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  “And so the police came to your house, because…?” Tori asks.

  “Because I talked to him—the escapee, that is. The police wanted to know if he said anything significant.”

  “And did he?” Jeannie asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Wait, was this the hot homeless guy?” Tori asks. “Because I totally remember: He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt.”

  “Okay, why can’t I recall even a smidgen of this?” Jeannie asks.

  “Apparently Hot Homeless Guy was arrested for killing his father,” I explain. “He was being held in a juvenile detention center before he escaped.”

  “Okay, I think I vaguely remember this story,” Jeannie says. “Didn’t it happen last winter?”

  “This past spring, actually.”

  “And now the guy’s lurking around in convenience stores?” Jeannie asks.

  “Not to mention on the bike trail behind my house.”

  “Seriously?” Jeannie gawks at me.

  I look at the clock: only two minutes left before the bell rings. “Okay, the meeting,” I say, completely switching gears. I slide the agenda in front of her.

  “Whoa, wait, are you kidding me?” Jeannie balks. “An alleged murderer hanging out on your bike path, not long after conveniently bumping into you in a food mart, is way more important than some dumb meeting.”

  “Dumb?”

  “Not dumb.” She grimaces. “Just…”

  “Curious,” Tori says, stealing the conversation. “I am, that is…curious about your club’s acronym. What does the B in PB&J stand for? Boys? Babes?”

  “Try brains.” I give her a pointed look.

  “And what, pray tell, do brains have to do with peace or justice?”

  I roll my eyes, as if the answer’s completely obvious. It isn’t. I know that. But it’s too late to turn back now. “Okay, fine. The idea was stupid, but I thought PB&J had a catchier ring than just P&J.”

  “Like a pajama party.” She laughs. “At least we know of one peace-loving soul who’s sure to show up to get his PB & Jam on.”

  She’s talking about Max Terbador—no joke, that’s his real name; his parents are obviously cruel. Max has been crushing on me since freshman year—since I linked my arm through his in the parking lot after a football game, pretending that we were a pair, thus saving him from Tommy Hurst and his posse of lemmings. They’d been bullying Max for months—for no other reason than the fact that they were assholes (of course, Max’s name probably didn’t help).

  Max was eternally grateful, especially because Tommy had been crushing on me at the time. And so not only had I foiled Tommy’s plan to de-pants Max in the parking lot that day, thus crowning him Max-terbater of the year, but I’d also publicly displayed my choice by resting my head on Max’s shoulder.

  “Max and I are just friends,” I remind her.

  “One appropriately timed exchange of tongue spit can change all that, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not even going to dignify that question with an answer.”

  “Being dignified is way overrated,” she says, back to forking at her bangs. “What I wouldn’t give for Jarrod Koutsalakis to get all PB & Jammy for me.”

  “Okay, um, ew.” I make a face.

  “Max is really sweet,” Jeannie says, looking in his direction, four tables over.

  He’s sitting with the hipsters today. Somewhat of a social floater, he tends to gravitate from group to group, not really clicking with anyone in particular.

  “Do I smell a crush?” Tori asks her.

  “What you smell is your cheap hair spray.” She reaches across the table to pluck the carrot from Tori’s bangs, once and for all.

  Meanwhile, Max looks up in our direction. He stops talking. His face brightens. A smile crosses his lips. His hipster friends turn to look at us too, pausing from their coconut water and bento boxes. Max waves in our direction.

  “That boy is way too cute to be single,” Tori purrs. “One of you has to go say hello.”

  But before Jeannie or I can even consider the option, the bell rings and we’re saved. I give Jeannie the folder for the meeting, also reminding her not to forget about my cookie crumbles. Or maybe that would be preferable.

  By the time I get to the classroom for my PB&J meeting, I’m all out of breath, and almost out of hope. It seems the only one who bothered to show up—aside from Jeannie and Tori—is Max.

  “Holy freaking flop,” I say, thinking about all of the announcements I’d made and the posters I’d put up.

