The drawing was of a man’s face. He had large eyes, a long straight nose, and shining silver hair. It was the same man I had seen lying in the road. The card under the frame said Death Mask.
“Olivia?”
“It’s nothing. I changed my mind. Let’s go.” I turned and left and heard Mindy’s footsteps hurrying after me. Once outside, I stopped and tried to catch my breath.
“Are you all right?” Mindy said, studying me.
“Yes,” I said, after a pause. “I just needed air. Too much sugar, you know, the snow cone.”
“It will go away soon,” she said, nodding. “You okay to go? I’m ready to leave.”
We left and walked the rest of the way without saying much. When we reached the Parkway, we said bye and arranged to meet later. By then I felt better. I wanted to go back to the art exhibit, but I was afraid of what I would see—or not see.
Think about real things.
I forced my thoughts away from the Death Mask. It was probably just a strange coincidence anyway and maybe I only imagined the similarity.
I thought of James and Abigail, and how easily fortune can change when you take too long to decide.
Then I remembered something else. Pamela.
With the fall, the breaking glass, the goldfish flopping on the ground, and James coming to the rescue, I had forgotten about her, but now I remembered what looked odd. As she went trotting off as if nothing happened, I saw Jade glaring daggers at her. I never saw Jade give anyone a hateful look like that. I hoped I never would again.
The Parkway is a good place to just think, so I did. There was too much happening, with Abigail, Pamela, Homecoming, school, and now James and Jade. I wanted to—had to—ask Jade if the drawing was hers, but it would have to wait.
I couldn’t just demand an answer and I didn’t want her to think it was a big deal, although it was. I first needed to clear my mind, center myself, be in control, and then think about everything logically.
The best way to do that, yoga.
Chapter 7. Twisted
The next evening I entered the recreation center and saw the receptionist Miss Iris Pinkerton sitting behind the counter. She had a large hardcover book propped on the desk in front of her. The dust jacket was made of plain brown wrapping paper but there were smaller paperback-size pages peeking from the side.
Why would someone her age want to hide a book? Was she reading erotica and didn’t want anyone to know? She didn’t look like the type, but maybe there’s no special look to it.
Miss Pinkerton has silver-brown hair. It’s flat on top, sort of like a perm growing out, and curly at the ends. It spills over her forehead, and sits atop her wire-framed glasses, so you can’t see the upper half of her face. I had seen her at the library and going into the Archival Society, so I assumed she volunteered there as well.
I usually don’t interrupt someone who is reading, but the last time I was here she must have thought I was trying to see her book. She had looked at me resentfully and quickly put it away.
As I passed the reception desk, she slid farther down in her seat, with only the top of her head showing. Her eyes slid sideways toward me and she hunched her shoulders like a turtle trying to pull into its shell. She kept the book in front of her but pulled the covers closer together until it was almost closed. Obviously, she wanted to be left alone so I passed her without saying anything.
Inside the classroom, there were a few places where I could unroll my mat. If you’re right in front, the instructor Madam Zenda watches every move and pretends not to.
The back of the room isn’t much better; that’s where all the immature boys from school are, especially Willy, Logan’s brother.
I like Willy well enough. He’s funny and he’s always joking, but if you’re trying to concentrate, he can really be disturbing. He says he has ADHD and it makes him act that way. He doesn’t really want to learn yoga, but Mrs. Gravenhurst convinced his mom it would help his concentration—but Willy said it makes it worse.
I spotted a narrow place with just enough room to unroll my mat and began with a few easy stretches. Then I positioned myself face down on the mat, adjusted my arms and legs, and pushed up so I was on all fours. I raised my hips toward the ceiling and was now in Downward Dog pose. From the side, your body looks like an uneven triangle, with the longest side being the floor. While doing this, I breathed slowly and evenly.
Peacefulness descended on me . . .. The absence of any specific thought meant my mind was clearing. A vision of Big Bear forest drifted by, with sunlight filtering through lodgepole pines. I could almost smell the fresh scent of pines, and dreamily imagined it wafting through the room.
Madam Zenda, whose real name is Mimosa Hornuckle, plays Pandora nature sounds while class is in session. Water burbled softly in the background, birds chirped liltingly, leaves rustled. My mind felt cloudlike, my body almost totally relaxed, and although I tried to hold my position, at the same time I did not try too hard. At least that was the idea.
I visualized early morning mist rising off Big Bear Lake, sun sparkling on blue water; ripples lapping at the shore. Just when I thought I was in the zone I heard a muffled sputtering sound. The boy next to me had farted.
The forest vanished. My arms quivered. I breathed in slowly, shakily regained control, and ignored the fart without trying too hard.
Then I heard a noise, and it was not the sound of burbling water.
Snorting and choking came from the back of the room where Willy was trying not to laugh.
Ignore. Do not listen. Do not try not to listen.
I breathed deeply and calmly, and for a few moments there was no more Willy. I was doing really well when— Pee-yew! —old cabbage, that boy needed a fiber pill. I was afraid to take another breath.
A thump came from the side of the room where someone fell on the floor.
