Connecting

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “I’m fine,” Calla answers again. “Just tired.”

  “I was hoping that was all it is. Like I said—off night. Psy-chicwise, and chefwise. I’m glad nothing’s eating away at you.”

  “Nope.” Wow, Odelia really is having an off night, psychicwise. “I’ve just been trying to figure out . . . the thing is, I really miss Lisa. I talked to her this afternoon. Do you think my dad will let me go visit her in a few weeks?”

  “You have that airfare voucher Lisa gave you. I don’t see why not.”

  “He’s overprotective. That’s why not.”

  “He is, but he let you come here, sight unseen, to live with me. Anyway, didn’t he already say you could go visit Lisa?”

  “Sort of. He said maybe.”

  Odelia shrugs, running water over the dishes in the sink. “When he calls tonight, ask him if you can book your flights.”

  “Can you ask him?”

  “Nope. That’s up to you.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll say he changed his mind.”

  “He might. He might not. Why don’t you call him right now and see?”

  Calla looks at the stove clock, then remembers that it doesn’t work. It broke years ago, and Odelia, who isn’t big on keeping track of time anyway, didn’t bother to fix it.

  “It’s probably about four o’clock, his time,” she guesses. “I think he finishes teaching his last class of the day right around now.”

  Odelia hands her the phone. “Here, go ahead.”

  Calla dials the number as she walks with the phone into the next room, leaving Odelia washing the dishes and singing off-key.

  In the living room, Gert comes to rub against her legs, purring. Calla balances the phone between her shoulder and ear and picks up the cat as the phone rings once, twice . . .

  “Hello?”

  “Dad? It’s me!”

  “Hey there! How’s my girl?”

  “Great!” She tries to sound as cheerful as he does, and wonders if he’s faking it, too.

  Hearing his voice makes her miss him. A lot.

  She closes her eyes, picturing him wearing jeans and his ratty old Grateful Dead concert T-shirt Mom always hated.

  In her mind’s eye, he’s standing in a small, unfamiliar kitchenette. Behind him, open shelving is lined with cups and plates in Mexican-style pottery, and a sunny window frames some kind of bright red blooming shrubbery. There’s a fruit bowl on the counter, and as he holds the phone to his head with one hand, Dad is playing catch with a green apple in the other.

  Listening to his familiar voice in her ear, it’s so easy to picture him, she can almost believe she’s right there with him. But when she opens her eyes, she’s in Lily Dale, and Dad is a few thousand miles away, in a place she’s never even seen.

  “What’s new?” he asks. “How was your weekend? How was school today?”

  “Good. We had a senior assembly about college applications. I’m supposed to meet with my guidance counselor next week to talk about where I want to go.”

  “You and I are going to have to figure that out.”

  “I know.”

  Before Mom died, Calla had definite ideas about next year. Rather, her mother did. She was a strong believer in education, as, of course, is Dad. Mom, who had an Ivy League MBA, had high hopes for Calla, and they were going to visit college campuses over the summer.

  Now it’s time to start filling out applications, and she hasn’t been anywhere or even given it much thought.

  “I was thinking I’ll come visit you the weekend after next, and we can talk about it.”

  “Oh . . . that’s actually homecoming, Dad. I’m going to be kind of tied up with that.” She tells him about it, trying hard to sound carefree.

  “I’m glad you’re going,” he says. “I’ll just visit the following weekend, then.”

  “No, Dad—actually, I was planning to visit Lisa then, remember?”

  “You were?”

  Counting on his absentminded-professorness, she says, “You told me that I could.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you flying around by yourself.”

  “I flew here by myself from Florida. I’ll fly by myself when I come out and see you,” she throws in for good measure, not that that’s been discussed.

  “I know . . .”

  “Dad, I’m homesick. I miss my friends. Can’t I please go to Tampa? It won’t even cost me anything, and Lisa is really counting on me.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “All right. You can go.”

  Tears spring to her eyes.

