by Tate, Kristy
“The Wizard of Oz?”
Lauren nodded and studied me through slit eyelids. “I bet you’re more than Munchkin material.”
I didn’t know what to say, and I shifted my weight from foot to foot.
“I could give you some lessons, you know.”
“Oh. Thank you, but, well, I don’t really have time for any more lessons. I’m already taking voice, tennis, and cooking lessons.” Cooking lessons? Where had that come from? Maybe because I was hungry? Or was I thinking about the books of spells Birdie had sent. I looked out the window. The rain had eased up, the clouds looked a little less angry, and I prayed Josh wasn’t getting too soaked . . . or mad.
“Maybe I should come by the Thornhill Theater. I could give some tips.”
“Oh, um, maybe Mrs. Starks would like that, but I don’t know . . .”
“Those where the golden days—or the Silver days.” Lauren laughed at her own pun. Lifting her finger, she motioned for me to stay put while she disappeared from the room. Moments later, she returned, her arms full of old-fashioned scrapbooks, which she spread out over the coffee table. She settled down on the sofa, flipped open a scrapbook and began to tell me stories of the theater and the actors and actresses who had performed there.
While Lauren Silver talked and talked, I bounced on the balls of my feet, caught between wanting to bolt out the door and not wanting to seem rude, because, after all, she had invited me in out of the rain and let me use her phone.
“And this was Hugh.” Lauren gave a great sigh. “We were so in love.” Wiping an invisible tear from her eye, she sent me a wavering smile. “Ever been in love, Miss Evie?”
“No. I’m only fifteen.”
“Juliet was only fourteen when she fell for Romeo.” Lauren perked up. “Oh! We did Romeo and Juliet! It’s my favorite of the Shakespearean plays. See, here’s Hugh playing Romeo. Isn’t he handsome?”
I glanced down at the tall, dark, and handsome guy and then at Lauren’s age-ravaged face. It was hard to believe someone like Hugh would ever be interested in someone like Lauren.
Outside, I heard the dirt bike’s roar. I bolted. “Thanks, Miss Lauren . . .” I couldn’t remember her last name. “Thanks for everything. I think my ride’s here.” Flinging open the door, I ran down the steps, across the lawn and to the street where Josh straddled the dirt bike.
He shook his head when he saw me. “What are you doing here?” he asked through tight lips. “Your dad and uncle will—”
“Never know,” I finished his sentence, straddled the bike and took the helmet Josh had tucked under his arm. After adjusting the strap, I put my arms around his waist. He felt warm, safe, and I resisted the urge to lean against him. My skirt hitched up around my bare legs, and I braced my feet on the buddy-pegs.
Lauren came out to the porch to wave good-bye.
I raised my hand as Josh gunned the bike.
We didn’t talk all the way home.
Josh pulled up in front of my house. It had stopped raining blocks ago, and the worried crease on Josh’s forehead had disappeared.
“Thanks!” I called over the bike’s roar.
“You owe me!”
“You already said that.”
He gave me a lopsided grin and nodded. “See ya,” he called over his shoulder.
#
Using my key, I let myself into the empty house. I dropped my bag in the entry and peeled off my soaking wet coat. Now it smelled of smoke, Lauren’s house, and wet dog. I took it into the mudroom so it could drip on the tile floor. In the kitchen, I made some hot chocolate. While I waited for the milk to warm, I ran upstairs to towel off my hair and change into a pair of sweats.
I opened my laptop and saw I had a message from Mom. I carried it back down to the kitchen so I could read while the milk and chocolate steeped.
I opened the message as I slowly thawed out and relaxed.
Hi Pansy,
I will try to answer your questions.
One: Birdie—she’s a witch. What does that even mean? It means she belongs to a coven of women who, because of their deep-seated insecurities, feel they need powers beyond their own abilities to cope in the everyday world.
Two: Is Faith Despaign Academy a witch school? In my day, many sane and wonderful teachers taught at Faith Despaign, but because of its background, it drew a fair amount of crazies as well.
Three: Birdie sent me a bunch of books with witch spells. I don’t know what to do with them. Please throw the books away. They are a crutch—a coping mechanism—for people who feel powerless.
