“My mom wants me to—to be friends with someone.” I choked out the words.
Mindy’s eyes got bigger.
“Someone with a nice personality. Someone new.”
Mindy’s eyes popped; her mouth dropped open. She stared back and forth from me to the giant walking tuba. The closer it got, the bigger it seemed. The trumpet-like part looked like it had a green Frisbee glued to the side, but it was a hat, flat as a pancake. A white fuzzball hung by one long thread and rolled from side to side around the top. Below the hat were the biggest owl-like eyes you have ever seen, blinking from behind huge black square-framed glasses.
“Oh . . . wow . . .” Mindy whispered. “Are you serious?”
I nodded.
“Your mom . . .” Mindy said, stretching the word mom as long as I had ever heard it stretched. It was all she needed to say.
Chapter 5. Warned
“Tell me again what you saw?” Mrs. Gravenhurst our steely-eyed substitute class counselor stared at me.
She was not the person I wanted to speak with. I needed to talk to someone confidentially, so I called the counseling office and the person who answered did not say our regular counselor Ms. Sari Renjen was out. Ms. Renjen is the most understanding woman I know. She has a brother who is a police officer and they almost look like twins. I met him at a wedding reception and they are both the nicest people. Ms. Renjen is also a kindergarten teacher and the patience she has with those little kids seems to carry over to us.
However, if she has an evil twin, it is Mrs. Gravenhurst.
“I saw a picture this morning,” I said, trying not to notice the notepad Mrs. Gravenhurst had been writing on since I started talking to her fifteen minutes ago.
The way she kept asking me to repeat everything—and then re-asking the same questions but with different words—meant she did not believe me and was basically cross-examining me.
“And where did you see this picture? Exactly, I mean,” said Mrs. Gravenhurst.
“On social media,” I answered.
“And do you spend a lot of time posting?” Mrs. Gravenhurst said.
What does she mean by that?
“Not really. I don’t have much time to except in the morning and after school. I have volleyball practice, too.”
“And we do want to stay on the team, do we not?” Mrs. Gravenhurst arched a penciled eyebrow.
“Sure, I do,” I said, wondering what she was getting at.
“So, we would not make things up, just to get attention, would we?”
Mrs. Gravenhurst squinted one eye half-shut, like she wanted to wink but didn’t know how.
“Only when”—I began.
“So, we do not use our social media apps during class, do we?” Mrs. Gravenhurst interrupted.
“Maybe, just for a second or two in class,” I said, thinking I would go along with her since she seemed extra focused on it, “you know, a few posts, or check replies—but not for long.”
“Yes,” she said, with a satisfied smile. “We do need to see how many people have ‘liked’ what we have to say, don’t we?”
What a witch.
I knew she was baiting me. It’s because she’s the administrator for the school social media accounts and they only have a few followers. Even the teachers don’t follow them. That much I know from my mom who, by the way, strongly hinted that more kids should check the school website, because if they did, they would know the proper parking procedure and never let anyone borrow their parking pass. If you do that, the school revokes your pass. And—Mom always emphasized this one—the numbered spaces are reserved for teachers so if you park in a numbered spot, your car will be towed away. If your car is towed, the driver, not the parent, is responsible for paying the ticket, including impound fee. My parents had to pay for Justin’s towing fee when he parked in a police-only zone, so they are kind of touchy.
All of a sudden, a thought popped into my mind and for a few seconds I forgot about Mrs. Gravenhurst.
Had Mindy parked in a reserved spot this morning?
If they towed the bus, she would have to pay a fine which meant we would have to pay a fine since we are ride sharing and any tickets are shared. I don’t know why, but they are. Pamela would be able to get out of it, but not me. I would have to put an IOU note in my nonexistent car fund.
Fortunately, Mrs. Gravenhurst was too busy writing notes and did not see my petrified expression.
By the time she looked up again, I had returned to normal but was still struggling not to show my exasperation.
“So, you saw this picture of—Logan, was it? —or did you say Willy?” Mrs. Gravenhurst flipped through her notes. “And he was not in school?”
“Logan,” I repeated, “and no, he was not in school, he doesn’t go anymore, he graduated. He was . . .”
“Drowned,” Mrs. Gravenhurst said in a flat voice, looking right at me.
Was it my imagination, or had she smiled at the word “drowned”?
I swallowed and looked at my hands resting in my lap.
“Olivia, look at me when I am talking to you.”
I lifted my chin, but kept my eyes lowered to hide how much I hated her at that moment.
What the heck. I raised my eyes. I don’t care what she thinks.
“You know, Mrs. Gravenhurst, I’ll go now.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’ve been a real help.”
“As you wish,” said Mrs. Gravenhurst. “Remember, my door is always open.”
I stood up slowly, burning with humiliation. How dare she treat me, and Logan, too, with such contempt.
“Oh, would you mind closing the door on your way out?” Mrs. Gravenhurst added, unable to tear her eyes away from her notepad.
I didn’t say a word. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to slam the door, which I am sure was exactly what she wanted.
Once outside, I breathed deeply, flared my nostrils, gritted my teeth, curled my lips, and growled.
“Told you so.” Mindy slid off the wall where she had been sitting.
