Buzz Kill

by Beth Fantaskey

  Chapter 66

  “Henry Killdare entertains as Cap’n Andy in Pineville High’s spring musical, Show Boat.”

  “Wow,” I muttered, peering more closely at an image of the man I would come to know as Hollerin’ Hank, who was belting it out in a different way on the stage of an Ohio high school, back in the 1980s. “Who knew?”

  Then I slammed shut the yearbook that Chase had swiped from Mr. Killdare’s place, tossing it onto the coffee table with some others. I was culling each one for clues to the mysterious BeeBee—just in case she was some long-lost love—but so far, the old annuals had proven about as useful as I’d predicted. Although there was one vaguely threatening inscription, which read, “Watch your back, S.O.B.!!” I was almost positive it was a joke, though, because the author had added, “You are RAD TO THE MAX!” I wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but it was followed by a smiley face, which basically negated any ominous overtones.

  “Crud,” I grumbled, sinking lower on the couch—and checking the clock on our ancient DVD player.

  Nearly seven. The dance is probably starting.

  Is that what Viv asked Chase about, in the caf?

  I could easily imagine Viv finessing that date—actually using Mike’s murder to get the guy she really wanted. “I’m chair of the dance committee, and I have to go, Chase. But it’ll be so hard to face it alone. I don’t suppose you’d do me a favor . . .”

  “Millie, are you okay?” Ms. Parkins came into the living room, seeming worried by my posture and, no doubt, the look on my face. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea, all of us eating dinner together.” Gesturing toward the door, she offered, “I can leave. Call your father and tell him something came up.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I promised her, although I wasn’t exactly sure how I felt about all of us sitting around the table like some old sitcom family. I mean, my dad was just getting takeout Thai, so it wasn’t like Ms. Parkins was cooking or anything, but even just hearing her rooting around in the kitchen, getting out plates and stuff like she belonged in our house . . . It was kind of bothering me. And things were still awkward between us, too. But I’d promised, when I’d called her and apologized for melting down at the library, that I wouldn’t be a selfish baby anymore, and I added, “It’s not you, or dinner. I’m just having a bad week.”

  Part of me really wanted to tell Ms. Parkins that I was disappointed—way, way too confusingly disappointed—about missing a stupid school dance, which was going to be somewhat depressing, anyhow, in spite of its island theme, because it would feature a last-minute tribute to Mike Price and Coach Killdare. But I couldn’t quite do that. Couldn’t quite let her back into my life to that degree.

  “I’m just going up to my room,” I finally said, standing up and moving toward the stairs. “And don’t worry about calling me for dinner. I’ve got some stuff to do, and I’ll eat later.” I forced a smile. “You guys have a nice time.”

  Somebody ought to have an actual date tonight.

  Ms. Parkins seemed to misunderstand, though, and she held out her hands, like she was going to physically stop me. “No, please, Millie . . . We’d like you to eat with us!”

  Oh, good grief. Would we never communicate the way we used to?

  Had I really lost my librarian—by inviting her into my home?

  Because Ms. Parkins’s cheerful, floral appliqué sweater, which seemed so right at the library, seemed equally out of place in my and Dad’s musty house, which—let’s face it—hadn’t received a lot of love since Mom’s death. And I couldn’t think of the right thing to say to her. I just knew that, right then, as she watched me with an unfamiliar pleading look in her eyes, I was desperate to retreat.

  “I’m seriously fine for now,” I promised. “Not really hungry.”

  Then I bolted up the stairs before she could say anything else.

  I hardly even noticed, as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, that the doorbell rang. Or if I did notice, I guess I just assumed that my dad was overburdened with chicken satay and curry and couldn’t turn the knob.

  Needless to say, I was incredibly surprised when Ms. Parkins knocked softly on my bedroom door, then opened it and whispered uncertainly, “Millie . . . Chase Albright is here. And he says you two have . . . a date?”

  Chapter 67

  “Why did you tell him to wait?” I demanded after Ms. Parkins came into my room and closed the door, no doubt so Chase wouldn’t hear me freaking out. For some reason, although I had no intention of going to the fall formal with a self-interested betrayer of fathers, I was rooting through my closet like a maniac, almost like I was searching for something to wear. “I can’t stand him! I’m not going anywhere with him! He threw Dad under the bus! Then drove the bus over him—backed it up, and squashed him again!”

