Hush, Hush #1 Read Free Page B

physical shape.
    I immediately scribbled over the last observation until it was illegible.
    The microwave clock blinked to 9:05. As I saw it, I had two choices.
    Either I fabricated my interview with Patch, or I drove to Bo’s Arcade.
    The first option might have been tempting, if I could just block out Coach’s voice warning that he’d check all answers for authenticity. I didn’t know enough about Patch to bluff my way through a whole interview. And the second option? Not even remotely tempting.
    I delayed making a decision long enough to call my mom. Part of our agreement for her working and traveling so much was that I act responsibly and not be the kind of daughter who required constant supervision. I liked my freedom, and I didn’t want to do anything to give my mom a reason to take a pay cut and get a local job to keep an eye on me.
    On the fourth ring her voice mail picked up.
    “It’s me,” I said. “Just checking in. I’ve got some biology homework to finish up, then I’m going to bed. Call me at lunch tomorrow, if you want.
    Love you.”
    After I hung up, I found a quarter in the kitchen drawer. Best to leave complicated decisions to fate.

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    “Heads I go,” I told George Washington’s profile, “tails I stay.” I flipped the quarter in the air, flattened it to the back of my palm, and dared a peek. My heart squeezed out an extra beat, and I told myself I wasn’t sure what it meant.
    “It’s out of my hands now,” I said.
    Determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, I grabbed a map off the fridge, snagged my keys, and backed my Fiat Spider down the driveway. The car had probably been cute in 1979, but I wasn’t wild about the chocolate brown paint, the rust spreading unchecked across the back fender, or the cracked white leather seats.
    Bo’s Arcade turned out to be farther away than I would have liked, nestled close to the coast, a thirty-minute drive. With the map flattened to the steering wheel, I pulled the Fiat into a parking lot behind a large cinder-block building with an electric sign flashing BO’S ARCADE, MAD BLACK PAINTBALL & OZZ’S POOL HALL. Graffiti splashed the walls, and cigarette butts dotted the foundation. Clearly Bo’s would be filled with future Ivy Leaguers and model citizens. I tried to keep my thoughts lofty and nonchalant, but my stomach felt a little uneasy.
    Double-checking that I’d locked all the doors, I headed inside.
    I stood in line, waiting to get past the ropes. As the group ahead of me paid, I squeezed past, walking toward the maze of blaring sirens and blinking lights.
    “Think you deserve a free ride?” hollered a smoke-roughened voice.
    I swung around and blinked at the heavily tattooed cashier. I said, “I’m not here to play. I’m looking for someone.”
    He grunted. “You want past me, you pay.” He put his palms on the counter, where a price chart had been duct-taped, showing I owed fifteen 26
    dollars. Cash only.
    I didn’t have cash. And if I had, I wouldn’t have wasted it to spend a few minutes interrogating Patch about his personal life. I felt a flush of anger at the seating chart and at having to be here in the first place. I only needed to find Patch, then we could hold the interview outside. I was not going to drive all this way and leave empty-handed.
    “If I’m not back in two minutes, I’ll pay the fifteen dollars,” I said.
    Before I could exercise better judgment or muster up a tad more patience, I did something completely out of character and ducked under the ropes. I didn’t stop there. I hurried through the arcade, keeping my eyes open for Patch. I told myself I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but I was like a rolling snowball, gaining speed and momentum. At this point I just wanted to find Patch and get out.
    The cashier followed after me, shouting, “Hey!”
    Certain Patch was not on the main level, I jogged downstairs, following signs to Ozz’s Pool Hall. At the bottom of the stairs, dim