Bianca Torre Is Afraid of Everything, page 16
Commonwealth North, Oakwood West.
She’s right. Those could be street names. I open up my maps app, setting my phone down so Anderson and Elaine can see, and look for the intersection. And Commonwealth does intersect with Oakwood. At the northwest corner, there looks to be an office building, or one of those shopping centers, as it has a Jamba Juice and a taqueria displayed.
Something tells me they aren’t meeting over smoothies or al pastor.
That’s when my phone buzzes loud against the table. A call from an unknown number. It’s definitely not Mom, since she’s home, so that means . . .
“I think the killer is calling again.” I put my phone down on the table like not touching it will help. “Do I answer?”
“Put it on speaker,” Anderson says. “I’ll record with my phone.”
He gets his voice recorder app open and I answer the call.
“Hello?” Someone on the line says. “Who’s there?”
It sounds grainy, like we’re listening to a recording instead of someone speaking in real time. I don’t think it’s the killer on the line, as the man’s voice is filled with fear.
“Nate,” a deeper voice says. “It’s been a while.”
My heart pounds in my chest. Is Nate alive? Have they been keeping him captive this entire time?
“Who’s Nate?” Elaine whispers.
“Our dead neighbor’s missing nephew, shhh.” Anderson’s attention, like mine, is locked on the phone.
“Stop . . .” Nate says from the line. “You don’t have to do this, I won’t say anything . . .”
His words mumble into pleas, and then a scream pours through the speakers.
The call ends.
No. He couldn’t have . . . they wouldn’t . . . Tears prick my eyes as the hairs on my arms rise. They killed him. Just like they killed Mr. Conspiracy. And no one cared, no one was able to do anything about it.
Why would they share that?
“Shit,” I say. “That was Nate. He’s dead, too. Oh my God.” I rub my eyes, but I’m shaking. Those were his last moments. This isn’t right. “That had to be from a while ago, right? They couldn’t have kept him alive all this time just to kill him now?”
I need validation that there wasn’t anything we could have done.
“It was probably from January.” Anderson swallows. “Or February. When he first went missing.”
Elaine is completely still. She doesn’t seem to know how to respond, and I can’t blame her. It’s not even my first interaction with a murder, and I’m certainly not taking it well.
I try to breathe, but the air comes out in quick gasps. “Shit,” I manage to say again.
Anderson steadies me. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“No one was there for him,” I say. “They killed two people, Anderson.”
“I mean, you’re here for him now,” Elaine says. “We all are. That has to count for something.”
I bite my lip. It’s hard not to believe it when she says it. Maybe we can make a difference. Even if it’s too late for Mr. Conspiracy and Nate, this Flock might have future victims we still can save.
“Exactly.” Anderson points at his phone. “We have evidence now. We just have to prove who’s involved. And we might be able to do that by checking out this location.”
“Should we go?” I ask. My heart pounds in my throat.
I pull back up the location on my maps app. After that call, it’s hard not to feel terrified, though a shopping center with a taco joint and smoothie shop hardly feels like it’d be connected to actual murderers.
“We should definitely go,” Elaine says. “We just have to be safe about it.”
Anderson nods. “Let’s go Monday. We can meet up after school, and if we notice anyone or anything suspicious, it will seem like we’re just getting food.”
I’m glad he didn’t suggest trying our luck tomorrow—I have enough to stress about with the support group. I don’t need potential run-ins with murderers on top of that.
Still, this feels like a bad idea. Whoever VQ is, they didn’t hesitate to kill people. I got their message loud and clear. I might be next.
I blink, feeling the leftover tears between my eyelashes. It would be so easy to say no, to stop here.
But Nate offered to stay silent, and that didn’t change anything.
We have to solve this. We might not have any other choice.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. “We’ll go then.”
Anderson nods and Elaine smiles right at me.
“It’s a date,” she says.
And, despite literally everything, the horrified patter of my heart lightens to an excited flutter.
Twenty-One
A Family Next Door
As if I wasn’t nervous enough for our Monday plans of meeting up with Elaine to investigate a possible murder hangout, I have the nonbinary and trans support group to go to. Ronan offered to come, but he has a D&D campaign with friends, and I wouldn’t want to take him away from that. Since Anderson is coming already, I’ll be okay.
The chalky taste of Tums on my tongue, I knock on his door.
Mrs. Coleman opens it and immediately pulls me in for a hug. “Bianca, how are you?”
“I’m good, Mrs. Coleman, you?”
“Doing fine,” she says, ushering me inside. “Anderson said he was going to give you a ride somewhere. He broke his wrist training last night, so I can drop the two of you off.”
Anderson broke his wrist? He should’ve texted me. But it’s kind of nice he didn’t accidentally out me by giving details.
“Is he okay to go?” I ask.
“I’m fine, don’t worry, it’s my left hand,” his voice says. I jump and turn to the hallway, where he walks in with a cast around his wrist. “Although now I’m out of training for two months. Maybe I can do some one-handed Jiu-Jitsu . . .”
His mom gives him a light slap on his good arm. “You’ll be out longer if you mess it up more.”
