Bianca Torre Is Afraid of Everything, page 7
“Absolutely.” I pull away and shift to sit cross-legged. “We can even look up some classes or something to try together. Or just YouTube our way through it to save money.”
“I’ll think about it.” He lifts the diary. “And as much as I appreciate this conversation, we probably should get back to the murder.”
I blush. I was so excited, I sort of completely forgot that we were doing that in the first place.
“Okay, where were we . . . here.” Anderson points at the open page. “Before these threats happened, he was investigating this company called VQ. Apparently, his nephew was a part of it but wanted out, and then his nephew went missing.”
That’s big news. I didn’t even know Mr. Conspiracy had a nephew. Not that I would have. It’s just still a little weird to think of him as someone with a family.
“That’s extreme. Wouldn’t he just go to the cops?”
Anderson scans some lines. “He did. They thought his nephew blocked him and he was a paranoid weirdo, so they didn’t take him seriously.”
I can believe it.
“Well . . . VQ?” I ask. “What else did he say about it?”
“Not much,” Anderson says. “I mean, he might have left this book for you if he knew they were coming after him. But would he give you information they killed him for? I’d hope not.”
That’s fair. Maybe Mr. Conspiracy had no other choice than to reach out to me. Even if it gave the killer a chance to find this diary first. Going on what I know about Mr. Conspiracy, he would probably have backups of information, and spend a lot of energy in hiding the most important evidence. Based on the state of his apartment, he tracked everything. I don’t think he’d be careless.
Although it definitely doesn’t help my anxiety with getting involved knowing that looking into this group was likely the cause of his death.
“You said his nephew went missing?” I peer over Anderson’s shoulder to the book. “We can start there. He must have some information on that.”
Anderson nods, flipping through the diary until he seems satisfied with the notes on one of the pages. “Okay, here is a bit of a time line. It was last September that his nephew—I guess his name is Nate?—got involved with this VQ. He disappeared January of this year, and no one seems to know anything.”
Anderson reaches up for his laptop on the bed and hands it to me. “See if you can find anything on him.”
I type the name into Google, but don’t get any promising results. “Nothing on Nate Lebedev. Or Nathan or Nathaniel. He might have had a different last name from Mr. Conspiracy.”
Anderson groans. “Why can’t anything be easy?”
“Back to the time line, though. Is there anything about why he immediately thought it was these VQ people? What if Nate did just . . . run away?”
Anderson’s eyes don’t lift from the diary, although he nods when I speak. He must have real skills in speed-reading—he flips through the pages, appearing to absorb the information quickly when I can only get a few sentences.
“Apparently, everyone else seemed to think that was the case,” he mutters. “Nate was twenty-four, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t go off on his own. According to this, he left a note. But Mr. Conspiracy was convinced he didn’t actually write it.”
My chest tightens. While it is possible that Nate really did write a note and skip town, it feels a little too similar to what happened with Mr. Conspiracy.
After all, he left a note too.
“Okay, okay, let’s write what we know so far.” I set aside the laptop and pull out a notebook from my bag. Opening it to a clean page, I start to jot down information.
September—Nate joins VQ.
January—Nate goes missing, leaves (possibly fake) note.
Jan–Feb—Mr. Conspiracy starts investigating VQ.
November—Mr. Conspiracy is murdered.
Anderson looks it over and nods. “Cool, so we need to figure out who is behind this VQ, and prove that they killed Mr. Conspiracy, and possibly also his nephew.”
I swallow. “And not get killed in the meantime.”
“Definitely a major goal, yes.” Anderson stretches his arms over his head. “I think we should talk to some of the neighbors. Maybe tomorrow? It’s getting late.”
“Wait, how late?” I ask.
Before he can even answer, I rush to my phone, where I have ten unread messages, two missed calls, and an Instagram DM from Kate.
“I promised my sister I’d run lines with her. I better go.”
“No worries,” Anderson says, closing the diary. “Like I said, let’s pick this back up tomorrow. I can try to find Nate’s actual identity too.”
“Cool, text me if you get anything.”
“You got it.”
I gather my things. “Good night, nerd.”
He rolls his eyes. “Night, weeb.”
I walk out of the apartment, after giving a quick goodbye and thank you to Ronan, and start to head in the direction of the stairs. I don’t look toward Mr. Conspiracy’s empty apartment. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.
Ten
Queer Kids Love English Class
I didn’t read a single additional word of The Catcher in the Rye, but I somehow managed to put together a data sheet using three different YouTube videos and the SparkNotes website. It’s not a direct copy-paste, but I’m certainly hoping Ms. Richards doesn’t read too closely. I turned it in at the start of class, and I haven’t been able to pay attention since. My leg bounces in my chair, hitting the underside of my desk. It’s obvious I did everything last night at one thirty a.m., but I had more pressing issues on my mind.
And Kate forcing me to run lines from the show. She’s basically word and lyric perfect. I’m starting to think she likes to see me suffer.
I still have the lyrics of “Suddenly Seymour” stuck in my head.
