Mojo (Page 43)

“Come on,” he said. “You can’t cut your buddy out of some possible rich-girl action.”

That was exactly the attitude that made me not want to bring him. “Forget it. This isn’t about trying to pick up chicks.”

“What are you talking about? Everything is about trying to pick up chicks.”

“Forget it,” I told him. “You’ll just screw things up.”

He didn’t like that. “Really, I’ll screw things up? What—do you think you’re some kind of high-class act now?”

“No. It’s just that I’m friends with these people, and they hardly know you.”

“That’s a load of crap. You’ve hung out with them, what, one more time than I have?”

At that point Brett glided up to the curb in a sweet Mercedes SUV, the same deep blue color as her eyes.

“Look,” I told Randy. “I’ll talk to them. Maybe you can come along next time.”

The window of the Mercedes rolled down, and Brett goes, “Hey, stranger, you need a ride?”

I turned away from Randy and tipped the porkpie. “Don’t mind if I do.”

As I headed to the car, he goes, “You suck, Dylan.”

I didn’t respond to that, but as Brett and I drove away, Randy slunk toward the building, his head bowed and his hands in pockets. The other kids, though, stood there checking out me and the fabulous Mercedes. Even Corman Rogers, in his usual all-black getup, stared after us, his tongue practically hanging from his mouth.

Of course, the interior of the Mercedes was luxurious, but it still didn’t look as classy as Brett. She was the type that would look rich even in jeans and a T-shirt, not that she was wearing that. No, she had on this stylish swirly-patterned mid-thigh-length dress and little ankle-high boots. Needless to say, I immediately forgot all about Randy.

As for my attire, I’d picked out my Beatles Let It Be T-shirt. Brett glanced at it and goes, “So, you like the Beatles?”

And I’m like, “They’re just the greatest band ever, probably.”

She smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I think too. Either them or Death Cab for Cutie.”

Comparing Death Cab for Cutie with the Beatles was sacrilegious in my book, but I let it go.

Otherwise, she was pretty easy to talk to and actually seemed interested in my high school and the kids who went there. So I guess my guard was down when she came around to asking me if I’d found out anything new about Ashton. Up to now I’d intended on only discussing the latest developments with Nash, but suddenly here I was telling Brett all about Sideburns and his switchblade and more than a little bit building up my role in chasing him off.

“Wow,” she said, flashing me an admiring look. “You’re brave.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said modestly.

“Sure you are, going through something so horrible, and you’re still not giving up on Ashton.”

“I wouldn’t be much of an investigative journalist if I let myself get scared off too easily,” I told her. What else are you going to say to a girl like Brett? I couldn’t let on that I was seriously considering chickening out of the whole deal.

It took about a half hour to get to Hollister. I’d never been on the campus, and let me tell you—it was something. You had to go through a checkpoint to even get on the premises, but that was nothing for Brett. She just gave the guard a wave, and he waved back, and we were in.

The rest of the place looked like how I’d imagine an Ivy League college campus would look. My high school pretty much packed everyone into one big box, but Hollister had a whole assortment of buildings, and they must’ve used the same landscaper as Mr. Browning. Everything was completely spruce.

I’m like, “How much does it cost to go here?”

Brett laughed. “Enough,” she said.

Then, as we passed the auditorium, the very thing happened that I was afraid of—a Rowan Adams sighting. He was hanging around in the parking lot with Tres Browning and the blond and gorgeous Aisling Collins. I’m like, Don’t let him see us, don’t let him see us, don’t let him see us. My thinking being that if he, in fact, did have anything to do with Sideburns, he would now figure I didn’t sufficiently heed the switchblade warning.

But of course, he did see us, and on top of that, he had to wave us over. Brett pulled up next to the group and not only rolled down the window to chat but made sure they all remembered who I was.

Rowan’s like, “Ahhh, Dylan, the master of rap karaoke,” and fired an index-finger-pistol-style greeting at me. “You should start a band so you can come back for another appearance at Gangland.”

“Oh, he’ll be back,” Brett said.

“I’m sure he will be,” he said. “So, Dylan, am I still the number-one public enemy on your suspect list?”

This, I figured, could be his way of seeing if I was still on the case, so I played it cagey. “I wouldn’t say that. Even though you never did tell me where you were the day Ashton went missing. But that’s okay. I’m not worried about that anymore.”

“Hey,” he said. “I can tell you where I was—I was out doing a million things just like I always am.”

“Oh, sure,” Brett said. “You’re such a big shot. At least you used to be.”

He put on a wounded expression. “Used to be? Really, Brett, you are a big bully.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she told him. “Dylan’s the one you need to be worried about. He has your number.”