Playing with Fire (18 page)

“Like what?”

“Like whatever it takes.”

“I suspect you do drugs,” I say slowly. “But I hope ‘ you're not like my brother. I hope you don't do meth.”

She looks down at her coffee.

“Do you?”

“What?”

“You know, do you do meth?”

Tve tried it.”

“Tried it?”

“Yeah, meaning I don't do it all the time. Sheesh, who can afford that?”

“So you're not an addict?”

“Look at me.” She actually pulls up her sleeves and shows me her arms. “Do I look like an addict? Do I
have scars? Do I have lesions? Crud, I'm not even underweight, which is one of the perks that's actually appealing.”

I make a face. “Seriously? You think that's appealing?”

“You don't know me, Samantha. You don't know how my mind works. It's not like yours, okay? I can't go to church to feel good. I'm not a
good
girl. Don't you get that?”

“I know we're different. But for some reason, I care about you. And, no, I'm not a lesbian. I just think God has put you on my heart for a reason.”

“So you honestly believe that God is responsible for that feeling you had about me—about being in danger?”

“I do.”

“Was it a threat from God? Is He going to punish me for something?” She swears now. “Like I haven't been punished enough.”

“No, I don't believe God is going to punish you,” I say quickly. “I believe the reason He showed me that…that vision was because He loves you and wants to protect you from getting seriously hurt.”

She pushes a strand of bright blue hair away from her eyes. “It's just hard to swallow. I mean, why should I believe you? And even if I did believe you, what would I do differently? How could I prevent whatever it is you think is going to happen from happening? How would I even know?”

“For one thing, you could stay away from drugs.”

She just laughs.

“No, I mean it. You know drugs aren't good for you. You know people get hurt by them all the time. They ruin lives.”

Her eyes have a blank look now, and I can tell she's blocking me out.

“I know you've heard that before, and nothing I tell you is going to make any difference, right? Like talk to the hand?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“What if I tell you about the specific impression I got for you? Would that help?”

“You have specifics?”

I nod.

“Sure. Go for it.”

Now, even though I like to keep my “gift” a secret, I am learning that sometimes, in some cases, I need to tell about it in order to get through to a person. I think this is one of those times. “Okay…,” I begin slowly. “I sometimes get these little flashes of insight, kind of like a vision, where I see something really quick, and then it's gone. It's usually a warning.” I look closely at her, trying to gauge whether or not she's taking me seriously. Convinced that I really do have her full attention, I continue. But first I force myself to remember that vision. “About a week ago I got this flash image of you. Your face was very pale, and you seemed to be unconscious. You had one hand draped over your mouth, and the other hand seemed twisted behind your back. I noticed a hypodermic syringe nearby, and you were lying on a beat-up, old red sofa.”

“A red sofa?”

I nod. “Do you have a red sofa?”

“Nope.”

“But you know someone who does?”

She nods, and with a look of realization, her eyes get wider, like maybe she actually believes me now. Then suddenly she starts laughing like this is a joke. “Man, you had me going there for a minute, Samantha.”

“What do you-?”

That whole red sofa bit. Nice try.”

“Huh?”

“Obviously, you've seen it, haven't you?”

“I saw it in my vision.”

“Yeah, right. Your vision.” She rolls her eyes. “No, I mean, you've seen that old, beat-up red sofa for real, right?”

Okay, now I'm confused. “What do you mean?”

“At Tate's apartment.”

“Tate's apartment? As in Tate Mitchell?”

“As in Tate, your brother's friend. I'm sure you've been to his place before, right? You saw the sofa, and you—”

“No, I've never been to Tate's apartment. I don't even know where he lives. Actually I thought he lived with his parents.”

“His parents?” She laughs. “Yeah, right.”

I'm trying to take this in. Tate has a beat-up red sofa?”

“He most certainly does.”

“Where does he live?”

“You really don't know?”

“Honestly, I don't.”

She presses her lips together and looks at me with suspicion in her eyes. “Why don't you ask your brother?”

I'm worried now, like I've probably taken this too far. I can't blow my cover. “Yeah, maybe I will.”

“In the meantime, you might need to work on your act, Samantha. You know, before you take it on the road or anything.” She laughs again.

Now I'm trying not to get mad at her meanspirited ignorance, trying not to feel defensive. But she seems to be insulting God as much as me.

“It's not an act,” I say in a quiet but serious tone. “I think God is trying to warn you about something very significant. But it's your choice whether you listen or not. And since I've told you my vision, the next step is up to you.”

I look straight into her eyes now. “But I will be very sad if I see your photo on the six o'clock news some night and if I hear the newscaster saying you died of a drug overdose. And I will be especially sad if I find out it happened on an old red sofa. You can take it
or
leave it.”

O
n Monday after school I go straight to the police station—although I park my conspicuous car over by the park district building where Mom works. It makes a nice cover for a bright green car. It turns out that Ebony is working on another case, a domestic situation that erupted into a murder-suicide during the weekend.

“She probably won't be back in for a while,” one of Ebony's associates tells me. “You can call her on her cell if you like.”

“I just needed to do some research. I need to look up an address for someone that—”

“Check with Bernice,” he says as he reaches for his ringing phone. “She's a computer whiz.”

I thank him and go off to hunt down Bernice Waters, an older woman who has been on the force for a long time.

“Hi there, Samantha,” she says when I find her at work on her computer. “What's up?”

I tell her I'm working on something and need an address.

“For the drug task force?”

I nod. “I've gotten some leads.”

“Good for you.” Then she shows me how to access the file system and how to find an address. It's amazing
how simple it is. I make some notes, then thank her for the help.

