This Is How It Ends (Page 6)

I’d never seen the place—wasn’t friends with Natalie then, and certainly didn’t know she lived there. Wynn got out without a backward glance, but Moose gave me a quick “Wait here; be right back” before jogging across the weedy yard.

It wasn’t until the last bit of daylight had gone and I’d had way too much time to examine every dented strip of aluminum hanging from the mobile home that I started to worry. The place was pretty remote. I’d seen maybe one other house on the way up, and it didn’t look like somewhere that’d welcome visitors. It was pretty obvious what kind of errand Moose was running, and I kicked myself for being lured along. I was late, my phone was out of juice, and my mom was waiting for me, probably calling work, expecting that I’d have been home for dinner thirty minutes before.

Moose had said “Wait here,” but he’d also said it would be a quick errand, which had been a total lie. Either that or he and Wynn were lying dead inside, something that seemed possible as I walked toward the trailer. I stood on the front stoop and knocked softly. For a long minute nothing happened. Then I saw dark messy hair and eyes peering through the small window beside the door. The handle rattled and the door opened a crack.

“Who’re you?” The guy squinted at me, his face haggard and unshaven.

“I’m looking for Moose,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for him.”

The guy grinned, but it looked more like a snarl. One of his front teeth was missing. He turned his head, yelling back into the room, “Moose! You bring this Boy Scout up here with you?”

Moose was at the door a second later. “I told you to stay in the car,” he hissed.

The guy opened the door wider, and I saw all of it—the dank living room, crumpled beer cans by a beat-up recliner, a low table littered with ash and papers, lighters and baggies, mismatched curtains dangling from metal rods.

Wynn was sitting on the couch beside a little woman with matted hair. She looked half-asleep, slumped sideways like she’d fallen over and no one had bothered to pick her up. “C’mon in then, Boy Scout,” the guy offered. “Join the party.”

I took a step back. “I’ve gotta go, Moose,” I said, looking at him. “Sorry, but my mom’s waiting—”

“Don’t wanna keep Mamma waiting,” the dirty guy agreed. “Ain’t that right, Crystal?”

He looked back at the woman, but she didn’t stir.

“S’all right, Moose,” the guy said. “S’all good. Take your boyfriend home to his mamma.” He winked in a way that made me hope he never crossed paths with my mamma.

“You want me to drive?” I asked Moose as I trailed him down the walkway. Wynn, thankfully, had decided to stay. I had no idea if Moose would go back for him or if Wynn would just sleep there beside Crystal. And I didn’t care.

“Why would I want you to drive?” Moose barked without looking back. He was pissed. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

“Yeah,” I shot back. “You also said it was a quick pit stop.”

“It was.”

“You were in there for almost an hour.”

“No way.” Moose squinted at his watch, then grunted. “Huh. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

I never told any of my friends about that night, even after the first time Trip and I picked Natalie up, my heart freezing at the memory of the inside of that sad, dented trailer.

***

Now I trotted down the hall away from where I’d left Nat, back past homeroom, and then slipped through the door to physics just before the bell.

“Welcome, Mr. Larkin. To what do we owe this distinct pleasure?”

“Rocks for Jocks was filled?”

“Of course.” Mr. Ruskovich shook his head ruefully. “Sloppy seconds. Story of my life.” He smiled as my classmates laughed. My eyes skated across them, and paused briefly on Sarah. She smiled, making my ears redden, and I looked away. I wondered if she’d seen Nat yet. “Okay, everyone,” Mr. Ruskovich was saying as I slid into my seat. “Today we discuss”—he paused, leaning forward—“particle theory.”

“Again?” Matty Gretowniak moaned.

“Unless you can tell me what it means, Mr. Gretowniak.”

“That I’ll have a splitting headache in exactly forty-three minutes,” Matty grumbled.

“That’s what happens when you only use your brain once a day,” Chuck Lee told him. “It gets rusty. Creeeeeak!”

“Okay, suck-up,” Matty said mildly.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Mr. Ruskovich interrupted, holding up his hands. “Please. Save your verbal sparring for debate club. In here we do intellectual sparring only.”

“Then why’s Gretowniak here?” I asked, grinning at Matty. He flipped me the bird where Mr. Ruskovich couldn’t see. The truth was, Matty was probably smarter than all of us, which was what made it fun to rag on him. Plus you had to lighten up physics somehow. Mr. Ruskovich gave his AP groups, especially our tiny class of four, pretty free range like that.

“Actually,” Mr. Ruskovich said, smiling, “I’m joking, Mr. Gretowniak. In reality we’re going to begin a crime scene investigation.”

Matty sat up straighter. “Cool!”

“What’s the crime?” Sarah asked.

“Murder, of course.”

“Awesome,” Chuck said.

We listened closely as Mr. Ruskovich continued, his voice low and spooky. “It happened in the supply closet.” He pointed at the door behind his desk, all of us eyeing it as he spoke. “In there right now you will find a gruesome scene of splattered blood. Your job? Describe the killer.” He beckoned us to his desk, where an array of supplies was laid out: protractors, rulers, notebooks, tape, pencils, and string. “With these few simple tools and an understanding of physics, you will determine where the perpetrator was standing, how tall he or she might have been, and what sort of weapon was used—”

“Like Clue,” Matty said.

“Exactly like Clue, actually,” Mr. Ruskovich agreed. He spread the character cards from the game on the table. Beneath each he’d written their height in pen.

“It was definitely Professor Plum,” Matty said. “He’s a creeper.”

“I’ve been told I resemble him,” Mr. Ruskovich said.

“Exactly.” Matty laughed.

“I bet it was Miss Scarlet,” Chuck said.