My legs were in an upside-down V and I was struggling to hold my position. I heard another thump. I looked back between my legs, and saw Willy face down on the mat, his body shaking uncontrollably.
He wasn’t having a fit, he was laughing and trying not to make a sound, but his nose was pressed into the mat and it made him snort. The harder he tried, the more he snorted. He sounded like a horse with a nose full of pollen.
At times like these—and it has happened before in class—all it takes is one little smile, one hiccup, one anything, and it’s over.
My arms wobbled.
I glanced at Madam Zenda in her white caftan and white turban and hoped the sight of her would stop the laughter threatening to burst out of me. She usually has a peaceful Buddha-like smile on her face. When we mess up, her smile freezes, but now it looked like her face had melted and reshaped itself.
My arms trembled harder.
Should I move into the Plank pose?
Willy’s snorting was infectious and others around him were choking and sputtering. I needed a distraction, but with my arms shaking it was a risky time to change poses. Or was it?
Distractions should not be forced away; you are supposed to let them drift by but this one wouldn’t.
Willy seemed to get control of himself. Only one more little wince squeaked out, but Madame Zenda heard it. How could she not?
I looked at her again.
Her smile looked like it was ready to crack.
What if she was furious and holding it in? What if she was ready to go ballistic and holding it in so much it made her turban pop off?
Visualizing her turban flying like a champagne cork blew my concentration.
My arms quaked; my stomach sagged. My whole pose sagged. I couldn’t get it back. I had sabotaged myself and belly flopped onto the mat. But I did manage to keep a peaceful expression on my face, or so I hoped.
I was still trying to be serious without being serious, but squeaks and gasps were coming from the whole class.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a man was in the room. I’d never seen him here before and I didn’t see him enter, but
he was right in front. I couldn’t be sure of his age, maybe thirty-five or fifty. He was skinny and had skimpy hair. Unlike the rest of us, he was totally in control.
Who is he?
Not only was his hair skimpy, it was wet, which made it look stringy.
Strange. It wasn’t raining, so how did his hair get wet? Did he run through the sprinklers across the street at Polliwog Park? People his age don’t do things like that.
Before I could think of another reason why his hair was wet or where he came from, he unrolled his mat. The laughing and snorting had pretty much stopped by then, but once he moved into a pose, the room fell silent.
I had never seen anyone so flexible. In one long slow movement he put his hands on the floor in front of him and lifted himself off the ground. His legs were straight out on each side, like he was sitting on air doing the splits with only his hands holding him up: The Firefly pose, totally awesome.
No one in our beginning class can even begin to do a Firefly, so of course I kept watching him and hoped I was not being too obvious.
Next, his body folded in half, his butt in the air. He walked forward on his hands, then around in a circle. I don’t know how anyone with bones could do that. He balanced himself on one hand, the rest of his body twisted together, and held his pose. Incredible. Even Willy was quiet. Madam Zenda’s looked sideways at the Firefly. Was she jealous?
Come to think of it, Madam Zenda never stretches or does poses or anything physical. She just tells us what to do and shows demonstration videos.
As for the Firefly, he started moving from pose to pose, as if no one else were there. The longer I watched him, the more familiar he seemed.
He walked on his hands, then he turned slowly and that’s when I saw the tattoo on the inside of his forearm—exactly like the one Logan had done on the man in the shop. He must have felt me staring at him because his eyes shifted in my direction.
That’s when I recognized him for sure. It was the same man Logan had tattooed. I looked away before I saw his expression. I had not meant to be so obvious; everyone else was watching him, too.
Had he noticed me staring? Did he recognize me as well? When he left, would he go across the street and walk through the park?
I couldn’t stay to find out. Associated Student Body was the next morning, so I had to leave early. As for the tattoo, maybe it was well known and lots of people had it. On the other hand, I had heard about cults in the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department where the members have identifying tattoos, but he certainly didn’t look like any sheriff I had ever seen.
Following him was not logical anyway and worse it would be too much like stalking, which is horrible. Although I did have a reason to. However, I couldn’t do it without being noticed so I dismissed the idea of tracking him. My priorities had not changed since the semester started: grades, volleyball, driver’s license. That was it, that’s what mattered.
I still needed to study for a pop quiz in Spanish the next day. We aren’t supposed to know about Mrs. Kaufman’s—I mean Senora Kaufman—she gets mad if you call her Mrs.—pop quizzes but she gives one every Thursday.
When we all have our laptops out before she says there will be a quiz, she stares at us suspiciously, as if someone hacked her emails and that’s how we know. She gives one every week, so of course we expect it. Even so, I wasn’t prepared for the last one and did not want another B minus.
Ahem! Madame Zenda’s gaze swept meaningfully over the class. We moved into position and tried to concentrate on our poses. When I looked up again, the Firefly was gone.
Shortly afterwards I left and passed the same receptionist Iris Pinkerton. She appeared not to have moved but she must have, she wore a different outfit. Not only that, when I came in, it looked like she was near the end of her book, but now she had it propped up and was back at the beginning. I had the feeling she watched everything, and the book was only a decoy.
That’s paranoid, don’t do that, I told myself. Interrupt her, ask a question.
