Exposure Point: A gripping small town mystery. (The Candidates Book 1)

by M. D. Archer

  “He did?” I said. “What did he do?”

  “Followed me around. I even found him standing in my backyard one night.” Gabby shuddered again. “But when I tried to take a photo, he disappeared. I couldn’t prove anything.”

  “Total psycho,” Steph said. “Didn’t your dad go to the cops?”

  “Yeah. They weren’t interested.”

  “What about Mitchell?” Steph said, nodding at where he stood a couple of feet away from Justin, our best hockey player and Brooke’s boyfriend. “How long before he gets arrested for thuggery?”

  “Thuggery?” Gabby laughed.

  Suddenly, Justin’s voice cut through the party noise. “Yeah, whatever, dude.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Liam snarled in response.

  Justin lurched forward and shoved Liam so hard he staggered several feet backward. His eyes turning wild, Liam regained his footing and pushed Justin back. A couple of guys hovered nearby, not sure what to do. When the first punch was thrown, they stepped in and pulled them apart. At least, they tried. Justin and Liam were both jocks, but still, needing five guys to keep them separated seemed like a lot.

  “Aren’t they best friends?” I said.

  “Yeah. Testosterone, anyone?” Gabby added.

  A charged energy hung in the air, like at big sports games or concerts. Was this normal? Was this what Hill parties were like?

  Another shout rang out, then a scream. Nikki was on the ground, and Amanda and Brooke were grappling with each other.

  “OMG. What are they fighting about?” Gabby said as Amanda drew back her arm to deliver a ferocious slap to Brooke’s face.

  “Holy crap.”

  From across the clearing, Randall got up and started walking over to the brawl, his steps slow and measured and unrelenting. Liam and Justin stopped pushing at each other and turned to face him.

  “What do you want, freak?” Justin spat.

  Liam, lip curling upward, closed the distance between them, but before he could do anything, Mitchell came hurtling over and flung himself into the group of guys, throwing crazed punches. Within moments, blood streamed from Justin’s nose, Liam had an angry gash above his eye, and Mitchell’s shirt had almost been torn from his body.

  “What is happening?” I breathed.

  Steph, eyes wide but looking thrilled, shook her head. Gabby clutched at her arm. The brawling group of guys moved around the clearing, getting closer and closer to us. Mitchell sprawled on the ground only a few feet away. Justin and Liam broke free from the main group and advanced on Randall again. His shoulders hunched and his face twisted into a scowl. When he raised his hand, the gleam of silver flashed in the darkness.

  He had a knife.

  Gabby stumbled backward, tugging at Steph’s elbow. “I don’t want to be here.” But Steph was leaning forward, transfixed. Finally, unable to make her move, Gabby let go of her and ran toward the parking lot. I glanced at Steph, then followed Gabby to the car.

  “You okay?” I said to Gabby.

  Before she could answer, Steph jogged into sight. “That was cool,” she said, unlocking the car so we could get in. “Where to now?”

  “Seriously?” Gabby said.

  “What? It was just a fight.”

  Gabby made an exasperated sound. As Steph drove out to Main Street, the wail of a siren cut through the night. “See, we probably would have gotten arrested if we stayed.”

  Steph didn’t respond, and none of us spoke until Gabby said, “Okay, fine. I’m not ready to go home either. All that freakiness?” She wiggled her fingers as if her hands were dirty.

  “What about Drew’s?” Steph said.

  Gabby checked her phone. “Yes. Taylor is going to Drew’s. Let’s go.”

  “Callie? You in?”

  Part of me wanted to call it a night, but I had nothing but a dark, empty house waiting for me. “Sure.”

  ***

  Drew’s, on the outskirts of downtown Montrose and the only cool place we had, was kind of famous. The owner, Kennedy Drew, used to be a rock star in the seventies until he gave up his wild ways and settled down for the quiet life. But he kept his love of music alive by opening Drew’s and hosting live music nights. His daughter Willa went to Montrose High. I’d had algebra with her last year, and she was probably the least rock-and-roll person I’d ever met.