He rolls his eyes and lets out a long sigh. “Well, I can help you train, Bianca. And, like . . .” He looks toward his mom for permission. “Watch the others, I guess?”
“As long as you don’t make that injury worse, sure,” Mrs. Coleman says.
“Why didn’t you message me?” I ask. “We don’t have to go.”
“ER was wild. But we’re good, promise,” he says. Something about his smile makes me instantly believe him. Anderson looks at me. “You ready?”
I shrug. “I’m never ready, but I end up having to do stuff anyway.”
Mrs. Coleman laughs, and I kind of feel guilty keeping the support group from her. I mean, if she didn’t mind Ronan’s gender, I feel like she’d have to understand where I’m coming from.
“It’s a nonbinary support group,” I say. “That we’re going to.” I pause and swallow before awkwardly adding, “Because I’m nonbinary.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Coleman pauses for a moment before pulling me into another hug. “Thank you for telling me. Let me know if you need anything, I went to some groups for trans families before.” She smiles and looks at me. “And correct me if I misgender you.”
I kind of feel bad with how well everyone is taking this. Almost like a terrible reaction is overdue or something. I swallow. Hopefully that won’t come from my parents.
“Thanks,” I say. “Really.” My heart is still rapidly beating from the thought of telling Mom and Dad. “You can come in and stay for the meeting,” I say. “If you want.”
Which is how I end up bringing along two people who aren’t my blood family to the group. To be fair, not being alone does make me feel a lot better—although I end up walking in by myself. I really have to pee, so Mrs. Coleman and Anderson drop me off at the door to look for parking.
I should’ve planned for parking issues: I live in Los Angeles. I should have used the bathroom before we left.
I rush inside the center and manage to find the bathrooms without talking to anyone. They are gender neutral, too, which is another win, although when I walk back into the lobby, Mrs. Coleman and Anderson still aren’t here. A big part of me wants to wait for them before entering the room with the group name on a sheet taped to the door, but I feel like they’ll be way prouder of me if I at least find us seats. I glance through the little window, keeping back slightly so I won’t be seen.
It’s a nice room. Kind of looks like a small space at a hotel where they do conferences and stuff. A bunch of chairs are set up in a semicircle, and three people are sitting.
Looking at each other.
Oh hell no, I can’t do this.
I retreat back into the lobby.
“You here for the trans and nonbinary group?” a voice asks.
I turn around to a person about my age. They’re Black, darker than Anderson and Mrs. Coleman, and their hair is in braids. They have a really cute floral romper on, jean jacket tied around the waist. They are so gorgeous I have to amend Fear #13 to
Fear #13: Beautiful People
I don’t want to assume their gender because even though they present traditionally feminine, that doesn’t define their identity or pronouns. I also feel like scurrying back to the bathroom. Some people are too attractive to talk to, and they can’t all be secret geeks like Anderson.
“Yes,” I manage to say.
“Great to meet you!” They hold out a hand. Their nails are painted in the bisexual flag colors, and the middle two fingers are kept short. “I’m Layla, she/they. Either set of pronouns is fine to use.”
I shake their hand. While I can use she, I might as well get used to using they. I don’t want to be one of those people who only uses the pronoun that’s easier.
“Bianca. They/them,” I respond.
“Is this your first time?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I have some people coming . . . I’m kind of bad at this stuff.”
“No worries,” they say. “You already did the hardest part by showing up.”
That’s reassuring, but I’m not totally convinced that’s accurate. I’m pretty sure the whole point of these groups is to share things about yourself and personal experiences.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Layla adds, like that’s a common fear. “It’s also nice to be around other people like us.”
Like us. I’ve never really been included in anything besides GLAOE, and it’s not like this. Getting into birding was something I chose, and I’m happy to know other people with the same interest, but this feels different. It’s a new kind of community that understands my identity. It’s not about how much I know, it’s a place where I can focus on getting to know myself.
“Cool,” I say, after what was definitely too long of a pause.
I really wish I was better at talking to people. I get ready for Layla to walk in the room and leave my awkward ass out here until Anderson inevitably drags me in.
“You have an Instagram?” Layla asks. “You can reach out to me there if typing is easier.”
They’re so cool and friendly, and typing is way easier. Despite my Instagram being a glorified stalker account with maybe one photo of me among many shots of birds and Puck, I nod.
“Yeah, that’d be cool.”
They pull out their phone and open the app so I can search for myself. I find my account and hand it back.
“Followed,” Layla says. “Message me anytime.”
I smile. “Cool, thanks.”
Dammit, it’s like my vocabulary is reduced to one word every time I have a social interaction. But with the way they’re holding their phone, I can make out the case.
“Is that Luna?” I ask, even though it obviously is.
How many good-looking people are actually anime fans?
Layla lights up though. “Yeah! You watch Sailor Moon?”
I nod. “I watch a lot of anime.”
“I’m a huge fan. I do a lot of cosplay too. Who’s your favorite guardian?”
“Sailor Uranus,” I say. “Race car drivers are hot. Lesbian icon. Screw the English dub.”
“Hell yes,” Layla says. “Bianca, we are definitely going to be friends.”
