Don't Breathe a Word Page 3

  “He’s not going to like it,” I said.

  Neeta sighed. “Well, what is he going to like?”

  “Forget it,” I said, then smiled like an offering. “He’s impossible. We should just go to Trophy Cupcakes and be done with it. I’ll find something for him later.”

  “You sure?” I could tell she was teetering. The force of cupcakes was strong with this one.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure.”

  In the end, I gave him the latest cell phone from one of my mom’s clients.

  “Ah. Personal,” he said, then handed me a tiny box, the exact shade of Tiffany blue that could be mistaken for nothing else.

  I opened the box carefully, cautiously. It was too big to be a ring box, too small to be a porcelain vase or lamp. It was exactly the right size for an ID bracelet, white gold, its flat plate engraved with his pet name for me. Little bird. A charm dangled from the side, a bird with red ruby eyes. When I looked closer, it was unmistakably a crow.

  “Charm bracelets originated with the ancient Egyptians,” he said. “They acted as identification to the gods of the underworld—who you were, your status, who you belonged to . . .”

  I stared at the bracelet, a half-smile frozen on my face. Everything Asher did had a meaning. This was his way of marking me. If it hadn’t been smooth metal, I would suspect it had a homing signal so he’d always know where to find me.

  The bracelet still jangled on my wrist, tucked up under my sleeve. If I’d left it, they would know immediately. I never took the bracelet off, even to sleep. I would have to escape its hold some other way.

  A bird’s savage caw startled me. The Rite Aid girl finished putting the money into the register and came to unlock the glass doors. She watched as I entered and made my way past the row of candy bars, magazines, and makeup. I looked over my shoulder to see her eyes follow me while she spoke into the phone in a low voice. Whatever. I wouldn’t take long. I turned back around and nearly collided with a blue-vested chest.

  “What do you think you’re doing in here?” It was a tall, balding man in his forties who looked like he might play Scrabble when he wasn’t harassing teens.

  “I uh . . . uh . . .”

  “Well?”

  “I just . . . had to use the bathroom.” What does anybody do in a Rite Aid?

  “Right,” he said. “After you pocket some Max Factor and cough syrup.”

  “Huh?” I backed away.

  “What have you got in your backpack?” He started to reach for me.

  “Hey! Don’t touch me!” I spun around, and the girl was reaching for the phone again. Were they calling the police on me? “You don’t have to—I’m not doing anything, I swear!”

  Mr. Scrabble Bouncer was still coming after me, towering over me like a shadow. “No, you’re not doing anything, because you’re going to leave.” I bumped into a tangle of bells at the door and practically fell through it. “And tell your friends to quit coming in and stealing everything!”

  When I was back on the street again, my hands were shaking and my bladder near bursting. If I was addicted to anything, it was my stupid water bottle.

  Starbucks, Neeta would say, you’re my only hope.

  I trudged back to the café. I could swallow my pride. I could ask for the key and hope for the best.

  The place spilled out with students and hipsters with laptops, crushing into the communal warmth and smell of roasted coffee beans.

  I stood in line sandwiched between a guy texting and a woman listening to voice mail with a scowl on her face. Everyone in the café seemed to be umbilically connected to some form of technology. The hum was more from the collective tapping of keys than from any kind of verbal communication.

  When I got to the counter, the barista gave me the onceover—appreciatively, I thought. He was tallish and golden brown, with auburn hair flying every which way and matching the frayed shirt on his narrow frame. He looked like an art student, maybe, over at Cornish. His name tag, slightly askew, read BACH.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “Uh . . . just the bathroom key.”

  His face darkened, a weird contrast to his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down. “Oh. You’re one of those.”

  “Wait,” I stammered, mentally counting my change. “I’ll get something when I come out.” What did J1 say a homeless person could live on? A dollar a day, if I’m careful? And I’d be blowing three-fifty on a clean bathroom?

