Shatter Page 18

  Feeling sick, I stick to shadows. I wipe the tape recorder and cassette clear of fingerprints with the corner of my shirt. The mailbox in front of Officer Haynes’s house creaks when I shove the proof of Dad’s broken alibi inside.

  I sneak away, wondering how the gang members change, the way Rick said they do. How do they act once they suspect that the things they were taught and the people who taught them could be wrong? Even evil? Do they run away? Do they pretend to see nothing amiss?

  Or are they traitors?

  Like me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It’s too dark to get home through the orchard, so I run along the road. I send Dad a meandering, AddyDay-styled message about how my phone died while at the mock trial practice and how I’ll be home in ten minutes.

  Dad: I almost called the police.

  Me: I’m so dumb. I know you’re mad.

  Once home, I slow and catch my breath. As I open the front door, it creaks.

  “Salem?” Dad calls.

  Dad doesn’t need to hire gang members to come after me. He has access to me all the time. My chest hurts from so much tightness.

  Dad beats me to the door of my room. “Salem, don’t avoid me. I told you to be home hours ago.” He gives me a once-over. I ran almost three miles after leaving AddyDay’s, plus the several before that to get to her house. My ponytail feels awry and whatever make-up I had on has been sweated away.

  “You weren’t studying,” he accuses. “What were you doing?”

  I hesitate, unable to think of a quick lie. “Studying.”

  “Who gave you a ride home?”

  I don’t answer.

  His face clouds with dark suspicion. “Were you with Cordero? Are you dating him?”

  Fury erupts inside me. Dad’s the one who betrayed me and lied—lied so I don’t trust him enough. And I need help now. I need it. And I don’t trust Dad to give it to me.

  “I’m not dating anyone!” I shout.

  Dad feeds off my emotion, becoming more confident in his suspicions, becoming furious, yelling in my face. “Cordero is in the gang who went after your sister. How can you possibly hang out with him?”

  “I just said I didn’t see him!”

  Dad steps away from me, composing himself. His calm words are more threatening than ever. “I consider it my sole job as a parent to make sure you don’t go anywhere near Cordero Vasquez. Whatever kind of person you think he is, he has to do what his gang wants. That’s how it works.”

  I don’t answer. Cordero won’t do whatever his gang wants. He’ll take over the entire organization before he’ll do that.

  “I’m revoking your freedom. I will drop you off at school and pick you up from practice from now on,” Dad continues.

  I look up. I can’t let Dad monitor my every move. I have to meet Cordero at the overpass. “You don’t even get home from work that early.”

  “I’m going to take you to and from any after-school mock trial practices too. And no going near the union events.”

  “I can’t believe you!”

  I stomp to my room, furious but relieved somehow too. Dad is worried about me. That’s why he doesn’t want me to hang out with a gang. It has nothing to do with what I could learn from Cordero about secret grower meetings.

  I want to believe myself.

  ...

  I wake up the next day expecting police to break through the door and arrest Dad. Instead I hear the sound of his electric razor. So Officer Haynes is corrupt? Or he hasn’t found the tape yet?

  Dad takes me to school. On campus, my science teacher is in the crowded locker area, announcing that Verona High is on a partial lockdown. I’m told I need to get to class immediately.

  “All off-campus passes are suspended for the day, breaks between classes are shortened to two minutes, and lunch will be in the gym,” he announces.

  Did something happen? Another bomb?

  “Salem,” AddyDay calls from a few paces away. “How’d it go? Your dad?”

  I rush to her, backpack jostling. “I’m fine. What’s going on?”

  Before she can answer, her friend Marissa pushes between us, headed for the plaza, yelling, “Look, it’s a fight!” Onlookers shove so that I can barely see the group of boys throwing punches.

  “Go to class!” a campus hall monitor yells into a bullhorn, herding the crowd away.

  AddyDay and I struggle to stay together.

