because I can’t risk leaving them in the garbage can. Murphy’s Law says that if I do, this will be the week a freak band of raccoons decides to rummage through our garbage or some homeless guy goes diving for recyclables. I’ve got enough fish to fry without Harry the Hobo getting interviewed on the eleven o’clock news about the “suspicious packages” he found when he was playing amateur archaeologist for old Pepsi cans.
I quickly inventory my boxes. And then I panic. There should be seven of them. Eight sparklers came in a package, and the website specifically recommended seven boxes. But there are only six boxes here. My bag was zipped, which means I dropped one of them somewhere in front of Amanda Carlisle’s house. And unless it burned up in the fire, it’s lying there covered in my fingerprints and practically wrapped with a bow for someone to find.
I’ve done a lot of dumbass things in my life, but this is pretty much the capper. I break into a sweat all over again. If someone had found the box and connected it to me, the police would have already shown up at my door, right?
I count the boxes again but there are still only six. Which means I have no choice.
I have to go back to Amanda’s house.
2
All I want to do is find that missing sparkler box, but I can’t go now because the fire department will still be there. They’ll probably have the road blocked off, and my snooping around would be totally obvious. I have to be at Shop ’n Save in an hour anyway. I’m picking up someone else’s shift to do inventory because it pays double time, so I’ll be there from 10:00 until 2:00 a.m. I decide to sneak by Amanda’s on my way home. If it’s not already too late, it’s my best shot at saving my ass.
It’s frickin’ freezing at 2:00 a.m., especially when you’re riding a bike. Not to mention that it’s also dark as hell except for the occasional pools of light from the street lamps. I roll up in front of the Carlisle house, which still has police tape cordoning off the singed area of the lawn. Otherwise, it’s pretty quiet.
I lay my bike gently on the pavement and tiptoe toward the spot I used as my staging area. I turn on the flashlight app on my phone and cast it in a low-lying arc, but there’s no empty sparkler box. Which means I’m pretty much screwed because the police probably found it and took it for evidence. And if I’m incarcerated, I’m guessing there is no way in hell Amanda Carlisle will go with me to prom.
“Looking for something?”
I practically jump out of my skin. I straighten up and shine my phone into the eyes of a girl with the craziest hair I’ve ever seen, causing her to squint and angle away from me, holding her hand up as a shield.
“Can you quit that, please? What are you trying to do, blind me?”
“Sorry,” I say and click off the light.
She looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t put a finger on why. And despite the fact that it’s almost two thirty in the morning, she is not wearing pajamas. In fact, she has on a pair of jeans and an old Pink Floyd shirt that is about two sizes too big for her. In the moonlight I can make out the graffitied, white rubber tips of her Converse. Her long, curly brown hair sticks out at all sorts of defiant angles, and she peeks at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen from underneath her unruly bangs.
“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for,” she tells me.
“How do you know what I’m looking for?” I ask. “And why are you walking around the neighborhood at two thirty in the morning?”
“Hmmm, I could ask you the same questions,” she says and puts a finger thoughtfully to her chin.
“I lost something. I think I might’ve left it here.” I shoot another glance around, trying to play it cool.
“What’d you lose? Maybe I can help you.”
She takes a step toward me, and I reflexively step away from her. “Why are you here?” I ask again.
“I was heading out for a jog.”
I look her over suspiciously. “At this hour? You’re wearing jeans.”
“I didn’t know there was a dress code. Look, do you want my help or not?”
“Not. I’m good. Enjoy your run. Thanks though.” I give her a little