The Islanders by Katherine Applegate Page B

banker’s daughter,” he replied, managing a half-smile. “What’ll you have?”
    â€œFoie gras?”
    â€œSorry. Just ran out of foie gras.”
    â€œOkay, then I’ll have a chicken breast sandwich and a salad,” Claire said.
    â€œUh-huh,” Big Mikey muttered. He glanced meaningfully toward the comer of the room.
    Claire looked toward the corner but saw nothing of any particular interest.
    â€œIn the last booth,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
    Claire looked again. From her angle, she couldn’t see a thing. She held up her hands helplessly. “What? Is there something I’m supposed to be seeing?”
    â€œJake and some other kid.”
    Claire was surprised—both that Jake was there and that someone like Big Mikey would know that she cared. “So what?” she asked, acting nonchalant.
    â€œThe two of them ordered tall Cokes. Which they’ve been drinking for an hour now.”
    â€œSo what, she repeated,” Claire said impatiently.
    â€œSo the Cokes never get empty, but a little paper bag keeps appearing from under the table.”
    It took Claire a moment to figure out what the man was telling her. When she understood, she was shocked. “Are you telling me Jake’s drinking? He has a game tonight.”
    â€œYeah, and I have a twenty-dollar bet I’m going to lose if the star running back is faced on cheap rum. And it is cheap rum; I can smell it from here. Not to mention that my business could be pretty well screwed if some cop wanders in here and decides I’m letting underage kids drink.”
    Claire cursed under her breath.
    â€œExactly,” Big Mikey agreed. He shook his head. “You’d think after what happened to his brother . . .” He let his words trail off, looking down in embarrassment. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
    â€œNeither is he,” Claire said. “Damn. You want me to get him out of here, I guess?”
    â€œI was just getting ready to do it myself,” Big Mikey said. “But I think it might go a little more peacefully if you do it.”
    Claire cursed again, this time silently. Damn it, what did Jake think he was doing, getting drunk a few hours before the game? Come to think of it, what did he think he was doing getting drunk, period?
    She drew in several deep, steadying breaths.
    â€œI’ll buy your dinner if you can do it without any dishes getting broken.”
    Claire climbed off the stool and walked over to the booth. The second guy was Dave Voorhies. He and Jake were hunchedmorosely over two Cokes that were suspiciously light in color. “Hi, Jake. Dave.”
    Jake looked up quickly. His eyes were a little blurred, but he focused. Good, he probably wasn’t too far gone.
    â€œWell, damn, if it isn’t Killer Claire,” Jake said in a rowdy voice.
    Claire forced herself not to react. It wouldn’t help things for her to get emotional. “Jake, I was thinking maybe it might be time to head up to the school. You know, the game tonight?”
    â€œI know the game, Claire, Claire, Killer Claire.”
    His voice was slurred. He might be drunker than she had realized. She forced a cool smile. “You know, you’re supposed to be in the game.”
    Jake slapped his forehead in mock surprise. “No!”
    â€œYes,” Claire countered.
    â€œYou know,” Jake said, leaning forward to stare at Dave, “I really, really liked her, you know?”
    â€œI can understand that,” Dave said with a leer in her direction.
    â€œDon’t do that,” Jake said sharply.
    â€œI didn’t do nothing.”
    â€œI saw that look,” Jake said. “I was telling you something. See”—he grabbed Dave’s arm—“she . . . see, I really liked her,only, you know what she did? And then, how can I?” He sat back. “How?”
    He is drunk , Claire realized. Major drunk. Two hours