High and Dry Read online

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: 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.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Skilton, Sarah.

  High and dry / by Sarah Skilton.

  pages cm

  Summary: Framed for a stranger’s near-fatal overdose at a party, blackmailed into finding a mysterious flash drive everyone in school seems anxious to suppress, and pressured by his shady best friend to throw an upcoming game, high school soccer player Charlie Dixon spends a frantic week trying to clear his name, win back the girl of his dreams, and escape a past that may be responsible for all his current problems.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-0929-6

  [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Mojave Desert—Fiction. 3. California—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S6267Hi 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013025535

  Text copyright © 2014 Sarah Skilton

  Art copyright © 2014 The Heads of State

  Book design by Jessie Gang

  Published in 2014 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  115 West 18th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  www.abramsbooks.com

  FOR JOE AND ELLIOT

  CONTENTS

  THE EX BEFORE THE EX

  THERE ARE NO PALM TREES IN PALM VALLEY

  BLACKMAILERS DON’T DO HOMEWORK

  RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

  A FAVOR FOR A FRIEND

  BAD REPUTATION

  ANSWERS

  IN THE BACK OF THE BUS

  THE MOBILE ESTATES

  WHEN RYDER THREW THE BAT

  THE OTHER MARIA

  THE COUNTEROFFER

  THE OBVIOUS HIDING PLACE

  PHASE ONE

  JUST LIKE OLD TIMES

  THE TRUTH ABOUT RYDER

  THE SHORT ARM OF THE LAW

  LIBERATING THE FLASH DRIVE

  BRIDGET’S SILENT PARTNER

  THE ANGRY PENGUIN

  THE TWO MARIAS

  THROWING THE GAME

  THE BLUE-RASPBERRY LOLLIPOP

  THE AUCTION

  THE OTHER TRUTH ABOUT RYDER

  THE TRUTH ABOUT ELLIE

  SPRING BREAK

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE EX BEFORE THE EX

  I WASN’T INVITED, BUT I SHOWED UP TO THE PARTY ANYWAY so I could talk to Ellie Chen and find out why she dumped me two weeks ago. It was a choir party at Maria Posey’s place, in celebration for killing it at the state qualifier yesterday, so I figured Ellie and her songbird friends would be there.

  I didn’t figure they’d be mixing it up with my new crowd from soccer and my old crowd from, well, whatever it is Ryder does these days.

  I parked a few blocks away and walked up the hill, shivering. It might’ve been cold outside, and it might not have been. I couldn’t tell anymore. Palm Valley, California, is just another place that disregards the seasons. It was January, but that didn’t mean anything.

  I was only cold because I remembered what it was like to be warm; the year I’d spent with Ellie was the warmest of my life.

  When she moved here from New York, I could tell right away she was different. She was smart in a way that didn’t make you feel stupid, and beautiful in a way that didn’t make you feel ugly. It was like by having those things, and being that way, she made everyone around her believe they were more and better, too.

  Now I drank to keep warm.

  For Christmas, Granddad had given me his antique flask. The real present was inside, refillable every time I visited him at the hospital. He didn’t need to bribe me with booze, though. I liked the old guy and I would’ve shown up every week no matter what. I liked his vintage magazines and I liked sitting and talking with him at Lancaster Medical while he recovered from pneumonia. Sometimes we’d just play cards and let the hours pass. Unlike my parents, he talked to me instead of over me.

  The conversations I had with my parents didn’t seem to require my presence.

  Outside Maria Posey’s million-dollar tract home on Western Avenue, I toasted Granddad and sipped my Christmas gift, wincing at the taste. The San Gabriel Mountains were oppressive dark outlines against a gray, smog-choked sky. They practically disappeared on nights like this, but I could still feel them there, separating me from Los Angeles and Pasadena and all the other places that might’ve been worth living in.

  I’d just stumbled through Maria’s doorway when my first ex, the ex before Ellie, slithered toward me out of nowhere and looped her arm around mine.

  “It’s been a month, Dix. You gotta let it go,” Bridget said.

  “Two weeks and four days,” I corrected her, scanning the crowded living room for Ellie. The air was charged, and a few sets of eyes found mine and squinted in curiosity or disapproval. It was hard to tell which.

  “It’s not that kind of party,” Bridget said, wrapping her fingers around my flask and lowering it out of sight between our bodies.

  “It is for me,” I said.

  The hallway and kitchen were packed, too, and I considered mosh-pitting my way through, but Bridget tightened her noose of an arm around mine.

  “Don’t make a scene. Hang out with me instead,” she said. Her large green eyes were like emerald caves, so huge a guy could stroll right into them and stay forever if he didn’t mind giving up his own mind. According to Ellie, emeralds had a tranquilizing effect. Screw the Ramones—I didn’t want to be sedated.

  Bridget leaned against me and I glanced down to where her curves seemed to be inviting my hands on a date. I kept my expression neutral and forced my gaze back up to her lips, which were full and dark and red. Her strawberry blonde hair fell in loose curls over her shoulders, and she smelled like a dream, lush and harmless, but I knew better.

