Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [72]
“But …”
“I love you,” she said, and kissed him on the lips.
True, I was in dire danger of being exposed as the French mermaid at the party—the one who flirted with Rivera’s father and subsequently invited a might-be criminal into her house—but I would have rather done thirty days in San Quentin than see my best friend kiss the Geekster on the mouth.
25
And which do you think seems like a better plan?
—Chrissy McMullen, Ph.D.,
after Emily Christianson
said she had weighed her
options: She could either
spend her evenings trading
microbes with a boy who
had half her IQ, or she
could become a world-
famous surgeon
“So everything’s going well?” I asked.
It was Monday afternoon and I was back at the office. I had discussed my party conversations with Laney a few days before. Together we’d decided that Morab genuinely liked her and therefore was unlikely to send her threatening mail. Not to mention the fact that he was just too gorgeous to be guilty. There was also the fact that if anything happened to her, everyone associated with Queen would suffer.
I had slept on that thought. In fact, I slept through most of the weekend, but I still felt tired. Nevertheless, I had managed to shove myself into a summer suit and strap on a pair of huarache sandals before dashing off to work.
Emily Christianson sat across the coffee table from me. She looked as thin and taut as a guitar string. She was wearing a black pencil skirt and a white button-down blouse. It was very similar to the ensemble she’d worn every time she’d visited my office. Did that mean she just really liked business attire, or did it speak of a deep-seated need to control her environment with an iron fist.
“I aced my calc exam,” she said.
“Good for you.”
“Well …” She sighed. “I thought I aced it, but Dad said I could have done better.”
“What was your score?”
“Ninety-eight percentile.”
I raised my brows in concession to her brainpower. “Did your father say why he was disappointed?”
“There were extra-credit points offered,” she said. “I didn’t do them. I would have,” she said, already defensive, “but I ran out of time.”
In retrospect, I thought I’d rather have been called Pork Chop and spent my days fighting off my brother’s dead vermin than have to live with such ridiculous expectations. “Parents often set extremely high standards for their children, but it’s usually because they want the best for them.” On the other hand, it was sometimes because they were assholes. I was dying to know which it was in this case.
“I know I should be grateful that he cares,” she said. “I mean, I have friends whose parents are barely present, much less intimately involved in every facet of their lives.”
I examined her for a moment. There was something a little funny about the statement. Something a little off, but I couldn’t quite determine what it was. The word “intimately” suggested egregious transgressions, of course, but I didn’t get the sense there was anything sexual involved here. “Tell me about your friends,” I said. “We haven’t spoken about them much.”
“My friends?” She shrugged. “They’re just, you know … kids.”
“Who’s your best friend?”
She almost looked as if she’d like to squirm, but she held herself perfectly still, pinned there by careful control and endless experience.
“I guess it would have to be Colleen. Colleen Anderson.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s the president of the debate team. And a member of the math league.”
“So you go to the same school?”
For a moment I thought emotion flared in her eyes, but then she laced her fingers in her lap and crossed her legs at the ankle.
“Well, she’s going to MIT now.”
“But you keep in touch?”
“As much as we can, but we’re both extremely busy with school.”
“How about extracurricular activities?”
“What?”
“Sports, school dances, that sort of thing. Do you make time for those?”
She pursed her lips. “I’m preparing for college,” she said. “I’ve never felt it was particularly important to learn how to belly dance or French-kiss some guy with an IQ of a cashew.”
The conversation went on like