Teaser. Burt Weissbourd
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Название: Teaser
Автор: Burt Weissbourd
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Триллеры
Серия: The Corey Logan Novels #2
isbn: 9781940207841
isbn:
On his break he stepped outside. Under a tree Teaser stuck the point of a plastic toothpick under his thumbnail. He watched it disappear under his skin. Later he pressed on his nail, wondering how to let the bad blood out. When he raised his thumb it caught the moonlight, and he thought he saw a little blue line.
The Logan-Steins lived on 14th Avenue East, near Roy. After serious negotiating—Corey wanted Ballard, a port-oriented neighborhood; Abe favored downtown, or anywhere close—they compromised on Capitol Hill. It was an older residential area ten minutes from downtown. Capitol Hill had a mix of grand old homes, wood-framed houses, stucco, brick—apartments, condos, commercial—a little bit of everything. It was also a comfortable mix of families, seniors, students, and singles and couples of every sexual orientation. Fifteenth Avenue East, with its busy stretch of neighborhood shops, markets, and restaurants, parted the hill at its highest point. Five blocks below, Broadway was an artery, pumping life through the Hill. Pike Street, a trendy, though still-funky, commercial and nightlife center, ran down the south slope. Part of Capitol Hill’s charm was the tree-lined residential streets so close to the shops, the cafes, the fringe theaters, the lakes and the leather bars. Volunteer Park, with its cruising gay men and pick-up frisbee games, fronted some of the oldest mansions in Seattle.
Their street was quiet, mostly three and four-bedroom Victorians, with a sprinkling of condos. At their corner the rundown stone mansion was often for sale. They piled out of the pick-up at 9:00 p.m.
“You got homework?” Abe asked Billy.
“Not much.”
And then they were home. The Logan-Steins’ traditional, wood-framed house had been built in 1927. The day they bought it, Corey insisted that it be repainted. She chose grey, then forest green trim. Inside, the walnut woodwork was kept as perfectly as the trim on her 1930s hardtop wooden yacht, the Jenny Ann II.
“Sit,” Corey said to Billy. She lit a fire in their fireplace, then sat on the stone hearth facing him. “What’s a bisexual support group?”
Billy frowned. “Mom, you didn’t start in on that, did you? It’s like Toby’s new big thing.”
“Why?” Corey asked, confounded.
“Why what?”
She took a measured breath. “Nevermind. You still like Olympic?”
“It’s okay.” Billy shrugged. “You picked it.”
“When I got out of jail, you were failing two courses in public school. Most days, you weren’t showing up. We needed to do something. We couldn’t get you into Northwest, or University Prep. Olympic was new. They meant well…” Corey let it go; she was rationalizing.
“And now he’s getting good grades and showing up,” Abe pointed out.
“I’m not bisexual, mom. I don’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. And I still miss Morgan. Okay?”
Corey held back a smile. “Okay…have you heard from her?”
“Just an email, maybe two weeks ago. She loves New York City. She’s not coming back for Christmas. She didn’t ask me to come out there either. I’m sure she’s got a new boyfriend.”
“Did you respond to her email?”
“Not yet.”
Corey bit her tongue, pretty sure that Morgan was still Billy’s girl. A mom’s intuition, she was well aware, but she knew what she knew. And, she knew to stay out of it. Corey changed the subject, “Oh, here’s Aaron’s phone number.” She handed him the napkin. “He’s at his grandmother’s.”
“That’s weird.” He shrugged. “I’ll try again.” Billy loped up the stairs.
Corey watched him, silently offering thanks that family night came just once a year.
“Cor, why are you so down on Olympic?” Abe asked after Billy was in his room upstairs. He was facing the fire, comfortably settled into their worn couch.
Corey came over, unsure how to answer. She sank into the couch beside him. Just thinking about this made her tense. Eventually she turned. “I’m worried, I guess, that something’s not working at that school.”
“What are you thinking?”
She wasn’t sure. “Okay. At Olympic they have like their own very demanding little world: character contracts, a social justice club, anything and everything to get into an Ivy League college. And in this world, everything is supposed to be a certain way. Fine. I could live with that,” she hesitated, “except they don’t get it about kids.” She took another moment. “I mean teenagers are supposed to bounce around. They’re confused… You and I expect that.” She watched him nod; sure, of course. “At Olympic, the adults expect the kids to be, I dunno, fully formed…” Corey just stopped, unable to fathom this. “Since when are kids supposed to know what to believe, what to eat, even—for Godsake—how to feel?” And leaning in, “When I was growing up, I didn’t know anything.” She made a rueful face; it was true. “What I did, I learned to start with what’s real. Including the bad stuff. They start with what they think something should be. It’s the opposite of what I do. I think that’s the problem—I’m not like them. And I don’t want my son to be like them either.”
“People who send their children to private schools aren’t all the same—”
“Okay, maybe it’s me. I’m different. I mean I think it’s fine if Billy goes to a community college. I don’t really know what a start up is. And I like hot dogs. These people make me feel like I should apologize for those things.” Corey sat back, frowning.
“Cor—” Abe brought her back.
“Sorry. Bear with me. I’m starting to get this. What I think is that at Olympic, they hand down all these ideas about how to be, they tell these kids what they should feel, then they leave them to work it out on their own. I mean they made Billy sign a contract about being a good person, told him ‘bisexuality was an option,’ but no one notices when he’s lonely or low. It scares me. There’s no safety net. No regular, reliable, grounded conversation. The grown-ups come on so righteous, so certain of where these kids need to go, what they need to be, and then they don’t even see it when a kid feels bad.”
Abe was looking at the fire. “What’s worse,” he turned, “I’m afraid the kids know that.”
“Yeah, they do. He’s my son, Abe. No one in my family has ever gone to college. His grandmother raised me on a fishing boat…”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Seventeen. Same as Billy. And don’t start that psycho mumbo jumbo with me.”
“Right.”
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