Narc Read online

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  Narc © 2012 by Crissa-Jean Chappell.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2012

  E-book ISBN: 9780738733760

  Book design by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

  Cover image © Rod Morata/Stone/Getty Images

  Editing by Nicole Edman

  Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

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  Flux

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.fluxnow.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Joyce Sweeney,

  And for all the Miami kids

  from Kendall to Wynwood.

  Part One

  1 : Off–site

  The empty room was in Little Havana, above a botánica that sold life-sized statues of bleeding saints. My new “friend,” the undercover cop, and I never met in the same place twice. We were supposed to talk off-site on a weekly basis, just to keep me in character.

  The cop was dressed in regular clothes: a T-shirt and jeans, same as me, but his hair was buzzed so tight, you could see the pasty gleam of his scalp shining through it. He wanted to know if I’d been taking notes. So far, all I’d written down were a couple names from school.

  “Aaron, this is the best you can do?” he snapped.

  I hung my head.

  If I could’ve backed out, I would. Believe me. I never wanted anything so badly. That’s the damn truth. If I thought things were shitty in my old life, I had no idea how low I could go. I’d been coasting without a clue. Then came the Incident.

  Here’s how it went down.

  The Incident, as I like to refer to it, took place a few weeks into my senior year, right after Dad died. I was driving his truck down US-1, the highway that runs through Miami and all the way to the Keys, blasting my music with my little sister, Haylie, riding shotgun. Just trying to clear my head, you know? I was probably going ten over the limit. Okay. Maybe twenty. I didn’t mean to run the light. It was one of those situations where you’re like, should I slow down or speed up?

  “Punch it,” my sister said.

  I hit the gas.

  The siren blended into the radio. I didn’t hear it at first. In the rearview mirror, I caught the blue and red. My blood turned to ice. What the hell was I going to tell Mom? She had enough to handle. I swerved through traffic, as if I could actually shake the cop. How dumb was that? Next thing I know, he’s pulling us over and tapping the window.

  “How’s it going, man?” he said.

  How did he think it was going?

  “Axl Rose, huh?” He fake-smiled at me.

  I had no clue what he meant. Then I remembered to cut the radio. For a second, I actually believed that we’d bond over classic rock and he’d let me off with a warning. No dice.

  “You got any ID?”

  I reached for my wallet.

  “Can you guys step out of the vehicle? Make it quick.” He shined a flashlight in my sister’s eyes. “Been drinking tonight?”

  “She’s only fourteen,” I said. “Give her a break.”

  He made me lean over the trunk, legs splayed, hands flat, while he rummaged through my pockets.

  “Got anything on you that’s going to stick me?” he asked.

  “Just a pocketknife.”

  The cop looked confused. He dug inside my back pocket and fished out a Swiss Army Knife, a gift from Dad. I don’t know why I was carrying the damn thing. It had rusted years ago.

  He turned to Haylie. “How about you, sweetie?” he said, grinning.

  I wanted to smash that grin off his face.

  As his fingers moved across my sister’s jeans, I gritted my teeth.

  “What’s this?” He slipped his fingers in her waistband. I was about to explode when he pulled out a plastic baggie, a little over an ounce. I must’ve stared at it for ten seconds before my brain added up the details:

  My little sister.

  A bag of weed.

  Her eyes widened.

  She must’ve got it from me. Where else would she get her hands on pot? I’d stashed away the “funeral present” from my friend, Collin, just in case I needed it, but I sure as hell didn’t need it then.

  “How much you pay for this?” he asked.

  “I found it,” she said.

  “You found it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure you don’t sell that?”

  Haylie was crying now, silently, her face slicked with tears and snot.

  “Then why is it all bundled for sale?”

  She opened her mouth.

  “It’s mine,” I said, before she could fill in the blank.

  The cop studied my driver’s license. “Hang tight. I’m going to run your name.”

  I waited for what felt like centuries. My heart was jackhammering. God, how could I be so stupid? When the cop finally came back, his mood had shifted.

  “You’re Rico’s kid,” he said. “I heard what happened overseas. Your father was a brave man.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He was.”

  “How’s your mom doing?”

  “Not good.”

  The cop nodded. “That’s your little sister? What’s her name again?”

  “Haylie.”

  “Haylie. Right.”

  If this cop was such good buddies with Dad, why couldn’t he remember my sister’s name? He told her to get in the truck. When she was gone, he edged closer to me.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “If you’re straight with me … Well. It all depends. Maybe we can work something out.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, falling right into it.

