“Ugh. Tell her I’m sorry,” I said. We made plans to meet at the airport, and I told her about Kenna.
“My gosh! Don’t you think you’re taking on a little much? I mean what do you really know about this stuff?” I rolled my eyes. As relatives often do, she neglected to sugarcoat the truth.
“I’m taking on a lot much. But I don’t think I have a choice.” I glanced at the kids and waved to send a double message: I’m here if you need me and I’m watching, so behave yourselves!
“I’m sure the young woman is fine, just terribly scared,” Mom said.
“I hope you’re right.” Here came the hard part, asking for help. “Anyhow, I might need a little more babysitting than usual.”
“Fabulous, I’d love that.” Considering Kenna’s hardship, fabulous seemed a little over the top, but I was grateful.
“Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate it.” We reviewed our plans to meet at Dulles the next day, and then Aunt Liz got on the line. I wished her a blessed recovery, filled her in, got updated on Florida life, and made some requests. “Could you pray for Kenna and Andy...and the birth mother and the baby? Oh, and me!” I added at the last second. “I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
After leaving the pool, I made another call to order a large pizza, half plain (for Jack), half veggie (for Sophie and me). The kids narrated the walk home past friends’ and strangers’ houses.
“Hi Jeremy!” Sophie called to a preschool buddy chasing a basketball down his driveway. She blocked it with her foot and kicked it back. “Ouch!” she said with a giggle. “I need sneakers on.”
“Stop hitting me with the noodle, please,” Jack told her a few feet ahead when she started bopping his head. She ignored him. “Stop!” he demanded.
“Eww. Is that a dead worm?” She was distracted by a curl of flat, dried gunk on the sidewalk, a new target for her noodle. At this rate, we’d miss the pizza guy.
“Come on guys. Let’s hustle. Pizza’s coming.”
I surveyed the street, considering who else might be available to babysit. All the parents would be home putting their kids to bed—surely desperate to hit the sack themselves. Birch Lane looked like a too-good-to-be-true movie scene: late model cars, fresh paint, landscaped lawns, smooth, dark asphalt, sprinklers spritzing. I was about to envy it all when I realized maybe everyone was struggling to survive just like me, putting on a good face.
The long, looping road met on each end with a major artery, Berkley Ave. There were several cul-de-sacs off Birch, safe havens for street play, unlike our lot on the main stretch.
As we approached our house a brainstorm hit me. Irene. It would be another breach of playgroup etiquette, since parent socializing was usually confined to playtime. You didn’t ring up other moms to discuss current events. You gabbed for an hour or two at playgroup, and then you waited until the next one for an update. And you never asked for babysitting. Everyone knew how worn out the others were.
But calling Irene felt right. She’d been there when Kenna called, and she knew I had some kind of emergency going on. Also, her husband worked from home, so he might be around to fill in for her, and she’d already seen my house a mess. I’d be embarrassed, not mortified, for her to see its natural state.
In case she was available, I took more care than usual in instructing the kids as we walked inside. “Put your bathing suits in the hamper. And put your toys in the basement instead of the front hall. Oh, and don’t leave your flip flops in the middle of the floor please.”
“Why are we being so clean? Is someone coming over?” Jack asked with the uncensored curiosity of a child.
“Well, being neat is always a good idea,” I said. “But yes, someone might be coming over. I have an errand to do.” Errand covered almost anything I ever had to do, and the kids equated it with “boredom,” so they rarely asked to come along.
“Who? Grandma? Auntie Kenna?” Sophie asked.
“Nope. Grandma’s visiting Aunt Liz. And Kenna’s probably too tired today.”
“Then who?” she pressed.
“I don’t know. I’m figuring it out.” I didn’t think she’d like that answer, so I changed the subject. “But guess what, the pizza’s going to be here any minute. So you better get dressed!” I chased them up the steps to their rooms, all of us laughing the whole way. Moments like these were treasures to savor without reservation, reasons to hope.