  “Another shooting,” AddyDay tells me as soon as we reach the outdoor quad and aren’t pressed by bodies. “Near Benjamin Road. And then, here at school, all these boys were blaming the growers or union about it. That’s what the fight’s about. It’s like the whole town’s going crazy.”

  “Did anyone die in the shooting?”

  “I don’t know. I checked Twitter, but it just happened. They’re saying the shooter was that ex-con guy you were asking about, the clown guy.”

  I bring my hand to my throat. “El Payaso.”

  “That’s the one who wants to hurt Cordero, isn’t it?”

  “Get to class!” bullhorn-guy shouts at us.

  I dig Cordero’s phone out of my backpack and give it to her. “I can’t go with you after practice. Dad’ll be watching. I’m grounded.”

  “You said you were fine.”

  “Well, I’m not dead.”

  That’s more than Carrie can say. Is it more than Cordero can say?

  I cover my stomach with my arms. No, he’d never be shot near Benjamin Road. He wouldn’t be stupid like that. He wouldn’t be.

  “Take him food and water, all right?” I say, refusing to believe he’s gone—gone the way Carrie is gone. I was in denial when she was killed too. I realize it’s not denial if he’s not dead, though. The thought confuses me, and I’m not sure what’s more delusional, thinking he’s dead or thinking he’s not.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” AddyDay calls as we part ways, wide eyes suggesting the opposite.

  I’m in a daze. The teachers are on edge. Classes go by, and I read news sites every chance I get. Three people landed in the hospital, including a baby. I consider the possibility that the Último gang is behind the shooting and this is just a random gang act of violence. But random violence is still violence. It still could have hurt Cordero. I reread the same articles over and over. I move to articles about the peach strike, looking for the news that Dad has been taken—abducted by police who have the authority to hold him in jail for murder. I can’t want that. But I can’t want Haynes to be corrupt. For AddyDay’s sake, I don’t even want the mayor involved.

  With no hope in any option, I feel like I’m trapped in a room getting smaller. Nearly every adult I’ve interacted with since Saturday night could have made it onto my list of suspects.

  During the mock trial class, Mr. White doesn’t let anyone talk, lecturing on courtroom procedure instead. I stare at his feathered hair and pleated pants, wondering if I should put him on the list. Slate catches my gaze several times. I should even be wary of him, but I can’t be—not when Carrie trusted him. Not when the longest day of school ever finally ends, and I find him waiting for me before cross-country practice starts.

  “I’m sorry,” Slate says immediately. We’re near the doors of the gym, which smells like sweat. The cross-country and girl’s tennis teams have both been assigned to stay inside for the entire practice.

  “I know you want to know what happened to Carrie.” He runs his hand over his bangs. “I just … did you listen to the recording?”

  I feel so safe around him, knowing Carrie trusted him. But I picture Cordero’s narrowed eyes and weigh my words. “Um, my dad … wasn’t at the peach grower’s meeting as long as he thought. He probably just remembered wrong. I turned it in to the police, like you wanted me to. Anonymously.”

  “I should have listened to it with you. After what happened, after the explosion Saturday … just like how Carrie died …”

  His voice breaks.

  “Boys,” Coach Johnny calls. “L
ine up under the hoop.”

  “That’s you,” I tell him.

  Slate glances at the coach and then back to me. “Salem, you can trust me, yeah?”

  “I … do,” I say.

  He’s suspended in a final glance at my face—like he’s verifying my confidence in him. Then he lines up to sprint across the court.

  No matter what, I want to know the evil that took Carrie. But I want to believe it didn’t come from someone she loved.

  ...

  After endless rounds of sprints and lunges across the gym, Dad picks me up. The drive is quiet. When upset, the Jefferson family exercises its silent treatment like it’s a major muscle group. Dad should have been questioned about his broken alibi by now. But I don’t want him questioned. Better to have Haynes be crooked than Dad a murderer. What if Haynes is just biding his time before he makes an arrest, though? How long until I can be confident that Dad is just … Dad?

  “Parental responsibility fulfilled,” Dad says once we’re home. “Go ahead and rot your brain out with television.”

