Ramirez gets back in his car, and we watch him drive away. I’ve got to get to work as well, but lately, it’s been hard to focus. I’m happy that my husband has been released from jail, but I feel consumed by my worries about my children. Especially Ada.
“Millie,” Enzo says. “You need to let go of your worries.” He adds, “Is bad for your blood pressure.”
“My blood pressure is fine now, thank you very much.”
It actually is. I’ve been checking it every day, and for the last week, the numbers have been perfect.
“So we keep it that way.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Ada will be fine. Her mama was fine, and she will be fine.”
He’s right. I just have to keep telling myself that. Ada did not do anything wrong. She is a hero, as far as I’m concerned.
But I am her mother. It is my job to worry. So I will keep watching her and worrying.
EIGHTYADA
Library period is halfway over.
I’m sitting at one of the tables by the windows, reading this great book called Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. It’s old, but it’s so haunting. When I read it, I get chills. There’s only a week left of school, and I hope I can finish it in time.
But if I can’t, it’s because of that kid Hunter.
He laid off me for a little while, but today he is back with a vengeance. He sits down across from me at the beginning of the period, and the first thing he says to me is, “Will you go out with me on Friday night, Ada?”
“No, thank you,” I reply stiffly.
“What about Saturday night?”
“No.”
“Sunday? Monday?”
I stick my nose back in my book. I’m just going to ignore him. That’s what you’re supposed to do with kids like him. If you don’t give them any attention, they go away. At least that’s what Mom says.
“Ada,” he says in a singsong voice. “Has anyone ever written a song about you?”
I don’t look up. I don’t respond.
“I’m going to write a song about you right now,” he says. And then he starts singing: “Adaaaa. I went and I got her a potataaa. Then she went with me on a date-aaa.”
The librarian hears Hunter singing, and she gives the two of us a sharp look. “Ada, Hunter, please quiet down!”
If the librarian thinks we are fooling around, she will take away our books and make us sit in the corner. I really want to finish this book.
“Please stop,” I say. “You’re going to get us in trouble. I just want to read my book.”
“No, you don’t!” he says too loudly. “You’re just pretending to like the book and being hard to get. That’s what my dad told me.”
“Your dad is wrong.”
“My dad is never wrong. And at least he didn’t go to jail for killing someone.”
It makes me angry that he said that. Dad didn’t kill Mr. Lowell. But after he came home, he told me if he knew what Mr. Lowell was doing to Nico, he would have done the exact same thing I did.
The police still have Dad’s pocketknife—the one I used to stab Mr. Lowell. I wish I still had it. I’ll probably never get it back, which is sad because I loved that knife.
Then again, I don’t need a pocketknife.
I put down my copy of Rebecca. I get out of my seat and then take the one next to Hunter. He didn’t expect this, and his eyebrows shoot up.
“Hunter,” I say. “I need you to know something.”
He grins at me. “Yes? Are you finally coming around?”
“No.” I look him straight in the eyes, holding his gaze. “If you don’t leave me alone—right now—then tonight I am going to sneak into your bedroom while you’re sleeping.” I wait a beat, watching his reaction. “And then when you wake up in the morning, you are going to pull back the blankets and you will find your bloody balls lying on the sheets next to you.”
He laughs. “What?”
“You heard me. If you bother me—or any other girls—ever again, I will castrate you in your sleep.” “Castrate” is a word I learned recently from a book I was reading. I think I’m using it correctly here. It means to cut off somebody’s testicles.
I like the way all the color drains out of his face. I watch him trying to recover. “You… you couldn’t do that,” he stutters.
“Hmm, maybe not,” I say. “But actually, I think I could. Would you like to find out?”
From the look on his face, I don’t think he would like to find out. He jumps out of his seat, backing away from me. “You’re a psychopath,” he says.
I just shrug and smile at him.
He stumbles away from the table, practically tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to get away from me. I don’t think he’s going to be bothering me again. I’d like to think he isn’t going to be bothering any other girls again.