Irene arrived half an hour after the pizza. There was one slice left, and I offered it to her.
“No thanks,” she said. “I just had mac ‘n’ cheese and tater tots.”
I laughed. “I heard mothers’ health gets worse when the kids are little. It’s got to be the diet,” I said.
“Or the lack of sleep,” she countered.
“Or the intense stress.” We could have gone on forever, but I had to get going.
It was eight o’clock, and I’d spent every spare minute reading teen profiles online while the kids watched TV. I was beyond thrilled that many of Beth’s friends had mentioned a field party that night as the place to be, but worried that so few protected their privacy online. Meanwhile, Marcus’s mom hadn’t answered her phone again.
“Like I said,” I reminded Irene quietly, “I’m helping a friend with a personal situation, but I should be available by cell, as long as there’s coverage.”
“Where are Ryan and Will?” Sophie asked.
“It’s their bedtime,” Irene said. “And yours too, right?”
“She’s babysitting, honey,” I reminded Sophie. “It’s not playgroup. Next time she comes over, Ryan and Will can come too.” I turned to Irene and pointed to a list on the counter that covered everything short of how to handle an alien invasion. “That’s all the information you need, including bedtime, which is 8:30.”
We walked into the living room for a quick tutorial on remote controls in case she wanted to watch TV. “The kids can look at books in bed for half an hour,” I explained. “And if you have trouble with the remotes, they’re experts.” I smiled at Jack and Sophie, who were proudly nodding their heads, which made me nervous. What would Irene think if she discovered my addiction to reality shows? I had an entire Real Housewives season saved for a lonely night.
“You go.” Irene said. “We’ll be fine. Plus, I brought a special bedtime story for them.” She whipped an unfamiliar book from her purse and presented it Vanna White style. Knight Falls in Princessland. Looked like it had all the ingredients for fun. I liked Irene more and more. Hopefully she wouldn’t feel the opposite about me before the night was over.
Six
I had a few secrets stashed away that would have surprised Irene and the kids. That’s why they were in a backpack instead of on my body. It’s not like I could leave the house wearing a black miniskirt, lacy pink top, heavy makeup, and bronzer without raising questions about what kind of “emergency” my “friend” was having.
I pulled into McDonald’s, where I surprised the staff by entering the bathroom as plain-Jane mom and emerging as Superslut, ordering a bottled water as payment for using the bathroom. I hoped bronzer, industrial strength concealer and cotton-candy lip gloss would help me pass as a teenager at a dark field party.
I brought along a jean jacket, black baseball cap, gum, and sunglasses in case any of them would help the cause. I also applied bug spray, since I didn’t think a miniskirt was practical at a field party, what with West Nile, Lyme and all. Hopefully the pungent odor wouldn’t give me away or repel everyone else.
As I reached out to pay for the drink, I noticed my nails, sans polish. Oops. Didn’t most teens have manicured nails these days? Everyone I saw on TV did, so I trudged to a nearby drugstore and purchased black lacquer, a touchup pen loaded with remover, and a file. Ten minutes later, my nails were gothic, and the van was toxic. I opened the sunroof, cracked the windows, and
sucked in fresh air.
While following directions to the field party courtesy of MapQuest, I prayed for a huge gathering of non-armed potential sources. I wasn’t up for another shooting. Ever. I sipped my drink nervously until it dawned on me to monitor my pace, or else I’d be taking advantage of the field (and miniskirt) in ways I hadn’t planned.
I imagined similar parties I’d enjoyed as a teen, wondering how I might stand out tonight, how I could prevent blowing my cover, and what the chances were of finding a porta-potty.
Arriving alone wasn’t good, I worried. No one went to a party alone. Driving a minivan was a giveaway too. But lots of teens drove their parents’ cars, right? I’d try to park far away, I decided, and follow the crowd.