“There's a spare computer over there.” She points to a desk in the corner. “Make yourself at home.”

So I do, and after just a couple of minutes I find Tate's addresses—one for his parents on Lambert Lane and another one for apartment 214 on Grant Avenue. My best guess is that the address on Grant Avenue belongs to the run-down apartment building across from the movie-theater complex, the place where I thought I saw Tate and Zach not that long ago. My only questions now are, does this apartment have an old red sofa, and how can I get inside to find out?

I decide to swing by the automotive store that Tate's uncle supposedly owns and where Tate supposedly works. I'm halfway tempted to park and go inside and ask around, but that could backfire on me. Then to my surprise, I see Tate's dark blue Toyota coming around from the back of the store. My brother is sitting in the passenger seat looking at Tate, which means he doesn't see me. But I keep my eyes straight ahead and continue to drive on past. It's a busy street, and there's no reason I shouldn't be driving down it. For all anyone would know, I could be on my way to the mall. Even so, my heart is pounding with fear. And now I don't particularly want to be seen driving past the apartment complex where Tate lives.

I finally decide to go by the mall. Just in case. But I simply park my car, and then I call Olivia.

“Are you done meeting with Ebony?” she asks.

“It wasn't really a meeting.”

“Everything okay? You've been so quiet lately Sam. It's like you've been someplace else.”

“I guess I have a lot on my mind.” I really wish I could tell her about my participation on the task force—and my fear that my own brother may be involved in something dangerous…something criminal. I need to talk to someone.

“Why don't you come over to Lava Java?” she suggests. “I'm here with Alex and Garrett.”

“It's tempting,” I tell her. And it really is. “But I have some things I need to do. Thanks anyway”

We hang up, and I just sit here for a while. I don't even know why I'm here or what I'm doing, but I need to do something. Finally I pray I ask God to lead me. And then, feeling calmer, I drive over to Grant Avenue. My plan is simply to drive past the apartment complex. If I see Tate's car again, I will just act normal and keep driving. But I'm hoping I can figure out which apartment is his. Oh, I don't plan to knock on the door or attempt to break in or anything stupid. I just want to know for future use.

To my relief, I don't see his car anywhere. So I drive through the trashy-looking parking lot and look at the numbers of the apartments until I finally figure out that number 214 is probably located directly above 114. It's on a corner, and I'm guessing one of the windows looks out onto Grant Avenue and toward the theater complex.

I drive back around and spot the apartment from the street. The blinds on the window facing the street appear to be closed. Even so, I don't allow myself to stare up at it. I just drive past and head toward home. Okay, I don't know how anything I've done this afternoon helps anyone. But maybe it's groundwork of some kind.

As I pull into our driveway, my phone begins to ring, and it's Ebony. She heard I was at the station and wants to know if everything's okay.

“I think I might be onto something,” I tell her. “A girl at my school, the one I had that vision about, has been talking to me. I'm trying to follow something up.”

“Do you need help?”

“Not yet.”

“You're being safe? Keeping a distance?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.”

“I'm just trying to piece some things together.”

“Any names you want to run by me?” She sounds hopeful.

“Not yet.” Okay, now I have that shaky feeling inside the pit of my stomach again. I mean, what am I doing here? For Pete's sake, I'm talking about my very own brother and his friend. How can I participate in something that could get these guys into serious trouble?
How can I not?

I'm tempted to tell Ebony about my last vision, the one with Zach facedown, in the snow. But I'm not sure it will help anything, because I'm really beginning to think it was a metaphor. Like my mom said, playing with drugs is like playing with fire. You will get burned. And even the whole snow thing is sort of like drugs—you stay in it too long and you die of exposure. Okay, that doesn't explain the gunshot wound.

“So you'll stay in touch then?” asks Ebony.

“Yeah, of course.”

I'm just getting out of my car when Mom pulls into the driveway with a worried look on her face. I wave and go
inside. She's stressing over Zach. He hasn't come home since the big fight. I think it's probably a good thing. And now that I've seen him, I can at least tell her he's alive and well. Okay, I don't know if he's well or not, but he was breathing. She comes in, and I relay my information in a quick, casual way.

“Where were they?” she asks as she sets her purse down.

The automotive store where Tate works.”

“Was he working?”

“I don't know, Mom. I just happened to be driving by.”

She frowns. “Maybe Zach is getting a job there too.”

“Yeah, maybe…” Of course, I doubt this.

“Well, at least he's okay”

“Right.”

“How's Katie?” I ask Conrad during lunch on Wednesday. I know she had tests on Monday. “Any results back yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“I've really been praying for her,” says Olivia.

“Me too,” adds Alex.

“I'd pray too,” says Garrett, “if I thought it'd do any good.”

“Of course it would do some good,” says Conrad.

“Yeah,” says Alex. “Haven't you heard about those scientific studies where people prayed for sick people and they got better?”

Garrett frowns. “Scientific?”

“Well, that's what they said. They had two test groups. One that got prayer and one that—”

“Anyway,” I interrupt. “Prayer definitely works.”

“Did I tell you guys that I asked Maxwell Price to audition for Stewed Oysters?” Olivia says suddenly.

“No way,” says Conrad. “Maxwell Price in the Oysters?”

“That is pretty bizarre,” I admit. “Is he going to do it?”

“Well, we had a long talk last night,” she says. “I explained that I didn't want him to come in there like it was his personal little evangelism project and turn everyone off with his sermons and lectures.”

“And?” Alex impatiently nudges her to continue.

“He said he wants to give it a shot.”

“But do the Oysters want to give him a shot?” asks Conrad.