“Why not?”
Boatwright shrugged. “Nice to see you finally commit.”
After ten minutes with Chenise, Milo was saying, “I’m still not sure, hon. Did you know what Dr. Cruvic was going to do or not?”
The girl shook her head miserably. She wore tight black jeans, a lacy red midriff blouse, heavy bubble-toed black boots with red soles, a red bandanna for a belt. Her makeup was thick and chalky, just like the time I’d seen her in the waiting room, but the pink highlights in her hair had been replaced by a broad black streak down the middle that turned her coif into a photo-negative skunk. A dazed look, none of the coquettishness I’d seen in the clinic waiting room. She’d spent most of the time weeping, limiting her speech to mumbles and two-word sentences.
“Did Darrell know?” said Milo.
That raised her head. “Where’s Darrell?”
“On his way to jail, Chenise. He’s in big trouble.”
Her lip trembled and she scratched her arm.
Milo was sitting next to her, hovering, one hand on the back of her chair, the other flat on the table. He shifted slightly closer, she angled away from him.
“Chenise,” he said softly. “I’m not saying you’re in trouble. Just Darrell. So far.”
No reaction.
“Maybe you can help us. Maybe you can help Darrell.”
More weeping.
Angela Boatwright walked over and touched the girl’s knobby shoulder. “Can I get you something, honey?”
Chenise’s mouth dropped open as she considered the offer. Her peg teeth were caramel-colored, her lips chapped and cracked at the edges.
One short thumb scratched her cheek, then the black stripe, then the arm again.
“A snack, Chenise?” said Boatwright. “Or a drink?”
“Candy?” said the girl in a very small voice.
“Sure. What kind do you like?”
“Um . . . Mounds?”
“Okay, and if we don’t have that, what’s your second choice?”
“Um . . . krackel?”
“So some kind of chocolate, huh?” Boatwright smiled at her and the girl nodded. Another touch of Chenise’s shoulder caused her to sink in her chair.
“Be right back, hon.”
When the door closed, Chenise leaned farther away from Milo. Her small size made him look huge. He glanced at me.
“So,” I said, “you and Darrell met in a class.”
Nod.
“Were you both in the class?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You weren’t.”
Headshake.
“But you met there.”
“Yeah.”
“Where was Darrell?”
“Leaving.”
“Leaving the class?”
Nod.
“He finished the class?”
Nod. “Gradated.”
“He graduated but you were still in the class.”
Nod.
“Do you remember where the class was, Chenise?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where?”
“North Bower.”
“Is that a street?”
Headshake.
“School. In the back.”
“In the back of North Bower School,” I said. “What kind of class was it?”
That seemed to confuse her.
“What kinds of things did you learn in the class?”
“Change.”
“Change?”
Nod.
“How to change?”
“Like from a dollar.”
“How to make change.”
Nod.
“And other stuff?” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Like what?”
Shrug.
“Washing up.” She touched behind one ear and a tin earring shaped like a lightning bolt swung back and forth. “Food.”
“Food,” I repeated.
Emphatic nod.
“Making food?”
“Buying healthy food.”
“Was the class called DLS?”
“Yeah!” Big smile.
“Daily Living Skills,” I said to Milo. State grant for educating the borderline retarded that had run out six months ago.
Chenise said, “Dare to live special. It’s also that.”
She batted heavily mascaraed lashes, touched her hard, white tummy, pressed her knees together, then spread them slightly.
“So Darrell finished DLS,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“And you guys met at the school.”
Nod. “He got a job.” Pride.
“For Ready Messenger.”
“He had a room.”
“His own room?”
“Yeah.” She winked at me. Licked her lips. “Macipated.”
That took a moment to figure out. “Darrell was emancipated?”
Nod.
“Darrell was an emancipated minor?”
The full phrase went right by her.
“Emancipated,” I repeated.
Her eyes narrowed. “He hit on him.”
“Who did?”
“Lee. Her boyfriend.”
“His mother’s boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“His mother’s boyfriend hit on him?” I said, unsure if that meant beating or sexual abuse.
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“With a belt.”
“So Darrell ran away and got emancipated.”
Nod.
“When?”
“I dunno.”
“Must have been a while ago because he’s nineteen, now.”