The field party was, logically, in the middle of nowhere. I traveled past middle- to upper-class neighborhoods, into a new development, and then onto a construction site. The shopper in me couldn’t help noticing model homes and signs, which advertised single families from the $700s and up.
Summer heat had dried the earth, so cars moved in a terra cotta cloud, the color of local dirt when you dug just below the surface—dirt my kids (not to mention repairmen, cable guys, etc.) had tracked into the house on endless occasions. I wondered how many parents would ask tomorrow, “Where the heck were you driving last night? I thought you said you were going...” (bowling, to the movies, to so-and-so’s house—fill in your favorite lie). Maybe some kids would get a car wash on the way home.
As vehicles neared the end of the dirt road, they pulled left or right, fanning into a self-made parking lot that bordered a scrubby field. White signs with bold, black lot numbers indicated where homes would be erected and builders would have a daunting cleanup job in the morning.
Dust had settled around the first row of cars, and my headlights caught glimpses of the party in action. A boy in basketball shorts was making out with a spiky-haired brunette. Most teens were holding cups, bottles, or each other. Some puffed on cigarettes. Music throbbed from someone’s car.
I had to pull in next to an SUV from which two guys sprang with surprising shouts. My stomach churned, and I reached for my shades. What if I got identified as an adult and surrounded by angry teens? Backing out wasn’t an appealing option, either. There were too many cars piling in around me. I stalled, pretending I was fumbling with things in my purse. Why hadn’t I brought a beer or something? That would have helped me fit in.
I slid the glasses over my eyes and touched up my lip gloss in the mirror. I made a sudden determination that my haircut, a layered bob, wasn’t youthful enough, so I scrounged around for one of Sophie’s ponytail holders in the glove compartment. I smoothed back my hair as well as possible, made a ponytail, and then tucked it in on itself before making the final loop.
The effect was a casual, stray-hairs-poking-out do that seemed more suitable for the occasion. The sunglasses made me look like a geek trying to be cool, but I was too scared of looking like a mom to take them off. If it got really dark once most kids parked, I could push them back on my head.
It was time to open the door. Everyone had exited the cars around mine and headed toward the field. I couldn’t see much beyond the first parking line, but I assumed teens were mingling somewhere near a keg, judging from the number of red cups pressed to their lips. That was my destination too. I was about to pull the door handle when it hit me that I wasn’t someone’s guest here. The beer was going to cost money. For all I knew, this was a fundraiser, maybe even a gang fundraiser. My guilt alarm started ringing, but I ignored it, pulled my purse from its hiding place under the center console, and felt around inside for cash. I landed three singles and a five. That had to be enough. It’s illegal to buy beer for a teen, I thought, but what about buying it from a teen?
I pushed open my door and let my feet fall to the dirt. Armed with my phone and eight bucks, I slammed it shut with confidence. If I was going to do this, I might as well act ready to party. I walked with a casual sashay-strut to a Britney Spears remix flowing from somewhere. The beat propelled me to a line of empty-handed, presumably thirsty kids.
“Hey.” I acknowledged an acne-stricken boy in front of me holding hands with a pudgy, adorable girl. They nodded but mostly had eyes for each other. I took that as a good sign. They weren’t rushing off to warn everyone about an intruder.
The line moved quickly, teens passing bills to a lively dude manning the keg who seemed to revel in his job, handing out sloshing cups with a smile and making everyone laugh. I wondered if his high was natural.
Belatedly, I realized I should make conversation with kids while I had the chance, so I targeted the couple in front of me, using a high-pitched voice that, hopefully, sounded like a teenager, even if she was from the ’80s.
“Ummm, do you know if April Johnson is here?” I asked.
“No idea,” the boy said. The girl shook her head in agreement. He gallantly paid for her drink, handing the “cashier” a ten in exchange for two frothy cups. I sorted through my bills to find the five.