  “This is kind of serious. I could book her for possession of an illegal substance with intent to sell. Or you could go to jail. Looks like you’re about to turn eighteen in a few weeks. What’s it going to be?”

  “I already told you. It’s mine. Please. Just leave her alone, she’s just a kid,” I stammered.

  If I went to jail, who woul
d watch over Haylie? I glanced back at the truck.

  “You go to school?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I said like a little kid.

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Palm Hammock.”

  His mouth twitched. I could almost see his wheels turning.

  “Since you seem cooperative, I’m willing to offer a deal. I’ll dismiss the girl’s charges if you’ll work with me.”

  I was freaking, big time, ready to do anything.

  “Do you know what the word informant means?” he asked. “It means a friend who helps us out. They supply information. We help them out in return.”

  The Barney theme song played in my head with new words:

  I help you. You help me.

  On the way home, Haylie said, “I can’t believe he just let us go.”

  “Dad’s got friends in high places,” I said. “Now start talking. What’s with the weed? You’re way too young to be messing with that shit.”

  She shrugged. “I found it in your room.”

  Right. I turned on the radio. For the rest of the drive, we kept quiet.

  A few days later, I drove to the police station. The same cop ushered me into a windowless office in Narcotics, where the lead officer of the team leaned over the conference table and gave me a speech about my “assignment.” Then they took my picture and fingerprinted me like a murderer.

  There’s a word for what they did. It’s called flipping. In order to drop the marijuana charges, I had to become a new person: Metro Dade Informant Number 2012-1003. The lead officer logged me into the system. He did a background check, pulled my history, and gave me a brand-new file.

  “Aren’t you supposed to get permission from my mom or something?” I asked.

  “You’re almost eighteen, right? So we’re treating you like an emancipated adult,” he said, and I liked the way it sounded. Emancipated. Free.

  When the cops asked if I was willing to sign the Substantial Assistance Agreement and go undercover, I said, “Okay,” and just like that, I had a new job, one that I couldn’t discuss with anybody.

  The subject of my assignment? The same place I’d been going since ninth grade: Palm Hammock in West Kendall. For years, my school had been dodging phone calls from angry parents, desperate to shake its reputation as “the pharmacy.” The cops weren’t interested in setting up the school for a drug bust. They had one goal: catch the shot caller in action. After targeting the head dealer, I was supposed to alert the lead officer, who would call in the troops for an arrest.

  I wouldn’t call myself a party person, yet the cop was ordering me to hang with anyone who might have connections to the shot caller. In other words, the cool kids, not the stoner rejects like me at the bottom of the social totem pole.

  This meant going to parties.

  This meant making friends.

  And another problem: They had to be the right ones.

  2 : Aaron With Two As

  I’ve been in trouble lots of times, but never on purpose. The morning after my useless check-in with the cop, I sat in World History, doodling pot leaves on my desk. I made sure that people noticed. That was the plan. My doodles sent a message: Let’s get high. So far nobody had taken the bait. Then Mr. Pitstick noticed what I was doing and gave me a lunch detention for “destroying school property.” When lunchtime finally rolled around, I ate my turkey sandwich in the classroom with the other convicts.

  Time to take notes.

  Somebody’s cell phone buzzed, the ring tone featuring the classic strains of I’m In Love With a Stripper. It belonged to Jessica Torres, better known as Skully, a redhead with a reverse mullet (party in the front, business in the back). She tried to lower the volume, making a bloop-bloop noise with every push of the button.

  “Call you later,” she whispered.

  Unbelievable. Who talks on their cell during detention? I couldn’t get over it. Neither could Mr. Pitstick, who was already marching down the aisle.

  Skully dipped lower at her desk, as if that did any good. “Listen, dingle-brain. You have to check it three times a day. Did you eat candy again? What the hell is wrong with you? Do it yourself. Use the flash lancing thingie. Yeah. The one with the see-through cap.”

  Mr. Pitstick snatched the phone out of her grip. He snapped it shut and tucked it into his pocket. “Ms. Torres, cellular phones are not allowed on school grounds.” He strutted toward the front of the classroom.

  Skully actually got up and followed him. “Hear me out,” she said. “My little brother locked himself out of the house and he needs his meds. No one else is there. He’s got diabetes.”

  “Rules are rules.”

  “Yeah, but the rule sucks. Say there’s an accident. What happens if the school burns down or something?”

  The class rocked with laughter.

  “Settle, people,” said Mr. Pitstick. The cell phone went off again, triggering another round of shrieks and giggles. He walked back to his desk and tossed the phone in a drawer.

