by Jan Freed
Last week, Sarah had stood Janice before the gym mirror next to an open copy of Seventeen magazine and forced her to see how models made the most of their height Sarah caught the girl’s eyes now and straightened her own shoulders.
Looking sheepish, Janice uncurled from her habitual slump.
“Yeah, shyness is a big problem for Beto, too,” Fred said, deadpan. “The guy just will not say more than two words—oophff!”
“Damn, Adler,” Beto groused, massaging his right elbow. “I thought only your head was that hard.”
“Sarina?” Elaine said, drawing Sarah’s distracted attention. “I brought my stuff, today, if you still want to walk the track after school.”
Sarah perked up. “Cool! Let’s do it. I hate working out and could use the company.” The past weeks of inactivity were beginning to tell on her thighs and her state of mind.
Elaine threaded a strand of chestnut hair behind one ear, her dark eyes hesitant. “Remember, I probably won’t be able to keep up with you.”
“Hey, I’m not out to win any races.”
“If anyone’s on the field, I’m going back inside.”
“It should be pretty deserted out there until spring practices start up.” At least, Sarah hoped so. Exercise raised her self-esteem as much as her heart rate. She wanted Elaine to experience the first benefit in particular. “C’mon, we can get some good gossip in. I don’t get to see you enough during school.”
“Hey, Adler! Look alive,” Beto suddenly warned, his voice low and urgent. “Morgan’s comin’ to our table.”
Jack? Sarah twisted in her chair and scanned the vicinity. No commanding figure walked their way. Her gaze backtracked to a slim dark-haired girl wearing dragging jeans and a ratty T-shirt. Kate Morgan, not her brother. And she looked more than a little upset.
Her color was high, her green eyes glittered, her chest rose and fell rapidly. She threw a defiant look toward someone in the distance before stopping two feet away.
“Hi, Kate,” Sarah said, unable to keep the wariness from her voice. “What’s up?”
“Well, I flunked my algebra test this morning, I got reamed out in the hall by Mr. Williams for chewing gum, my brother The Jerk won’t let me sit with who I want, and my life totally sucks. Other than that, everything’s hunky-dory.”
Sarah zeroed in on the part she figured involved her. “The Jerk won’t let you sit with Bruce?”
“Bruce is the jerk,” Fred muttered fiercely.
Kate’s outraged glance made him shrink in his chair. She looked back at Sarah. “You said on Friday that anytime I wanted, I could sit with you. Did you mean it?”
Sarah had, but not at the expense of Fred or the other kids at the table. “Sure. But why me?”
Despite Kate’s guilty flush, her gaze was steady. “Because the only thing that will piss off my brother more than me sitting with Bruce,” she explained, a satisfied gleam in her eyes, “is me sitting with you.”
“Oh.” Conscious of the collective tension at the table, Sarah managed a stiff, but credible, smile. “Well then, grab a chair and sit, already. I’ve got at least ten minutes left to corrupt you.”
ROUNDING THE FIRST turn of the oval track, Elaine gasped as an icy head wind struck her full force.
This was horrible. She would never make it around the deserted football field four times, despite continual encouragement from the girl at her side. Sarina seemed as unaffected by the cold as Grandma and Grandpa Harper—and they were from Michigan!
Thirty-five degrees was tropical, Grandpa had insisted only that morning. Her teeth chattering, Elaine had bopped him on the head with the newspaper she’d just brought in. He’d laughed and tickled her ribs. Grandma had offered a stack of pancakes drizzled in butter and maple syrup to “warm her up.” And Elaine had scarfed down every one, despite the disgust on her parents’ faces.
For two weeks every January when her grandparents visited, her eating made someone happy.
Tucking her chin deeper into the hood of her parka, Elaine plodded miserably onward. Her face was numb, her thighs were chafed. Her lungs burned from the cold, her muscles from the unaccustomed exercise. She should’ve gone with her grandparents to Gulf Greyhound Park like they’d asked that morning. She could be eating nachos from the enclosed grandstand and watching some other dumb animal fight this wind.
