Page 9 of Script Swap
This time, Bobby didn’t respond at all.
The rest of the night had been, if not exactly smooth, then at least not overly problematic.Once the theater had been evacuated, everyone stood around in the street, with nervous high spirits and, yes, an after-the-fact thrill.There had been lots of strained laughter.Lots of wide eyes.JaDonna Powers (who had what I calledchurch hair) had thrown her head back like a horse and practically whinnied she was having such a good, wild, scary time.
Eventually, Terrence had come out and informed us that there had been a malfunction with the lights, and everything was fine, and wouldn’t we come back inside for complimentary popcorn and the second half of the show.Tinny had stood behind him, masked by shadows so that she looked like one of those ink drawings in the scary manga that I’m not allowed to read.(Per Bobby, Keme, and Indira—Fox said I should be allowed to read whatever I wanted so long as I didn’t interrupt their naps.)
To their credit, the actors had finished the play like true professionals.The ending was a little different from how I remembered it in real life—instead of Keme saving the blundering Daniel Dank, it had been Pippi to the rescue.She’d also clonked Vivienne and given a four-minute monologue as she assumed the mantle of Matron of Murder.(Artistic liberty.And schlock, schlock, schlock.)
(But look who’s talking; I was obsessed with a TV show calledThunderCats.)
Still, that wired-to-the-gills energy had persisted.The laughs, when they came, had been a little too loud.And at the play’s most intense moment—when a foolish Daniel Dank got trapped by the wicked Marienne—JaDonna Powers, in the audience, actually let out a little scream.Everyone did one of those sympathetic-but-also-nervous chuckles.Because we were all still feeling it.
Because when the lights had gone out, for a single moment, we’d all thought the exact same thing: someone had been murdered.
Toothbrushing duties officially accomplished, I popped out to the bedroom.Bobby was on the bed in his grungy white straight-boy socks, striped boxers that had two holes in them, and a Volcom T-shirt that had been bleached by sun and salt until it was practically see-through.
Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not made of stone.
Here’s the thing about Bobby: he’s so handsome, and he doesn’t even know it.Not at all.He’s got these muscles.He’s got miles and miles of smooth, unblemished golden skin.He’s got eyes that are like burnt bronze, and sometimes, when he looks at me, it’s like I forget how to breathe.(One time, not only did I forget how to breathe but I also choked on a pancake, and Fox whapped me on the back so many times I think they cracked a vertebra.)
Right then, Bobbywasn’tlooking at me.Instead, his attention was fixed on the papers spread out on the bed.One set, fanned out to his left, was a printout of a sample exam—more specifically, the detective exam.Another set, to his right, consisted of supplementary materials: photos, interview transcripts, and the like.One thing that made the case interesting to a crime buff like me was that the Sheriff’s Office used old cases for the exam—nothing that would compromise the integrity of an investigation, but real cases nonetheless.The exam was simple in concept: the detective-to-be was presented with the kind of things a detective would come across in their daily work, followed by a series of questions.It should go without saying that Bobby was amazing at it.
He was perfect at it, actually.Right up until the moment when he had to take the test.
Test anxiety is a real thing.(Ask me: I’m a connoisseur of anxiety; I know all thirty-one flavors.) Bobby, on the other hand, wasnota particularly anxious person, although I had seen him freak out, for lack of a better term, on a few rare occasions.For some reason, though, tests put Bobby in a weird headspace.He could study for weeks, and then, when he sat down, his mind went blank.He froze up.And you might be surprised to learn that freezing up is not a quality they encourage in detectives.
So, for the last couple of months, we’d been studying.In the wake of the death of Bobby’s mom, I think it had given him a welcome distraction that wasn’t—well, trying to kill himself with work and exercise, which had been Bobby’s coping strategy in the past.Not that Bobby had eversaidthat studying was a distraction.Not that I’d ever asked.
I hopped onto the bed.The papers shifted, but only a little, and Bobby squinted up at me.
“I’m an unexpected joy,” I told him.“I’m a bouncing ball of happiness.I’m a chaos kitten come to scratch up all your furniture and fill your heart with love.”
“You’re on a crime scene,” he said.
I extracted the slightly wrinkled crime scene and gave it a glance.It was a small room with pine paneling and orange shag carpet.A counter ran along one wall with a pair of ladder-backed stools.There was a safe against the far wall, its heavy door open to expose the empty interior.I held up the photo for Bobby to see.
He groaned and said, “I was doing a quick review.”
“Come on.”
“We’re both tired.”
“One.”
He gave me a look that made me suspect chaos kittens weren’t high on Bobby’s list of favorite things, but he leaned forward to inspect the photo.I counted to thirty in my head and turned the picture toward me, so that I could see it but Bobby couldn’t.
“How many stools are there?”
“Two,” he said.“One against the wall, still upright.One on the floor.On its back.”
“But how many rungs do they have on the back?”I asked.
“Two.”
“Uh, okay, that was a joke.Let’s see… what about the carpet?”
“What about it?”
“What did you notice?”
