scrub the watch clean. The carrageenan brought up the shine on the silver.
Almost unconsciously, she checked her pulse as she worked. It was already down to fifty beats per minute. Forty. Thirty-eight. Even by Legionnaire standards, Alec had told her, she had a heart like an elephant.
8
U p at the house, Jasper put on a pair of blue jeans and the only long-sleeved T-shirt he could find that didn’t actually stink. On its front was a picture of a man skiing off the side of a mountain. The logo read “Dead Man’s Sportswear: Fit for Your Own Funeral,” which made Jasper think about Q.’s stupid game from the night before—a game that, apparently, he was still playing. Had he really stolen his dad’s $250,000 Porsche? He must genuinely have a death wish.
He paused at the top of the staircase, listening for any noise from the first floor, then tiptoed down the steps. He was about to slip outside when he heard the familiar clunk behind him in the darkened living room. Glass bottle, wooden table, the quiet sigh of addiction appeased one sip at a time.
Jasper froze. His eyes rested on the dingy white wall, on which hung a school picture of himself in ninth grade beside a faded photograph of his mother holding an infant Jasper in her arms. Next to them was his dad’s diploma. Greenville High, not Dearborn—not that “fancy-pants academy” his “scholarship boy” attended. The little white rectangle was wrinkled and mottled with beer stains from a graduation party twenty-six years ago. For the first time in years Jasper noticed how the stains blurred his dad’s name on the diploma: “John Van Ars—e.”
For a brief moment Jasper felt the weight of the future pressing down on shoulders that were still sore from turning over wet earth for four hours. He made himself the kind of promises that only a seventeen-year-old can make. That he would not end up like his dad. That he would be different. He would not be—
There was a second clunk behind him. A second sigh.
He would not be Jasper Van Ars—e.
A moment later he’d slipped outside. A sickle moon hung low on the horizon. How had it gotten so late? If this was his last day on earth, he’d pretty much wasted it. Turning over soil, knocking back a few cold ones, sleeping the afternoon away. Not exactly memento mori .
Bluish light outlined the budding branches of the two huge beeches that overhung the driveway, and the wet air smelled fecund, primordial even. Heavy, like soil, but also full of promise. Maybe the night would turn out okay. Maybe Michaela would give him a big kiss, tell him last night was her fault for holding out so long. Maybe Q. would pop in the White Stripes or D12 and they’d cruise Main Street with the bass turned up so loud the windows in the shops would rattle in their frames. Yeah, and then maybe he’d come home and instead of finding his dad passed out on the couch, the old man would be sitting at the kitchen table with Jasper’s Harvard acceptance letter, along with the notice that he’d received a full scholarship, all he had to do was show up in the fall with a suitcase and a smile…
Yeah, right.
He heard the car before he saw it, the engine cutting through the curves like a power saw. Q. hadn’t been kidding. He’d actually taken his dad’s Porsche. Jasper could have sworn the wheels were off the ground when it crested the hill north of the Van Arsdales’ driveway. When it landed, the car flattened itself on the roadway and shot toward Jasper.
Jasper put his hand out as though he were thumbing a ride, then flipped his palm at the last minute and stuck up his middle finger. Brakes squealed; antilocks held the car in its track like a jetfighter landing on an aircraft carrier. Jasper half expected a Back to the Future hiss to escape the car with the rolled-down window, but all he got was a driving beat—Danger Mouse or DJ Shadow, some overproduced crap like that.
Q.’s smile was wide, his teeth white and sharp in his
Almost unconsciously, she checked her pulse as she worked. It was already down to fifty beats per minute. Forty. Thirty-eight. Even by Legionnaire standards, Alec had told her, she had a heart like an elephant.
8
U p at the house, Jasper put on a pair of blue jeans and the only long-sleeved T-shirt he could find that didn’t actually stink. On its front was a picture of a man skiing off the side of a mountain. The logo read “Dead Man’s Sportswear: Fit for Your Own Funeral,” which made Jasper think about Q.’s stupid game from the night before—a game that, apparently, he was still playing. Had he really stolen his dad’s $250,000 Porsche? He must genuinely have a death wish.
He paused at the top of the staircase, listening for any noise from the first floor, then tiptoed down the steps. He was about to slip outside when he heard the familiar clunk behind him in the darkened living room. Glass bottle, wooden table, the quiet sigh of addiction appeased one sip at a time.
Jasper froze. His eyes rested on the dingy white wall, on which hung a school picture of himself in ninth grade beside a faded photograph of his mother holding an infant Jasper in her arms. Next to them was his dad’s diploma. Greenville High, not Dearborn—not that “fancy-pants academy” his “scholarship boy” attended. The little white rectangle was wrinkled and mottled with beer stains from a graduation party twenty-six years ago. For the first time in years Jasper noticed how the stains blurred his dad’s name on the diploma: “John Van Ars—e.”
For a brief moment Jasper felt the weight of the future pressing down on shoulders that were still sore from turning over wet earth for four hours. He made himself the kind of promises that only a seventeen-year-old can make. That he would not end up like his dad. That he would be different. He would not be—
There was a second clunk behind him. A second sigh.
He would not be Jasper Van Ars—e.
A moment later he’d slipped outside. A sickle moon hung low on the horizon. How had it gotten so late? If this was his last day on earth, he’d pretty much wasted it. Turning over soil, knocking back a few cold ones, sleeping the afternoon away. Not exactly memento mori .
Bluish light outlined the budding branches of the two huge beeches that overhung the driveway, and the wet air smelled fecund, primordial even. Heavy, like soil, but also full of promise. Maybe the night would turn out okay. Maybe Michaela would give him a big kiss, tell him last night was her fault for holding out so long. Maybe Q. would pop in the White Stripes or D12 and they’d cruise Main Street with the bass turned up so loud the windows in the shops would rattle in their frames. Yeah, and then maybe he’d come home and instead of finding his dad passed out on the couch, the old man would be sitting at the kitchen table with Jasper’s Harvard acceptance letter, along with the notice that he’d received a full scholarship, all he had to do was show up in the fall with a suitcase and a smile…
Yeah, right.
He heard the car before he saw it, the engine cutting through the curves like a power saw. Q. hadn’t been kidding. He’d actually taken his dad’s Porsche. Jasper could have sworn the wheels were off the ground when it crested the hill north of the Van Arsdales’ driveway. When it landed, the car flattened itself on the roadway and shot toward Jasper.
Jasper put his hand out as though he were thumbing a ride, then flipped his palm at the last minute and stuck up his middle finger. Brakes squealed; antilocks held the car in its track like a jetfighter landing on an aircraft carrier. Jasper half expected a Back to the Future hiss to escape the car with the rolled-down window, but all he got was a driving beat—Danger Mouse or DJ Shadow, some overproduced crap like that.
Q.’s smile was wide, his teeth white and sharp in his
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