Elaine’s parents had gaped at her explanation for turning down the invitation. After all, their constant nagging hadn’t shamed her into using the treadmill in their bedroom. They naturally wondered why she would walk an outdoor track on a gray blustery afternoon.
Good question, Elaine thought now, gritting her teeth through a gust of arctic wind. This was worse than horrible. This was torture. Why did people do this voluntarily? Why was she doing this without a loaded gun pressed to her head?
“Hang in there, Elaine, I think we’re going to make it,” Sarina encouraged, slanting up a cheerful grin. Dressed in sweats and a hooded red jacket, her only sign of discomfort was a matching red nose.
Gladness burst warmly in Elaine’s heart. Well, there was her answer. The “loaded gun” pressed to her head.
Sarina had invited Elaine to walk. Not Wendy, or Jessica, or any of the “popular” girls in class. But Elaine the Brain. The Pork Dork. The last girl picked for every team.
When she’d left Wendy’s table that awful day at lunch, Sarina had apparently chewed out the other girls big time. Some people had called the red-haired Californian crazy. Others had said Sarina was brave. Elaine had only known the transfer student was kind and...older, somehow, than most eighteen year-olds.
She’d taken Elaine’s hands and insisted the other girls had shamed themselves—not her. And that her day would come. She was a late bloomer. When Wendy was flipping hamburgers and reliving her glory days in high school, Elaine would be wowing the business world and its cocky men.
The fantasy had dried her tears and made her laugh. She’d vowed to stand by Sarina no matter what.
But after the latest buzz—Tony’s version of her insult to Bruce—Sarina didn’t need anybody’s support. She was fast becoming a legend at Roosevelt High. Today people had called her “awesome” and “fearless” and “way cool.” She sure didn’t have to hang with a nobody, Elaine thought now, glancing nervously down at her friend.
“Pump your arms like this,” Sarina suggested, demonstrating a controlled swinging elbow motion. “You’ll get a better aerobic workout.”
Mimicking the power walk motion, Elaine scanned the withered grass football field and beige brick outbuildings. A crushed Coke can scudded along a sidewalk. No other movement in sight. Whew. Talk about Pork Dork! She must look ridiculous.
“Good. Now synchronize your steps with your arms. There you go. See how it helps push you forward?”
It did help, Elaine realized in surprise. Not her aching lungs and protesting muscles, but her coordination. She didn’t feel quite as awkward. Her sneakers didn’t thud quite as heavily on the springy track. She began to feel warmer. Especially when they rounded the turn and put the wind at their backs.
“You’re not even breathing hard,” Elaine groused between wheezes. “I feel like such a spaz.”
“Don’t. You should have seen me the first time Do—a friend of mine took me out walking. I thought I was gonna die.” She caught Elaine’s skeptical glance. “Seriously. I barely made it half a mile.”
“Well, at least you weren’t fat,” Elaine blurted, instantly vulnerable—yet oddly expectant. She’d never talked to anyone about “her problem,” as her parents called her extra weight.
“Yes, I was.”
Elaine’s small bubble of hope popped. Skinny people sometimes made a big deal out of gaining five or ten pounds. Supposedly to make her feel better. But usually only to make themselves feel thinner by comparison.
“You don’t believe me?” Sarina asked.
Watching their breaths plume side by side, hers fast and short, Sarina’s slow and long, Elaine took
her time answering. “I believe you wanted to lose weight, yes. But I don’t believe you were, you know—” she indicated herself with a disparaging gesture “—fat.”
Small fingers gripped her arm and jerked her to a stop. She met Sarina’s beautiful eyes, an intense bluish purple against her tomato red hood.
“Elaine, I used to weigh almost two hundred pounds, and I’m shorter than you. I know what it feels like to walk past a guy and hear him say ‘oink.’ I know what it feels like to be treated as if you’re invisible, or stupid, or worse—something to be pitied.
“I know what it feels like to be told a million times what a pretty face you have, and how great your life would be if only you lost weight. Like you can’t possibly have a great life now, because, basically, you’re unworthy. I know it’s not fair. I know it hurts. And I know that’s the way it is in this world.”