  “Look,” he said in a slightly louder voice, “restrooms are for customers only.” But he slid the key in my direction. “Just no shooting up in there, okay?” he whispered. “You’ll get me fired.” To the girl steaming the milk, he said, “Single tall latte, shot of almond.”

  So he was telling me to shoot almond and not something else.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, and slipped away with a key and almond anticipation. I could do this, if I had allies.

  I thought of the boy I’d seen on Capitol Hill, of his music piercing me to the heart.

  If anyone could help me, it would be him.

  Chapter 5

  I wanted to continue our conversation, Asher had said that warm summer evening we met at the zoo. I didn’t know then how the conversation would end.

  The zoo lady and the veeps and the wives in pink boas didn’t register the silent transaction that took place between my dad and Asher. My dad had nodded, and in that moment, he gave Asher permission.

  Dad turned toward his colleagues, who were ready and excited to feed the giraffes. And I was, too, up until a moment ago. Butterflies, like the ones in the exhibit, expanded in my stomach. Asher stood only a few inches away, but it felt like he’d already burned into my bloodstream, past any defenses I could put up. How could he already know how to unbalance me?

  As the group followed the path to the savannah, a murder of crows bolted up in a terrorized mass, squawking and cawing their indignation.

  “Filthy, dumb creatures,” I muttered under my breath. That’s why we were here—to save a bunch of mucky birds. But maybe I had them to thank for Asher’s nearness. I could sense the blood in his veins.

  “Actually,” he replied, “crows are quite intelligent. Almost as intelligent as humans.” A couple of the wives clinked their Yellow Birds up ahead, their laughter ending in an abrupt snort. They left a trail of pink feathers in their wake. “Maybe even more, in some cases.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, there are a couple of corvid researchers at the University of Washington who tagged a flock a number of years ago.” He gave me an intense look, as though I should be impressed.

  “So . . . ?”

  “So the tagged birds are all dead now, but their descendants still dive-bomb the researchers whenever they walk around the campus. They have to go out in disguise.” He crossed his arms. “Pretty impressive for a species of filthy birds.”

  I needed to come up with something to prove my superiority over the animals, but nothing was coming. The birds were a test. By my silence, I would fail.

  “So how do you know so much about . . . what did you call them? Corvids? Are those crows?”

  “Crows, ravens—they’re both in the corvid family.” The intensity of his gaze shifted back a few notches, withdrawing from the thrilling and uncomfortable place it had been. I felt the void. I wanted to impress him, to make him go deeper. But I had no idea how.

  “So you know about corvids. Tell me about them.” We were falling further and further behind the tipsy group, alone on the jungle path.

  He gave me the same half smile, the one where I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me or sharing the joke. Overhead, a sheet of clouds reflected the fading light. The glow sent his face even further into the shadows.

  “Well, you could say they’re a lot more like humans than most people give them credit for. Or at least, like a certain segment of humans. Teenage girls, for instance.”

  Again, I wasn’t sure—was I sharing the joke? Or was
I the butt of it? His eyes blazed. I couldn’t get over how my stomach was riding a mysterious roller coaster with which I was totally unfamiliar.

  There was something about him. I wanted to know what he thought of me, and if he realized how his proximity made me feel utterly defenseless.

  We curved around the path until my eyes landed on painted footprints—gazelles? Wolves? Little yellow footprints led us to the African village overlooking the savannah. The park was completely silent except for a few random animal cries.

  “It’s only a bit farther to the feeding area,” he said. What kind of authority did he have here, that the zookeepers and even my dad knew his name? How old was he? Not a teenager, I guessed. He looked like he could be at least twenty. If he knew my father, maybe he knew about me. Did he know I was only fifteen and would be jailbait for the next two months?

  If he noticed my trembling, he didn’t show it. His presence made me feel exposed and exhilarated at the same time. What was it about crows that reminded him of teenage girls? The squawking? I wasn’t much of a squawker, unless I was coughing. But I hardly had a chance to breathe, with my family watching over me like hawks all the time.

  A shortcut through the bamboo trees thrust us back into the group, gathered around a high iron fence. Beyond it, the savannah spread out into rolling hills and waterholes.

