by Lori Adams
Sundance is begging so I toss him a few. He shags them out of the air and turns a happy circle, ready for more.
“So … how was your first day of school?” Dad’s voice is stilted, as though he’s rehearsed the question all day. As though he’s practiced being nonchalant. His complexion is sallow and he looks worn out, dark patches underscoring his eyes. But at least he came out of his office. At least he’s talking to me.
“Oh great! Just great!” I am exuberantly sarcastic. “Where to begin … let’s see. My IQ is about two hundred points too low for this school. Casey James died during lunch. And my Astronomy partner hates me. How was your day?”
Dad stares. “Someone died during lunch?”
“Casey James.”
“That boy who helped us move in? He died?”
“Yup. Pretty sure.” I pop in another grape tomato and crunch.
Dad judges my blasé attitude, concluding that I’m being a smartass. “Sophia, that’s not funny. What are you doing?”
“I swear. It’s no joke. He choked on a piece of apple and died, right in front of everybody.”
He reconsiders me. “Well, I should get over there. This is terrible.”
“Oh, he’s all right now,” I say as he turns to leave. He hesitates expectantly, and my adrenaline starts flooding. Finally, I get to tell someone my version, everything I saw and heard.
I go at it for a while with arms flailing to bolster my opinion. When I’m finished, I’m nearly out of breath. Curious though, the pain in my chest never flared up. Wasn’t it due to stress? And where is that freaky second heartbeat? Trying to convince Dad that I saw what I think I saw shoots my needle into the red zone, for sure.
“The boy must have fainted,” Dad says, unsympathetic of my assessment.
“But, Dad, Casey was chocking and turned blue! Just like when someone drowns and turns blue; they are in cardiac arrest and need CPR! Even I know that! And Raph did not do CPR. He just put his hand there and—”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, Sophia. You said the boy is okay. Let it go.” He stalks down the hall, irritated like I’m wasting his time.
I am hard on his heels. “It’s not just that! There are a lot of strange things that have—”
Dad whips around, stopping me. “You’re too suspicious! Distrustful! Why do you always have to go looking for trouble? Just leave it alone!”
I step back, stunned by his accusation. Worse, I’m hurt. I thought we might talk, maybe even get along, if we weren’t discussing Mom.
I thought wrong. Dad hasn’t forgiven me for our last fight about Mom. The one where I openly accused him of neglecting her and letting her die in that horrible place.
I guess I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t forgive me either.
*
A few minutes later, I pack my camera and portfolio and head off to my first day of work at the Gazette. I ponder Dad’s diagnosis of me. Am I too suspicious, too distrusting by nature? Does it explain my insistence that Mom died under mysterious circumstances in that psych ward? Is this one of those compulsive disorders where people constantly check and recheck their locks? Or like smoking or drugs, an addiction that needs to be fed? Maybe I’m just curious. Okay, overly curious. Is that such a bad thing?
I walk past Hadley’s Market, considering. The list of bizarre things that have occurred since I arrived here is filling up all the nooks and crannies in my head. If I were honest, I’d say they’re all centered around a certain six-foot-three, blue-eyed individual.
*
Miss Minnie and her younger brother, LeRoy, show me around the Gazette’s tiny office. When I say younger, I mean he’s knocking on eighty. But LeRoy is friendly and wears farmer overalls and a dented straw hat. I expect to see a cane fishing pole on his shoulder.
LeRoy writes a column but is mostly in charge of circulation while Miss Minnie takes care of everything else. I’m told I will be in charge of all photography concerning the paper. Oh boy.
Miss Minnie hands me a stack of back issues of the Gazette to study. She says I am to soak up the essence of the town. She’ll say that five more times before I leave.
I settle into a worn wooden chair that squeaks like a dolphin when I lean back, and get busy. Meanwhile, Miss Minnie scrutinizes my thin portfolio.
After about an hour, the bell on the door chimes and a lady walks in accompanied by a cloud of flowery perfume. Mid-thirties with loads of makeup, she is pretty in a cosmetic-counter sort of way. Her hair is bleached blonde—first-degree follicular homicide—and she is sporting a leopard-print blouse with the tightest black Lycra pants I’ve ever seen. I mean tight tight—like Sandy in Grease after she goes over to the dark side—tight.