The door opens and Anderson and Mrs. Coleman walk in. Anderson practically double-takes when he sees Layla.
“This is my support group support group,” I say as they approach.
“That’s so awesome you came for Bianca,” Layla tells them, “I’m Layla, she/they.”
“Anderson, he/him.”
Sometimes I forget how cool Anderson is normally because he mostly acts like a dork around me. But, I’ll give it to him. He’s got a killer smile.
“Alicia,” Mrs. Coleman says. “She/her, I’m Anderson’s mom.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Layla says with a smile. Their eyes land on Anderson’s arm. “What happened?”
“I train Jiu-Jitsu,” Anderson says. He tosses them a smile. “You should see the other guy.”
“You mean the guy who rolled over your wrist accidentally?” Mrs. Coleman asks.
The look Anderson gives her is priceless.
“Layla and I were talking about Sailor Moon,” I say, making a note to look at Anderson. “She’s a big anime fan too.”
Both Mrs. Coleman and Anderson look like Christmas came early.
“Too?” Layla asks.
“One Piece is literally how Bianca and I became friends,” Anderson says.
“Oh, so you’re only into Shonen stuff,” Layla says.
“Tell that to the masterpieces that are Fruits Basket and Ouran High School Host Club,” Anderson counters.
“Damn, all right.” Layla actually does look impressed. She turns to us. “I wish I could talk more, but I should finish setting up.”
“I can help,” Anderson says. There’s that smile again. “I’ve still got one free hand.”
He’s too overpowered. He took his flirting to fifth gear. I’m so jealous. I’m an awkward mess if Elaine is even in the general vicinity.
“Thank you,” Layla says, and the two of them walk off.
Mrs. Coleman and I stand in the lobby for a second, because we both know better than to immediately follow after.
“He needs to teach me his ways,” I say.
“Oh, he gets his charm from me,” Mrs. Coleman says after a laugh. “That gorgeous person won’t run away at the sight of his room? I hope he marries her.”
Honestly, same.
After enough of a moment has passed, we walk inside and write our names and pronouns on name tags before taking seats in the middle of the room. Mrs. Coleman casually looks over to Anderson and Layla, grabbing chairs from across the room to fill out the other half of the circle, before looking back at me.
“I feel like there should be snacks, I’ll bring something next time.”
I can’t argue against food, and it also is immediately reassuring that she’s open to a next time.
“We can have my dad help make them, he always wants to cook and bake.” I swallow. “If I tell him it’s like . . . anime club.”
Mrs. Coleman laughs. “I’m surprised you two didn’t start one of those already.”
I look at her. “Thanks for coming with me.”
Mrs. Coleman sets her purse on her lap and reaches out to lightly touch my shoulder. “Of course.” She pauses, almost weighing her next words. “So your parents don’t know?”
I shake my head.
“Do you not want to tell them?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just don’t know if they’d accept me. I guess it can be different when it’s your kid.”
“But because you’re their kid, that might not matter,” she says. “I can’t promise it, and it might not be easy. When I first found out Ronan is a boy, I was definitely confused, and I didn’t always do everything right. It can take time. The important thing is that Ronan’s my son, and I love him no matter what. His gender, what he needs to do to match his outside to his inside . . . that falls into the ‘no matter what.’ And any person who doesn’t support their child in living their life as their true selves has no right being a parent.” She meets my eyes. “And if your parents don’t realize that, fuck them. You got a family next door.”
I can’t say how much this means to me. Even if Anderson and I have been friends for a while, it’s different to hear it like that directly, especially when I need it most.
My eyes are watering, so I pull Mrs. Coleman into a hug to try to keep people from seeing.
They definitely notice, but no one says anything, and I feel like they might be used to it. I’m not sure how to feel about that, so I don’t really think about it.
I move back into my seat to brush at some tears. “I think my dad will be okay with it, but my mom’s a different story. She’s done a lot for me, so I don’t want to complain, but she’s kind of like the stereotypical white feminist.” Mrs. Coleman makes a knowing face at that and I continue. “Like, I don’t think she’d disown me or anything, but she won’t get it. She’d only ever see me as her daughter. I’m realizing that’s never what I was or who I am.”
Mrs. Coleman nods. “It’s been almost two years since Ronan first came out, and it still feels new to me. You don’t stop loving someone just because you can’t understand them.” She holds up one finger. “That doesn’t mean you have to tell her if you don’t want to.”
“Seriously, thank you.” I don’t know how to convey what I’m feeling. It’s not my strongest trait to begin with, and I’m normally not this emotional in front of people I don’t know well.
“I guarantee our Thanksgiving has better food anyway,” Mrs. Coleman says. “Consider yourself invited.”
I forgot that’s coming up. The invitation is nice, and dinner with the Colemans sounds like heaven compared to the usual Torre Thanksgiving: pizza delivery, since Dad always works and Mom would burn water if she tried hard enough. I love my mom and my sister, but I’d need like ten espresso shots to keep up with their energy.
Anderson joins us after a bit.
“I’m in love with them,” Anderson says once he sits down.
“Did you get their number?” I ask.
He grins, causing Mrs. Coleman and me to both freak out a little as the meeting gets under way.