Four: Why didn’t you tell me about her? I was a giant disappointment to Birdie, and even now as an adult, I would be lying if I said her disapproval doesn’t still sting. I didn’t want you subjected to her stupidity.
Five: So, she thinks she’s a witch. Is that really a reason to hate her? I don’t hate Birdie. I don’t believe she hates me, either. But we do have fundamental differences that make nearly every conversation and interaction painful. Over time, I found it easier to avoid her.
On the stove, my milk had turned frothy, and I went to rescue it. Once removed from the burner, the bubbles began to pop and shrink, but a skin remained on top. I hated milk skin. A memory of my mom flashed in my mind. We were in the kitchen of our Covington house, my mom standing at the stove, music on the radio, my dad standing behind her, his arms around her waist, and his face in her hair.
Why had we moved to different places? If we all loved each other, why couldn’t we live together? Then I realized they had moved, and I hadn’t. So, they had to be the ones to answer those questions.
My phone buzzed with a text from Bree.
“MOM ASKED UR UNCLE IF YOU COULD HELP AT GAME. HE SAID YES.”
I sipped my chocolate. If I went to India with Mom, I’d miss everything, like football games. Bree’s mom helped with the booster club because Bree’s sister, Candace, was a cheerleader and Josh was a running back. I knew Candace and Josh were both counting on scholarships to help them get into college. Which meant Bree and I helped at the tailgate party before every home game.
“COOL. THANKS,” I responded. And just like that, I knew I could never spend my high school years in India, or anywhere other than Woodinville. Not if I could help it.
#
While Bree braced herself on crutches near the buns and condiments, I manned the barbecue. Smoke rose from the grill, keeping me warm. Near the goal post, the Woodinville Seagulls warmed up, jogging in place and throwing their knees high in the air. I looked for Josh’s number. All the players looked the same to me in their blue and white uniforms and helmets. The bright lights lit up the dark night sky. We were busy until after half-time.
Bree giggled at something, and I turned to see her chatting with Dylan.
He looked toward me, and his smile widened.
I really didn’t want to smile back, but I couldn’t help myself. I bent over the hamburgers, turning my lips down and trying to stay mad. I’d been at Faith Despaign for a whole week, and he hadn’t smiled at me once. He could be smiley here all he wanted, so why not at school where it mattered?
I flipped over a burger and it broke in half. Bugger.
“Hey,” Dylan said. “How about a hotdog?”
“That’s four dollars.” Without even a tiny smile, I looked him in the eye and tried to sound professional and official.
His smile faltered. “Is there ketchup and stuff?”
I motioned behind me. “Over there.”
He gave me a puzzled look.
I responded by lifting my chin in the air and searching the field for Josh’s number nine.
“Hey,” Dylan turned to Bree. “I just heard the other team is going to try a naked bootleg. We should tell Josh.”
“What’s that?” Bree giggled. “Sounds sketch.”
“I don’t know, but I bet Josh does.” Dylan pointed to the field. “How sketch can it be? Those guys are clothed and padded up the A.”
“How would you k
now what their plays are?” I asked. “Isn’t that something the other team would keep secret?”
“The guy that just got kicked out of the game is a good friend of mine.” Dylan said this as if Bree and I had been paying attention to the players on the field, which, of course, we hadn’t. “He just sent me a text, ‘cause he hates the coach.”
“We have to tell Josh!” Bree said.
“I’ll do it.” I wanted to be the one who told Josh. After he came and drove me home in the rain, it seemed like the least I could do. Glancing down at the grill, I decided I couldn’t leave. Although, watching Bree chat up Dylan, I really wanted to.
Lincoln sat on the cooler where the booster stored the soda, his feet swinging and kicking. He looked bored out of his mind.
“Hey, Lincoln,” I called him over and bent down so I could whisper in his ear. “Go and tell Josh the Raiders are going to do a naked bootleg.”
“A naked boot?” His lip curled. “What’s that?”
“Naked bootleg. It’s a football thing.” I pointed at Josh standing on the sidelines. “He’s number nine. Got it?”