  Every time he feels her growing up a little more—up and away from him—he feels the ache of missing Mom even more.

  She doesn’t know how she knows that . . . she just does.

  Same as with everything else.

  “But Calla . . . if you’re going to Florida because you’re homesick . . . well, the thing is . . .”

  “It’s not home anymore. I know.”

  “It’s not that I’m planning on selling the house anytime in the immediate future, but I can’t afford to hang on to it forever.” “I don’t want you to. Whenever I think of it, I think of . . . what happened.”

  “I do, too. So I’ll get us a new place. We can make a fresh start.”

  “In Tampa?”

  “I don’t know. Not out here, though . . . I’ll tell you that much.” He laughs. “I’m just not cut out for this California lifestyle.”

  “Give it a chance, Dad. I’m sure you’ll be hanging ten on a surfboard and having your teeth whitened in no time.”

  He chuckles. “I doubt that. So listen, if you’re tied up into October, I’ll have to get there to visit you this weekend.”

  “But Dad, can you afford it?”

  “Better than I can afford not to see my girl for almost a month.”

  “Really?”

  “I miss you, Cal. I need to see you.”

  She swallows hard. “I miss you, too. That would be great, Dad.”

  “If you think Odelia’s offer for me to stay there is still open, I’ll save the money I spent last time on a hotel.”

  “Oh . . . I’m sure it’s still open.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “No, I am. Gammy would love that.”

  The problem is, if Dad stays right here under Odelia’s roof, he’s more likely to pick up on the fact that it isn’t your run-of-the-mill, nonhaunted household.

  Maybe, Calla thinks hopefully, he won’t notice.

  He can be pretty forgetful.

  And she’ll definitely get her grandmother to take down the ODELIA LAUDER, REGISTERED MEDIUM shingle.

  They talk for a few more minutes.

  Then Calla says, “I’d better go start my homework.”

  “Good idea. Okay. I’ll get online and buy myself a plane ticket to Buffalo for Friday.” He bites noisily into something crunchy.

  “Um, Dad? What are you eating?”

  “An apple,” he says. “I’m really getting into this California health-nut lifestyle.”

  Her heart skips a beat. “What kind of apple?”

  “Granny Smith. Why?”

  “No reason,” she murmurs, well aware that Granny Smiths are bright green, just like the apple in her vision. “Hey . . . by any chance did you bring that old Grateful Dead T-shirt with you to California?”

  He chuckles. “You bet. I’m wearing it right now.”

  She nods, pretty amazed with herself. No need to ask about the fruit bowl and the kitchen and the Mexican-style pottery and the blooming shrubbery.

  Something tells her she’s actually catching a glimpse of Dad on the opposite side of the country. Which is really more cool than scary, if you think about it.

  “I love you, sweetheart. Be careful.”

  It’s his standard sign-off, but tonight, the “be careful” resonates in her ears long after she hangs up and climbs into bed.

  She just can’t stop thinking about that manila envelope. Whoever pushe
d Mom down the stairs stole it—Calla is positive about that.

  A horrible accident.

  That’s what the police called it; that’s what they had all believed: Calla, her father, her grandmother . . .

  But I know the truth now.

  Someone killed my mom. Someone was in our house with her and crept up behind her and gave her a hard shove. I felt those hands on my—on her—back. It was no accident. It was murder.

  FOUR

  Thursday, September 20

  12:48 p.m.

  Walking into the cafeteria, Calla looks around for Blue Slayton.

  There he is, at his usual table, surrounded by his usual group of friends.

  She hesitates before starting in his direction, first checking to see whether Jacy’s here. Sometimes he skips lunch to go outside, which is against the rules—not that he seems to care.

  He told Calla he has a hard time getting through the entire day cooped up indoors.

  “It’s bad for the soul,” was how he put it.

  As luck would have it, he’s here today, alone at a table with a sandwich and a book. Calla can’t help but notice that he— unlike anyone else sitting solo in the cafeteria—looks perfectly content not to have company. In fact, he looks as though he actually prefers it that way.

