The Cutting Room Floor (9 page)

After the film festival, Riley and I are both going to New York for college interviews and auditions. Our official letters finally came in the mail. Riley’s applying to Tisch at NYU. I’m putting all my eggs in the Columbia basket. Only a subway ride apart. For Rye, Tisch is her second choice. Her first is the U of M Guthrie program here at home. She wants to keep the cost down for her parents. Tisch would be better for her and everyone knows it, but once again, it’s going to be up to me to do the convincing.

I flip open the viewfinder and turn on the camera—the only thing that will take my mind off my obsession with Riley. I can spend hours playing with shots and scenes and sequences. Just for practice. I haven’t done it in a few weeks. Not since I accidently taped Rye and Emma in the car.

I was hanging out my window, camera in hand, working on perspective shots when a car pulled into the Frosts’ driveway. I thought I could capture a scene in real time, so I zoomed in.

To Riley and Emma.

Kissing.

A disturbing scene that continues to replay, over and over in my head.

Riley.

With Emma.

It makes me ache.

At first, I thought Riley was faking the whole gay thing, trying to be a rebel or eccentric or something. Junior high was when it started getting weird. We’d both notice the same girl walking by and we’d both blush when we got caught, or we’d put on the same cocky show in front of someone we liked.

That’s when Riley decided to like girls and there was nothing I could do about it—which made me want her even more. Completely fucked up, I know.

By the time high school started, she seemed to grow out of it, like I’d said she would. It didn’t last.

When she told me she was interested in girls again, I pulled away. It was too hard. But after hearing about what went down in my cousin’s school in Iowa, I was worried for her. My cousin Adam said it was really bad at his school. Sick shit—like homophobes stripping gay guys’ clothes off and duct-taping them in the locker room, posting nasty pictures and videos all over the Internet, spray-painting their cars.

They weren’t any easier on the girls.

Then came the suicides. One after another. All gay kids.

I vowed that I’d never let anything like that happen to Riley.

My phone goes off for like the fifth time in the last hour. I don’t even look at it. I know it’s Jonah. He wants me to double again this weekend, but I just can’t go through another night with Nicole. No way.

There’s only one person I want to talk to tonight, so I punch in the number.

It rings five times. There’s no answer or voicemail—not like I’d leave a message anyway. Texting is out of the question too. I guess I’ll just have to try again later.

I go back to my camera and study the shots from rehearsal. I like how they look. The story is taking shape. I look at the script and make a few edits. But it’s Libby’s words that I can’t get out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about them.

Did Riley really say she’s going back to boys?

Was Libby exaggerating?

What’s really going on?

I hit redial on my phone.

“Hello, Desmond,” the voice vibrates on my ear.

“Hey, just checking in. Any news?” I ask with a cringe. I hate betraying Riley this way, but it has to be done.

“No news is good news.”

“Meaning?” I ask.

“They won’t dare talk to each other, and my people tell me there’s been no contact.”

“Your people?” I roll my eyes.

“How else do you think I get things done around here? This is not a one-person operation.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea of how you work. But remember, your job is to keep Riley and Emma apart, not to make Rye’s life difficult.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Dez. You
wanted my help, remember?”

This was a mistake.

“Yeah, I remember,” I say, trying to even my voice. “But don’t forget that I helped you too. I’m not the only one here with something to lose.”

“Dez, you
don’t
want to play with me.”

“Just lighten up on Riley,” I say quickly before I hang up.

Shit, what have I done?

In the corner of my room, the Godfather looks down from his perch on the wall and says,
Now there’s somebody who knows how to do business.

RILEY

We keep our eyes glued on the Devlins’ windows. Tori and her younger sisters are doing homework at the kitchen table while their mother does the dishes. Papa Devlin is reading the newspaper.

“Okay, it’s my turn,” I say to Libby, opening my hand for our weapon of choice.

She hands me the remote control.

I take it like a wand, and presto. The TV in the Devlins’ basement turns on and the volume slowly climbs to full blast.

I give Libby a quick wink—it’s a fun game.

Mr. Devlin lifts his head up from the paper and stands up. He looks like he’s yelling something, but we can’t make out what it is. I choke back a giggle. Through the windows, we watch as Devlin stomps down into the rec room and turns off the TV. He checks it over, flips it on and off a few times, and heads back up stairs. When he sits down and pulls up his paper, I flick my wand again, turning on the downstairs TV with the volume blaring.

Libby is doubled over with laughter, slapping my thigh.

The whole family looks at each other, scratching heads and waving arms. And
that
seems to make the whole scene even funnier. This time they all go downstairs and huddle around the TV. I wish Dez was here to see it.

Although I’ve become the master of the game, I’ve got to give it up for Libby, who invented Remote Control Revenge one boring summer night. It’s become one of our favorite Dirty Deeds. In RCR, we stake out an area with some of our least favorite residents. We come armed with TV remotes—with only one cable company in town, the remotes are pretty universal—and we find the living room window where we can see our neighbors watching their favorite evening television show, and then bam … we change the channel. They never know what hit them.

It’s good, clean fun.

I’ve added a few of my own signature moves to the game, like turning on random TVs throughout the house and watching the people scatter. The volume control is another one of my moves. Yeah, it’s immature and silly, but also extremely entertaining.

The Devlins continue to mess with the TV, and that’s when I see it. I take Libby’s binoculars and zoom in. There on the shelf is a ballerina. Little Dancer.