The ache in Elaine’s chest had nothing to do with the icy wind, and everything to do with her expanding wonder and pain.
“I know because I’ve been there,” Sarina persisted. “Do you believe me, now?” The truth in her earnest voice and gaze couldn’t be denied.
“Yes,” Elaine said thickly. “How... What...?” Sniffing, she tugged down the hem of her sweatshirt below her parka, lifted the gray fleece and swiped beneath her eyes. Hard. Must she always act like a baby about this subject?
Sarina’s gaze gentled. “It wasn’t a miracle diet, if that’s what you think. I’d been on all of those, and usually gained back more than I’d lost. In fact, it wasn’t until I stopped dieting that I started losing weight.” She smiled. “Close your mouth and let’s keep walking. Then I’ll tell you about the girl I used to be.”
A small new bubble of hope rose from deep within Elaine. She clamped her jaw shut, opened her ears wide and lurched into motion beside Sarina.
SARAH STOOD beneath the spray of hot water and groaned in bliss. She’d only walked a mile two hours earlier, and a slow one at that. But for a while there on the track, everything had been cold and stiff. The wind. Her muscles. Elaine’s expression while listening to Sarah.
The strain of battling on despite each resistance had exhausted her, both physically and mentally. But it was a good tired. The kind she hadn’t experienced since well before the murder.
Grabbing a bar of soap, Sarah worked up a generous lather. Ahh, she loved the smell of peaches. So natural. So...wholesome, compared to the expensive perfume she’d worn with her professional wardrobe. A sophisticated image had been necessary to climb the management ladder at WorldWide Public Relations. Of course, she’d been very good at packaging clients, too.
A year ago, she’d coached a slick Dallas CEO to appear down-home for a job interview in Beeville. Hired, he’d drained the conservative company of working capital through a series of risky investments. Fired, he’d left with a fat severance check, none the worse for his experience.
She’d heard the company had had to lay off fifty employees, but she’d never checked, had never really thought much about her clients once they’d moved beyond her immediate area of responsibility. Now she found herself hoping the news was only a rumor. That was certainly possible. Rumors—good and bad—were easy to start.
Bumping up the hot water a notch, Sarah rinsed her skin and snorted. Six months ago, she’d steered a hotshot young NBA player’s bad-boy reputation into safer, more lucrative waters. A strategic drugs-are-bad tour of high schools, culminating in an interview with Barbara Walters—and now the guy’s face was on cereal boxes and sportswear tags. Packaging. The power of it was incredible.
Sarah had fostered deceptive images for so long, she’d almost forgotten what she’d loved about image consulting at first: the ability to help people achieve their personal goals and dreams. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to work for a worthy cause. Nudging Elaine into the first step toward a better self-image was as worthy as it got.
And walking the track wasn’t the step Sarah meant.
Turning off the water, she yanked open the shower curtain and stepped out of the tub. Only one clean towel left. Time to make use of the laundry room again. Donna had given Sarah codes to the burglary alarm and front gates, as well as a key to the back entrance of the big house so she wouldn’t have to disturb Mrs. Kaiser. The sweetie would never admit that getting around was hard for her these days. And the housekeeper, Mrs. Anderson, got off at five o’clock.
Minutes later Sarah left the bathroom in a flannel nightgown and a cloud of steam. As she gathered dirty clothes and laundry supplies, her thoughts returned to Elaine. Hopefully she would take heart from “Sarina’s” story. Sarah had changed necessary dates and names, but most of the facts were true.
She’d taken a New Age workshop with Donna, who’d been told it might help her cope with the grief of her parents’ deaths. It had. But the techniques had also taught Sarah to grieve for herself, for the person she’d never been. The person others thought she should be. Then she’d “buried” that girl and celebrated who she actually was.
The list of attributes she’d been forced to write down had surprised her. Made her recognize she’d focused on her flaws instead of her strengths. Amazingly, when she’d admitted to herself she had strengths, food was no longer her primary comfort and reward in life. Sarah had taken better care of the person she’d grown to like more. And she’d lost weight. A lot of it.
