The Little Brother by Victoria Patterson Page A

thief, et cetera, “I would’ve turned him or her in right away.”
    But they don’t know what it’s like. Or they’re lying. It’s far more comfortable and easy to remain stupid and silent. Like I would have.

14.
    JULY 6
    M Y CELL RANG at 4:13 that morning. I know because I looked at the neon numbers glowing from my alarm clock, my first angry thought being, Who’s calling me this early?
    Dad and I had watched TV late into the night, like when I’d first moved in with him, no Gabe or Nancy. An episode of 20/20 and then The Jerk. Gabe had gone somewhere, leaving with a quick good-bye.
    During The Jerk, Dad drank two martinis, grunting now and then instead of laughing. At one point, when he got up to use the bathroom, he paused and put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. He wore a black sweater with a teal blue golf shirt underneath, the collar peeking out.
    I snacked on popcorn and drank a bottle of Orangina that I’d found in the back of the refrigerator.
    â€œG’night, Even,” Dad said as the credits rolled on the screen, setting his glasses case next to the remote. “Sweet dreams.” He smoothed my hair with his hand, and then he left for bed.
    An easy sleep for me, and then my cell ringing. I fumbled for my phone, opened it, and stared up at the ceiling.
    â€œEven,” said Sara. Crying, unmistakably. A terrified, gulping-for-breath crying.
    We still talked a lot on the phone, about everything—school, work, fears, families, ambitions, philosophies, books, movies.
    She’d even told me once that she couldn’t stop drinking—wasn’t sure if she wanted to—and that she also had a problem with cocaine. “You’re the only one who knows about the coke,” she’d said. “Joe thinks I quit.”
    Joe was her boyfriend, a local amiable pot dealer who knew both Gabe and Kevin since he dealt to them.
    I’d adjusted to being just Sara’s friend. I was jealous of Joe, sure, but it was better than not having a relationship with her at all.
    I’d met Joe once at a party I went to with Mike. Joe was wearing a cowboy hat, long sandy hair peeking out, handsome, tall, and I’d had an urge to slam him against the wall, but then he left for the other room to drop off a bag of weed.
    Sara had stayed in the hallway with me. Her eyes had met mine. She was wearing a cashmere sweater, a soft gray color. Her eyes were luminous, a dark greenish-gold, and she’d smiled and said, “Don’t be mad, Even. I really like Joe. But you’re my best friend.”
    During the last phone conversation we’d had, before hanging up she’d said, “I’m really glad that I met you, Even,” and I’d said, “I’m really glad, too.”
    â€œEven,” she said now, on the phone, “help me.”
    My gut clenched. “What is it? What happened, Sara? Where are you?” I rolled over, sat up, and turned on the lamp. Car accident, Ithought, death, limbs torn off, drinking and driving, beaten by her jackass pot-dealing boyfriend.
    Blinking, I was relieved to find in the light the regularity and familiarity of my bedroom. But that Sara was crying scared me considerably. She’s a tough girl. I’d never seen or heard her cry before, and I haven’t seen or heard her cry since.
    She gave me Joe’s address on Amethyst (he’d rented a house for a week on Balboa Island that summer), told me that I needed to come right now, right this second, no time to waste. She couldn’t tell me why. It would take too long to explain.
    â€œHurry, Even,” she said, in a hushed and shaky voice. “Don’t tell anyone. Don’t let anyone see you. Just come.”
    I did hurry, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, no shoes, pulling on a hooded zipper-front sweatshirt on my way out, and forgetting my driver’s license. Careful not to make noise as I shut the front door; starting the BMW