Connie Caulfield is the proprietor of the Cut ’N Dye hair salon. She is also a part-time real estate agent, which is her business here today. She is twitchy with excitement and lays ten long leopard-print fingernails on the counter.
“Miss Minnie, you’ll never guess what’s happened. After all this time, I finally rented that monster of a house!”
“Is that right? Not a sale, just rent?” Miss Minnie is trying to conceal her surprise. I don’t know her very well, but I’d say she doesn’t look pleased.
Connie wrinkles her professionally powered nose. “Oh, nobody’s ever going to buy that thing. But now that it’s rented, the town council can’t approve razing it. Right?” She smiles calculatingly, and I get the feeling that this is no airhead blonde. She’s obviously outmaneuvered city hall.
“Well … I guess that’s true,” Miss Minnie ruminates, and then says, “Who’s renting?”
“Some family from Italy. Can you believe it? They’ve been emailing and faxing all their info. It seems the father—I suspect he’s loaded—is arriving later this year and he wants his sons and nephews in school so he’s sending them on ahead. Kinda like that Middle Eastern family renting Donald Trump’s place in Upstate New York.” She shrugs. “Anyway …”
“And you want me to pull your ad? Take the photos off the website?”
“Please.” She waves her thanks and then flings open the door and breezes out, her perfume trailing like a pack of vicious poodles.
Miss Minnie is quiet and pensive, obviously disturbed by the news. I ask about the mansion.
“It’s the old Hardgrave place. A huge mansion Doc Hardgrave and his family used to live in.”
“Used to?”
She stares at me as if contemplating explaining. “His wife died there in a terrible freak accident.”
“Oh … how?”
“She fell down that huge staircase. You see, she’d taken sick after the twins were born and had a terrible fever but wouldn’t go to the hospital like Doc wanted. She said he was the only doctor she needed. Then one night she goes downstairs for a drink of water and falls all the way to the bottom. Snapped her poor neck like a twig. Three months later Doc Hardgrave and his seven children move out to a place south of town.”
“And no one’s lived there since?”
“Nope.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Oh, about five or six years, I suppose.”
We fall silent, and I think, should anyone live there?
A few minutes later, the McCarthy twins, Norah and Gracie, arrive in purple dresses, red hats, and rouged cheeks. I am beginning to understand that this is their permanent attire—clothing may vary but colors remain true to the Red Hat Society.
While they whisper with Miss Minnie, I try not to eavesdrop, really. But when I hear Miss Minnie say, “She’s gone and done it. Rented the mansion,” I get a prickly sensation. And then the twins get nervous and cover their mouths, whispering God knows what.
I am leaning so far back in my chair to hear them that I almost capsize. I flail my arms and pop forward just as Bailey and Rachel appear at the front window. They smash their noses against the glass and become Miss Piggys. They laugh and wave, and I glance at Miss Minnie.
“Go ahead,” she says, answering my unsp
oken question. “That’s enough for today. See you tomorrow.”
I grab my gear and step onto the sidewalk, wondering if Miss Minnie really just wanted me out of the way so they could talk openly. The wind catches my hair, making it dance around my shoulders. I wish I’d taken the time to braid it this morning.
“Where are the guys?” I ask, following the girls along the walk. I noticed during school that Duffy, J.D., and Holden are never too far behind Bailey and Rachel.
“Hiding from the mayor,” Rachel says.
Bailey pulls a red Twizzler from her mouth. “Explain.”
“Well, Duffy filled a balloon with flour and rigged it in a mailbox. When Vern delivered the mail, the balloon popped and blasted him in the face with flour.”
I ask, “Why in the face?” and she elaborates
“Last year the guys put a snake in the mailbox, and Vern stuck his hand in and got bit. It was harmless really, but ever since then Vern looks inside before sticking his hand in, thus, flour in the face.” We reach the Shoppe, and Bailey swings the door open.
