Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  Nothing happened, I thought silently, reprising my mantra from earlier this morning.

  “Then I won’t ask you again.” There was something new in his voice, a decisiveness I hadn’t heard last night. He grabbed his backpack by the loop at the top and wrapped his other hand around the door handle. “Be careful when you’re getting out, okay?” With his chin, he gestured out my window. “That car looks like they parked really close to you.”

  “Oh.” Instinctively I turned. “Thank you,” I said gratefully. Chances are, I would not have noticed and would have caused some damage.

  “Are you able to get out?”

  “I think so . . .” I opened the door a crack, and glanced down. He was right; their wheels were about six inches over the white line. I was able to squeeze through the sliver of space, but didn’t see the empty Mountain Dew bottle just under my door. I caught myself just in time. It crackled loudly, caving at the center under the flat sole of my sandal.

  Dominic waited for me near my trunk, backpack slung over one shoulder. I came up beside him and slipped the key in, unlocking it. His hand came under the latch, lifting it upward and plucking my leather bag out. I tried to warn him, but only succeeded in getting out two words before it was too late.

  His eyes bugged as he hauled it over his free shoulder. “Seriously, what do you have in here? A dead body?” he joked, hoisting it up further. The strap dug vertically into his armpit, stretching his shirt tight across his chest and pulling the slight V collar down further. My gaze lingered on his smooth, bare flesh, the exact color of adobe brick faintly glowing under the young morning sunlight. I looked away when I realized I was staring, turning around and using the ruse of closing the trunk to hide the blush splattered across my cheeks.

  “How did you know?” I asked evenly, only the faintest hint of tremor in the question. I removed my keys and slipped them into my back pocket, crushing the smile on my lips before turning around with what I hoped was an innocently inquisitive expression on my face. He began to smile at first, then unsure, stared back with wary skepticism. “We get extra credit in Anatomy today if we bring in a cadaver for dissection.”

  Instantaneously, he jerked his body so that my leather bag slid off his shoulder as if it were buttered. It fell to the ground with a very convincing bone and human tissue thump. Dominic, utterly repulsed, took a heaping step backward, nostrils flared, and eyes slit in vehement disgust. I had my hand over my mouth and lips pressed together, poorly disguising a giggle as a cough.

  “You know, I don’t find that even remotely funny,” he said decidedly, a small convulsion running through his body. “I’ll have you know I was forever traumatized last year during a dissection.”

  “I’m sorry.” I shook my head contritely, a bit dazed I had the presence of mind to carry a prank to fruition. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  He smirked, blues eyes glittering sagaciously. “No, you’re not,” he declared. “I know when someone is sorry and that”—he pointed a long finger accusingly in my direction and wiggled it—“is not a face that is repentant.” Nodding to himself he added, “I have to admit, though, that was very impressive. There may just be hope for you yet. I wouldn’t have believed you, except I really didn’t think you had it in you to pull off deception so convincingly.” He bent down to retrieve the anvil-heavy backpack, bogged down with four tremendously thick textbooks.

  “Oh, I don’t, I promise,” I said, my soft voice drowned out by the guttural engine belonging to a truck so large I thought I could likely walk beneath it without bending over.

  Dominic snorted, staring after the machinery slowly rolling away. “Some of the vehicle choices I’ve seen are very interesting,” he said dryly. The aisle was almost too small to accommodate its wide berth. “I mean, unless he drives that thing in monster truck rallies, I really don’t see the point, do you?” He reached up with one hand, scratched his temple, and then turned to me for substantiation. “Sorry,” he said before I could respond. “Not important. I missed what you said, though. Can you repeat it?”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” I said dismissively, raising a hand to shield the sun glinting of someone’s silver hood. He strode forward purposefully, stopping just shy of a foot away, completely eclipsing the sun and car. I lowered my hand slowly, noticing his entire face seemed to be pulling to the center.

  “I disagree, Foster. It was definitely something.” His voice was very soft; he would have sounded almost offended had he not been smiling ever so slightly. “I’d like to hear what you said.”