  “It wasn’t a total flop.” Tori nods to the empty container of cookies. “Your chocolate-chip crumbles were a hit. A bunch of the science league members grabbed a handful on their way out to hunt for crickets.”

  “As if that’s supposed to make me feel better.”

  “There was a lot going on today,” Jeannie says, trying to apply a verbal Band-Aid. “There were theater tryouts….”

  “Plus a marshmallow-eating contest at Bubba Joe’s Café,” Tori adds. “The winner gets free hot cocoa for a month.”

  “Well, how can I compete with that?”

  “But we’re here,” Jeannie cheers.

  “Despite the fact that we really love marshmallows,” Tori continues. “Especially tall, dark, and handsome ones.” She nods to Max.

  While I’ve been busy squawking, he’s been busy cleaning everything up, collecting the handouts and sweeping the cookie crumbles. Tori moves to stand behind him, turning her back to Jeannie and me to do that thing where you wrap your arms around your shoulders and tilt your head from side to side, making it look like you’re hard-core kissing.

  “Max, you really don’t have to do all that,” I tell him.

  “I don’t mind.” He turns to face us.

  So cute, Tori mouths at me, followed by an exaggerated wink.

  “So, are we ready to start the meeting?” Max slides a bunch of chairs into a circle and takes a seat in one of them. “Shall we wage the war on hunger? Create awareness of child labor? Or support prisoners of conscience, maybe?”

  “And speaking of prisoners…” Jeannie folds her arms and glares at me. “Shall we discuss the escaping variety?”

  “Like the ones who off their fathers, break out of juvenile detention centers, and then stalk our good friends?” Tori asks.

  “Precisely the variety I was thinking of.” Jeannie gives her a high five.

  “I’m not sure I know that kind,” Max says.

  Jeannie, Tori, and I join Max in the circle, and then I spend the next several minutes catching them all up on the convenience store encounter, the photo shoot afterward, and the visit from the officers last night.

  “If he saw you taking his picture, he’s probably lurking around to get his revenge,” Jeannie says.

  Max shakes his head. “I think this guy has way bigger problems than some girl who took his picture.”

  “Sounds like you’re taking for granted that he’s of sane and sound mind, rather than a deranged serial killer looking to flambé one of our best friends,” Jeannie says.

  “Deranged serial killers don’t go to juvie,” Max tells her.

  “Do you speak from experience?”

  He gives her a freakish look, complete with buggy eyes and a flash of teeth. “What do you think?”

  I pull my laptop out of my bag and read aloud a couple of the news articles I found.

  Tori raises her hand, as if we’re in class. “Why do you have creepy articles saved in your Favorites folder?”

  “Because I was curious about him.” I shrug. “About the case, that is. I mean, look at things from my perspective: I bump into some guy while shopping for candy. The next thing I know, he’s an alleged murderer, on the run, lurking around not far from my house.”

  “And are you still curious about him?” Jeannie gives me an accusatory look, with her eyebrow raised high.

  “Maybe I’m not quite convinced he’s guilty.”

  “Because hot guys don’t k
ill?” Tori smirks.

  “What if we made this case our mission?” I ask.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Jeannie glares at me over the rims of her glasses.

  Meanwhile, Max has already done a search on Julian’s name. He scrolls through the headings on his phone. “Okay, admittedly the case does sound a little weak—at least just from these articles.”

  “But they must have hard evidence,” Jennie says. “I mean, they don’t just go arresting people without it.”

  “So how come the articles don’t mention the hard evidence?” I ask.

  Tori takes my laptop to read one of my “favorite” news reports. “How come Julian’s not being blamed for his mom’s death too?”

  “Because it sounds like his mom committed suicide,” Max says.

  “But what if she didn’t?” Tori taps her chin in thought. “What if her body was just made to look like she did? Or what if she did commit suicide, but only after killing her husband?”

  “Then Julian would be innocent,” Max says.