Snapping back into the present, Sarah tied on a pair of Nikes, slipped into her jacket, then hoisted the full plastic clothes hamper to one hip. At the front door, she unbolted the lock and paused. Six o’clock, dressed for bed and washing laundry for excitement. Pretty pitiful. Smiling, she opened the door.
And screamed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SARINA’S BRIEF piercing scream skewered Jack to the doormat, his fist still raised to knock.
Recognition flooded her deathly pale face. She dropped a clothes basket. Her knees dipped.
He rushed forward and braced an arm around her shoulders, his own heart hammering. “Whoa, Sarina. It’s me. Mr. Morgan. Take a deep breath. That’s right. Now another.”
This was no fake swoon, but the aftermath of pure terror. More terror than seemed warranted—even if he had loomed unidentified and unexpected in the twilight. She felt small beneath his arm, but surprisingly sturdy.
And she smelled like peaches.
He kicked aside the clothes basket with a boot, shoved the door closed with his hip, then steered her toward one of two sofas.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, helping her sit. A strong waft of her scented skin jerked him upright and two steps back. Why peaches? Of all things, why his favorite? “I went to the main house first. Mrs. Anderson said you lived here.”
Her brow furrowed. “Mrs. Anderson leaves at five. And she wouldn’t send a stranger to my door.”
“She stayed late to make sure Mrs. Kaiser was settled in her room. Your...great-aunt wasn’t feeling well, but she’s asleep now.” He sensed her renewed tension. Concern for Mrs. Kaiser, or his telltale pause? “And you’re right about Mrs. Anderson. She wouldn’t send a stranger to the guest house. I met her at a Christmas party that Assistant Principal Kaiser—or, maybe you call her Donna?” He watched Sarina closely.
No reaction but a blink.
“Anyway, Donna hosted this party at her grandmother’s house for the teaching staff. Mrs. Anderson remembered me. I told her that Donna was due to meet me any minute, and I’d just wait in the living room until she got there.”
“Mrs. Anderson went home?” At his nod, she looked shaken. “Then why aren’t you still waiting in the living room?”
Because I reviewed your permanent record this morning and learned something interesting. Because I’ve become so obsessed with analyzing my obsession with you I need answers now, so I can sleep tonight. Because Mike Ransom wouldn’t have waited to question you, and I’m tired of my screenplay children having all the guts in the family.
He thrust a hand in his jeans pocket and said simply
, “Because Donna’s not coming. I lied.”
At least three different emotions sprinted across her face before wariness skidded to a stop. “Why?”
“To make Mrs. Anderson leave. The sixty-fourdollar question is, why did you lie, Sarina? Where are you really from?”
“Wh-what?”
“According to your transcripts, you went to Washington High School in San Diego, but you said in my class that you went to Milburn.”
She blanched.
“There is no Milburn High School in San Diego. I checked. And where do the Kaisers fit into all this?”
“What do you mean? Mrs. Kaiser is my greataunt.”
“Funny, Donna told me she had no family other than her grandmother, but you’re Mrs. Kaiser’s great-niece. Imagine my surprise when I saw her listed as your legal guardian. Wouldn’t that also make Donna related to you? Your parents, too?” He jingled the keys in his pocket and continued relentlessly. “How are Paula and Todd, by the way?”
“N-not so great. They’re going through a divorce. They wanted me to finish out the school year away from all the fighting, so they sent me here.”
The fingers in his pocket stilled. She was some little actress, he’d give her that. From the beginning she’d fascinated him. Now anger mixed in with his curiosity to form a hard knot in his chest.
“I tried to call your parents today, Sarina. The number on record is not a working number.”
“Mom got a new number. Under her maiden name,” she said weakly. “Dad moved out of the city.”
Good try, but no bananas. “I thought they were still together and fighting. Isn’t that why you moved here?”
“Why are you asking these questions?”
“Why did you nearly faint when you saw me earlier?” he countered, determined to get to the truth. “What’s got you so scared? I’ve seen you in action at school. You’re not exactly the timid type. I don’t know what type you are. That’s part of the problem I’m having with you. You don’t act or talk like any high school student I’ve ever taught.”