“Yo,” keg kid said. “What’s your name? Cool?” I assumed he was referencing my shades. My lips formed a tight grin, mostly because teeth and gums show age. Dean’s pearly whites flashed in my mind, and I added whitening supplies to my mental grocery list again. I also decided on the perfect undercover supply: fake braces.
“Funny,” I said. I handed him the five.
“Cheers!” He raised my cup in a toasting gesture.
“Thanks,” I said. “Um, have you seen April Johnson?”
“Another five.” He held his palm out. “Kidding! I think she went thataway.” He winked and fired an imaginary shot from pistol-shaped fingers at a bunch of girls. My eyes popped with excitement and fear. Was she really here?! I also felt like I’d been hit with a tranquilizer. What would I say to her, or to those girls, none of whom had April’s dark hair?
“I don’t see her,” I said. “She was with them?”
“Yup!”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Crap. I stepped away, turned my back to him, and cleaned imaginary dust off my sunglasses. Then I sipped my beer. Blech. Skunk spray. I’d forgotten that cheap-beer taste. I grimaced and looked over my shoulder at the girls. I saw a mass of short shorts, tight shirts and caramel tans. Logic overruled emotion and told my feet to move.
“Hey ya’ll,” I said casually. All eyes were on me.
“Hey,” one said, boosting my confidence.
“What’s up?” said another, as if she actually meant the question. Like, “What’s up with how weird you look?” She had wide shoulders and crispy, blond-green hair that indicated swim team participation.
Someone giggled. Probably at me.
“I’m looking for April Johnson,” I said. “Have you guys seen her?”
“Who wants to know?” crispy hair asked.
Well, I’m from the SwimCap shampoo beauty squad, and we’d like to offer you a free makeover! April sent us a letter about your hair, and...
“I’m a friend,” I said. “I haven’t seen her in forever, and I heard she was gonna be here.”
“Really? What school do you go to?”
“Saint Agnes,” I said, naming a nearby private school. “Do you guys all go to Woodridge?” I looked around the group.
They nodded.
“Cool.”
Maybe silence would get them to speak up.
“She was with her friend Rachael, but I don’t know where they went,” a third girl offered. There were a few shrugs and murmurs.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“You know, you look too old for high school,” crispy said, squinting at me.
Stay calm, I told myself. They’re teenagers. You wouldn’t be scared of them at the mall, so don’t be scared of them here.
“I know. It sucks. I got held back,” I said.
<
br /> I turned, spilled a little beer on purpose, hustled to the keg, and got down to business.
“Can I get a refill?” I said. Keg kid held out the tap. “I’m still looking for April. They said she’s with Rachael. Have you seen either of them?”
“Nope. But someone’s sick in the woods.” He scrunched his nose and tilted his forehead toward some trees.
“Oh.” I frowned. “Good to know.”
I took a cleansing breath and fiddled with my phone. What if he’d figured out I was an adult, and he was sending me into the wilderness to be tackled by bullies? I could always call 911 again if needed. The operator had been awfully helpful the other night.
After passing the girls and a few other kids without locking eyes, I scraped through dense brush and stared into the trees. Seeing nothing but shifting branches in the darkness, I propped my cheap glasses on my head and absentmindedly rubbed my nose where they always left an imprint. I was about to call out “April” when I heard an unmistakable, disgusting noise: retching. I squinted and poked my head forward, trying to distinguish someone in the darkness, finally seeing a patch of blue behind a tree. It moved, becoming taller and thinner, then folded back down and let loose again. This time I heard not only the release of vomit, but the landing of it, and I knew what was coming. I rocketed toward the nearest bush and gagged. I’d never been able to hear that noise without reacting poorly. Luckily my dry heaves were short lived, and I managed to blurt out April’s name as a question.
“Uhhh,” she responded. I approached as she held her stomach with both arms and let her hair hang toward the underbrush. The mother in me acted before I could think, gathering her hair and holding it gently behind her head. She looked at me in confusion but must have been too sick to talk. Suddenly her knees buckled, and she was on the ground in a heap.
Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) Page 7