  “Millie. Millie.” A pair of surprisingly firm hands clasped my shoulders. “Take a deep breath.”

  “I am breathing!” I insisted, tossing aside my “Whooo Loves You?” owl shirt, which Laura should’ve ditched when she’d gone through my closet. Why hadn’t she done that, over my objections? What kind of friend was she? “I am breathing too deeply!” I added. “Hyperventilating! How did he have the nerve to show up here?”

  “Millie!” Ms. Parkins gave me a sharp verbal slap, enough that I froze in place, clutching an empty hanger. Then she spun me slowly until I was facing her. “Just relax,” she urged in a soothing voice. “This is going to be okay. In fact, I’m not sure what’s wrong.”

  “I’m not sure, either,” I admitted, shoulders suddenly slumping. I kicked at my purple shag rug. “I’m really not.”

  “Why . . . why don’t you try to explain?” she suggested, releasing me. “Just try.”

  “It’s just . . .” The stuff I wanted to say was hard to share, and I hesitated. Then I raised my face again and confessed, “I don’t know why I like a guy who implicated my father in a murder, and who has basically declared that he has no interest in me, except as a ‘pal’—and who has a girlfriend, to boot. A no doubt beautiful, perfect girl, who I’m sure doesn’t aspire to be dubbed sir for consuming a sixty-ounce steak.”

  Ms. Parkins probably didn’t understand that last part, but she got the gist of what I was trying to say, and asked quietly, “Do you want to know what I think, Millie? And I’ll understand if you don’t.”

  She definitely got my conflict. And I did take a moment to consider her offer.

  This isn’t any different from a conversation you would’ve had at the library, Millie.

  Your relationship hasn’t really changed—except for the venue.

  And Mom wouldn’t want you to go it entirely alone.

  “Okay.” I nodded. “Yeah. I’d like to know what you think.”

  Ms. Parkins pursed her lips, as if she took her job seriously, then advised me, “You can’t make some boy like you if he doesn’t, Millicent. That’s just the hard truth. But you can’t compare yourself to some girlfriend he has, either. You are a unique, beautiful girl in your own right, and if I were you, I’d put on a dress, and I’d go to that dance, and I’d have a great time as the one-and-only Millie Ostermeyer.”

  She was right, and I could do that. But . . . “What about how Chase sold out Dad? There’s that, too.”

  “Yes, your father told me what happened,” Ms. Parkins said. “And we both agree that Chase did the right thing.” All at once, she seemed apologetic, and I knew we weren’t just talking about Chase when she added, “Lying—even telling lies of omission—clearly doesn’t help anyone. It just makes things worse.”

  We really met each other’s eyes for the first time since my meltdown. “I guess you and Dad were trying to do the right thing by keeping your relationship from me,” I finally conceded. “I mean, I did freak out, and break you up.”

  Ms. Parkins glanced past me, and I realized she’d noticed the overdue Nancy Drews on my desk. But she didn’t bug me about returning them. Instead, she asked a question that at first seemed entirely random. �
�Did you ever read The Mystery of the Glowing Eye, Millie?”

  “No.” I gave her a confused look. “I stopped reading the books after Mom died. I guess we didn’t get to that one.”

  “Well, it’s the only book in which Nancy’s widower dad, Carson, has a love interest—”

  I plopped down on my bed, finally getting where the conversation was headed. “Yeah,” I interrupted glumly. “And Nance handled it perfectly, I’m sure. She probably threw a tea party for them or something, with fine china.”

  Ms. Parkins sat down next to me. “Actually, it’s the only volume in which I ever recall Nancy being described as ‘cross’ and ‘petulant.’ Throughout the whole novel, she’s in a jealous, sulky—sometimes rude—funk . . . until she gets her wish and the relationship doesn’t work out.”

  That was a shocker. “Really?”

  “Yes, Millie.” Ms. Parkins ventured a smile. “You’re actually handling your father’s dating much better than Nancy Drew did when confronted with the same situation.”