  “Think about it,” I say. “We have a suicide. And we have murder. The two go together like…”

  “PB&J?” Tori laughs.

  “Don’t you want to research this more?” I ask, completely stoked at the opportunity. “To find out if there’s a chance he might really be innocent?”

  “Okay, in theory, it might be fun,” Jeannie says.

  “But in reality, I have, like, a bajillion trig problems to do.” Tori loops an invisible noose around her neck and pulls.

  “Meeting adjourned.” Jeannie stomps the heel of her shiny black Mary Jane—her makeshift gavel—against the laminate tile, totally bursting my proverbial bubble.

  After the meeting, Tori nabs Jeannie, purposely—and obnoxiously—leaving me alone with Max.

  “Thanks for coming to the meeting,” I tell him.

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have missed it.” He smiles.

  I smile back, but it isn’t with the same emotion. Part of me wishes that it were—that I felt the same way about him. But to me he’ll always be the boy who on the first day of kindergarten dressed up as Aquaman and peed on the slide, claiming it was anti-villain venom.

  “Can I give you a ride home?” he asks.

  My gut reaction is to tell him no. But since Tori and Jeannie have already left—and since I’m still feeling a bit creeped out about our resident detention-center escapee, I nod and say yes.

  He takes my backpack, ever the gentleman, and we walk out to his car. On the drive to my house, I fill the awkward silence with small talk about things we pass along the way: the Pretzelria, the Taco Teepee, and my newly hated establishment, Bubba Joe’s Café. Finally, after several painful minutes, we pull up in front of my house. The inside is dark. My mom isn’t home yet.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I tell him. “Sorry the meeting was a bust.”

  “It wasn’t a total bust. Three people showed up.”

  “Three of my closest friends.”

  “Do you really consider me a close friend?”

  “Of course I do,” I say, stretching the truth like rubber. In theory: I’d love to spend more time with Max. In fact: I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.

  I thank him again and grab the door handle to exit his car.

  “Hold on,” he says. “I’ll walk you in. Rumor has it there are criminals lurking about.” He takes my bag and follows me up the walkway, accidentally stepping into a hole in the ground. He stumbles forward, catching himself on one knee.

  “Are you okay?” I blurt.

  He gets up. The knee of his jeans is covered in mud. “Groundhog problem?”

  “Gardening problem.” I grimace. “Believe it or not, that was my dad’s attempt at trying to plant a tree.”

  “Is he aware that one needs to refill the hole once the seed is planted?”

  A banging noise startles me. It came from the side of the house, behind the fence. I peer in that direction, wondering if a squirrel might be picking at the trash or scampering in the gutter.

  “Day?” Max asks.

  “Want to come in for a minute?”

  “Sure.” He perks up.

  I lead him up the front steps, and we go inside.

  “You know, for as long as we’ve known each other, I’ve never been in your house,” he says.

  “Well, you haven’t exactly missed much.” I lock the door behind us and flick on some lights so he can get a better view. Only half of the stairwell is painted. The floors are bare and splintery, and our furniture—what we found at yard sales, mostly—is sparse and retro (and not in a funky, eclectic sort of way). It’s not that my parents are lacking funds; what they’re lacking is time and interest. “Can I get you a washcloth for your pants? And maybe something to drink?”

  “A drink would be great.”

  We go into the kitchen. Max takes a seat at the island, and I open the fridge. There’s a half-gallon of milk (expiration date: four days ago), a bottle of tomato juice, and one of my mom’s green drinks (which has now turned brown). “Water?”

  “Perfect.”

  I set our drinks down on the counter and take a seat beside him, still wondering about the noise at the side of the house.

  “So, what do you think about starting your club with just the four of us?” Max asks. “I’m sure more people will eventually join.”

  “Honestly?” I sigh. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Max takes a sip from his glass (a recycled relish jar) and makes a face, startled by the ridges on the rim.