  The way he watched me intently, as if it was just us, and nothing else happening around us—it was affective. And all of a sudden, it was as if my brain decided to take an intermission. I just . . . went blank. My entire focus went toward pondering the inexplicability of eyes that shade of blue and the long lashes that rimmed them—black as tar, thick as feathers.

  “Foster?” In response to sound, my eyes rolled lazily downward, to the full, curvy pink lips . . .

  Then somebody turned me back on.

  As fire spread up my neck and cheeks, I glanced away and begun to fidget with my scarf, stammering. “I-I just said that I don’t. Have it in me. Deception.” My staccato responses seemed to amuse him, I thought. “I don’t have any idea where that came from, honestly.” I shook my head to emphasize this. I wasn’t attempting to be modest; witty was Emily’s domain and I was only a tourist passing through. At her name in my mind, I tensed, knowing I couldn’t have very much time until the first bell rang. I’d need to find an excuse to leave soon. Why was I finding it especially difficult to do that? I was glad he’d just bent over to scoop up our backpacks and was unable to see my face at the moment.

  Fully upright, he made a face. “No way,” he said reprovingly. “That might have come from some place untapped, but it was definitely not accidental. It takes some serious skill to deceive me. Only one person who’s ever been able to do it,” he concluded with a smile, his voice dropping solemnly and full of respect.

  I recalled the story from last night, the original Kassels family game wherein lies were culled from truths, and a virtuous man’s uncanny knack for seeing through subterfuge and successfully upholding the truth for nearly a quarter of a century. A knack he’d certainly passed onto his grandson. Not that it was a bad thing, not entirely anyway . . . but I highly doubted I would ever be successful repeating this endeavor—at least when it mattered. A practical joke was one thing; trying to conceal genuine emotion was another. With Dominic, it was the whole truth or nothing. Half, partly, or anything in between would be nothing more than a stalling tactic. If truth was a tender piece of prime rib, Dominic was the bloodhound sniffing it out.

  This, for some odd reason, made me think of the color red, which reminded me of the object folded up inside my backpack.

  “I have your jacket,” I said, coming behind him to unhook the buckle of the largest pocket. I smelled him immediately; it was the same fresh scent his jacket had before I’d washed it out: an intoxicating blend of leather, soap, and sunlight.

  “Oh, thanks for bringing it,” he said with a gratitude that made me look up, curious. He met my eyes over the slope of his shoulder. Catching my expression, he laughed. “Is it weird to love a jacket that much?” His lips slowly drifted upward, showing a corner of white teeth.

  I smiled back, presenting his jacket to him. “Not at all.”

  He jerked his shoulder so that his backpack slid neatly into his palm, then did the same with my bag, deftly swinging it down and across his body. I couldn’t help but stare a little, admiring the way even menial gestures were carried out with an unconscious and effortless grace. It was the exact opposite of how I moved, I thought, harboring a tad bit of jealously. I took notice of something else, too. Without realizing it, I had grown accustomed to seeing him tense, a constant rigidity mainly in the jaw and neck area. It was especially prevalent when we stood close together. And a few times this morning I’d caught him that way, either lost in t
hought, or staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Currently, though, his posture exuded a natural languor I thought I hadn’t seen until just now. This spurred a dozen possible speculations. I decided I wouldn’t dwell on the unknown, but enjoy this burgeoning comfortability with hopes it would last. Easily managing what must have been somewhere near thirty-five pounds in one hand, he tossed the jacket around himself, slipping an arm through a long sleeve as he talked.

  “I have others I could wear, I guess,” he said offhandedly. The sunlight changed its color slightly, so it looked red rather than maroon as it had yesterday beneath the gray drear. “But you know how there’s just something special about certain clothing?” He squinted thoughtfully and I found myself nodding quite enthusiastically. “I don’t know what it is exactly,” he continued, slipping his other arm through a sleeve and zipping it up halfway. “Comfort for sure. The way it fits maybe, or the soft fabric, worn to just the right am—” He stopped abruptly, deep furrows forming between his eyes. Turning his head to the side, he pressed his nose against his shoulder and sniffed. Back to me, he asked, “Did you wash it?”