I still don’t get it. “But why are they hiding from the mayor?”
“It was the mayor’s mailbox.”
Ah.
The wind picks up again, blowing leaves inside the door and bringing the sweet smell of distant rain to my nose. It’s only four-thirty and the sky is awash in blue and gray from an approaching storm.
The Soda Shoppe is a fifties diner with the appropriate motif: a long serving counter with padded red stools, gray Formica tables with thick chrome legs, and red chairs. Glossy red booths line a glass wall that overlooks the town square. Colorful posters of Pepsi-Cola girls and hot rods adorn the walls. Elvis is in the jukebox grinding out “A Little Less Conversation.”
We slide into a booth by the window as Bailey explains why she can stay only a few minutes.
“Tourist season is starting soon, and Momzilla’s got choreitis stage four.”
A hefty waitress who could pass for Mrs. Claus stops at our table. Rachel introduces her as Nana James, Casey’s grandma. She has a sweet, caring face that makes you think of homemade cookies and knitting.
Bailey asks about Casey, and Nana says he’s fine, at home recovering with “World of Warcraft.” Then Bailey states our order: three beer floaters with jimmies. I cock a curious eyebrow and she rolls her eyes. I am the amusing foreigner.
“Root beer floats with chocolate sprinkles.”
Ah. I nod my approval. While we’re at it, I ask her what she meant by tourist season. She says her family owns the local B and B, and they’re gearing up for coloring season.
“When tourists come to get their foliage fix,” she quips with a sneer. “You know, all those leafy things out there start flamin’ like Liberace.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know it was an actual tourist season.” We look out the window, and I can imagine the trees in the square bursting with reds and oranges and yellows.
“Hey, look!” Bailey points to Duffy, J.D., and Holden racing across the park like they’ve escaped from juvie. Duffy is wearing a red, green, and yellow Rastafarian hat that bounces like a jellyfish as he runs. J.D. is what people call a corn-fed linebacker with a ruddy face and a gap in his front teeth. He is wearing a T-shirt that says, FAT KIDS ARE HARDER TO KIDNAP. He is falling into Holden, who is slipping on the grass because he is wearing impractical cowboy boots.
Bailey waves frantically to gain their attention and then flips them off with twin towers. All three mirror her back, laughing and tripping and diving behind trees. Across the park, Mayor Jones patrols the square with an umbrella and eagle eyes. Duffy and the guys make a run for it, scampering to the safety of the Sugar Shack.
“No cowboy hat?” I ask about Duffy.
Bailey laughs. “Hell no. He only wears that when he’s cross-dressing.”
“You shouldn’t do that, you know?” Rachel says evenly.
Bailey and I say, “What?” together.
“Say h-e-l-l and flip people off around here.” Her serious tone garners our attention. Rachel is the soft side to Bailey’s hard edge and I wonder how such opposites could be friends. Actually, that’s probably why they’re friends.
Our floats arrive but Rachel waits until we’re alone before continuing. She explains that we’re sitting on holy ground because the library on the corner was originally the founding church of Haven Hurst. The park out the window was a cemetery.
“They moved the bodies to a new cemetery outside of town, a plot next to Hardgrave mansion. But this is still holy ground, right, Sophia?” They look at me like I have God in my top five.
“I dunno,” I murmur against the fat soda straw.
“Lose your faith after your mom died?” Bailey asks, and I choke root beer up my nose. “Sorry,” she says, dipping the Twizzler into her float and slurping it. “It happens … what can you do?”
I consider her philosophy. Yeah, okay, sometimes it feels like I’m dragging my faith behind me like a spoiled two-year-old begging for attention. When your mom dies unexpectedly at thirty-six, everything solid in your life turns squishy.
“People know about my mom?”
“Small town,” Bailey says by way of explanation.
Rachel pats my arm. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”
“That’s ’cause you like your parental units,” Bailey replies in a tone that speaks volumes. “So, what happened, exactly?”
Here we go, the inevitable question to be answered. In two years and too many schools to number, I’ve never outmaneuvered the curiosity.