  A bunch of other Montrose students were already there when we arrived, but none of the ones involved in the fight. They clustered in groups, either standing in corners, at the handful of tables, or lounging around in the armchair and sofa areas. Gabby immediately took off to the other side where Taylor was, so I turned to ask Steph if she wanted to sit somewhere, but she was already halfway across the room. Great. I wasn’t about to stand there alone, so I went to the washroom. I washed my hands, checked my bangs were behaving, and thought about the party we’d just come from. I was kind of clueless when it came to school social events, but it was hard to believe a massive brawl like that was normal.

  When I got out of the washroom, Steph was still nowhere to be seen. I was starting to feel as if the empty space around me was growing, turning into some sort of black hole that might suck me in, so I looked around the room for anyone I knew even a little. I spotted Bella Chen, one of Isaac’s study-buddies, in a cluster of three armchairs up against the wall. I went over, hoping she wouldn’t look at me when I sat down, like why are you sitting next to me as if we’re friends?

  I sat down, waiting for her to notice me. The light from her phone flickered across the profile of her face as she frowned and bit her lip. I thought she must be studying until she turned the screen and I saw she was on a shopping website.

  “Hey, Bella.”

  “Oh, hey, Callie.” She looked up, seeming dazed.

  “What are you buying?”

  “Oh, clothes, you know.” She bit her lip, looking guilty, then returned to her phone, scrolling with an intensity I thought she only reserved for science club.

  Dean Johnson dropped his lanky frame into the armchair next to Bella. “Yes. Buy that one. Definitely.” He waggled his eyebrows and gave her a lascivious grin.

  “Yeah?” Bella said, a blush of colour washing over her cheeks. “In the black, you think?” She showed her phone to him, and he leaned closer.

  Dean was a total flirt pretty much 24-7, but was I interrupting a potential hook-up? Awkward.

  I looked up and around again, hoping to spot Steph. My eyes roved from the bar, across the dance-floor-and-tables area, to the empty stage, which had lights tacked up as a backdrop. Above the stage was another level with an office that looked out over the bar and stage area. At the window, looking down at the main area, stood Kennedy Drew, along with Emily’s dad, Todd, and the good-looking, well-dressed couple I’d seen with Big Mike. It suddenly occurred to me, given the way they looked and how they’d just shown up in Montrose recently, that they could be Amanda’s parents.

  They all held glasses of champagne and surveyed the room below. After a moment, they turned away and retreated out of sight. Maybe that’s what the cool grown-ups, the ‘in crowd’ of Montrose’s adult population, did for fun: they hung out at Drew’s in the VIP office area and drank champagne.

  “Hey, guys.” Steph finally appeared. “Callie, Gabby’s going home with Taylor. What are you doing? You want to hang here for a while?”

  “Uh, I—”

  “Whoa.” Steph’s mouth dropped open as her gaze fixed on something across the room. “What the actual—” She pointed, and I turned to see a woman wearing nothing but her underwear dancing by the bar. She circled and thrust her hips as she flung her arms up and down.

  “What’s she doing?” Bella whispered.

  The woman whipped her head from side to side, lurching a little as she gyrated.

  “Oh, wow,” Dean said, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Someone had a few too many glasses of wine. Or too much of something.”

  A security guy jogged over and grabbed her elbow to try to usher he
r out, but she threw off his hand and laughed in his face. He eyed her for a moment, seeming to consider the situation, then, in one smooth motion, picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and marched to the exit.

  “Is he going to dump her outside in her underwear?”

  We hurried after them, joining a handful of other people who must have also been watching the scene.

  Outside, a police car was parked right next to the entrance.

  “I guess not,” Steph said as the security guy handed her over to a female officer.

  “Is it illegal to run around in your underwear?” I asked.

  Steph shrugged. “Disturbing the peace?” she offered. She folded her arms and shook her head but grinned. “This has been a weird night.”

  I nodded. “Steph, what happened at The Hill tonight, was that… normal?”