  “I did,” I confessed worriedly. “Was that okay? I washed it on cold and dried it on low.”

  He smiled. “Oh, no, it’s fine,” he said, quick to reassure me. “I only asked because it smells like you now.” A very long pause, during which I hadn’t the faintest idea what to say, passed between us.

  “It does,” I announced lamely, just for the sake of saying something. I concentrated, trying to gauge his face, but this was one of those times where it gave me very little to go on.

  He was reading me, too.

  “It’s not a bad thing,” he said quietly, then segued into another topic. The urgency was there in full force, demanding I stop analyzing every possible meaning of that statement. With difficulty, I pushed it aside for later examination.

  “So,” he said conversationally, “would you like to hear that story I mentioned? It comes with a hundred percent guarantee of laughter at my expense. You just have to promise that if I have a psychotic break, you’ll help me into the car where no one will hear me whimper, deal?”

  Already laughing, I began to nod and then caught him rolling his shoulder in discomfort. I frowned, reaching for the strap. “You don’t have carry that. I know it’s heavy.”

  He stepped deftly outside my reach and stared stoically. “A suitcase of bowling balls is heavy. What you’re doing is self-mutilation,” he asserted. “An elephant shouldn’t be carrying this much weight on its back. You’re going to end up with a hernia, you know that right? Maybe we could get you some of that awesome luggage on wheels?” He raised his eyebrows, feigning sincerity, but clearly very satisfied with himself.

  I tried not to laugh, but was unsuccessful. “I would love to hear your story,” I prompted.

  He laughed. “Point taken. Okay, so it was last year.” He stopped almost immediately, making a decision. “Just one second,” he said politely, and stepped closely to the back of my car. “There’s no point in holding your boulder if we’re going to be here a moment.” Shucking off our backpacks he set them on the trunk, then leaned back to rest his own weight against it, getting comfortable.

  Emily, Emily, Emily, my brain screamed. What was wrong with me? I needed to be wrapping things up, not encouraging the beginnings of stories.

  “I think it was last year, anyway,” he continued, staring straight ahead with a faraway look on his face. “I’ve been able to block out some of the lesser details.” He’d altered his voice to sound grave and harrowed. I saw him start to turn toward me and I threw a quick smile on my face. Either it was convincing enough, or more likely he was too engrossed in his theatrics to notice my growing anxiety. “So, since the first day of junior year, I’d been dreading the dissection lesson. I had a few friends a year above me, and they all told me it was incredibly disgusting. And I’ve always had a soft spot for animals; it doesn’t seem right to go poking around in their insides—even if they are dead already. It just seems wrong, you know? And gross, too.” I couldn’t have agreed more with those sentiments. A love for science I had, but that area of anatomy and experimentation I found carnal, wanting no part in. “Besides that,” lowering his voice confidentially, “I have somewhat of a queasy stomach. I tried explaining that to my teacher after class one day, but he was seriously lacking in the compassion department and a total stiff about following the rules. He told me that he couldn’t force my participation, but that he was capable of giving me an F, and made it perfectly clear those were his intentions if I decided to forgo the assignment.” He took a deep breath, and then rolled his head guiltily toward me. “It was twenty five percent of our grade . . . I really didn’t have a choice. So,” he sighed lamentably, “I dissected the frog. Just as I thought, it was disgusting and then some, but I was managing to get through it. That is until . . .” He swallowed, nostrils flaring as they had a few moments ago. I might have been led to believe this was part of the theatrics, but his skin began to take on a subtle green tint. He really didn’t look so well. “Until I . . .” He closed his eyes and croaked out the rest in one breath. “Until I punctured its liver and the juices squirted out and shot into my mouth.”

  I gasped, forgetting all about Emily for the moment and bringing my hands to my face in genuine horror. “Oh, that’s awful!” I exclaimed, my voice muffled and garbled through my fingers.

