A H.E.R.O.S PROJECT 12

9. Missed call

"Richie, pick up! I know you're still alive. I got your messages. You're asking for too much. George Lucas? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You don't know him like that, and he's still alive."

I end the call and press the pound key. A soothing female phone operator asks if I want to leave Richie another voicemail.

I drive as fast as I can to Grandpa's house. Not the best driver in the world, I pop over curbs, speed through red lights, and hit trashcans before I make it home. The large black gate to Grandpa's house opens upon my arrival, and I drive the car to the front door.

Too much in a rush to remember if I put Tristian's car in park or neutral, I run, tripping to Tristian in the passenger seat of her Mini Cooper. Tris dips in and out of consciousness, her head leering more to the left than up. She smells of liquor, eggs, and spoiled cheese; someone wrote their phone number on her arm beside her smudged smiley face. There's another number stuck to the bottom of her muddy foot. She's also missing a heel, well, not missing. Taken is more accurate.

She'll never get her heel back or want to know who's its proud new owner.

Someone at the party told me Tristian beat Marcus at beer chug in the mud. It's a game where you race to your beer can stuck in the mud, and whoever finishes their beer first wins. After Marcus lost, he confessed his undying love to her and got down on one knee. The idiot didn't have a ring and proposed, presenting a dog tag he said belonged to his father, who died in service. Touching.

Tris didn't give him an answer and threw up. Her heel fell off when Adonis helped me haul Tristan to her car. Marcus took her heel as a souvenir, vowing to search for her for the rest of his life. In the rain and storm, from coast to coast, with or without food. Idiot. Tristian lives on Ichor and Foreign Street. That's two blocks from my house. Her family has lived there since the conception of Eugenes.

"Anayaaaa..." Tris slurs. She can't keep her head straight. Drool runs down her chin, wetting her platinum dress, "Did I win?"

I ignore her drooling, hook her arm around my neck, and support her weight. She's not as heavy as I thought. "What, baby?" I keep turning my head for fresh air because she smells so bad.

She coughs a disgusting grunt on my jacket, then wipes whatever she hacked on my sleeve, "Did I win because I feel like a winner? I bet they crowned me prin-princess ninja warrior person."

My jacket, I'll set it on fire later. I don't look to see what Tris coughed on my sleeve.

"Sure, "I tell her, "That's a wild title, but you deserve it."

When we enter the house, I leave Tristian at the foot of the staircase, and I suddenly feel uneasy. Richie and Lou aren't home. That's not good. He's still lost then, and hopefully, Lou is with him.

I walk Tris upstairs and down a hallway to my bedroom. Technically, not my bedroom. Great Grandma Matthews slept here before she died, relinquishing the master bedroom to Grandpa. She passed when I was three. I know very little about her, and Grandpa only shares minor details about his mother: she was a genius and brave. Great Grandma met Great Grandpa in the military. She was multilingual and an archaeologist. Grandpa Solomon said Great Grandma spoke over twenty languages and had a hell of a punch. Insane to imagine my old lady fighting international villains while raising a small family.

"Why do I smell like cheese?" Tris hiccups failing to sober up. I start laughing, helping her onto the bed, under the sheets. I lay blankets on her, coaxing her to close her eyes. I'll deal with her tomorrow. Most importantly, she needs to know that Marcus proposed to her public. She won't like that.

A gold and redwood Victorian wall clock sounds in Great Grandma's room, and I look at some of her possessions Grandpa refuses to get rid of, like a soft cotton cream cardigan on a peg stand. If smelled, pine and a sweet honey fragrance cling to the cotton. A polished silver gun hangs by the windows above her gold and swirling silver jewelry box, the size of a medium-sized treasure chest. Next to the jewelry box is a large oval mirror framed in black cast iron, crusted with thorns and needles of polished swirling silver and ebony.

When I was little, I would dig through her jewelry box, dress in Grandma's heavy gold necklaces and rings, and count her many colorful diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. I'd pretend to be a queen of far-off grassy lands, bowing, a small silver crown on my head. I would gift the diamonds to people of my court, dancing once all the gifts were gone, secretly wishing the mirror would transport me to distant worlds, desserts overrun with purple sand, forests in the sky, places where giants roam, and mysterious towns remain hidden underground. Grandpa would yell, catching me in the jewelry box and ending my fantasy.

I tell Tristian, "You danced with Marcus all night. That's why you stink. Listen up. I'm going to find Richie. He's lost and is probably scared out of his mind. I'll be back in a few, okay?"

Tristian is out of it. She whispers weird stuff, answering questions she asks herself.

She rolls over, and her last heel falls from under the blankets. She stops breathing for a whole minute, but I relax when she starts talking in her sleep. She speaks to an imaginary army of loyal warriors and ruthless men, telling them to fight with honor because she is their ninja princess and a dragon.

I sigh, "I'll take that as a yes."

I rush downstairs to the kitchen table, and it's evident that Richie left in a hurry. His gadgets and torch are on by the toaster he hadn't entirely fixed. Lou's food bowl is upside down, and dog food pelts are across the kitchen floor. And someone moved the plant. I put the plant where it should be in the family room, but as soon as I see the broken kitchen window, I leave the plant where it is. Dammit, Richie.

I try not to think of the worst-case scenario, but anything could have happened to him. He didn't lock the front door, and all the house lights were on.

It's not like Richie to leave in such a hurry. He would have turned off the lights and cleaned up his mess. He would have at least locked the front door and posted a note on the doorknob for me. Richie's more responsible than most adults.

Grandpa said Ol'Jimmy Boy would stop by to check on us, but if that were the case, Jimmy Boy would have made Richie stay home while he went looking for Lou if Lou ran away. She occasionally does if she finds an unlocked door or an open window to climb through.

Richie, I rub my forehead.

I open the closet by the front door, grab Grandpa's flashlight, not the pistol beside it, and head out.