  Whoever coined the phrase “girl next door,” intending it to mean sweet or innocent, never met Bridget. We used to be tight, but she hadn’t given me the time of day in years. Her sudden affection made me suspicious. Just like her emerald eyes, it was too good to be true. You can always spot a fake because it has no imperfections.

  I shook her loose and staggered through the living room, dodging couples perched on couches or sprawled on the floor. The room swayed, like the house had become unmoored. I half expected to look out the window and discover a black ocean because we’d all been transported to Semester at Sea. But the floor moved only for me.

  Everybody was talking about college admissions, scholarships, essays, and financial aid. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t been invited: my future was set, while theirs were still in flux.

  I fought for balance and caught snippets of deadline-this and deadline-that, all while scanning, scanning, scanning for Ellie.

  A couple of my soccer teammates (Patrick and Josh) gave me the nod, or maybe they were indicating heads-up, because suddenly Maria Posey, hostess and head songbird, stepped into my path and scowled.

  “Why are you here, Charlie Dixon?” She threw her words like darts, apparently belie
ving people’s names could be used as insults. Or maybe just mine could.

  “The beckhams are here, Ellie’s here. I’m the epicenter of that Venn diagram,” I slurred, and poked her on the shoulder to make my point.

  She was disgusted, either by my breath or by the fact that I’d brought math to the party.

  “Are you drunk?” she demanded. “I don’t want you vomming all over my parents’ carpet.”

  I didn’t dignify that with a response. “I just want to say hi to Ellie, okay?”

  With a last name like Posey, the pressure was on, but as always, Maria met the challenge. She struck a good one: hip cocked, hand out, eyebrow raised. It was quite a balancing act. I wondered if she’d practiced it in front of the mirror before guests arrived. The Velvet Rope, she could call it.

  “Invite?” she demanded again.

  “Must’ve gotten caught in my spam folder.”

  “Spam folders don’t spontaneously generate invites. You didn’t make the cut.”

  “Ellie’s here, so I can be here,” I pointed out.

  “She broke up with you last year.”

  “Last year was a few days ago!” I took a deep breath. “Two seconds, okay? Then I’ll leave.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Fine. At least serve a purpose and sign my petition while you’re here.”

  “What’s it for? To ship you off to Vassar early or something?”

  “It’s to convince Principal Jeffries to let the girls’ choir perform at graduation.”

  Ah, graduation: the collective obsession of my classmates—save for me, of course. When you know exactly where you’re going, the future holds little charm.

  Maria handed me a stack of papers, and I indicated for her to turn around so I could sign it against her back.

  When that was through, I found myself alone in the kitchen, turning in a circle, debating which exit was most likely to lead me to Ellie. Should I go back and retrace my steps? Or forge ahead in a new direction?

  A Hispanic girl passed through on her way to the living room, her long, dark hair almost obscuring her large, hollow eyes. She looked like a sad girl in search of a tragedy. I could steer her toward mine, but it would cost her a finder’s fee.

  The sad girl and I glanced at each other. I didn’t recognize her and we hadn’t been introduced, so I didn’t say a word. Every year it gets harder and harder to tell freshmen and sophomores from upperclassmen, and it’s not worth the risk engaging them to find out.

  I watched her leave, then spun some more—retrace steps, or forge new path?—until someone called my name. My oldest friend, Ryder.

  “Hey,” he said. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth, and he fiddled with a box of orange Tic Tacs, rolling it up and down his knuckles like it was a coin and he was a bored magician. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  He was more out of place at this party than I was, and we both knew it. “Ditto,” I said.

  His dark hair was just long enough to tuck behind his ears, and it stuck out a little from under the ratty, knitted black cap he always wore. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose a little red, and his T-shirt had holes in it, but he still looked like a jock—albeit a jock who’d accidentally dressed himself as a stoner.

  He shrugged. “I’m a sucker for songbirds. I’m sure you can relate. Gonna win the game on Friday? Agua Dulce.” He drew the “l” out like taffy.

  “That’s the plan.”

  He didn’t say anything else right away; just looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read, empty as an ashtray in a house of former nic addicts.

  “I’m heading out, but let’s grab lunch on Tuesday. Off-campus? Find me if I don’t find you.” Ryder walked out the front door before I could answer.

  I nodded anyway, and the floor lurched sideways as I wobbled toward the balcony.

  Ryder had two inches and thirty pounds on me and he could’ve played varsity in just about any sport, but he’d failed the drug test freshman year, and failed to care all the years after that. When I met him the summer before sixth grade, he’d been all-American wholesome in his Little League baseball uniform, a star with limitless choices, limitless directions.

  As if in deference to his former capacity for greatness, the party had rearranged itself to let him pass, so the direction he’d come from was now an open path for me, too, straight out to the balcony.