  My dad carried on a conversation with his boss in the background while the zookeeper explained the feeding habits of giraffes. The women waved branches full of leaves. Two animals came forward—the biggest one could easily reach a second-story window. The sheen of his fur rippled over his muscles, embedded with obvious power. From afar, they looked like such gentle creatures. But they could break a predator in two with one sharp kick.

  A second giraffe, quite a bit smaller, came up to Asher’s branch, poised to flee. A few feet away, one of the wives laughed loudly when the big giraffe yanked her branch, and the smaller one stepped away.

  “Come here, boy,” Asher said in a low voice. “It’s okay. She doesn’t want to hurt you, big guy. She’s just a noisy idiot. Totally harmless.”

  Asher held out his hand to me. “Come here. Try it. In a minute or two, we’ll have an even better chance.”

  As I held up the leaves, another spotted head popped over the curve of the hill. Voices fell into a hush: the pregnant one.

  Asher stood so close I could feel his breath trailing down my neck and sending a rush through my nerves. I glanced at Dad to see if he noticed. He smiled and nodded, still discussing the finer points of nonprofits. Either he was paying absolutely no attention, or Asher had some kind of power over him as well.

  Tentatively, the pregnant giraffe stepped forward. Soon we could see her neck rising over the crest of the hill, then her body, lean but bulging. We all held our breaths to see what she would do.

  “Come on, baby,” Asher whispered. Even the flock of wives held themselves together as Asher picked up another branch and dangled it over the fence.

  The tipsy wife set down her Yellow Bird drink on the pavement, then waved a new bunch of leaves at the biggest giraffe. He expertly plucked and shirred leaf by leaf, oblivious to what held the rest of us entranced: the mother giraffe, tiptoeing down the hill—sniffing the air, tantalized by the branches in Asher’s hands.

  Then, all at once, the big giraffe lunged and the tipsy wife shrieked, knocking her drink over and breaking the glass. The sudden explosion sent the mother giraffe away at a gallop.

  Asher lay down the branch in a swift, deliberate motion.

  “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” the woman was saying. “I thought he was about to bite off my finger . . . ”

  Asher shot her a murderous look.

  “Well, that’s over,” he said to me under his breath. “Maybe I need to reassess my opinion of crow behavior—maybe it’s less like teenage girls and more like corporate wives.” Then, the half smile again.

  And this time, I knew he meant for me to share it.

  Chapter 6

  Asher disappeared into the crowd after we came back from the animal encounter. The silent auctions were now closed. I’d never had a chance to outbid him. After I saw him with the giraffes, Asher struck me as the kind of guy who didn’t like to lose. Well, at least I would have a trio of tea cozies to show for my night out with Dad.

  We threaded our way through the dinner tent to our table, only a few feet from center stage. This year’s thirty biggest prizes were listed in the auction book—dinner for ten with the orangutans, a Halloween party at the indoor playground, and the big one, a private jet for twelve to Lake Powell with a week on the sparkling blue waters. I craned my neck to find Asher. I couldn’t forget the strength of his gaze, or his gentleness with the animals, or his breath on my neck. Or the fire when his plans were thwarted.

  The rest of the table trickled in with fresh Yellow Birds, even the woman who knocked hers over. She’d been forgiven, the giraffe forgotten.

  Dinner was a four-course affair—made even more exciting because I wasn’t suffocated with the boys and their testosterone. Mom and I were the only ones who even considered basic things . . . like salad.

  Here at the zoo, salad was raised to an art form. A crisp head of endive had been sliced into a green coil and sprinkled with squash blossoms, a little green frond poking up like a bird’s feather.

  When the sommelier came around with the wine, Dad ordered both red and white and slid the white over to me. “Shhh,” he said, “just don’t tell your mother,” and gave me a wink.

  The zoo chefs were too classy to serve something in the poultry category, so our choices were lemon-thyme lamb skewers, cedar-roasted salmon, or the vegetarian option I chose: truffles roasted with brie, honey, and figs. Even the birds couldn’t object to that.

