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“And incredibly competent,” Blue drawled.
“I didn’t tell anybody about—you know,” she said in earnest. “I know it’s a big secret. And I don’t think Mom did, either.”
Secrets. Dean had spent his early childhood years believing Bruce Springsteen was his father. April had even invented an elaborate story about Bruce writing “Candy’s Room” about her. But it had all been wishful thinking. When Dean was thirteen and April had been high on God-knew-what, she’d blurted out the truth, and his already chaotic world had turned upside down.
Eventually, he’d found the name of Jack’s lawyer in April’s stuff, along with a collection of photos of April and Jack together, plus evidence of the support money Jack was paying out. He’d called the lawyer without telling April. The guy had tried to stonewall him, but Dean had been as stubborn then as he was now, and finally, Jack had called him. It was a brief, uncomfortable conversation. When April found out, she went on a weeklong bender.
Dean and Jack had their first face-to-face encounter, a secretive, awkward meeting in a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont, during the L.A. segment of the Mud and Madness tour. Jack had tried to act like Dean’s best friend, but Dean hadn’t bought it. After that, Jack had insisted on seeing him a couple of times a year, and each secretive visit was more miserable than the last. At sixteen, Dean rebelled.
Jack left him alone until Dean’s sophomore year at USC, when his face started popping up in Sports Illustrated. Jack had started calling again, but Dean had frozen him out. Still, Jack occasionally ran him to ground, and Dean sometimes heard that Jack Patriot had been spotted at a Stars game.
He got down to business. “I need a phone number, Riley.”
“I…kind of forget.”
“You forgot your own phone number?”
She nodded, a quick jerk of her head.
“You look like a pretty smart kid to me.”
“I am…but…” She gulped. “I know a lot about football. Last year, you completed three hundred forty-six passes, and you only got sacked twelve times, and you threw seventeen interceptions.”
Dean usually requested that people not use the i-word around him, but he didn’t want to agitate her more than necessary. “I’m impressed. It’s interesting you can remember all that and not remember your phone number.”
She pulled her backpack into her lap. “I’ve got something for you. I made it.” She opened the zipper and removed a blue scrapbook. The pit of his stomach contracted as he gazed down at the cover, which had been painstakingly hand decorated. Using puffy paint and marking pens, she’d drawn the Stars’ aqua and gold logo and an elaborate 10, his jersey number. Hearts with wings and banners that said “The Boo” decorated the border. He was glad Blue spoke because he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.
“That’s some pretty good artwork.”
“Trinity’s better,” Riley replied. “She’s neat.”
“Neatness doesn’t always count so much in art,” Blue said.
“My mom says neatness is important. Or…she used to say that.”
“I’m so sorry about your mom,” Blue said quietly. “This is a really hard time for you, isn’t it?”
Riley rubbed one of the puffy hearts on the scrapbook cover. “Trinity’s my cousin. She’s eleven, too, and she’s very beautiful. Aunt Gayle is her mom.”
“I’ll bet Trinity’s going to be worried when she finds out you’re missing,” he said.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “Trinity’ll be glad. She hates me. She thinks I’m a weirdo.”
“Are you?” Blue asked.
He didn’t see the point of rubbing it in, but Blue ignored his dirty look.
“I guess,” Riley said.
Blue beamed. “Me, too. Isn’t that wild? Weirdos are the only truly interesting people, don’t you think? Everybody else is so boring. Trinity, for example. She might be beautiful, but she’s boring, right?”
Riley blinked. “She is. All she wants to talk about is boys.”
“Yuck.” Blue screwed up her face way more than she needed to.
“Or clothes.”
“Double yuck.”