  Steph turned to me and shook her head, her eyes wide. “No way. That was, like, turbo-charged aggression.” She turned back to the cop car, the red-and-blue lights flickering across her face. “I thought one of those guys was going to kill someone.”

  8

  I stood on Main Street outside the doctor’s clinic, dazed.

  The verdict was in. My foot was healed, and I could take off the moonboot.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  The doctor, maybe noticing my less-than-thrilled reaction, had said I could wear it a few more days if I was worried. I’d mumbled something and walked out of there with the boot still strapped on.

  But boot or no boot, my time was up.

  I glanced up the street. Spencer’s Dance Academy was right there, less than a minute away. I wouldn’t see Mom until later tonight, but I could go talk to Ms. Spencer now. Maybe I could find the courage to explain how I felt.

  I pushed open the doors and took leaden steps inside. The academy was housed in a beautifully restored historic building and fitted out with sprung wooden floors, full-length mirrors, and change rooms. I used to love coming here, but now it made my insides curl. But maybe I just needed a reminder of why I’d spent so much of my life dancing. I nodded to myself. Maybe being at the studio would reawaken my passion and enthusiasm.

  Ms. Spencer appeared, striding gracefully into the office at the front. “Calliope. You’re here. Finally.” She paused at the door and pursed her lips. Her eyes narrowed as she took in my new bangs—I knew that look; she wasn’t happy—then dropped down to take in my outfit. “You’re not in your dance gear. Do you have some in your locker?” She raised her eyebrows and waited for me to reply.

  “Yes, but no, uh, Ms. Spencer, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  She stopped moving and lifted her chin. “Yes?”

  “I, uh….” Oh God, how could I say it? How could I tell her I didn’t want the thing we’d both been working toward for five years?

  “Um, I guess… it’s….” I twisted my hands and bit the inside of my cheek.

  Ms. Spencer’s eyes locked on mine. “Oh, wait.” She turned abruptly and went to the floor-length cabinet against the far wall. When she came back, she had a photo album. “I came across this the other day. I’d forgotten I had it. I probably haven’t shown you?”

  I frowned. “What is it?” It couldn’t be photos of me dancing, because those were all digital.

  She placed the album on the front desk and beckoned me over. When I reached her side, she pointed at a photo. It was low resolution, obviously taken with a crappy camera and quite a long time ago, but I still recognized Mom.

  And she looked incredible.

  It wasn’t just that she was in a full cabaret-type stage costume, it was that she was radiant. The smile on her face was the biggest I’d ever seen, and she looked young and energetic and like she was having the time of her life. I couldn’t remember ever seeing Mom this happy, except when she talked about dance—about my future as a dancer.

  My throat constricted as tears pulsed behind my eyes.

  Ms. Spencer flicked over a couple more pages, showing me more photos, including some with her and Mom and other dancers at dinner, or holding martini glasses, clearly living it up in the bright lights of the big city.

  “We danced together for a short while. Before….” She gestured at me.

  Ms. Spencer didn’t need to finish her sentence. “Before Mom got pregnant with me” was how that story went.

  “She was wonderful. Such a presence on stage. I had a good career, touring almost constantly before I moved back here and opened the academy, but your mother would have gone even further.”

  I swallowed. “Why are you showing me this?”

  Ms. Spencer drew back. “Oh, I thought you’d like to see.”

  “Um, yeah. Thanks. I—”

  She snapped the album shut. “How is your foot? Your mother said you had a doctor’s appointment to check on progress.”

  “Um, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened and her lips pressed together. “Well?”

  I wanted to tell her my foot was healed, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  “What is it, Calliope? For goodness’ sake, you’re just standing there gawping.”

  “No. It’s not ready,” I blurted. “I have a couple more weeks left with the boot.”

  Ms. Spencer fixed her gaze on me, narrowing her eyes. My stomach contracted. I felt as if she was looking into my soul and could tell I was lying. But I had to lie, because after seeing those photos of Mom, how could I do this to her? She had to stop dancing because she got pregnant with me, so how could I crush her dream for a second time? If I had a bit more time, then maybe I could find a way to make both of us happy.