  I tipped my flask to lap up fresh courage, and when I lowered it, there she was, standing outside in the windy January air, her back to me, in a face-off with the moon over who was more fickle.

  A guy stood next to her, leaning against the railing, speaking intimately in her ear. The balcony wrapped around the side of the house, giving them plenty of room, so why were they standing so close together, arms touching?

  “Ellie,” I shouted.

  The guy jumped and stepped aside: Fred from English class, looking frail and pasty like a good debate team nerd should.

  Ellie turned around and stared at me. I stared back, dehydrated and dizzy. Her skin was smooth and pale. It reminded me of a cup of milk slowly being poured right before someone yanks the glass away. I was so thirsty, and she was just out of reach.

  Her hands were small and tense at her sides, like doves waiting to be released into the air. Her silky black hair was pulled into a loose bun, held together by a lacquered stick with gold Chinese characters painted on it. A few loose strands framed her forehead. She wore a little bit of eye makeup, just enough to prove she didn’t need any. This was the “Natural Look” magazines always advise women to go for but no girl can actually pull off. Unless they’re Ellie.

  I wanted to cup her face in my hands and give her a kiss hello. Her lips were wonderfully soft looking; they never left a mark on my face, almost as if she’d never been there at all, and now I realized I wished she had. Worn lipstick. Left behind some evidence that she and I had really happened.

  “What are you doing here, Charlie?” Her voice was soft and low and disappointed, so soft I had to lean in to hear.

  “Your brother told me where I could find you.”

  A smile tugged at one corner of her lips. “He always liked you.”

  “Funny thing,” I said. “You used to like me, too.”

  “I still do,” she said, sounding hurt.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “About what?” She backed up and knocked into the railing. I covered the distance between us, but not too close, never too close.

  I’d waited a year to ask her out, and on our first date I knew she was too good for me, but I pretended I didn’t know, and I spent the next eight months waiting for her to come around to it, too.

  Two weeks and four days ago I had agreed to meet her at Café Kismet for a cup of coffee. I came with a basket of pomegranates, her favorite, picked fresh from the tree in Granddad’s backyard.

  She showed up with a tired, regretful expression and broke it to me gently. But she never told me why.

  I sat there long after she left, till closing time, unable to move. There were plastic Christmas lights hanging all over Rancho Vista Boulevard, mocking me with their cheer while my coffee turned cold, then bitter. When I got kicked out of the café, I walked around for hours without going anywhere, just so I wouldn’t have to go home. I walked until the lights spun and blurred and flickered in my wet gaze like real candles. I walked until every single one gave up and blinked off, gone as if the desert wind had blown them out.

  I could think of a million reasons for her to ditch me, but I didn’t know her reason.

  “You said hi. Now you need to leave,” said Maria, tugging on my arm. She’d been head songbird since sophomore year, no small feat, and she ruled the other girls with an iron fist. Most of the time. Rumor had it there’d been a power play at the state qualifier in Pomona yesterday, but between whom I didn’t know.

  “I’m talking to Ellie,” I snapped. “I don’t need to do anything.”

  We’d drawn a crowd; I could sense a group forming a h
alf circle behind me, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t leaving till I got a straight answer, nontourage be damned.

  “Not here, not like this,” said Ellie. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

  Between her and Ryder, people were lining up to talk to me later. Trouble was, I wanted answers tonight. “Just tell me why it’s over,” I begged.

  She glanced at our audience, uncomfortable. “You changed,” she said.

  “How did I change?” I said, daring to inch closer.

  “Well,” she said, “for one thing, you started drinking.”

  The flask was not helping matters; it weighed heavy in my hand even though it was nearly empty.

  “I only started drinking because you left me. That’s not the reason.” I moved closer, contemptuously. “Is it because of him? Are you with Fred now?” Maria was right; names could be used as insults, so long as they had the right target.

  I gave Fred a quick push against the railing.

  “Charlie, stop,” Ellie cried, and I backed off, hands up and open, my flask gripped loosely by my thumb and forefinger.

  I redirected my attention to her. “A lincoln-douglas? Really? After me?”

  It was a lame-ass move, and I knew it. Even in my booze-addled state I knew it. Our school traffics in labels, but that was never Ellie’s currency.

  She was looking over my shoulder; she was already done. “Bridget, would you take him home? He’s not safe to drive.”

  Unbeknownst to me, Bridget had followed me to the balcony, and she happily accepted the task. “Told you not to make a scene,” she purred in my ear. “Keys?”

  “You’re not driving me anywhere,” I spat.

  “Charlie,” said Ellie, stepping toward me and holding out her perfect palm.

  I handed them over, and she walked past me, past the rubber-neckers, and into the kitchen to place my keys in a dish.

  In the passenger seat of Bridget’s Chevy convertible, I dialed Ellie’s cell and poured my heart out until her voice mail cut me off. I redialed, and it said her mailbox was full. I chucked my cell onto the backseat and banged my fist on the dashboard and generally had a little fit.