Lincoln folded his arms, debating. “Why should I?”
“Because you want Josh to go to college so you can have his room.”
Lincoln rolled his eyes. “Shows what you know. I won’t get his room. There’s a whole lot of people in line ahead of me. Penguin has a better shot of getting Josh’s room than I do.”
True. “How about I’ll buy you a soda?”
Lincoln narrowed his eyes. “And a Butterfinger?”
“Sure,” I said. “But you better hurry. Who knows when they’ll start naked bootlegging it?”
Smiling, I watched Lincoln run for the sidelines, dodging through the packs of teenagers and adults. A whistle blew. The Seagulls called a time out and number nine traded places with number seven.
Oh no.
I handed my spatula to Dylan. “Watch the burgers!”
I took off across the parking lot, and through the crowd. “Lincoln! Wait up!”
I couldn’t see him. Where was he?
The cheerleaders shook their pompoms and kicked their legs. Newspaper people armed with cameras around their necks milled on the sidelines. The refs looked red-faced and sweaty, despite the brisk autumn night. I spotted Josh only a few feet away. He was huge in his pads and gear. Behind the bars of his helmet, he looked like an alien. Our eyes met and I read questions in his.
“Josh!” Lincoln whisper-yelled from the sidelines.
“Lincoln?” I called out. I heard him, but I couldn’t see him.
But then I did.
He dashed through the throng of players and onto the field. “They’re going to naked bootie!” Lincoln yelled at the top of his lungs.
“What the hell?” boomed number twelve.
“Get off the field!” the ref yelled.
“Naked bootie! Naked bootie!” Lincoln squawked as Mr. Henderson strode onto the field, picked up his son, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him away.
I slunk back toward the burgers, wondering how soon Josh would know the whole naked fiasco was my fault.
I wanted to disappear, or at least go home. I knew I could make it there without getting lost.
“Hey, Evie!” a familiar voice called.
I turned to see my friends from Hartly. “Hey, Mia. Hi, Carl. How’s everything?”
I tried to sound interested while they rattled off the latest Hartly gossip.
“We really miss you,” Mia said.
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I miss you guys, too.”
“I can’t believe they kicked you out,” Carl said. “No one believes you intentionally set fire to the science room.”
I shrugged and twisted my mouth in a scowl.
“Where are you sitting?” Mia asked.
“I’m with Bree, flipping burgers.”
They looked over to where Bree and Dylan stood by the grill. Bree balanced on her crutches, leaning toward Dylan. Dylan looked manly in charge of the barbecue.
“But I’m going to go home now,” I added.
Evan looked around. “Do you have a ride?”
“No, I’ll walk. It’s not too far.”
“By yourself? In the dark?” Mia asked.
“Sure, why not?”
“Didn’t you hear about the murder?” Carl asked.
“The what?” As far as I knew, there hadn’t been a murder in Woodinville for my entire life.
“Loony Laurie—you’ve seen her,” Carl said. “She scrounges through the trash, collects soda cans and water bottles and stuff.”
“Loony Laurie?” I repeated.
“Yeah, she always wore that bright orange parka, even in the summer,” Mia said.
Memories of Lauren Silver flashed in my mind—orange parka, high heels, fishnet stockings. “How . . . oh, gosh. That’s so awful.”
Mia grabbed my shoulder. “You can’t walk home by yourself.”
“So the police don’t know . . . anything?”
Carl shook his head, studying me with narrowed eyes. “You really don’t look so good.”
I touched my forehead. “I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you,” Dylan Fox said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I hadn’t even seen him standing behind me.
He jingled his keys and grinned at me. “I can go. You want a ride?”
“Oh, me, too.” Bree hobbled toward us. “It won’t be any fun here without Evie.”
Dylan flashed Bree a look I couldn’t decode. Impatience? Frustration? I didn’t get it. Dylan Fox had ignored me every day at school, but now he wanted some one-on-one time? Maybe he was just being nice.
Didn’t matter. I wanted to go home and Dylan was offering a ride. I could choose to walk, but not with Bree—it would take forever for her to crutch-hop the ten blocks.