So I inhale and let it out in a rush just to get it over with. “My mom got depressed and checked herself into a psych ward and two weeks later she had a stroke and died.” I catch my breath and wait for a reaction but there isn’t one. Just an awkward silence, so I sink into myself and chew on the straw.
Finally, the sympathetic smiles appear, but that’s not what I’m waiting for. How about a sign of skepticism or a comment like, Jeez, what are the odds of that happening? I’ll take anything close to my own suspicions because I had found it all a bit too coincidental—Mom getting depressed for unknown reasons and Dad taking her to the hospital without telling me. He didn’t even let me say good-bye. And then two weeks later he tells me she’s dead.
We work on our floats in relative silence and I have time to reconsider Dad’s diagnosis of me. I am suspicious by nature.
I contemplate telling them about hearing Mom in my head but I decide to detour around the “schizoid new girl” label. And the thought of describing the devilish laughter isn’t even up for debate.
“So,” Rachel perks up, changing the subject. “Tell us about your last boyfriend!”
Uh-oh. I grimace.
“Loser?” Bailey asks. I nod, and she says, “Details, please.”
“Well, he was really possessive, you know? I couldn’t go anywhere without him knowing. Then when I started talking about breaking it off, we got into this huge fight and …” I have roused my headache like a sleeping monster buried under blood and gray matter. It’s always the same when I think about Psycho Steve.
Lately, I’ve been toying with the idea of sharing this part of myself. I became a loner after Mom died, and loners don’t divvy out personal stuff, especially stuff of this nature. Truthfully, I’ve been afraid of what people will think. And I’m tired of being afraid. It’s hard work and exhausting. I was terrified when I thought I’d given myself away to Michael, and yet later I almost felt relief. If I am going to start fresh here, I need friends who know the real me. If they judge, maybe they aren’t the kind of friends I need.
Bailey is leaning forward, encouraging me to say what’s on the tip of my tongue, so I throw caution to the wind and mumble, “He hit me, twice.”
It’s the first time I’ve spoken this aloud and it curls my stomach. Fighting the urge to flee, I stare at my therapy group with their floats and Twizzlers, not knowing what to expect.
“Bass-tid,” Bailey hisses, her eyes na
rrowing to slits. Rachel nearly pulls a muscle from vigorously nodding in agreement. Their reaction tempts me to explain about the scar-that-isn’t, but how do you say something like that? Uh, you may have noticed I had this terrible cut across my eye that required ten stitches and left an ugly scar, oops, just kidding. It’s gone.
I want to unleash all my secrets, tell them what happened after he hit me: how he came after me a third time, how my vision began to swirl and I felt myself slipping out of my body, how I blinked and was instantly looking through someone else’s eyes, how Mom’s voice yelled “Go for the knife” and I did. I grabbed the paring knife from the counter and threw it at Steve with freakish accuracy. I knew it wasn’t me but someone with the agility of a trained warrior. Someone who used my left hand when I’m right-handed. I want to tell them how Sundance attacked Steve at the same moment, how the knife hit the wall where Steve’s head had been, how I’d almost killed Steve, how I’d wanted to kill him, how I’ve been haunted by that night ever since, how I fear he’ll come after me again. And how I fear what I might do.
It’s too much to dump on strangers, so I swallow it down and let it dissolve deep inside me. The coward in me wants to forget it; the survivor in me wants to know how the hell I did it. The coward is winning; I haven’t touched a knife since.
“Hey!” Bailey clutches my hand, her eyes full of excitement. “I have an idea. Let’s put a hex on—what’s his name?” I tell her, and she says, “Let’s put a hex on Steve.”
The idea drifts through my mind like black smoke. I thought I’d put a lock on that door but …
Rachel withdraws with a frown so Bailey pounces. “Come on, Rach! He hit her, for God’s sake!”
“I know! I know!” she whispers, glancing around. “But I don’t like that kind of stuff. Besides, I don’t believe you can actually curse someone.”
“Good, then you can’t have a problem with something you don’t believe in, right?” Bailey grins, proud of her warped philosophy. “I’ll set everything up and let you know when. Trust me, Soph, we’ll get even for you.”