a parka, although she hadn’t bothered to zip it shut. She also had foresworn the gaudy eye shadow she’d sported at the funeral. When she and her friends had boarded their bus, I followed them and swiped my CTA card through the machine.
The driver, a thickset woman in her forties, nodded at the kids as they climbed up the steps. She looked at me in surprise—adults don’t usually ride the school routes—but she didn’t say anything. When the bus was packed from stem to stern, she rolled away from the curb. The shrieks and shouts of sixty or so kids, moaning over tests, over boyfriends or girlfriends, hotly arguing who’d said what to whom, made my head drum, but the driver just smiled to herself, focusing on the potholes that littered Blue Island Avenue. Like the rest of the world, she had her own little soundstage plugged into her ears.
I worked my way to the back, where Clara and her friends had found seats. She was talking animatedly, but her skin was gray, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“V. I. Warshawski,” I said when she looked up at me. “We met yesterday at your sister’s funeral.”
Her face shut down into the arrogant angry lines I’d seen at the church.
“Are you here to apologize some more? Don’t bother.”
“I want to know when I can talk to you—”
“You’re doing it right now. I guess I can’t make you shut up.”
Her friends stared at us with frank curiosity.
“Privately.”
“You can’t. If there’s something you want to say to me, do it right here. And then get out of my life.”
We had both been bellowing to be heard over the ruckus around us, but the noise began dying down as kids nearby caught what we were saying. One of them asked if Clara wanted him to call 911.
“She’s harmless,” Clara said roughly.
I didn’t want to say too much in front of this texting, Tweeting audience, but I needed some way of getting her to talk to me.
“When I heard the shots, I ran to your sister’s side. I held her as she died. Her last word was a call to Allie.”
The silence around us became absolute. Clara sucked in a breath, her face as shocked as if I’d slapped her. Her friends gazed at her with vampire-like avidity.
When Clara didn’t say anything, I said, “Could we go someplace to talk about Nadia and your other sister?”
“You can’t talk about Allie!” Clara cried.
“Why not?”
She looked around wildly, and then said, “Her name is sacred! You can’t use it. No one is allowed to talk about her!”
The kids around us began murmuring excitedly among themselves. Even if I hadn’t been tired and cold, the chatter made it hard to think. It certainly made the bus a stupid place to try to talk, but I plowed ahead.
“When did you last talk to Nadia?”
“I don’t remember, and it’s none of your business, anyway.”
The lurching of the bus meant I couldn’t keep my eyes on her face, but I thought Clara looked more scared than angry despite her defiant words.
“Your mother says she called Nadia when your sister was seen on YouTube painting on the Body Artist. How did Nadia respond?”
“Have you been talking to my mother? She has enough to worry about without someone like you butting in.”
“Karen Buckley put on a special program in your sister’s honor last night. Karen’s the Body Artist who came to your sister’s funeral.”
“I remember who came to my own sister’s funeral.”
“What did Nadia tell you about Alexandra’s death?”
At that question, Clara definitely looked more frightened than angry.
“I told you we can’t talk about Allie, so butt out!”
“All right, if we can’t talk about Allie, let’s talk about the Body Artist. How did Nadia find her?”
Clara looked at me but didn’t speak. One of the boys near her left the bus. I took his place.
“The club was full last night for the Artist’s program in your sister’s memory. Rainier Cowles brought a party; one of the men—”
Clara bounced to her feet and bent to stick her head in my face. “If you’re a pal of Rainier’s, you can leave me alone. Go back to Prince Rainier and suck his dick.”
The raw language was meant to shock. She stared at me for a few seconds, hoping for some sign that she’d hit home. When I only smiled sadly because her youth and pain were so poignant, she marched to the front of the bus, deliberately shoving people, as if vicariously punching me.