  I met her eyes again, and doing that seemed more natural. “Thanks, Ms. Parkins.”

  I still wasn’t entirely comfortable with having a new mother figure in my house—and let’s face it, I saw the way Ms. Parkins and my dad looked at each other, and she wasn’t going anywhere—but right then, I knew we’d ultimately figure it out and make it work.

  If only the same could be said for my wardrobe vis-à-vis a formal dance.

  What was I going to do? Turn my “Nihilists for Nothing” T-shirt inside out, tug it to my knees, and call it a little black dress?

  But, of course, if there was one thing Isabel Parkins knew, beyond books, it was fashion, and it was almost like she read my mind when she squeezed my hand and said, “Come on. Let’s get you ready for a dance.”

  And about twenty minutes later, when I walked—okay, wobbled—down the stairs, Chase and my father both spun on the couch and nearly spat out the satay they were scarfing down, sputtering simultaneously, “Oh . . . wow!”

  Chapter 68

  “Millie, you really do look nice,” Chase said, helping me get out of his car. I normally would’ve found the gesture far too corny, but I was still pretty shaky on my borrowed heels and let him take my arm. “I know you keep telling me to shut up—which dampens the classy effect a little bit—but you really have to believe me when I say you look amazing.”

  Actually, I’d seen that in Chase’s eyes when I’d walked down the stairs—clinging to the banister for dear life, because Ms. Parkins’s deep-purple strappy shoes were not only three inches higher than anything I’d ever worn before, but a half-size off, too. She’d also loaned me her plum, satin, sleeveless top, which we’d paired with a black skirt that—thank God—I had, for emergencies. Then, in a burst of courage, I’d gone to my mom’s old dresser, which Dad had never cleared out, and found a pretty printed scarf, which Ms. Parkins had fashioned into a belt, like some sort of sartorial MacGyver.

  It felt nice to be carrying a reminder of my mom on my first date.

  Well, sort of date.

  “I don’t think this is really a traditional dance outfit,” I said, smoothing my skirt. I wasn’t sure why I kept apologizing for how I looked. “It’s not super formal—like your suit.”

  Which is . . . unbelievable!

  I had to admit, I’d sucked in a breath when I’d seen Chase, too. He wore a dark suit that was even nicer than the one he’d worn to Mr. Killdare’s memorial. The jacket fit his broad shoulders perfectly, and he seemed to have a knack for picking shirts and ties that made his eyes look as blue as the Caribbean that was the inspiration for the dance. At least, I assumed his eyes were Caribbean blue. I’d actually never been farther south than Virginia Beach.

  Chase and I had started walking toward the school, but I stopped, seeing a bunch of other girls in what looked like serious cocktail dresses heading for the doors, too. No kidding, I would’ve worn any of their getups to the Oscars if I ever got invited. “I really think I’m underdressed,” I said yet again. “Maybe we should just go get a pizza or something.”

  “Millie, your outfit is perfect,” Chase promised. “It fits who you are—and that’s a good thing,” he added, probably because he saw me opening my mouth to ask if he was being sarcastic. He grinned. “And at least you’re not wearing that crazy owl shirt your dad’s date had on.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Feeling my cheeks get warm, I went overboard to deny my connection to “Whooo Loves You?” “What was up with that?”

  All at once, the silence that I’d feared descended upon us—swooping down like a stealthy owl—and Chase and I looked at each other. Only it didn’t seem like we lacked things to say. On the contrary, there was too much unspoken stuff between us.

  I was the one who broke the spell first, admitting quietly, “I didn’t think you’d show up tonight. After how I treated you.”

  We were standing in the parking lot, not far from where I’d blown up at him. Only this time, there were no flashing lights. Just a street lamp that cast his handsome face in a much more forgiving light. I could see his eyes better, too. See how they’d gotten a little hard toward me, as if maybe, in spite of keeping our date, he still harbored some anger toward me. “I told you that I was going to take you to the dance, Millie,” he said. “And regardless of what you think of me, when I make a promise, I keep it.”

  “I also kind of wondered if you were going with Viv,” I confessed.