“Excuse me,” I said, pausing in front of her. I waited but she did not look up. “Did you see a man come in through the front door? He was kind of skinny and had wet hair.”
Still no answer. Maybe her book wasn’t the only decoy. Maybe that was just a wig and—I was doing it again.
“Never mind!” I said. “Thanks anyway.”
“What did you say?” She looked up.
“Did you see anyone leave? A man with skimpy hair?”
“You’re following a man?”
“No. I was just asking.”
“Oh, no,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “I never bother people. I mind my own business.”
“Thanks very much,” I said, taking the hint. Whatever.
When I reached the glass door, I saw her reflection. She was staring at me. When she noticed me looking at her, she quickly lowered her head and put her nose back in the book.
As I pushed the door open, cool air washed over me. Justin was supposed to pick me up, but he hadn’t arrived yet. A quick glance up and down the street told me it would be at least another five minutes before he got here.
Across the street, the rolling green lawn of Polliwog Park complemented the peaceful evening sky. During daylight hours the park is a busy place, with women pushing strollers along the winding walkways. There had once been a wooden pirate ship where kids played. The hull had been set in a wide sandy area surrounded by grass. Stairs led from the top deck near the helm to a lower deck. It had a gaping hole in the side where kids could run up and down the ship and adults could still see them. Unfortunately, someone set it on fire and now it’s gone. I don’t think they ever caught who did it.
I gazed at the place where the ship used to be, wishing it was still there.
A light flared and went out. Was someone lighting a cigarette? I waited but did not see it again.
It was too dark and far away to see more detail, however no one should be there at night. I stared hard, watching for movement. A lone duck glided across the pond and rippled the surface. Sprinklers jetted a steady stream of water, making an arc that reached over thirty feet beyond their metal heads. A streetlamp lit up the grass and sand areas, but unless the person stepped out of the shadows and directly into the broad, pale beam, there would be no way to see him, or her.
If someone was hiding, it had to be the Firefly.
He must have run across the park and through the sprinklers. I had dismissed the idea when I first thought of it, but now it made sense. What made no sense at all was why he would be in such a big hurry to get to a class where he was not an instructor or a student.
Here and there throughout the park tall lamps gave minimal light and lengthened shadows in an eerie way. If one person was lurking in the park, there could be others, but unless they moved, I would not be able to see them.
The only building there, except for restrooms, is a repurposed red beach cottage where the Manhattan Beach Archival Society stores vintage photographs and other memorabilia. It sits about seventy-five feet away from the street.
It’s only open for a few hours on weekends so no one should have been in the building, but light flickered from a front window, followed by a flash of bright green light. For an instant a silhouette appeared—backlit by the same green light—then it was gone. I was unable to tell if it was a man or woman. Once again, the windows were black and empty.
Why would anyone break in and sneak around when there are only pictures, books, and old road signs?
As I stared at the park, I saw a faint white circle of mushrooms, a fairy ring. Folklore says they are there because that’s where fairies danced the night before. From botany, I know fairy rings are caused by spores and cytoplasmic streaming. An interesting coincidence, I mused, that a fairy ring should be in that particular place.
I was so preoccupied with the thought of the Firefly and now the fairy ring that I ignored the sound of the rumbling engine as Justin pulled up to the curb.
“H
ey, earth to Olivia.” Justin leaned across the front seat of his woody and rolled down the passenger window.
Mindy’s grandfather isn’t the only one who wanted to relive his youth. My grandfather bought a woody and surfboard around the same time. After her grandfather broke his shoulder surfing, mine gave it up pretty quickly. The surfboard is now in his garage—and Justin gets to drive the woody. The first time I sat in it, I searched the side door for a button to roll the window up and was surprised to learn these windows have to be manually rolled up and down.
“Come on,” Justin said. He pulled up a button on the passenger door. The woody is so old that nothing is automatic. Like Mindy’s bus, you even have to shift gears.
“Oh, hi,” I said, getting in and closing the door.
“What are you looking at?” Justin said.
I turned back to the red beach cottage. The windows were still dark. The park looked completely empty. Even the duck had gone home.
“Nothing,” I said. “I thought I saw a light over there at the red house, you know, the Archival Society.”
“Probably a homeless guy busted in,” Justin suggested. He shifted into first gear and stepped on the gas. The car lurched and the engine died.
“Could be,” I said. “Do you think someone will call the police?”
“Nah,” Justin said. “Some guy just wants a place to sleep.”
There are some homeless men in town. Mostly they stroll aimlessly or sit on park benches. Sometimes they sleep in the post office lobby. Occasionally one might sleep behind the library. The beach weather is inviting: it’s mostly sunny, except for early summer—May Gray and June Gloom—when it’s overcast in the morning. Every now and then I see a homeless man lying under the olive trees that line the Parkway. A few hang out at the beach, but I have never heard of any of them bothering people or burglarizing.
Justin drove a block in the opposite direction from home and pulled into the drive-thru at McDonalds. He would live on cheeseburgers if he could.
“Want anything?” he said, as the garbled voice said Welcome and asked to take his order.
“No thanks. I’ll have a couple of your fries.”
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 5