of grief for Tasha, and for her parents. I didn’t know anything about gangs, but I thought that whoever had killed Nate couldn’t have known him all that well, because he’d been a nice kid. Smart, too. It was a waste. A real waste.
After a while, the front door to the Hoadley—I mean, Thompkins—house opened, and Dr. Thompkins, looking much older than when I had seen him earlier that evening, came out, wearing his coat. He followed the sheriff’s deputies to their squad cars, then got into one. I knew he was going to ID the body. At the front door, his wife stood watching him. I couldn’t tell whether or not she was crying, but I suspected she was. Two people stood on either side of her. Nate’s grandparents, I assumed.
Above them, I saw a curtain move. Tasha was standing in her window, looking down as the squad car with her father in it pulled away. I saw that Tasha’s shoulders were shaking. Unlike her mother, she was definitely crying.
Poor, shy, yearbook-committee-and-
Witchblade
-loving Tasha. There was nothing I could do for her. I mean, if I had known when his father had come over that Nate was in trouble, I might have been able to find him. Maybe. But it was too late, now. Too late for me to help Nate, anyway.
But not too late, I realized, to help his sister. How I was going to do that, I hadn’t the slightest idea.
All I could do was try.
Little did I know, of course, how my decision to help Tasha Thompkins was going to change my life. And the life of just about everybody in our entire town.
C H A P T E R
6
T he next day, when Ruth told me some kid from her synagogue was missing, I didn’t make the connection. I had a lot on my mind. I mean, there was the whole thing with Nate Thompkins, of course. I hadn’t forgotten about my promise to myself that I was going to try to help Tasha, if I could.
There was something else, though. Something I’d dreamed about that had been, well, pretty disturbing. Not as disturbing as having your brother left for dead in a cornfield, but still wicked strange.
“Are you listening to me, Jess?” Ruth wanted to know. She had to talk pretty loudly to be heard over the Muzak in the mall. We were hitting the post-holiday sales. Hey, it was the Friday after Thanksgiving. There was nothing else to do.
“Sure,” I said, fingering a pair of hoop earrings on a nearby display rack. And I don’t even have pierced ears. That’s how distracted I was.
“They found his bike,” Ruth said. “And that’s it. Just his bike. In the parking lot. No other sign of him. Not his book bag. Not his clarinet. Nothing.”
“Maybe he ran away,” I said. The earrings, I thought, wouldn’t make a bad Christmas present for Ruth. I mean, Hanukkah present. Because Ruth was Jewish, of course.
“No way Seth Blumenthal is going to run away before his thirteenth birthday,” Ruth said. “He’s supposed to be having his bar mitzvah tomorrow, Jess. That’s what he was doing at the synagogue in the first place. Having his last Hebrew lesson before the big ceremony on Saturday. The kid is due to rake it in. No way would he take off beforehand. And no way would he leave his bike behind.”
This finally got my attention. Twelve-year-olds do not generally abandon their bikes. Not without a fight, anyway. And Ruth was right: She’d pulled in roughly twenty thousand dollars for her bat mitzvah. No way some kid was going to run away before making that kind of dough.
“You got a picture of him?” I asked Ruth, as she worked her way through a Cinnabon she was carrying around. “Seth, I mean.”
“There’s one in the temple directory,” she said. “I mean, it’s a shot of his whole family. But I can point him out for you, if you want.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Soon,” Ruth said to me. “You better take care of it soon. There’s no telling what might have happened to him. I mean, that gang might have gotten him.”
I rolled my eyes. I actually had
After a while, the front door to the Hoadley—I mean, Thompkins—house opened, and Dr. Thompkins, looking much older than when I had seen him earlier that evening, came out, wearing his coat. He followed the sheriff’s deputies to their squad cars, then got into one. I knew he was going to ID the body. At the front door, his wife stood watching him. I couldn’t tell whether or not she was crying, but I suspected she was. Two people stood on either side of her. Nate’s grandparents, I assumed.
Above them, I saw a curtain move. Tasha was standing in her window, looking down as the squad car with her father in it pulled away. I saw that Tasha’s shoulders were shaking. Unlike her mother, she was definitely crying.
Poor, shy, yearbook-committee-and-
Witchblade
-loving Tasha. There was nothing I could do for her. I mean, if I had known when his father had come over that Nate was in trouble, I might have been able to find him. Maybe. But it was too late, now. Too late for me to help Nate, anyway.
But not too late, I realized, to help his sister. How I was going to do that, I hadn’t the slightest idea.
All I could do was try.
Little did I know, of course, how my decision to help Tasha Thompkins was going to change my life. And the life of just about everybody in our entire town.
C H A P T E R
6
T he next day, when Ruth told me some kid from her synagogue was missing, I didn’t make the connection. I had a lot on my mind. I mean, there was the whole thing with Nate Thompkins, of course. I hadn’t forgotten about my promise to myself that I was going to try to help Tasha, if I could.
There was something else, though. Something I’d dreamed about that had been, well, pretty disturbing. Not as disturbing as having your brother left for dead in a cornfield, but still wicked strange.
“Are you listening to me, Jess?” Ruth wanted to know. She had to talk pretty loudly to be heard over the Muzak in the mall. We were hitting the post-holiday sales. Hey, it was the Friday after Thanksgiving. There was nothing else to do.
“Sure,” I said, fingering a pair of hoop earrings on a nearby display rack. And I don’t even have pierced ears. That’s how distracted I was.
“They found his bike,” Ruth said. “And that’s it. Just his bike. In the parking lot. No other sign of him. Not his book bag. Not his clarinet. Nothing.”
“Maybe he ran away,” I said. The earrings, I thought, wouldn’t make a bad Christmas present for Ruth. I mean, Hanukkah present. Because Ruth was Jewish, of course.
“No way Seth Blumenthal is going to run away before his thirteenth birthday,” Ruth said. “He’s supposed to be having his bar mitzvah tomorrow, Jess. That’s what he was doing at the synagogue in the first place. Having his last Hebrew lesson before the big ceremony on Saturday. The kid is due to rake it in. No way would he take off beforehand. And no way would he leave his bike behind.”
This finally got my attention. Twelve-year-olds do not generally abandon their bikes. Not without a fight, anyway. And Ruth was right: She’d pulled in roughly twenty thousand dollars for her bat mitzvah. No way some kid was going to run away before making that kind of dough.
“You got a picture of him?” I asked Ruth, as she worked her way through a Cinnabon she was carrying around. “Seth, I mean.”
“There’s one in the temple directory,” she said. “I mean, it’s a shot of his whole family. But I can point him out for you, if you want.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Soon,” Ruth said to me. “You better take care of it soon. There’s no telling what might have happened to him. I mean, that gang might have gotten him.”
I rolled my eyes. I actually had
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