  By the time we got to our choice of blackberry ice cream, flourless chocolate cake, or my favorite, crème brûlée, I’d almost forgotten about looking for Asher. Almost. The wine flowed to my bones and made them feel a tiny bit rubbery. My lips and tongue wouldn’t quite behave when I asked my dad, “So, how do you know that Asher guy?”

  Dad smirked and slid the wineglass away from me. “Let’s just say his dad has his fingers in a lot of financial pies, including this fundraiser. Steven Valen? Valen Ventures?”

  I held back a little gasp. Even I’d heard of Steven Valen, local bazillionaire, known as a brilliant entrepreneur to his friends and a cutthroat tyrant to his enemies.

  My dad went on, not seeming to notice my surprise. He was used to handling people with money every day. “Asher has been around this zoo for most of his life. He’s graduating early from View Ridge Prep and doing animal research at the U before applying to the Ivies.”

  “Crows,” I said, remembering our conversation alone on the path.

  “Yes. He’s an unofficial assistant to the corvid—crows, ravens—”

  “Right, Dad, I know—”

  “Oh. Well, corvid researchers at the UW. You know they get—”

  “Dive-bombed,” I finished, “every time they walk across campus. I know, Dad. He told me all about it.”

  “Then he must have also told you they have an extraordinary social hierarchy. Those birds can be quite brutal.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and took a bite of my crème brûlée.

  The lights dimmed as a commotion onstage caught everyone’s attention—a highly blond, be-glittered couple made their way to the stage and introduced themselves as co-emcees. Dad leaned over and whispered, “These two are here every year—wait until you hear this guy’s auction call.”

  I settled down into the warm-and-tinglyness of the chardonnay and introductions of the famous people and the big investors. “That’s Asher’s dad,” mine whispered when the spotlight lit up a table on the other side of the stage. The mythic Steven Valen looked kind of basic, actually. Just an older guy with neatly trimmed hair and wire-rimmed glasses, but I could see the same vivid intensity I’d felt from Asher.

  And there he was. Not alone. A girl with rip
pling hair and movie-star cheekbones sat next to him, the two of them laughing at some private joke and his dad looking decidedly annoyed. Asher caught me looking and stared for a moment, then turned his attention back to the girl.

  The emcees went on about last year’s auction winners, the Seahawks guy in the audience, and the school band itching to perform for us. Then the auctioneer fell into a rhythm all about product number one, then ten, then eighteen in an endless stream of blah-blahdy-blah a-hundred-dollars-more, a-hundred-dollars-more! And all that time I couldn’t stop thinking about the heat Asher sent though me . . . or the way he demolished me in one brief glance.

  It was dark when the dinner and auction finished. Everyone made their way across the green to the silent-auction tent, where zoo staff doled out items.

  “Did you get something?” my dad asked.

  “Uh, yeah. A present for Mom.”

  “That was nice.” He stopped to dig in his wallet for the credit card. “Here, you can take this.” He wiped away the hair from my forehead like he only just realized how mad Mom would be if she knew how much freedom he’d given me. “Are you okay? Do you need help carrying anything?”

  I shook my head. I could probably manage the tea cozies by myself. But I took a couple of quick puffs of my inhaler and held back a cough.

  I stood in line with my arms wrapped around me. The chardonnay warmth had almost worn off by now, so I was left with only the chill. People were still laughing and talking, even though the flow of Yellow Birds had stopped long ago. Now they would be able to fund not only the flamingos’ mud hole but also the new penguin habitat. We had done our duty as good citizens and could go home with full stomachs and happy hearts.

  Asher wasn’t anywhere among the lurkers waiting for loot. He knew my dad, so he could contact me if he wanted to—if he wasn’t already with that blond girl at his table. Maybe he knew I was fifteen and was just playing with me. Maybe I should concentrate on junior year coming up and all the credits I would need to get in to a decent school—attending the zoo fundraiser might even count toward community service.