didn’t know anything. They were amazed when I told them I didn’t even know they had a son the same age as Toshiko.”
Mom looked at him with this look that said, You’re always out drinking and never come home, that’s why. The whole thing was too much, so I tossed the newspaper on the table and was about to go upstairs to my room. Dad looked over reproachfully at the scattered paper.
“Toshiko. What happened to your bike? It’s not outside.”
“Yeah, what happened was…I parked it in the parking lot at the station but it got stolen.”
“Why don’t you report it? The place is swarming with cops.”
Dad chuckled at his little joke but soon turned serious.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We wouldn’t find it anyway. Sometimes people just use bikes and bring them back to the parking lot. Whoever took it will bring it back.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
Dad didn’t seem to care one way or another. You’re so careless! Mom would normally have yelled at this point, but she was preoccupied, boiling noodles, slicing ham, preparing a late supper for us. As I walked up the stairs I could hear my parents talking, keeping their voices down so I couldn’t catch anything. I stopped halfway up the stairs to eavesdrop.
“The inside of the house is apparently a wreck,” Dad said. “The glass door to the bathroom was shattered when the woman was thrown against it, and she was covered in blood.”
“I don’t doubt it. They said her skull was bashed in by a baseball bat.”
“What could possibly have made him do it?”
“He must have gone crazy. He took off his bloody T-shirt, they said, and put it in the laundry. He must have calmly changed his clothes and then gone out. I can’t believe it—a wimpy little boy like that.”
“Boys are strong,” Dad said. “He might be skinny, but boys that age are stronger than you’d imagine. And they don’t know how to control themselves. I’m sure glad we had a girl.”
“What a terrible thing to say. That’s kind of self-centered, don’t you think?”
Chastened, my father said, “Guess you’re right. Sorry.”
I sat down on my bed and called my cell phone from my room phone. “Hi,” a young guy answered. Damn, I thought. In the background I could hear the roar of trains going by. He was outside.
“You’re the person who found my cell phone.”
“I’m not sure if ‘found’ is the right word,” he said.
The guy seemed hesitant. His voice sounded similar to the one that had said, “Sure is hot.”
“Where did you find it?” I asked.
“In the bike basket.”
Was this the person who stole my bike? My blood began to boil.
“Did you steal my bike?”
“Stole, or borrowed—I’m not sure how to put it.”
“That’s my phone and I want it back. If you don’t return it you won’t be able to use it anyway ’cause I’ll stop the service. And I want you to give my bike back. I need it.”
“I’m sorry,” the guy apologized.
“One other thing. Are you the boy next door?”
All of a sudden the phone clicked off. I hit redial but he didn’t pick up. I kept on calling, my knees shaking. I was starting to suspect that the guy who stole my cell phone and bicycle was Worm. Finally I left a message.
“This is Toshiko Yamanaka. I want you to return my cell phone and bike. My home phone number is under Home on the cell, so call me there. Between nine a.m. and noon I’m home alone, don’t worry. Please call me. I’ll tell you something else, ’cause I think you’re the boy next door. The police are looking for you. I think you know why. It has nothing to do with me, but it was a shock to hear about your mother. I feel sorry for her. I probably won’t say anything to them, but I don’t really know what I should do.”
I left this message on the phone, and felt depressed afterward.
* * *
That night I couldn’t sleep well. I dozed off and had some weird dreams. The one I remember the most is this:
The woman next door was in
Mom looked at him with this look that said, You’re always out drinking and never come home, that’s why. The whole thing was too much, so I tossed the newspaper on the table and was about to go upstairs to my room. Dad looked over reproachfully at the scattered paper.
“Toshiko. What happened to your bike? It’s not outside.”
“Yeah, what happened was…I parked it in the parking lot at the station but it got stolen.”
“Why don’t you report it? The place is swarming with cops.”
Dad chuckled at his little joke but soon turned serious.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We wouldn’t find it anyway. Sometimes people just use bikes and bring them back to the parking lot. Whoever took it will bring it back.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
Dad didn’t seem to care one way or another. You’re so careless! Mom would normally have yelled at this point, but she was preoccupied, boiling noodles, slicing ham, preparing a late supper for us. As I walked up the stairs I could hear my parents talking, keeping their voices down so I couldn’t catch anything. I stopped halfway up the stairs to eavesdrop.
“The inside of the house is apparently a wreck,” Dad said. “The glass door to the bathroom was shattered when the woman was thrown against it, and she was covered in blood.”
“I don’t doubt it. They said her skull was bashed in by a baseball bat.”
“What could possibly have made him do it?”
“He must have gone crazy. He took off his bloody T-shirt, they said, and put it in the laundry. He must have calmly changed his clothes and then gone out. I can’t believe it—a wimpy little boy like that.”
“Boys are strong,” Dad said. “He might be skinny, but boys that age are stronger than you’d imagine. And they don’t know how to control themselves. I’m sure glad we had a girl.”
“What a terrible thing to say. That’s kind of self-centered, don’t you think?”
Chastened, my father said, “Guess you’re right. Sorry.”
I sat down on my bed and called my cell phone from my room phone. “Hi,” a young guy answered. Damn, I thought. In the background I could hear the roar of trains going by. He was outside.
“You’re the person who found my cell phone.”
“I’m not sure if ‘found’ is the right word,” he said.
The guy seemed hesitant. His voice sounded similar to the one that had said, “Sure is hot.”
“Where did you find it?” I asked.
“In the bike basket.”
Was this the person who stole my bike? My blood began to boil.
“Did you steal my bike?”
“Stole, or borrowed—I’m not sure how to put it.”
“That’s my phone and I want it back. If you don’t return it you won’t be able to use it anyway ’cause I’ll stop the service. And I want you to give my bike back. I need it.”
“I’m sorry,” the guy apologized.
“One other thing. Are you the boy next door?”
All of a sudden the phone clicked off. I hit redial but he didn’t pick up. I kept on calling, my knees shaking. I was starting to suspect that the guy who stole my cell phone and bicycle was Worm. Finally I left a message.
“This is Toshiko Yamanaka. I want you to return my cell phone and bike. My home phone number is under Home on the cell, so call me there. Between nine a.m. and noon I’m home alone, don’t worry. Please call me. I’ll tell you something else, ’cause I think you’re the boy next door. The police are looking for you. I think you know why. It has nothing to do with me, but it was a shock to hear about your mother. I feel sorry for her. I probably won’t say anything to them, but I don’t really know what I should do.”
I left this message on the phone, and felt depressed afterward.
* * *
That night I couldn’t sleep well. I dozed off and had some weird dreams. The one I remember the most is this:
The woman next door was in
Similar Books
Lorie's Heart
Amy Lillard
Here With Me (Paloma's Edge)
Robin Shaw
Life's Work
Jonathan Valin
Little Miss Stoneybrook...and Dawn
Ann M. Martin
Beckett's Cinderella
Dixie Browning
The Post-Humans (Book 1): The League
Thurston Bassett
Shadows of the Moon (Black Wolf Agency Book 2)
Jessica Swan
Love's Odyssey
Jane Toombs
Blond Baboon
Janwillem van de Wetering
Unscrupulous
Avery Aster