  He means it as an olive branch.

  “I’ll be in my room,” I answer.

  He sets his briefcase on the table. “The forensic expert is scheduled to come Saturday.”

  I stop. “This Saturday?”

  He nods.

  I hesitate, then go to my room and lock the door.

  I sit on an ancient desk chair that weighs twenty pounds. Six days until the expert comes. Forty-three minutes until AddyDay is supposed to meet Cordero. Forty-three minutes until I might get some word of whether or not he’s alive. Forty-three minutes.

  Forty-three minutes.

  Forty-three minutes.

  Going crazy, I open my laptop and make a timeline of Carrie’s whereabouts the week of Juan’s death, starting with Wednesday.

  Wednesday, May 22

  Me track practice

  Dad ???

  Carrie birthday date & witnesses fist fight at Mission Plaza

  Slate birthday date & fist fight w/ Tito at Mission Plaza

  Cordero broke up fist fight at Mission Plaza

  I can’t think what any of this tells me. I start on the next day.

  Thursday, May 23

  Me track practice (got period)

  Dad track practice (to get me), spilled ice cream on shirt

  Carrie talked w/ me on phone while meeting w/ Rick Thornton

  Slate track practice (most likely)

  Cordero ???

  The following night is when Juan died, between seven and eight. It’s even sketchier.

  Friday, May 24

  Me track practice, watched Casablanca twice

  Dad left peach meeting early and then ??? (not home)

  Carrie buried Juan’s body, went to Mission Plaza

  Slate track practice (most likely)

  Cordero buried Juan’s body, took Carrie to Mission Plaza

  I put my fingers on the keypad with a sense of foreboding. I don’t want to make the last list. The events on the day of Carrie’s death.

  Saturday, August 10

  Me cross-country summer conditioning

  Dad left home early, said he drove to a business meeting in Reno

  Carrie drove me to school, someone threatened her, she tagged her own car, police came & left, explosion

  Slate cross-country summer conditioning

  Cordero at “gang meeting” with all Primeros

  I stare at Carrie’s name and the word explosion. If I had known what was worrying her, could I have gotten help? My paranoia flares. Got help from whom? Dad’s a suspect. Officer Haynes and Mayor Bill Knockwurst would be on the timeline too, except that I know so little about their actions that week there’s no point in including them.

  At 5:44, my phone rings, flashing AddyDay’s picture.

  “You’re going to meet Cordero now?” I answer. Sixteen minutes until six o’clock.

  “He’s safe.”

  The chair creaks as I lean back into it.

  “I got here early and he was waiting,” AddyDay continues. “He’s got his phone.”

  Sure enough, I get a text from the same number he used last Saturday. I’m hesitant to put Cordero down as a contact in case Dad goes digging through my phone. His response shows up unlabeled.

  Unknown: Benicio is coming Saturday.

  Benicio? As in Benicio de la Cruz, president of the farm laborer’s union? Maybe we can ask him about the victim, Juan.

  “Salem?” AddyDay’s voice sounds distant because I’m looking at the screen of my phone.

  “I’m here,” I say, putting it to my ear.

  “Did you know tomatoes are sprayed with pesticide that makes the workers’ hands get rashes? That’s what Cordero was doing today—picking tomatoes as an unregistered worker at some farm a few towns away. How is that legal? Okay, okay.” She sounds flustered. “Um, he wants me to focus. I had this idea he wants me to tell you about. Some workers he was talking to got a special invitation for this special union meeting within the Laborer’s March Saturday morning.”

  “Wait, that must have been what Envy was talking about,” I say. “She invited me.”

  “That’s Envy’s secret event? You got invited?” AddyDay says. I can’t tell if AddyDay sounds excited or jealous. “Everyone in the club is talking about it. I’ve been trying to get invited for days. Marissa and Katelyn are going.”

  “You’ll come with me,” I assure her. “I’ll tell Envy I’m bringing a friend.”

  I’ll have to ditch Dad’s monitoring somehow. He said I couldn’t go to any union events.