  She decides to go over to Blue first, figuring Jacy has yet to realize she’s in the room—not that he’d do anything about it if he did.

  “Hey, Calla,” Blue says, in the process of devouring a double lunch. “What’s up?”

  As always, she’s struck by his looks: gorgeous, wavy light-brown hair and piercing eyes that do justice to his name. It takes her a moment to remember what’s up.

  Oh, yeah.

  Acutely aware that all his friends are listening in, she shifts her weight and says in a low voice, “You know how we’re supposed to—”

  “Wait, what?”

  She clears her throat and begins again, louder.“You know how we’re supposed to go out on Saturday night?”

  “No,” he says blankly, and for a moment, she thinks she’s made an embarrassing mistake.

  “I thought we were supposed to go to the movies Saturday . . .”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh . . .” Not sure what to say, she wonders how she could have possibly screwed things up like this. Maybe it was just wishful thinking?

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you later,” she says, and starts to walk away.

  “Calla?”

  She turns back. “Yeah?”

  Blue breaks into a grin. “Gotcha.”

  “Oh.” She chokes out a staccato laugh. “Yeah. You sure did. You got me.”

  And it’s not really all that funny—to her, anyway. But Blue’s friends are cracking up like they’re watching some juvenile YouTube clip.

  “So, what about Saturday night?” Blue asks, and at least he has the grace to pull his chair slightly away from the table. Not that his friends aren’t continuing to listen in anyway.

  “It turns out my dad’s coming to visit this weekend.”

  “Again? Wasn’t he just here?”

  “Not ‘just’—I mean, it’s been a few weeks, and . . . he’s coming tomorrow. So maybe we can go out a different night.”

  “You can’t go out Saturday?”

  “No, I just said, my dad’s—”

  “I know, but . . . I mean, you spend every second with him when he’s in town?” Blue asks.

  She wonders if the cocky attitude is for his friends’ benefit or if he honestly doesn’t get that she wants to be with her dad. It probably sounds immature to him, like she’s some kind of daddy’s girl.

  “Forget it,” she says, hating that she even cares what he thinks of her. “We don’t need to go out a different night. That’s fine.”

  “So, you can go Saturday?”

  “No, I just told you I can’t. I mean, forget it, forget it.” She just isn’t in the mood for this today.

  Blue looks taken aback. “How’s Sunday night? Is he gone then?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Then we’ll go out Sunday. Okay?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not a problem.” He flashes her his familiar, easy grin. She wonders if maybe she was too hard on him just now. He really is a good guy. He just likes to tease, and he doesn’t understand what it’s like when you never get to see your dad.

  Then again . . .

  Of course he knows what that’s like.

  His own father is always on the road.

  All right, then maybe she struck a nerve with him.

  Whatever.

  “Sunday night’s good,” she tells him, and manages a smile.

  “Great. I’ll call you later, after soccer practice.” With a wave, he goes back to his friends.

  Relieved to have that over, Calla goes through the line to buy a salad, a yogurt, and a bottle of water, though she doesn’t have much of an appetite now.

  She’s about to join her friends Willow and Sarita at their usual table when she remembers Jacy. Glancing in his direction, she catches him staring right at her over the top of his book.

  Not wanting to drop her tray, she doesn’t dare wave at him.

  It doesn’t matter; he’s already focused on his book again. She decides to go over to say hello anyway. They haven’t had much opportunity to talk in any of their classes lately, and she hasn’t seen him outside of school.

  “Hi, Jacy.”

  “Hey.” He looks up only briefly.

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Pretty good.” He turns a page in his book, obviously engrossed.

  “That’s good.” She pauses. “Uh, what’re you reading?”

  He holds up the cover without comment.

  She glances at the title. “Into the Wild. Wasn’t that a movie a while back?”

  He nods.

  “I didn’t see it. Or read the book. What’s it about?”

  “Wilderness survival.”

  “That sounds right up your alley—I mean, you’re so into nature,” she tells him lamely.

