dizzy feeling.
More than anything I wanted to call up Maria and tell her. Better yet, I wanted to sleep over at her house and whisper secrets until just before the sun came up. How many times had we talked about what it would be like, losing our virginity? We’d pored over articles in Cosmo together, laughing uproariously, and tried to imagine what sex would feel like. What if our bodies made funny sounds, or if things didn’t fit where they were supposed to? How, exactly, did you know if you were any good at i t? Maria had always had more experience than I did. She was the one with the older brother who explained abou t blowjobs and safe sex. She’d F rench kissed three guys, and let one feel her up. She’d hooked up with a guy at a party who asked her to put her hand in his pants. Now I was the experienced one, the one with the giggly confession to make, and I was all alone.
I went online and found the San Francisco Chronicle’s web site, where I did a search for my name. Two articles popped up. The first, on page one of the local section, was dated the previous day: Honor Student Found Dead. A headline I’d seen dozens of times before, but this time it was about me. I skimmed the article. Body discovered in alley, apparently strangled, police are investigating, blah blah blah. The reporter had mispelled my mother’s name, but otherwise the details were right. “Such a bright girl,” said Mr. Akiyama, my ninth grade math teacher. “What a terrible shame.” A quote from Isabel Leigh, a popular classmate who’d barely spoken to me before: “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. I’ve been crying all day long.” Thanks, Isabel. What that girl wouldn’t do to get her name in the paper.
According to the last paragraph, the funeral was scheduled for Saturday – tomorrow morning – at St. Michael’s. Though the room was warm, I shivered. So I would have a chance to attend my own funeral. How many people could say that?
I clicked on the second article, dated today, and gasped aloud. Library Employee Questioned in Murder Case. “Police say 27-year-old Otto Prelinger was the last person to see Lumley alive. ” At least, according to the story, they hadn’t actually arrested him yet. I’d watched enough crime shows to figure that he’d be okay once the DNA evidence came back and proved it wasn’t him. Still, it hurt to think about what Otto and his family must be going through right now.
I scrawled down the name of the detective quoted in the article, logged off the Internet, and rushed into the bedroom to change my clothes. God, poor Otto. He’d done me a favor, and look where it’d gotten him.
I had to do something to help.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the bedroom, I scanned Sarah’s collection of miniskirts and belly-baring tops for something that would force a cop to take me seriously. I tried and rejected half a dozen outfits before I settled on a long, pencil-slim hound’s tooth skirt and a crisp white cotton shirt. I modeled my choice in the mirror, striking various poses; I looked like a sexy schoolteacher, slender and stylish. No wonder Sarah loved to shop. Everything looked great on her. I hadn’t had so much fun playing dress-up since I’d packed away my Barbies.
I hadn’t forgotten my concern for Otto, though, or my desire to see Ricky in prison. I slipped on a pair of low heels and headed for the bus stop.
I spent the ride to the police station going over and over my story. I couldn’t exactly march in and blurt out the truth – they’d lock me up and throw away the key. By the time the bus chugged and lurched into my old neighborhood, I thought I had a pretty good plan.
At the front counter, I asked for Detective Todd. After a short wait he appeared, an African-American man in his early 30s. As he shook my hand, I caught him giving me an appreciative once-over. So even the law wasn’t immune to Sarah’s physical charms. Good. Maybe it would help me make my case.
“Ms.
More than anything I wanted to call up Maria and tell her. Better yet, I wanted to sleep over at her house and whisper secrets until just before the sun came up. How many times had we talked about what it would be like, losing our virginity? We’d pored over articles in Cosmo together, laughing uproariously, and tried to imagine what sex would feel like. What if our bodies made funny sounds, or if things didn’t fit where they were supposed to? How, exactly, did you know if you were any good at i t? Maria had always had more experience than I did. She was the one with the older brother who explained abou t blowjobs and safe sex. She’d F rench kissed three guys, and let one feel her up. She’d hooked up with a guy at a party who asked her to put her hand in his pants. Now I was the experienced one, the one with the giggly confession to make, and I was all alone.
I went online and found the San Francisco Chronicle’s web site, where I did a search for my name. Two articles popped up. The first, on page one of the local section, was dated the previous day: Honor Student Found Dead. A headline I’d seen dozens of times before, but this time it was about me. I skimmed the article. Body discovered in alley, apparently strangled, police are investigating, blah blah blah. The reporter had mispelled my mother’s name, but otherwise the details were right. “Such a bright girl,” said Mr. Akiyama, my ninth grade math teacher. “What a terrible shame.” A quote from Isabel Leigh, a popular classmate who’d barely spoken to me before: “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. I’ve been crying all day long.” Thanks, Isabel. What that girl wouldn’t do to get her name in the paper.
According to the last paragraph, the funeral was scheduled for Saturday – tomorrow morning – at St. Michael’s. Though the room was warm, I shivered. So I would have a chance to attend my own funeral. How many people could say that?
I clicked on the second article, dated today, and gasped aloud. Library Employee Questioned in Murder Case. “Police say 27-year-old Otto Prelinger was the last person to see Lumley alive. ” At least, according to the story, they hadn’t actually arrested him yet. I’d watched enough crime shows to figure that he’d be okay once the DNA evidence came back and proved it wasn’t him. Still, it hurt to think about what Otto and his family must be going through right now.
I scrawled down the name of the detective quoted in the article, logged off the Internet, and rushed into the bedroom to change my clothes. God, poor Otto. He’d done me a favor, and look where it’d gotten him.
I had to do something to help.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the bedroom, I scanned Sarah’s collection of miniskirts and belly-baring tops for something that would force a cop to take me seriously. I tried and rejected half a dozen outfits before I settled on a long, pencil-slim hound’s tooth skirt and a crisp white cotton shirt. I modeled my choice in the mirror, striking various poses; I looked like a sexy schoolteacher, slender and stylish. No wonder Sarah loved to shop. Everything looked great on her. I hadn’t had so much fun playing dress-up since I’d packed away my Barbies.
I hadn’t forgotten my concern for Otto, though, or my desire to see Ricky in prison. I slipped on a pair of low heels and headed for the bus stop.
I spent the ride to the police station going over and over my story. I couldn’t exactly march in and blurt out the truth – they’d lock me up and throw away the key. By the time the bus chugged and lurched into my old neighborhood, I thought I had a pretty good plan.
At the front counter, I asked for Detective Todd. After a short wait he appeared, an African-American man in his early 30s. As he shook my hand, I caught him giving me an appreciative once-over. So even the law wasn’t immune to Sarah’s physical charms. Good. Maybe it would help me make my case.
“Ms.
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