Crap.
“Uh …” Porter scratches the back of his head.
Lana smacks her gum. “What do you mean? It was—”
“Shut it, Lana,” Porter mumbles.
Wanda turns her narrowed eyes on me now. “I remember someone eyeing your scooter at the posole truck a few days before it got jacked.”
Oh, crud. She really doesn’t miss anything, does she? Guess that’s why she’s a cop.
Mr. Roth puts a hand up. “Sergeant Mendoza, Porter and I have had a long talk about this, and I think we all want the same thing. Hell, we probably want it even more than you do.” Mr. Roth suspiciously eyes my dad, who is probably the only person here who hasn’t put two and two together that Davy is the one who stole my scooter—or maybe he has. I can’t tell. Regardless, Mr. Roth clears his throat and says, “What with my kid getting pummeled that day, driving out to Timbuktu to get her bike back.”
Too much information in front of my dad, ugh.
“I wouldn’t say ‘pummeled,’ ” Porter argues good-humoredly. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
Mr. Roth ignores him and continues. “What I’m trying to say is that no one wants to punish that joker more than I do. But Porter handled things the best way he knew how at the time, and I support that.”
“Hey, I got a kid,” Wanda says. “And off the record, I don’t disagree with you. But that ‘joker’ is still out there, and mark my words, he’s going to strike again. Next time, you may not be so lucky. He may hurt himself or someone else.”
Mr. Roth nods. “I hear you loud and clear. I worry about it all the time. In fact, I saw him hobbling around on the boardwalk last week and it was all I could do not to put him in the hospital again.”
A knot in my gut tightens. Last I’d heard, Porter had found out through the rumor mill that Davy had been laid up at home for the last couple of weeks due to Porter reinjuring his knee during the ght at Fast Mike’s garage. Guess he’s back on his feet again.
Wanda points a nger around our group. “Make me a promise, all of you. Next time Davy Truand does anything, or even starts to do anything, you call nine-one-one and tell them to send me. Let’s not meet again at another funeral, okay?”
• • •
After the service, my dad doesn’t give me any grief about Porter. He doesn’t even give me any grief about Davy being the one who stole my scooter. So when we’re alone, I just tell him that I’m sorry I kept it all from him, and I explain why I did, and that I won’t do it again. Ever, ever, ever.
“It hurts me that you felt the need to lie, Mink,” he says.
And that makes me cry all over again.
And because he’s the nicest guy in the world, he just holds me until I’m all dried out. And when I’m no longer in danger of drowning the entire cemetery in my misery, à la Alice in Wonderland, he straightens me up and lets me go home with Porter for the rest of the afternoon.
?e Roths live in an old house a block away from the beach on the outskirts of town in a neighborhood that probably was halfway nice ten years ago. Now it’s starting to get a little run-down, and half the homes have FOR SALE signs in the sandy yards. ?eir clapboard fence is sagging, the cedar paneling is starting to buckle, and the brutal ocean wind has beaten up the wind chimes that line the gutters. But when I walk inside, it smells like surf wax and wood, and it’s stuffed from ceiling to oor with trophies and driftwood and dried star sh and family photos and a bright red Hawaiian hibiscus tablecloth on the kitchen table.
“I’m starving,” Lana says. “Funerals make me hungry.”
“Me too,” Mrs. Roth says. “We need comfort food. P&P?”
“What’s P&P?” I ask.
“Popcorn and peanuts,” Porter informs me.
She looks around for approval, and everyone nods. I guess this is a Roth family tradition. Sounds a little strange, but I’m on a winning streak with food around this town, so who am I to argue? And when she pops the popcorn in a giant pan on the stove with real kernels, it smells so good, I actually salivate.
While she’s salting the popcorn, Porter goes to his room and changes out of his suit, and I help Mrs. Roth dig out bowls in the kitchen. It’s weird being alone with her, and I secretly wish Porter would hurry up. Now that he’s not here as a buffer, I feel like an actor shooting a scene who’s blanking on all her lines. What am I supposed to be saying? Maybe I need cue cards.
“How’s your mom feel about you being out here in California?” she asks out of the blue.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t heard from her.”
“Are you not close?”
I shrug. “I thought so. ?is is the rst time I’ve been away from h-home.” Man. Seriously? I can’t cry again. Funerals are the worst. I swipe away tears before they have a chance to fall, and shake it off.