  “Yeah,” is all he says.

  “Oh, well . . . I’ll leave you alone then.”

  “See you.”

  “See you,” she replies, hurt that he didn’t try harder to make conversation, much less ask her to join him.

  As she walks toward her friends, she reminds herself that Jacy is a loner. Everyone knows that. And when a person is reading a good book, he doesn’t welcome interruptions.

  Still.

  “What’s wrong?” Willow asks as Calla arrives at the table where she and Sarita are nibbling on their usual sparse lunches: apples and bottles of water.

  “Do I look like something’s wrong?”

  “Yeah,” Sarita says. “You do. What is it?”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . . I think Jacy just seriously dissed me.”

  “Jacy Bly?” Sarita shakes her chic short haircut and cuts off another chunk of apple, which she can’t bite into because of her braces. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s dissed someone. He’s got a major attitude problem.”

  “Yeah, well, after what he’s been through, he’s allowed.” Willow’s wide-set brown eyes focus intently on Calla. “Are you and Jacy . . . ?”

  “Friends. Yeah.”

  “Oh.” Willow nods like she buys it—and really, it’s the truth—but something tells Calla she suspects there might be more to it than that.

  She’s not going to elaborate, though. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Willow, who’s become one of her closest friends at Lily Dale. Which is ironic, since Calla’s first impression of her, unfairly based on her extraordinary beauty, was that she’s standoffish.

  She’s not. She’s just quiet.

  Meaning Calla could probably confide her interest in Jacy and Willow would keep it to herself.

  Maybe she will confide in Willow. Just not with Sarita here. She’s more social, and if she mentions it, it’ll get back to Evangeline, who has a not-so-secret crus
h on Jacy herself.

  “Jacy really doesn’t seem to be into making friends or getting involved in stuff here,” Sarita points out. “I mean, he runs track, but that’s pretty much it. And it’s not exactly a big team sport, you know?”

  Calla can’t help but glance over at the table where Blue and his soccer buddies are laughing raucously. “Not everyone’s into team sports.”

  “Right, and maybe Jacy’s afraid to get too plugged in at this school,” Willow says. “Maybe he’s afraid he’ll get yanked away from Peter and Walt and moved to a new foster home somewhere else or, God forbid, back to his parents.”

  “He probably is,” Sarita agrees with a shrug, then resumes their earlier conversation. “So, you’re, like, positive you have to go to your dad’s tonight?”

  Calla looks up from her yogurt with interest. This is the first mention she’s heard of Willow’s father.

  “I’m positive. I skipped last week because of the homecoming committee meeting.”

  “Did he even notice?” Sarita asks.

  “Probably not.” Willow tries to laugh it off, but Calla can see that Sarita’s comment has struck a chord.

  “Where does your dad live?” Calla asks.

  “Dunkirk.”

  “With his new wife and her kids,” Sarita puts in.

  “Oh.” Calla isn’t sure what to say to that. “Well . . . that’s good. Dunkirk’s not so far away. Like, ten miles, right?”

  “Less, but you’d think it was a hundred, the way her dad acts,” Sarita says. “It’s like he can’t be bothered to come down to Lily Dale and pick her up. Half the time, he stands her up.”

  “Oh, Calla . . . I meant to ask you.” Willow, obviously uncomfortable with the route the conversation has taken, blatantly changes the subject. “Are you ready for the math quiz this afternoon? Do you want me to go over a couple of problems with you, just in case?”

  Mr. Bombeck has been on her case from day one, and quickly assigned Calla a study partner: Willow, who happens to be as brainy as she is beautiful.

  At first, Calla was reluctant to work with her—after all, she’s Blue Slayton’s ex-girlfriend—but to her surprise, that didn’t seem to matter much to Willow. Either she’s long over him, or she’s pretending to be, because she hasn’t mentioned him, or the fact that he’s dating Calla now. Willow must know about it, though. In a town the size of Lily Dale, everybody knows everything about everybody else.