “You have a lot of hair,” she said.
    “So do you,” I said. “Where’s Skully?”
    “I think she went to the docks.”
    “The docks?” I glanced around, as if I could see through the walls. “I didn’t know we were so close to the water.”
    “It’s low tide now. Don’t you smell it?” Morgan grabbed my hand and yanked me into the living room. She grinned as she tugged me along. “Come on. I’m hiding from my ex.”
    Couples had scattered into corners, making out in a lazy sort of way. Others were grinding against each other, keeping time with the throbbing bassline. A skinny girl took a drag on her cigarette, blowing smoke between her boyfriend’s lips. Nobody had ever invited me to parties like this. Until all this police stuff, I had pushed all the emotions out of my system. Now I was on high frequency, soaking up the newness of things. I couldn’t stand the thought of going back and becoming that person again, the loser who hid in the bathroom.
    I was taking mental notes, trying to size up everybody. I didn’t see any self-proclaimed “druggies,” like those sunken-eyed actors in public service announcements. No boys snorting cars and boom boxes up their noses, nobody morphing into snakes. No leather-jacketed dealers getting pounded by Ninja Turtles.
    In the living room, a few people I didn’t recognize had gathered around a flat screen. A boy who looked a couple years younger than Haylie (I could never tell kids’ ages) was messing with a plastic guitar.
    “Ever play Guitar Hero?” Morgan asked.
    “I suck.”
    “Me too,” she said. “But I kick ass on old-school Atari games like Galaga.”
    I followed her up a spiral staircase. On the second floor was a kitchen fit for a TV chef. Morgan opened the fridge and rooted around the half-empty shelves. I noticed a tiny bottle in the so-called “crisper.”
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “Sebastian’s insulin,” Morgan explained. “Skully’s little brother.”
    Her brother?