The Perfect Candidate by Peter Stone

Author:Peter Stone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

16

August 1, Seat 29J.

I lay on my back on the mattress in my room and stared up at a printout of my return ticket home. I envisioned that day—the In-N-Out Burger we’d grab on the way home from the airport, the welcome home party at Berto’s house, the steamy hot asphalt smell of August in the Central Valley . . .

I had lasted a little over thirty days in DC—surely I could handle another month, right?

But I was now somehow walking the same path that led a girl to her untimely death. And an accomplice to an aggressive FBI agent, sniffing out a six-year-old suicide that didn’t add up. And an instatherapist to grieving parents. And a boyfriend (I think?) to a girl who had better things to do on the Fourth of July than hang out with me.

And on top of everything, else, there was that dead whale on the beach. Just to make the situation a tad bit bleaker, in case it wasn’t ominous enough, a dead baby whale.

So that return flight—that ejector seat out of this town—seemed tauntingly far away. In a weak moment, I thought about going home early. And maybe I was on hold with the airline for forty minutes, so I could find out how much it would cost to change my flight. But ultimately, I couldn’t decide which was worse—the humiliation of telling everyone in Lagrima, Yeah, I couldn’t cut it out there! or the astonishing airline change fee that probably would have required a few hundred mowed lawns.

It was Friday—a few days after my sick day/truth-seeking mission. A holiday, because the Fourth landed on Saturday. And I hadn’t responded to Memo’s eight increasingly intrusive and anxious text messages:

How was the beach?

Who is Frye?

???

Where is the car?

Okay, I’m outside your apartment, and I see the car. Where are the keys?

Hello?

Found the keys. On top of the back tire. Clever. Who is Frye?

I can see you have read all of these messages. Answer, please.

My lack of response wasn’t because I didn’t want to help him (well, maybe a little), but because I just wanted a normal summer internship. I found myself envying Zeph and Hillary’s endless debates about trade sanctions and office gossip—while I daydreamed about Wade Branson and killer prescription drugs and what really happened to Ariel that night. I put the itinerary down and held up the list of names Ariel had sent to me, care of the Fryes. About forty names were written out on lined paper—randomly ordered Susans and Walters and Richards and Russells and Barbaras. The list meant everything and nothing, all at once.

I heard a dull ding come from the phone—announcing Memo’s ninth text. This time, it was simply the URL for Central Valley State University—a not-so-subtle reminder of the carrot Memo dangled at the end of a very long and twisty stick in front of me. A carrot that wasn’t even for me. But it was enough to break my texting silence.

You know your audience, I texted.

Who. Is.

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