“But what about the burgers?” I asked.
Bree pointed at the twins. They stood behind the grill, arguing. Lincoln sat on the soda cooler, shooting me poisonous death stares.
“They don’t need us around,” Bree said, laughing.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked Dylan. “I really can walk.”
“I can’t,” Bree said, resting her hand on Dylan’s arm.
Dylan smiled down at her, and I tried to decipher that, too.
Nope. Still wasn’t reading him.
Dylan flipped his keys. “’K. Bree, wait here while Evie and I go and get the car.”
“Or, you could give me a piggy-back ride.” Bree smiled. “That would be faster and easier.”
For who? I wondered.
Bree watched Dylan with hopeful eyes.
“Sure.” Dylan turned his back to Bree and bent down. “Hop on.”
But hopping with one leg was obviously really hard for Bree. I had to help. Finally, when she was securely attached to Dylan—both arms circling his neck, one leg curling around his waist while the other stuck out in front of her like a pink-casted jousting stick—we headed across the parking lot.
The crowd in the stadium roared when the Seagulls made a touchdown. I waited for the hoopla to die down before I asked, “Did you hear about the murder?”
Bree shot me a funny look. “I’m more worried about Josh murdering Lincoln. What made him run onto the field like that?”
“I did.”
Dylan and Bree stopped. They both gaped at me.
“It’s true.” I nodded at Dylan. “You said something about the naked bootleg and I wanted to repay Josh—”
“Repay him? For what?” Bree asked.
I bit my lip. Lauren was dead. Murdered. Josh knew I went to her house.
Accidentally burning down the science room was one thing.
Murder was another.
I knew I had absolutely nothing to do with Lauren’s murder, but I could see how someone could jump from arson to murder to troubled teen. I started walking a lot faster.
#
Once home, it didn’
t take me long to boot up my computer and Google Lauren Silver. I cradled a cup of cocoa in my hand, but I still shivered as I read the report I found on the What’s Happening in Woodinville website.
Lauren Silver, a 48-year-old woman, died Saturday in her home at 67 Old Barn Road, in Woodinville, according to the Fairfield County Sheriff’s Department.
A neighbor, who has chosen to remain anonymous, discovered Silver’s body when she went to complain about the activities of Silver’s cat. Because of an empty bottle of sleeping pills found beside the body, the death was first ruled a suicide, but circumstantial evidence is now pointing toward murder.
Anyone with information is asked to call the Woodinville detective desk. Those who wish to remain anonymous can call the Woodinville Crime Stoppers.
Lauren Silver starred in numerous Broadway productions, such as Paint Your Wagon, Mousetrap, and A Lady in Red. Silver also had minor television roles in General Hospice and Days of Our Existence. Before her Broadway career, Ms. Silver was a leading lady at our very own Thornhill Theater.
There was a picture of her with permed hair, red lips, and heavy mascara. The photo couldn’t have been taken in the last decade. It made me sad to look at it, because the pretty, smiling woman in the photograph looked nothing like the Lauren I had met. Beside her photo was a picture of her house on Old Barn Road, same blue tarp on the porch, same torn screen door.
I spilled my cocoa on my lap when I spotted Court’s red tennis shoes on the porch. I shut down the computer. I didn’t even bother to change my clothes. I grabbed my black jacket, pulled the hoodie over my head, shoved my feet into a pair of boots, and retrieved my phone from its temporary jail. I turned it on to check its battery and was grateful when I saw it still had juice. I headed out the door, praying Uncle Mitch would still think I was at the game.
Hopefully, anyone looking at those shoes would think they belonged to Lauren Silver. Or maybe they would think Court had thrown the shoes away, or had given them to the Helping Hands, or had left them at a park, or the beach, and somehow, somewhere, Lauren had found them and taken them home.
But what if Court’s name were somewhere on the shoes? What if the police went to Court’s house to ask about them? And what if Court said “I lent them to Evelynn Marston?” Which would be true. Court wouldn’t have a reason to lie. She wouldn’t think Evelynn Marston, almost convicted arsonist, would have had anything to do with Lauren Silver’s death.