I didn’t tell her the real reason I wanted to see a counselor, but she had warned me about substitutes.
“I haven’t seen Ms. Renjen lately,” Mindy had said, thoughtfully. “But if they give you a substitute and it’s Mrs. Gravenhurst, run.” I had replied that it did not matter who it was, because I was only picking up things for my mom.
Mindy and I have known each other so long that each of us knows when the other has something on her mind. I ask outright. Mindy says I’m nosey. She hints at it, which I think is the same thing but in a passive-aggressive way. She always rolls her eyes at that: Oh, passive-aggressive, it is so over my head. It works though. We don’t have to tell each other right away, but we find out later.
“What do you mean?” I said, keeping up the ruse about my appointment being no more than an errand. “I didn’t want anything, just the material my mom asked me to pick up.”
“I guess you have to come back later,” Mindy said wickedly, eyeing my backpack. I had walked out of the building carrying exactly what I went in with.
“It’s really small. I already put it in my backpack,” I said, shrugging.
“Mm-hmm.”
I didn’t admit it, but she had been right about one thing. The minute I saw Mrs. Gravenhurst, I should have made an excuse and left.
My counseling session having gone down the toilet, I decided to wait till Ms. Renjen returned, and until then do a little investigating on my own.
Waiting would not be too bad, but what bothered me was that I was questioning myself. Did I really see what I thought I did, or could I have misread or misinterpreted it?
It’s no fun thinking your mind is playing tricks. So, I decided to ignore it, and hoped it would go away.
Mrs. Gravenhurst did say one thing before I left: “I suggest you seek further counseling.”
To keep from glaring at her, I looked at her notepad. Everything she had written had disappeared.
Chapter 6.
Drawn
By the end of the week, I had forgotten about Abigail. At first it wasn’t easy, but by taking different paths, turning down different corridors, hurrying away when I even suspected she might be around, I managed it. Out of sight, out of mind.
Logan however was another matter. There was no other information about him online and no one mentioned him. Why had I seen it? What was behind it?
A search through old issues of The Surf Reporter showed nothing and that was suspicious. There should have been articles and photos of his swimming and surfing competitions, but there were none. Plaques in the school trophy case did not have his name on them. It was as if he had never existed. His Facebook account was still there, but it had not been updated in over a year. It isn’t unusual for someone to drop out of sight after leaving high school; some stay in touch, but many don’t.
However, if Logan had died, there would have been a candlelight vigil at the pier or maybe the school football field or the gym. He was on the track team and sometimes they ran on Veterans Parkway from the school to Sepulveda Boulevard underpass and back, about a five-mile run. No flowers or sympathy notes had been placed at the distance markers.
Sometimes the track team had run past me when I was walking our dog Baxter, and Logan was always at the front of the first group.
Like a phantom limb, I missed him. I found myself going to places where I had seen him or talked to him.
I still hadn’t met the dog walker Mom said she hired, but I had decided that she might have come early the day I heard voices in the house. If someone had really been there, Baxter would have barked, but he had not made a sound.
“Come on, Baxter,” I said. “Want to go for a walk?” I didn’t even have to ask. He heard me getting the leash and was more than ready. He’s part Bernese and like all big dogs, and little ones too, he needs walking and the most logical place is the Parkway.
When he settled down, I attached the extension leash to his collar. Once we are on the path, I always let him have free reign for the full twenty-five feet, if he wants it, but most of the time he pretty much walks along side of me. This time however something caught his attention. Before I knew it, the leash was extended all the way. He loped around the shrubs and went behind a large pepper tree—the trunk is about four feet across—so all I could see was his tail wagging slowly; the rest of him was hidden.
Had he seen a squirrel? If it had been running, he would have chased it and not just stayed in one place, unless it ran up the tree, and then he would stand and watch, which is what he was doing now.
“Leave it,” I said. I didn’t want him to suddenly dash after whatever he was looking at. The leash is supposed to hold but if all his weight is behind it, he might tangle himself before I could bring him back.
I waited for him a few seconds. His tail never stopped wagging slowly the whole time, but he didn’t come back.
Someone snapped their fingers.
Baxter woofed, went up on his hind legs, came back down, and made his way over to me. He had something small and greenish in his mouth. Sometimes he finds tennis balls, but it wasn’t big enough for that.
“Here, give it to me,” I said, not wanting him to eat something he’d found. I reached toward him and saw what looked like a small apple green Zuke’s bone, the same kind of treat Logan used to give his dog. Baxter turned his head away and by the time I opened his mouth, nothing was there.
I turned quickly expecting someone to step from behind the tree, but no one did, nor had there been a rustle in the leaves or shrubs.
“Hello!” I called. “Did you give my dog a treat?” I waited but there was no answer.
Baxter pulled the opposite way as a mouse skittered through the bushes. Once again, the leash extended. I finally got him in tow and we both went around the same pepper tree but didn’t find anyone.
I thought I heard someone laughing softly. It sounded like it came from nearby, but the only other people were half a mile farther west. There are houses along the Parkway and they are set back from the street. Sound carries and there was a slight breeze so maybe the laughter came from someone’s backyard. That must have been what I heard. It still did not explain how my dog ended up with a dog treat in his mouth, or why he acted as if he had seen someone he knew.