  “Awful doesn’t even begin to describe it,” he declared, voice flat and succinct with utter detestation. “It was the most revolting, bizarre, nastiest stuff I have ever tasted in all my life. There isn’t anything I could compare it to. Maybe like a . . . booger-puss-slime-egg-yolk smoothie,” he considered, eyes harrowed and lips puckered in vivid memory, smacking lightly together.

  I couldn’t help it; I burst into giggles—shamefully. Tears instantly sprang into my eyes and though I tried—really, really tried—to hamper the sound into something less unsympathetic, I could not stop laughing. It shook me so hard my vision blurred.

  He opened his eyes wide, full of mock, horror and astonishment. “Oh, this is funny, is it?”

  I was about to remind him that had been his guarantee, but I could hardly breathe, let alone speak coherently. I shook my head apologetically and compressed my lips, all doing very little in the way of mitigating my heartless laughter. Through narrowed eyes and a mouth not quite able to restrain a smile, he went on, indignantly crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at me below a quirked eyebrow.

  “Well, if that amuses you, than you’ll just love hearing what happens next. Apparently,” he sang, stretching the word out into four syllables, “one of the little pins—you know, the ones that hold the frog’s body . . .” His throat muscles worked assiduously, producing a wet swallow. “Open?” I nodded in understanding, finally able to take in a few deep breaths. “Well,” he went on explaining, “I’d rushed through pinning them in—I was . . . I could feel everything each time I pushed down. Bones, muscle, tendons, the sound its skin made when I . . .” He clamped his jaw tight, shuddering violently and then shook his head from side to side like a dog ridding itself of excess moisture. “Bjah! All kinds of nasty.” He raised a hand, removing the fallen hair from his eyes. If possible, he began to look even more uncomfortable. I had thought he’d reached the end of the story, but looking at him now, I could see there was more.

  “Anyway, the pin started to, ah . . . to come”—he glanced at me from his peripheral vision, looking like he might be reconsidering going any further—“undone,” he said slowly, voice low and reluctant. “So I didn’t see at first when one of the floppy little legs started to lift off the tray. But the kid sitting next to me pointed it out and whispered that it was probably still alive. And I sort of . . . well, I might have completely freaked out and ran from the classroom screaming at the top of my lungs.”

  I pressed my fist to my mouth, but the gesture was futile; it only made the sound worse. Blunt squeaks and choked gurgles slipped
through my knuckles. My eyes were shut so tightly I was seeing stars. When Dominic finally spoke through his own deep, stentorian laughter and told me I looked like a tomato about to implode, I did. The laughter was inexorable, neither of us able to catch our breath or clear the tears before more took their place.

  “And it wasn’t like one of those manly screams either,” he said ungenerously, gasping for breath. “It was a full on, little girl sees a spider, blood-curdling shriek. I didn’t know my voice could go that high, honestly. And I’m pretty sure that’s the moment I realized I might have a future as an Olympic hurdler. I cleared three lab-desks and a fairly short kid who didn’t get out of my way fast enough.”

  The eruptions refused to stop; each time one of us looked like they might be close to a respite, the other would catch shoulders starting to quake, or the corner of a mouth starting to turn upward, and it would start all over again, hisses and fizzy spittle bursting out from tightly closed lips. People had begun to notice. How could they not? They sauntered by slowly, looking askance from Dominic to me—then usually back to Dominic—interested and perplexed expressions stamped on their faces. Normally, being on display during such an attention-assuming spectacle would terminate whatever behavior was causing it, but in this case I was powerless. Their frank stares and unkind impersonations went noted, and yet the laughter abided.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” he said breathlessly, slowly raising himself to full-height. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he looked over at me gravely and sighed. “If I laugh anymore, I won’t be able to walk.” I rubbed gently over my sore abdomen and nodded a silent truce.

  A moment later he reached up, stretching his arms up and folding them behind his neck. He let out a low moan that turned into a yawn. “That was crazy,” he mused, eyes watering as he fixed them on the sky in apparent fascination and wonderment. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.”