Red Glove

He snorts as I disperse the blackened remains of my findings with one shoe. “Do you care if we go to Daneca’s?” he asks. “I told her I was going to stop over.”

“She’s going to be disappointed if I tag along,” I say with a smile.

He shakes his head. “She’s going to want to know what you found. Remember how obsessed she was with those files?”

“You’re going to tell her about this little bonfire, aren’t you? Man, no wonder you want me to come along. You just want her yelling at the right person.” I’m not really mad, though. I like that Sam doesn’t lie to his girlfriend. I like that they are in love. I even like the way that Daneca gets on my case.

“If you tell me not to, I won’t tell her,” Sam says, “but I’m not sure you’re really objective about this, uh, investigation.”

I feel a rush of gratitude that makes me want to tell him everything, but the ashes behind us remind me not to trust anyone completely.

Sam flips on the car radio. It’s set to some news program where the hosts are talking about the protest in Newark. The cops are claiming a riot broke out, but several YouTube videos show peaceful demonstrators being arrested. Some are still in custody—the numbers remain uncertain. The whole conversation deteriorates into jokes about girls with naked hands.

Sam changes the channel abruptly. I look out the window to avoid meeting his eyes. We stop at an auto parts store for a package of fuses and a new battery. Over the piped-in elevator music, he explains how to install them. I act even more incompetent with cars than I am, mostly to annoy Sam into laughing.

Minutes later, we pull into Daneca’s family’s fancy Princeton driveway. A guy in a green uniform is dusting the lawn with a leaf blower. In the back I can see Mrs. Wasserman in her garden, cutting a dark orange sunflower. She’s got a basket of them on her arm and waves when she sees us.

“Cassel, Sam,” Mrs. Wasserman says, walking over to the gate. “What a pleasant surprise.”

I thought people didn’t say things like that in real life, although I guess there are exceptions for people who live in houses like hers. Mrs. Wasserman doesn’t look as elegant as she sounds, though. Her cheek is smeared with dirt, her green Crocs are ragged, and her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. Somehow, though, her lack of effort is even more intimidating.

She doesn’t look like a tireless campaigner for worker rights. You wouldn’t figure her for the person who admitted on national television to being a worker. But she is.

“Oh, hi,” says Sam. “Is Daneca home?”

“Inside,” she says, and holds out the basket of flowers. “Can you two take these to the kitchen? I have to get the last of the zucchini. No matter how few you plant, somehow they always come in at once and then you have too many.”

“Can I help?” I ask impulsively.

She gives me an odd look. “That would be great, Cassel.” Sam takes the basket of flowers and shakes his head at me, clearly guessing that I’m trying to delay answering Daneca’s inevitable questions.

I follow Mrs. Wasserman into the backyard while Sam goes inside. She picks up another basket from a pile of them inside a shed. “So how are things? I heard about Ms. Ramirez’s resignation. It’s ridiculous what that school thinks it can get away with.”

The garden is idyllic and huge, with lavender plants and blooming vines crawling up pyramids of woven sticks. Tiny red cherry tomatoes cover one raised bed, while another is bright with summer squash.

“Yeah,” I say. “Ridiculous. I was wondering, though. There was something I was hoping to ask you.”

“Of course.” She gets down on her knees and starts to snap off striped green vegetables with a twist of her garden-gloved hands. The zucchini grow from the center of a large leafy plant with yellow flowers and seem to just sprawl heavily on the ground. After a moment I realize that offering to help her means I should be mimicking what she’s doing.

“Um,” I start, bending down. “I heard about this thing—this organization the federal government has. For worker kids. And I wondered if you’d heard about it too?”

Mrs. Wasserman nods, not bringing up the fact that the last time I saw her, I was insisting up, down and sideways that I wasn’t a worker and wasn’t interested in them either. “No one will confirm much about it, but anyone trying to legislate in favor of protections for worker kids runs into government push-back concerning their own program. I’ve heard it called the Licensed Minority Division.”

I frown over the name for a moment. “So is it legit?”

“All I know,” she says, “is that I used to correspond with a kid about your age before he got recruited by them. I never heard from him again. Worker teenagers are a valuable resource, until the blowback cripples them—and the LMD tries to recruit before the mob does. The LMD goes after other workers—sometimes for legitimately terrible crimes, sometimes for minor infractions. It can sour the soul. If someone told you about the Minority Division, then you need a lawyer, Cassel. You need someone to remind them you’re still a citizen with choices.”

I laugh, thinking of the holding cell, thinking of all the people who might still be in it. I guess Daneca didn’t share that story with her mother. But even if I believed citizens had choices, the only person with any legal expertise I know is Barron, and all he managed was a couple years of pre-law at Princeton. Mom has a lawyer, but I can’t pay him the way she does. Of course, there’s Mrs. Wasserman. She’s a lawyer, but she’s not exactly volunteering. “Okay. I’ll try to keep my nose clean.”

She pushes back a lock of woolly brown hair and manages to paint her forehead with dirt. “I don’t mean to say that they aren’t a worthwhile organization. And I’m sure that some kids wind up with fine, upstanding government jobs. I just want us to live in a world where worker kids don’t have to play cops or robbers.”

“Yeah,” I say. I can’t imagine that world. I don’t think I’d fit in there.

“You should go on into the house,” she says, and then smiles. “I can manage the rest of the vegetable picking.”

I stand up, understanding a dismissal when I hear one.

“I didn’t know what I was,” I say, swallowing hard. “Before. I didn’t mean to lie to you.”

Mrs. Wasserman looks up at me, shading her eyes with one gloved hand. For the first time in this conversation, she looks rattled.

Daneca and Sam are sitting on stools at the massive island in her kitchen. Resting on the marble counter in front of him is a glass of iced tea with a sprig of actual mint stuffed into it.