I decided that was enough of a walk and we headed for home. No doubt about it; I needed a diversion. I had too much on my mind. Wishful thinking was skewing my perceptions.
Over the next few days, I tried not to think of anything but school, except of course for the Hometown Festival which was the following weekend. Not only is it one of the biggest events in the beach cities, but the PTA would also be running the festival’s largest fundraiser, the Beer Garden. My friends and I aren’t allowed in because we are underage, but my mom would be coordinating the volunteers. That meant she and my dad would work there both days. I would have the whole weekend parent free—almost—and that was something to look forward to.
Before I knew it, the big weekend arrived.
The festival begins early Saturday morning. Since it’s not far from home, I walked along the Parkway. It parallels Valley Boulevard and goes by Royal Oak Park where the booths and games are set up. From there, the Parkway continues south through Hermosa and Redondo, and ends near Palos Verdes.
As I neared the festival, I heard guitar music and the mixed sound of drums and cymbals. There are stages set up at each end for different bands, and that is where the MCs do their part to keep things running smoothly. The grills fire up early, and wind carries the smell of charbroiling. The arts and crafts booths are on either side of Valley Drive. Before I reached them, I saw Mom in the Beer Garden. It was early, but there were already a dozen people in line, and she was busy behind the counter serving beer.
After passing the first bandstand at the north end, I continued past arts and crafts, past the kids’ section, and on to the food area where I met Mindy.
“Where to first?” she said.
“Funnel cakes, of course. I’m starving, I didn’t have breakfast.”
Funnel cakes are my favorite. They look like squiggly fried pancakes and they are yummy. I’m sure you can get them lots of places, but the ones at the festival taste the best, in my opinion.
Food booths and open tables are scattered throughout the Little League field. We found the booth we were looking for and got in line.
I stood way to the side so I could watch the man as he made the cakes. He piled strawberries on top of mine, then added a large swirl of whipped cream.
“Thanks,” I said, as he handed it to me. It was so heavy I had to hold it with both hands to be sure the middle didn’t collapse.
“Strawberry or apricot?” he said, smiling at Mindy.
“Apricot, please.” Mindy beamed as he scooped apricots onto a crisp, steaming funnel cake. He added an elaborate swirl of whipped cream and handed her the paper plate. It sagged under the weight of a billion calories.
After Mindy took her funnel cake, we turned and scanned the groups of people to see who was there, and that is when we saw our friend, Jade Foster.
Now, in terms of who is popular, not popular, super cool, or just plain weird, me and Mindy are somewhere in the middle. We’re not super students, super athletes, or super anything.
But Jade? She is super exotic. I would like to look like her—if I had the nerve. She has black hair, sometimes it’s pink, sometimes it’s spiky, but now it was short, straight, and asymmetrical. I tried to do asymmetrical last year, but Mindy cut my hair, so it ended up crooked; fortunately, it had grown out.
Jade was not wearing her usual all-black outfit—leather jacket, tight t-shirt, leather pants, and boots with metal studs—but when she does, it gets bad vibes—mostly from parents.
They act like she has a killer flu or is getting over Ebola but still contagious. The thing is, they don’t know how nice she is. She is one of the nicest people in the world; she just does not look that way.
Since the weather was stil
l warm, Jade wore a pink tee-shirt.
She has a pink ribbon permanently tattooed on her cheek in memory of her mom. We met when my parents had a yard-sale fund-raiser. She and her twin brother James stopped by and browsed through books and games. When they heard the yard-sale was for the Komen Foundation, we started talking and got to know each other. That’s when she told us she did the Susan G. Komen sixty-mile, three-day walk in San Diego.
Jade still scares lots of people though, especially when she’s in all-black and wearing her dark glasses. I am not sure why. Maybe it’s the way she walks, or maybe it’s what people think her attitude is.
Who knows? But there is just something about her. Anyway, that’s all they see, they do not see the pink ribbon on her cheek, or if they do, they ignore it.
“So, what’s new?” Jade said to us; and to the man making funnel cakes, “I’ll have one with strawberries, please.”
He acted like she was invisible and handed the person behind her a large funnel cake loaded with strawberries.
Jade didn’t say anything, but when he did it again, she said, “Excuse me. I would like one with strawberries. Please.”
This time he gave her the stink eye. He picked up a rejected half-made funnel cake sitting on the side, slopped a few strawberries on it, and handed it to her.
“Could I have whipped cream?” Jade said, without smiling. “Please.”
“Here, take this.” I handed her mine—ignoring her puzzled expression—took hers, set it down, and picked up a fresh one. I squirted whipped cream on the new one till it was almost spilling off the sides, then set the can down.
I never once looked directly at the man behind the counter, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw him open his mouth several times as if wanting to ask what the heck do you think you’re doing?
“Let’s go!” I said, and without waiting for an answer, I turned and left.
When we were two booths away, I repeated what Jade had asked me— “What’s new?”—and ignored Mindy, who was looking over her shoulder, trying to see the booth we had hurried away from.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 3