The day’s been dragging on, but at the same time, my stomach is tight and I nearly sprinted to the bathroom after first and second period. After school, Anderson and I agreed to talk to some of his neighbors to see if anyone noticed or heard something that night, or if they might know anything about Mr. Conspiracy or his nephew.
And the thought of all that talking really irritates my stomach.
Fear #6: Initiating Conversation
Not just initiating in this case—the whole conversation part makes me want to rush home and bury my face into Puck’s fur until she bites me.
Fear #57: Having to Talk to Anyone I Don’t Already Know Well
Especially about a murder. That I witnessed. Because I spy on half of the residents.
I place my hand beneath my belly button, where my insides let out a disturbing low groan. Will probably have to run to the bathroom once this class finally ends too.
My phone lights up from where it sits on my lap.
I casually open it to see the message.
Anderson: u good?
Anderson: u look like ur gonna throw up
I try to keep my attention focused on the themes Ms. Richards talks about on the board while typing out a response with one hand.
I’m fine
General anxiety nausea
still on for later?
I’m looking down at my lap way too often, but maybe Ms. Richards doesn’t notice.
Anderson: for sure
It’s kind of weird. I’ve never texted anyone in class before. It’s nice, even if I feel so guilty, I have to slide my phone into my hoodie pocket with the screen facing in like I’m giving it a time-out.
I press my palms to my jeans because they are basically always clammy—maybe I should ask Dad if that could be a medical issue—and rub them back and forth until the skin burns a little. I keep my blank stare at the board, the dry erase letters going blurry, and try to breathe.
The bell chimes.
Thank God.
“Oh, Bianca,” Ms. Richards says, “stay behind for a minute, all right?”
This is why I’m an atheist.
Anderson makes a face at me, teeth clenched like I’m in trouble, before walking out into the hallway.
The room empties as I gather my things and approach Ms. Richards’s desk.
She’s put together, with a nice blouse and fitted black pants, but wears a blue leather jacket and dark purple lipstick that probably has some of the other teachers talking about her.
“Yes?” I ask.
Is that a bad way to address someone? I mean, it’s got to be better than What do you want?
“I want to check in,” Ms. Richards says. “Your mom had mentioned that you actually witnessed what happened to your neighbor.”
My teeth dig into the inside of my lip. Why would Mom tell the school that? Telling them about his death was bad enough, and she should have talked to me first. How do I even respond? I certainly can’t go around saying it was a murder before we even have evidence.
Plus, if I do admit what I saw, they’ll definitely make me talk to a counselor or something, and that’s the last thing I need with everything going on.
“I didn’t see much,” I say. “My mom can be dramatic. I only saw the ambulance arrive.”
I don’t know if it’s a convincing lie, but I hope my fear of opening up and having to deal with the school’s idea of “helping me” can outweigh my trash lying skills.
Ms. Richards’s lips are tight. “Hmm. Okay, good. I just wouldn’t want this to affect your grades. You’ve already failed the last three reading quizzes.”
I swallow. I didn’t think witnessing a murder would be the thing that causes me to get called out for my lack of effort. It isn’t like I’m failing my classes. I generally stay in the B or C range. Normally, teachers don’t really care what I’m up to, as I stay relatively unnoticed.
“Look, Bianca, I understand you are probably going through a lot,” Ms. Richards says. “You experienced something traumatic. But I am here to help you, and I think if you put some effort in, you’ll find you can succeed.”
I blink.
I don’t think a teacher has ever seen me as the kid-who-could-succeed. I’ve gotten kid-who-is-really-different-from-Kate before fading into the average-enough-to-not-bother zone, but that’s about it.
It would almost be nice, if I wasn’t itching for the conversation to end.
Ms. Richards continues. “You remind me a lot of my high school self. Just getting by under the radar. But colleges like to see that extra work. Going above and beyond.”
“I’m going to community college,” I say. “I think my GPA is fine.”
Ms. Richards nods.
A long moment passes.
“It would be nice . . .” She chooses the words carefully, picking them like flowers. “. . . To see you have some drive. Passion.”
“I have passion,” I say automatically, even though it comes out like a question. The look on Ms. Richards’s face implies that she catches that, and I go for a desperate recovery. “I like birds.”
Her mouth parts slightly, a crease between her eyebrows forming.
“Birdwatching,” I say. “I’m part of a club and everything. The Greater Los Angeles Ornithological Enthusiasts. We meet every week and have a group chat now.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Ms. Richards says. “Maybe your admissions essay could delve into your experience in the club? We can probably push it as both community service and an extracurricular.”
I give her a look, even though I kind of appreciate her willingness to help.
“Community college, Ms. Richards.”
She forces a smile. “Right. I’m sorry.” She sighs. “Like I said, I see a lot of myself in you, so I’m projecting, and that’s not fair. I missed my chance to go to a great school on a scholarship because I wanted to follow a girl to Ohio University.”
I stare at her. Probably a little too long. “A girl?” I blurt. “Like romantically?”
Ms. Richards looks a little taken aback at first, but she smiles through it. “Yes.”