  “Disappointing,” Ms. Spencer said finally, as if I had done it on purpose.

  I had, in a way, but she didn’t know that.

  “No matter. We’ll double your rehearsals and step up the training program once it comes off. I’m going away for a few days next week, so I suppose the timing works out better this way. But when I’m back, you’ll come to the studio and we’ll look at your upper body strength. You’ve been doing those strengthening exercises at home, I presume, because I haven’t seen you here.”

  “Um.” I swallowed. “Yeah.” I’d have to start doing a thousand ab crunches each night, otherwise she’d probably figure out I hadn’t been training at all.

  Ms. Spencer turned away to answer a phone call, and I took the opportunity to leave. I’d just lied to her, but it was okay because keeping Mom happy was more important, and in two weeks, I’d have figured out what to do for sure.

  Outside, I looked up and down the street. I wasn’t ready to go home. My eyes landed on the bus stop only a few feet away. I pulled out my phone and checked the schedule. There was a city-bound bus in ten minutes. I couldn’t escape Montrose and the only person I was allowed to be here, apparently, but I could get a little farther away, at least for a while.

  ***

  Discovery Diner officially marked the spot where Montrose began—or ended, depending on how you looked at things—and it felt like the next best thing to getting away from town. Or to showing up on Isaac’s doorstep and demanding he help me with my crisis.

  The pink neon sign still flickered, but the outside looked as if it had been painted recently. I stepped up to the window and cupped my hand against the glass to peer inside. There were only a few customers sprinkled around the booths and tables, but more importantly, I couldn’t see anyone I knew. I couldn’t stand anyone else asking me about my now non-existent injury.

  I slid into a free booth, trying not to think about the last time I’d been here with Isaac and how he still hadn’t called me back.

  “Hi, hon. What’ll it be?” Kathleen, the waitress from last time, stood with her order pad in her hand.

  “Uh, just coffee for now,” I said.

  “Sure.” Suddenly, she snapped her fingers. “Now I got it.”

  “Huh?”

  “The end-of-year show at Birchley Hall. That’s where I’ve seen you. My granddaughter dan
ces at Ms. Spencer’s studio, in the junior school, so I was at the recital.” She nodded her approval. “You were very good. I’d love to be a dancer. You’re so lucky,” she added, moving away.

  The whole point of coming here was to avoid this kind of thing. I rolled my shoulders and turned to look through the finger smudged glass of the window. All I could see outside was the parking lot and the highway, not exactly scenic, but Dad and I used to do this when I was a kid. We’d watch people through restaurant windows and make up stories about who they were and where they were going. But then I started dance classes, and then it got serious, and then there was no time for being curious. All my time was taken up with training. I’d had to focus on my inner state—what my own body and mind were doing—rather than what was going on in the world outside.

  I turned away and let my eyes drift around the inside of the diner. At the end of the counter was a pile of magazines. Perfect. I could forget about my life with out-of-date celebrity gossip. I went over and grabbed a pile from the top but stopped when I saw a textbook underneath. Sport Psychology: The Power of the Mind.

  “You want that?” Kathleen called from behind the counter. “Take it. Someone left it here. College kid, I think.”

  A college textbook? The magazines were much more my speed, but still, I found myself picking it up, its hard edges and blue-and-white text weirdly both reassuring and anxiety-provoking. Ms. Spencer always said dancers should consider themselves elite athletes, so was there something in here that explained what was wrong with me? Why I didn’t want to dance professionally.

  I took it back to the booth with me, and by the time Kathleen came back with my coffee, I was almost too absorbed to notice.

  But this book didn’t have the answer, as it turned out, because my problem wasn’t performance anxiety, or something that could be solved by using mental tricks, it was just that I didn’t want dance as my career. When I thought about spending my life on stage, performing for people, using my body to communicate concepts and entertain, I didn’t feel thrilled and excited, like I knew I should. I felt hollow. I just didn’t want it. To be a performer or to have that life. And you had to. Like singers and actors and professional athletes, you had to really want it.