  I didn’t think I could’ve surprised Chase more if I’d said that in perfect French. “What?”

  “I saw her talking to you in the caf . . .” I realized that I was saying too much, and concluded with a shrug, “I don’t know . . . I just heard this rumor that you were taking her.”

  “Millie, you had to practically bully me into doing this,” he reminded me. Then he frowned. “Plus, Viv . . . No offense to her, but she’s kind of terrifying. She tried to muster some tears for Mike, but couldn’t quite pull it off, and eventually just gave up. That’s pretty cold.”

  Not just cold. Psychopathic! “So what did she want?”

  “A study partner. She wants to do a precollege summer program in France. I’m helping her prepare.”

  “Oh.” Maybe Chase was naive. Viv was the president of the Language Club and practically fluent. “Well, good luck with that.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But trust me. Even if Viv is into me, I don’t have any interest in her.” He seemed about to say something else—then stopped himself.

  When it became apparent that he definitely wasn’t going to add anything more, I said, “Anyhow . . . I’m really sorry for yelling at you.” I looked down at my feet. “I’m just so worried about my dad. But you were right that evening. You did the right thing by telling the truth.”

  “Hey, Millie?”

  I raised my face to see that Chase was smiling. “Yeah?”

  “I actually think it’s great how you defended your father, like a pit bull—even if you did leave a bruise on my arm. And you stood up to Detective Lohser, too. That took guts.”

  Once again, it was a different kind of boy-to-girl compliment. Not like the ones he’d offered earlier, about my appearance.

  Did guys find girls with “guts” attractive?

  No. Of course not. They judge them “pit-bull-ish.”

  Unfortunately for me, guys liked girls with tame hair, sparkly nails, and—in my experience—vapid eyes with fluttering lids and who could walk in heels, just naturally.

  For a split second, I started comparing myself with a girl I’d barely glimpsed in a locker, not to mention a bunch of classmates who’d be in the gym, dancing effortlessly on their stilettos. Then I remembered what Ms. Parkins had told me earlier.

  I’m Millie Ostermeyer, dammit. And if that’s not what Chase, or any other guy, wants, then screw it. His loss.

  “Come on, Chase.” I started leading us toward the school again. “The punch and cookies won’t last forever.”

  It w
as Chase’s turn to hang back, and I knew what he was thinking. That he didn’t belong at a dance. That he should be home alone watching some dismal, maybe Norwegian, DVD whose bleak landscape and bleaker plot would remind him how awful he used to be.

  “Hey, I guess we could also go to my house and get Kitchen Stories on Netflix,” I suggested, recalling the most depressing foreign film we’d ever screened at the Bijou. From what I’d gathered, it was about two sad old Swedish guys who never left their gray kitchen. I also remembered that Chase had bought a ticket. “You wanna see that again?”

  He almost smiled. “I can’t believe you know that movie.”

  “I can’t believe you watched it.” I tugged his sleeve. “Come on, already. If I don’t get a cookie because of all this yapping . . .”

  “Okay, okay,” Chase agreed. Then he took a deep breath and—maybe because he was a guy of his word and had promised to take a girl to a dance—said, “Let’s go.”

  We’d only taken a few steps when Chase, no doubt noticing that I was having trouble navigating the parking lot, wordlessly slipped his hand into mine to help hold me up the rest of the way to the gymnasium doors.

  Or maybe I was helping Chase—the hottest, most mature, most confident, self-hating recluse I’d ever met—face the crowd in the strangest faux tropical paradise I’d ever seen.

  One where a good deal of the crepe paper was black.

  Chapter 69

  “Well, this is cheerfully morbid,” Chase observed, ducking as we entered the gym so he wouldn’t get hit by a plastic parrot. It hung from an equally fake palm tree, crudely fashioned from cardboard and strips of green Saran Wrap by someone on the decorating committee who’d clearly overestimated his or her abilities with a glue gun. He released my hand as we both stopped in front of two easels, heavily draped with black crepe and placed so everyone entering would have no choice but to pause and pay tribute to Coach Killdare and Mike Price. “I do not know what to make of this,” Chase added. “It’s a nice gesture, but . . .”