My face goes hot. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, like, I’m super gay and only, like, Anderson and my sister know and to hear you say that is really cool.”
Why is it that I come out through rambling?
She lights up a little.
“There’s no rush to tell everyone,” Ms. Richards says. “I didn’t until I was in college. But thank you for confiding in me, Bianca. I’m available if you ever need anyone to talk.” She thinks for a second before adding. “Assuming it’s appropriate. I am your teacher first.”
As if I would be able to ask an adult woman anything inappropriate. When Anderson and I watch an anime episode with a little too much fanservice, I’m a blushing mess.
It’s really cool that Ms. Richards is queer though. I’ve barely talked to any openly queer people about this stuff before, let alone a functioning adult one. That’s goals, right there. I get she was just trying to be nice because my mom called about me seeing a dead neighbor, but I appreciate what she’s doing.
“Thank you,” I say, continuing to rub my palms on my jeans. “Really.”
The next group of kids start coming in a little closer to her desk, so Ms. Richards nods. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Let me know how the birding group on Saturday goes, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say with a real smile. “I will.”
With one last goodbye, I turn out of the classroom. As much as I’d prefer not to be faced with a murderer on the loose, maybe something good came out of it.
Between Anderson and Ms. Richards, it’s like I’m not so alone.
Eleven
Watch Your Back
I stand outside Anderson’s apartment door and try to keep my breathing slow. I count the breaths. In . . . there’s no need to have a panic attack right now . . . out . . . it’s cool don’t think about talking to people too much . . . in . . . Anderson will be there with you . . . out . . . so calm down okay?
The last thing I want to do is throw up outside my only friend’s doorway.
I lift my shaking hand and knock.
After a few moments, the door opens to reveal Mrs. Coleman. Her brown skin doesn’t have a single wrinkle, and she looks great in a soft pink blouse I could never be feminine enough to pull off.
“Hi, Bianca,” she says with a smile. “Anderson said you were coming over. It’s nice to see you on a weekday.”
“You too, Mrs. Coleman.” It’s nice to see her in general.
She pulls me in for a hug before ushering me in and closing the door. Ronan’s on the couch and sticks his hand up to give me a wave.
“Hey, Ronan,” I say.
“Want some tea? Water? Soda?” Mrs. Coleman already starts toward the kitchen like my only option is yes.
“I’m okay, thank you.”
“Anderson!” Mrs. Coleman yells, pouring a glass of water. “Bianca’s here!”
She hands me a glass of water, and I drink it because I guess I did want water. I’m at their house. They could give me a cup of bleach and I’d politely accept. Plus, I probably haven’t been hydrating enough; my lips are pretty chapped. “Thank you.”
Fear #31: Being Rude
Kind of goes hand in hand with not liking confrontation.
Anderson steps from around the corner. “I was in the bathroom, sorry.” He changed into black jeans and a button-up shirt that’s nicer than the usual anime tees and school sportswear. Not sure my jeans and baggy T-shirt with a cat on it gives the same effect.
“No worries,” I say.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
I nervously glance down at the cup of water. I drink a few more gulps and cautiously walk over to the sink, hoping I can leave it there. As much time as I’ve spent here, we’ve never really had dinner or anything that allowed me to learn the rules for dishes.
“See you soon,” Mrs. Coleman says. “Be safe and call me if you need anything.”
She kisses Anderson’s head, and we start toward the door.
“Later,” Ronan calls without looking up from his phone.
We exit into the hallway and I go back to regulating my breath. Maybe I should take up Mom and Kate on their offer to do some breathing exercises with me.
“All right, well, let’s start with what’s close,” Anderson says, walking across the hall to another apartment.
Before I can say anything, he knocks on the door.
It’s opened by a white woman who looks to be in her forties.
She eyes Anderson and me. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Anderson says. “We’re friends of Steven Lebedev, who lived right across the hall. We have some questions about the day he passed, looking for some closure.”
Smart to use his real name.
“I don’t know him.” Her expression is pinched.
“If you have a moment, maybe you saw or heard . . .” Anderson adds.
She looks directly at him. “I’m going to call the cops; you’re trespassing on private property.”
“Excuse me? He lives . . .” I start, but she’s already slamming the door in our faces.
“That went well,” Anderson jokes, before moving on. “Way to back me up.”
I open my mouth, and an acidic burp comes out. I should have brought my Pepto. “You know I’m not good with speaking.”
Anderson puts a hand on my shoulder. “You tried. She seems like the kind of woman who doesn’t wear masks in pandemics and freaks out at people in customer service.” He shakes his head. “On the bright side, I know building management.”
“Speaking as a white woman, it’s basically a fact that rich white women are the worst,” I say. “I worked a summer job at my uncle’s gelato shop. This is from experience.”
It’s true. I cried three times at that job, and all three were caused by rude white women in nice cars coming from their plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills or whatever they do in their free time besides harassing underpaid teenagers.
“You are preaching to the choir,” Anderson says. “Hopefully the next one goes better.”
There’s no one at the next door over, so we cross the hall, past Mr. Conspiracy’s apartment to the next door. Apartment 204.