“Hey, Cassel,” Daneca says. She’s wearing a white T-shirt and jeans with knee-high brown suede boots. One purple-tipped braid hangs in front of her face. “You want something to drink? Mom just went to the store.”

“I’m good,” I say, shaking my head. I always feel awkward in Daneca’s house. I can’t help casing the joint.

“Why did you go investigating without me?” Daneca demands, clearly done with being a hostess. “I thought we were in this together.”

“It was on the way,” I say. “Sam mostly waited in the car. Anyway, the police and the Feds were already through there. I just wanted to see if I noticed anything they wouldn’t.”

“Like the cigarette?”

“I see Sam told you about that. Yeah, like the cigarette. But that came later, I’m pretty sure.”

“Cassel, I know this is hard to hear, but she has every reason to want to kill your brother. You said he kidnapped her.”

I’m probably thinking about this the wrong way, but right now I regret telling them anything. The problem with starting to talk is that the parts you leave out become really obvious. Plus there’s the temptation to just reveal everything.

And I can’t do that. Now that I have friends, I don’t want to lose them.

“I know,” I say, “but I don’t think she did it. She didn’t seem guilty at his funeral.”

“But she went to the funeral,” Daneca says, insisting. Sam isn’t saying anything, but I can see him nod along with her. “Why would she even go to the funeral of someone she hated? Murderers do that. I’ve read about it.”

“Revisiting the scene—,” Sam starts.

“Philip wasn’t killed at a funeral parlor! Besides, she came there with Zacharov,” I say. “He wanted to offer me a job.”

“What kind of job?” Daneca asks.

“The kind you don’t talk about,” I say. “The kind that gets you a big fat keloid necklace and a new nickname.”

“You didn’t take it, right?” she says. I am pretty sure that, like the Feds, Daneca and Sam have come to the conclusion that I’m a death worker along the lines of Grandad.

I pull at the collar of my shirt. “You want to see my throat?”

“Oh, come on,” she says. “Just answer the question.”

“I didn’t take the job,” I say. “Honest. And I have no plans to. And I want some of the iced tea that Sam has. With a mint sprig, please.”

Daneca smiles tightly and hops down from her stool. “Fine, but that doesn’t mean we’re done discussing Lila. I mean clearly you’ve got a crazy, epic thing for her—but that doesn’t mean that she’s not a suspect.”

I try not to take it too hard that even though Lila has been worked to love me, I’m the one whose feelings are obvious. “Okay. What if she did kill my brother? Will knowing that help anyone?”

“It’ll help you protect her,” Sam says. “If you want to.”

I look at him in surprise, because it’s not at all what I expected him to say. It’s also absolutely true.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay. Is it really that obvious I’m into her?” I think of Audrey, practically saying the same thing outside the cafeteria. I must be pathetic.

“We went to the movies together,” Daneca says. “Last night. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

Sam frowns as Daneca pours my tea.

“Maybe you should just call and ask if she killed Philip,” Sam says.

“No!” says Daneca. “If you do that, then she’s going to put on an act. Hide evidence. We have to make a plan.”

“Okay.” I hold up my hand. “I don’t think Lila did this. I really don’t. It’s not that I think she’s not capable of killing someone. I’m sure she is. And I’m sure she hated Philip, although if she was going to kill one of my brothers, I’m pretty sure she would have started with Barron. But she—I know this isn’t going to sound convincing—she really likes me. Like, likes me so much that I don’t think she’d do something that would hurt me or make me hate her.”

They both exchange a glance.

“You’re a charming dude,” Sam says carefully. “But no one is that charming.”

I groan. “No, I’m not bragging. She’s been cursed to love me. Now do you get it? Her feelings are reliable because they’re not real.” My voice breaks on the last two words, and I look at the floor.

There is a long pause.

“How could you do that to her?” Daneca says finally. “That’s like brain rape. That’s like actual rape if you—How could you, Cassel?”

“I didn’t,” I say, biting off each word. She could have given me the benefit of the doubt for just one minute. She’s supposed to be my friend. “I’m not the one who worked Lila. And I never wanted her to—I never wanted this.”

“I’m going to tell her,” Daneca says. “She has to be told.”

“Daneca,” I say, “just shut up for a minute. I already told her. What kind of person do you think I am?” Looking at Daneca’s face, I can see exactly what kind of person she thinks I am, but I keep going anyway. “I told her and I’ve tried to stay away from her, but it’s not easy, okay? Everything I do seems to be the wrong thing.”

“So that’s why—” Sam cuts himself off.

“Why I’ve been acting so weird about her?” I say. “Yeah.”

“But you’re not an emotion worker?” Daneca says cautiously, no longer quite so disgusted. I appreciate that she’s at least trying to sort through what I’ve already said, but I can’t help resenting that the one thing I actually didn’t do is what she’s accusing me of.

“No,” I say. “I’m not. Of course not.”

Sam looks over at the doorway, and I follow his gaze to see the blond worker kid that Mrs. Wasserman took in.

“So if you’re not the one who cursed her . . .?” Daneca asks me, whispering.

“That part’s not important,” I say.

The kid turns to us, his face pinched. “I already heard you. You don’t have to whisper.”

“Leave us alone, Chris,” Daneca says.

“I’m just getting a soda.” He opens the refrigerator.

“We have to do something,” Daneca says. Her voice is still low. “There’s some emotion worker going around hurting people. We can’t just let—”

“Daneca,” Sam says. “Maybe Cassel’s not ready to—”

“Emotion workers are dangerous,” Daneca says.

“Oh, shut up,” says Chris suddenly. The refrigerator gapes open behind him. He has the soda in his gloved hand, and he seems ready to hurl it at one of us at any moment. “You always act like you’re better than everybody else.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">