  I pause. “So Cordero’s okay? Just a rash on his hands?”

  “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “What? No.” I do want to talk to him, but I feel strange admitting it.

  After AddyDay and I hang up, I type a message to him. Texts are better than talking anyway. Texts don’t focus all of my attention on his voice, his accent, the temptation of meeting his eyes.

  Me: We heard about the shooting downtown. Are your friends safe?

  I have to wait several minutes, but I get an answer.

  Unknown: I don’t know.

  Me: Are you okay?

  I take the rubber band out of my hair and let my ponytail fall to my shoulders. I’m in Grandma’s house, the one I used to visit when I was girl. When my real house burned down, Dad and I had a place to go. Cordero—where’s his place?

  Unknown: I’m good.

  Me: Do you have a place to sleep?

  What am I doing? Inviting him over?

  Unknown: I am in a truck bed. That’s where the workers sleep.

  He’s obviously working at a place operating outside of the law—a place that doesn’t check papers. Cordero isn’t eighteen and he’s not with a parent, so technically, he’s not allowed in the fields even if he’s documented, which I don’t know. I’ve never asked anyone before if they’re illegal. It’d be like asking if he wore boxers or briefs.

  Boxers. It’s not my fault I know that. He sags his jeans.

  Me: How many hours will your phone battery last?

  I lie down in bed. My muscles cry out in exhaustion after today’s sprints, but I don’t give in to sleepiness.

  Unknown: 24 hours more or less. I should turn my phone off to conserve it.

  Me: Be careful

  I sound lame. I think of what Carrie would say.

  Me: Violence is for the unimaginative.

  I’m trying to tease him, I think. Maybe he’ll think I’m accusing him of something.

  No answer comes. I worry and feel embarrassed as my shoulders relax into the edge of my pillow. My thoughts wander to Juan Herrera, beaten to death. That kind of murder would come from someone who is angry and vengeful—and physically capable of besting Juan. Who fits that description? Dad’s not beefy and strong. He’s a runner, just like me. Mr. White is even thinner, and short too. Mayor Knockwurst is by far the most likely suspect. He’s probably 6'3" and not fat, just big.

&nbs
p; I shift on the mattress. At least we have a plan. It’s not a great one, and it doesn’t give us much time, but it’s a plan. Locate President Benicio de la Cruz at the Laborer’s March to find out if he has any information about Juan that can help our investigation. Then follow the growers from the mock trial to their secret meeting before the Laborer’s Rally ends—preferably before someone attacks it. The bomb threat could be a prank, of course, but I can’t treat it like that. Not when Carrie died in an explosion.

  It occurs to me that if I sneak out to go to the Laborer’s March in Verona on Saturday morning, Dad might not give me a ride to the mock trial in Sacramento later that day. If he figures out I’m snooping around grower secrets, he can keep me away from their secret meeting. Mayor Knockwurst could do the same to AddyDay. And what about Cordero? How is he going to get to Sacramento?

  I send Slate a text.

  Me: Dad might be busy Saturday. Are you driving to Sacramento? Could I get a ride with you? And maybe AddyDay too?

  I fight my heavy limbs and stand, stretching. Cordero can’t hitch a ride with Slate. They hate each other. A quick search through my mock trial paperwork gives me teammate Marissa’s number.

  Me: Coordinating rides. Could you take one of the guys to Sacramento Saturday?

  I lie down and slip into sleep until my phone vibrates three times.

  Marissa: Do you think it might end up being Slate who needs a ride? Because I ABSOLUTELY will have a spot open.

  Slate : I’m going with Philip. He says there’s room for both of you. Hope to see you.

  Unknown: Fine, I’ll be imaginative. Just for you, I’ll imagine this truck bed is filled with secrets to winning the mock trial.

  Cordero did understand I was teasing him. He teased back.

  I fall asleep smiling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ispend the week balanced on frayed nerves, convinced something awful will happen, like that Haynes will arrest Dad or Cordero’s lifeless picture will appear in the news.