  “Sorry.” I swallow down a giggle. “My parents are wannabe recyclers.”

  “Wannabe?”

  “Meaning that most of our recycle bins have turned into storage containers.” I nod to the bins full of cat food in the corner.

  Max swivels to look, and I take a mental picture of him. Gone are the iron-creased pants and shiny leather loafers, replaced with dark-washed jeans and suede ankle boots. His hair has changed too—no longer cut into a bowl, but waved to the side with a sharp razor edge. He looks so different than just two years ago. So, where have I been? Why hadn’t I noticed?

  He swivels to face me again, totally catching me spying. “Well, I could help if you want.” He bites back a grin. “With the marketing, that is. We could put flyers on everybody’s windshields and come up with a clever catchphrase to nab people’s attention.”

  I can hear the excitement in his voice. I wish I could bottle it up and drink it down. This meeting—the PB&J organization—was supposed to make me feel that way…give me a sense of purpose. But right now, the only thing that sounds exciting to me is delving into Julian Roman’s case.

  “It didn’t seem as if anyone liked my idea for a first mission,” I venture.

  “The father-killer from juvie. Were you actually serious about that?”

  “Why not? Someone’s freedom may be in jeopardy.”

  “Okay, but you don’t even know this guy.”

  “I know that I have questions. I mean, what if he’s really innocent?”

  “If he’s really innocent, then he should go to trial and be exonerated. Why be on the run at all?”

  “Good question.”

  “You’re not planning to go all CSI on me, are you?”

  “CSI? No. But Chelsea Connor, maybe.”

  “Chelsea Connor?” His face scrunches up with confusion.

  “My mother. She’s a legal superhero, remember?”

  “Oh, right.” He nods, still every bit as confused.

  “More water?” I stand up from the island, purposely looking out the window. One of the larger tree branches—behind the barn, at the beginning of the bike path—has fallen onto the ground.

  “Everything okay?” Max asks.

  “Broken tree limb.”

  He stands beside me to look. “How far down the bike path did you see that guy?”

  “About a five-minute walk.”

  “I’m sure it’s a coincidence, but just in case
”—he reaches into his pocket and hands me his cell phone—“you should probably give the police a call.”

  I nod and start to dial.

  Thursday, October 15

  Evening

  I was standing at the side of the house when I heard a loud bang. It was followed by another bang. I peered out through the gate. There was a dark green Wrangler in the driveway.

  Day was there. Some guy with her. They were just getting out of his car, and he was totally scoping her out—so much so that he tripped. He stepped into a hole, nearly falling flat on his face. Day reached out to steady him, and his whole body stiffened. If they’re seeing each other, it’s the start of a new relationship, because she definitely makes him nervous.

  My mother used to get nervous too—all the time, when I was younger. “Can I get you anything?” she’d ask my dad. “More steak? Another drink? Are the potatoes warm enough?” She’d pace back and forth in the kitchen, itching her palm, watching him eat, nibbling her nails down to the quick—until the nubs of her fingers were raw and bleeding.

  It wasn’t until Dad was done with his food that I was allowed to eat. Mom never ate. Instead, she’d go into the room I’d shared with Steven. I’d watch her from the kitchen table. She’d sit by his bed and read aloud from one of his books, as if Steven was tucked in beside her.

  She’d never done that with me.

  “Want to come in for a minute?” Day asked that guy.

  The cool autumn air swept over my shoulders, giving me a chill. I looked down into the trash can. I’d wanted to pack up more food, but I suddenly felt sick.

  While Day and her boyfriend headed for the front of the house, I yacked up the contents of my stomach, able to hear my mother’s voice inside my head reading Steven a bedtime story.

  The police arrive about thirty minutes after I call them. Max stays until they get here, promising to call me later, after his shift at the boat shop (for which he’s already late).

  While I stay inside the house, the police search the bike path. It isn’t until forty minutes later that Detective Mueller finally emerges from the woods. Officer Nolan follows.