Ms. Dunn’s missing Degas.

My breath catches and I lose the Degas in the lenses, but something else comes into view. It’s Devlin in the window, staring back at me.

He’s figured it out.

“Run,” Libby whispers.

We leap off the picnic table and Libby motions for me to follow. We head through the neighbors’ yards until we’re almost a block away.

Libby deftly navigates our route. “Watch out for the rose bushes,” she whispers.

Too late. The branches graze my arms, taking quick bites from my shoulder down to my wrist.

In the distance, I hear a light trickling sound. It’s running water. The creek.

The creek leads to the Clay Hole, a small pond that developed after clay diggers hit a spring about a million years ago. It’s our only real swimming area in town, but only the lower end of the food chain uses it. Dez and I lived there when we were kids.

As we run through the woods, we close in on the creek. “Time to jump,” Libby whispers back to me.

We take a running start and leap across the water, clearing it with ease. We’re officially on the other side of the tracks now. The creek separates Devlins’ neighborhood from the rest of our city’s riffraff.

“There’s a shed back here,” Libby says. “Come on.”

How does she know what’s back here?

Libby seems oddly familiar with the area. That’s when I realize we’re almost at Ms. Dunn’s house. We start running again. Branches and leaves skim our bodies as we fly through the trees. As we slow down, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I hear footsteps getting closer.

We slip into the decaying shed. I crouch down behind an old bench and Libby hides under a table in the back. There are gardening tools and old pots leaning against the walls. I try to catch my breath but hold it again when the shed door squeaks and begins to open.

The moonlight shines through the broken window and a shadow grows on the wall. A huge shadow. It’s like a scene from a corny old horror film. I can’t look. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip.

That’s when a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

The hand grabs me and I jump, holding in a scream.

It’s Devlin. The killer.

The hand flips me around.

I can’t make out the face, but Libby can.

I’ve completely forgotten that she’s been here the entire time.

“Jake,” she says, her voice low and quiet. “What are you doing out here?”

We know Jake Noring from school, so my heart rate automatically slows, yet I have to remind myself that no one’s to be trusted.

Libby’s had a crush on Jake since seventh grade, but nothing’s ever come of it. He lives on the nice side of town and spends his time playing traveling soccer on a city team. Libby doesn’t exactly run in the same circle and, despite what she says, I think she’d like to.

Oh no. Was that Jake’s voice on the video? Libby’s partner in crime?

“Shhh,” he whispers. “He’s coming. Let’s get out of here.”

I try to remember the voice on the video, but I can’t tell if it was him. I don’t know if I should stay or run.

Jake leads us out the door and within seconds we’re running through the woods again. We run until we’re out of breath, then duck down among the downed trees. I suddenly feel like I have to pee. We wait there, crouched in the woods, hiding.

My legs are shaking so badly I have to lean forward on my knees. I can’t believe I’m stuck in the woods surrounded by murder suspects.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask Jake, since he didn’t answer Libby the first time.

“I saw you behind the Devlins’ house,” he says. “I live next door to them, ya know.”

I didn’t remember that, but obviously Libby did. That’s why she kept staring off.

“I was coming out to scare you guys when Devlin started hauling ass in your direction.” He laughs.

I can’t believe I saw the missing Degas in the Devlin house. Maybe the mayor is like one of those serial killers and the statue is his trophy after killing Ms. Dunn.

Once again, my brain is on overdrive. I need to get back into that house. There has to be a way to find out if Devlin’s involved.

“I’ve heard about your little remote control trick,” Jake says, interrupting my scheming. “Pretty clever.”

“Thank you very much.” Libby beams.

“So now what’s on the agenda? Tormenting any of my other neighbors tonight?”

“Nope, I think that’s it,” Libby says. “We’re in my neck of the woods now. Are you mad?”

“Not even close. Anytime someone can stick it to the Devlins, especially Tori, I’m all for it.”

Tori
. That’s it. She’s my ticket into the house.

“Really?” Libby’s hope is seeping through her pores.

“Really,” he says. “So, where to now?”

God. I can’t take it anymore. “Do you guys want to save your flirting until maybe we don’t have a pissed-off mayor after us?”

Libby glares at me.

“Relax, Riley,” Jake says. “If Devlin hasn’t made it here by now, he’s not going to.”

Yeah, but maybe he’s not the only one I’m worried about.

Libby and Jake continue to flirt and I continue to study Jake’s voice.

“We were just heading to the coffee shop,” Libby says.

We were?

“Wanna come?” she asks.

“Sure.” Jake shrugs.

And just like that, I’m the third wheel.

We sneak into Libby’s car, which is strategically parked on the dirt road behind the woods. I watch Libby and Jake for any signs or trip-ups, but soon I just want to get away from them.

I fake cramps and make Libby bring me home. I need to be alone to think.

I’m beginning to feel like I’m trapped in a cheesy whodunit movie and I can’t get out. I’m the idiot girl trying to solve the mystery—the girl who puts herself in danger at every turn. The girl who opens the door—or pulls back the shower curtain or runs up the stairs—instead of running away from the killer. Except this is the Heights and until Ms. Dunn was killed, nothing remotely dangerous has ever gone down here. The police chief would say our little community is still just as safe. But if that’s true, why are people putting new locks on their doors and sticking to a self-enforced curfew?