  Skully was upset, almost in tears. I kind of felt bad for her. “I swear to god it’s an emergency.”

  Mr. Pitstick sank into his chair. He’s got this holier-than-thou smirk that I really can’t stand. So I did something stupid.

  I raised my hand.

  “Maybe she’s telling the truth,” I heard myself say. “I just don’t think it’s fair, taking away her phone.”

  Heads turned to gawk at me. A few people whispered.

  For a long time, Mr. Pitstick stayed quiet. Then he shrugged. “Who said life was fair?”

  Everybody leaned toward me, waiting for a showdown, waiting for me to do something. Anything. Instead, I did nothing, as usual, and they went back to chewing their pencils.

  It was raining in the library. The sharp tang of mold hit me as I pushed through the double doors. Last summer’s hurricane had ripped the stuffing out of the roof. Around the room, water plinked into buckets. Half the books got tossed, not that anyone came here to read. This was the only safe zone I knew. A place where I could think. I cruised the magazine rack and pretended to read about oil spills. The librarian, a middle-aged dude with a straggly ponytail, hunched at his desk, playing a game of solitaire. Kind of pathetic. But not as lame as me.

  I kept looking up people online, like some kind of inept cyber-stalker. For a while I tried using “Palm Hammock” as a search on Facebook, but I didn’t see anyone familiar. The only person I recognized from school was this cute, emo-looking girl named Morgan Baskin. We were in the same history class but we never talked. Not like I’d ever tried; she was far too cool for me.

  I switched back to Morgan’s Facebook page. The first thing I noticed is how lonely it looked. When I clicked on photos, I found a Polaroid of a bare arm, crisscrossed with scars. The marks were thin and raised like an ice skater’s trail on a frozen lake. I felt embarrassed just looking at it, like I was peeping on her.

  The people in her friends list didn’t go to Palm Hammock. They were from all over the planet, from Australia to Iceland. I scanned through her only blog entry: Everybody Is So Fake. There’s No One Left Who’s Real.

  i grab the blade and carve

  this skin which no longer feels

  normal

  drowning in those faces

  who try to catch me

  the current’s just too strong.

  For some reason, I couldn’t stop reading it. Guess you could say I was spacing out. I’m not big into poetry, but there was something between the words that made total sense. My eighth grade English teacher, Mrs. Scoggins, would’ve called it an epiphany.

  Not for the first time, I was beginning to have doubts about this assignment. What right did I have to be prying into people’s lives? I felt like an asshole.

  The library door opened and a bunch of people headed str
aight for the so-called “lounge” near the computers. I quickly minimized my screen and cleared the search history.

  Brent Campbell sprawled across a table with Morgan, the emo-looking girl I had just been checking out online. They used to go out for, like, half a second. Not that I keep track of stuff like that. No telling if they were back together, but Morgan deserved better, if you asked me. Besides. She was way too cute.

  Her bangs fell across her face like a shadow. She had a lip ring and a million hoops glinting along her earlobes. I could picture her at a Renaissance fair, selling dreamcatchers or jars marked “ashes of evil fairies.”

  Morgan liked to tell everyone that she danced ballet professionally. I believed it. Her muscular legs nearly stretched the length of the table. She always wore flat shoes—moccasins or pillowy Uggs trimmed with fake fur. She must’ve been sweating in those boots because she kicked them under her chair. Until then, I’d never seen her bare toes. They were thick with calluses, almost bent the wrong way.

  “Oh, my god. That boy is staring at my feet. What a pervert,” she said, pointing at me.

  Brent turned so fast, he might’ve got whiplash. A trio of studs glinted across his pointy chin, as if a nail gun had attacked him. Right. Like that’s so hardcore. “Got a problem?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Leave him alone,” Morgan said. “I can’t blame him for staring. My toes are fugly. They’re totally messed up from jumping in pointe shoes.” She rolled her eyes. “Hey, did you know I danced in a commercial?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Morgan looked surprised. “You do?”

  “She was, like, ten,” Brent said.

  “Shut up.” She gave me a little smack. “So, like … how do you know?”

  “Everybody does,” I said. “It’s online.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “Somebody uploaded it,” Brent told her, as if she didn’t already know. She’s probably the one who put it there.

  In the milk commercial, Morgan wore pigtails and fake eyelashes.

  “Does a body good!” she sang, a catchphrase that would never die, thanks to the video posted on YouTube, not to mention the boys who chanted it whenever she walked down the hall.