“Hey, I saw the pictures from the party Megan went to last night. That was the biggest pizza I’ve ever seen. They must have cooked it in sections.”
“I’d like to see them. Who posted the photos?”
“Patty Springsteed. Her son David went to the party. Are you friends with her online?”
“No. What was Megan doing in the picture?”
“Being silly. David had his arm around her and another girl. If my computer wasn’t already packed away, I’d show you.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You have plenty to do.”
twenty-nine
The Connor family ordered multiple pizzas to feed the volunteers. When the food arrived, Amy excused herself and drove to Natalie’s house. The contrast between the chaos at the Connor house and the serene organization of Natalie’s home couldn’t have been more dramatic. Natalie had fixed mini club sandwiches with different kinds of meat.
“Where are Luke and the boys?” Amy asked after she’d washed up and settled into Natalie’s kitchen with a cup of hot tea in front of her.
“Out for a couple of hours getting something to eat and then going to the new park on Westover Drive.”
“This is so much better than pizza with grease running off the top,” Amy said after she ate a tiny sandwich in three bites. “I’m hungry.”
“How are things going with Megan?” Natalie asked.
Amy decided it was time to tell her friend about her concerns. That took the rest of the meal.
“Maybe we should pray for her time with Mr. Ryan right now,” Natalie said when Amy mentioned enlisting the teacher as an ally.
Amy glanced at her watch. “Okay. They should be finished by now.”
“Unless they’re really having a good talk.”
Natalie offered up a heartfelt prayer that perfectly mirrored what Amy hoped would happen.
When she finished, all Amy added was “Amen.”
“If you write as well as you pray, your book isn’t going to need much editing,” Amy said.
“Are you ready to see it?” Natalie asked, her eyes lighting up.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to see the illustrations first or read the text?”
It was a question Amy hadn’t thought about. She hesitated.
“Let me see the pictures. If they tell the story well enough, the words aren’t going to be as important. Where should we sit?”
“Right here is fine.” Natalie hurriedly left the table.
Almost every time she sat in Natalie’s kitchen, Amy saw something that gave her an idea for her own home. A new napkin holder that turned a routine object with a mundane purpose into an artistic piece caught her eye. Natalie returned with a large leather portfolio. Beige-colored papers peeked out from its sides.
“This is exciting and scary at the same time,” she said. “And you’re my friend. I can’t imagine what it’s like to show something you’ve created to a total stranger.”
“Much worse.”
Natalie laid the portfolio on the table. She lifted one corner of the folder and slid out a single sheet of paper.
“This is my concept for the cover.”
It was a beach scene with a house in the background and three children running along the top of a sand dune toward the ocean. It was a windy day, and the sea grass bowed before the breeze. The two older children were boys. The youngest was a girl whose long blond hair trailed along behind her. In the children’s hands were buckets and nets. The boys were in shorts and shirts, and the girl was wearing a blue and yellow dress.
“I love it,” Amy said simply. “And not just because I’d like to hang it on the wall.”
“Why?”
“I love that you don’t show the children’s faces. Often it’s best to ease into the characters and setting and give the reader’s imagination a chance to kick in. That way they own the story, too. And your images are so generic that children who read the book can see themselves in the picture.”
“That’s good?”
“Yes.”
“Yea!” Natalie responded.
Amy smiled. “I assume that’s what you intended. How much physical detail do you give later?”
“Some, but the children remain images, not portraits. Watercolors allow soft edges. I tried not to cross the line of artistic ambiguity.”
“Okay. And I like that they’re wearing regular clothes. Children who spend a few days at the beach aren’t in bathing suits every chance they get. Those who stay for weeks or months dress more like they do at home.”
“Is it okay for the little girl to wear a dress?”
“Yes, especially for the cover. Also, it tells me she likes to think for herself.”
“Yea again.”
“Let me see another one.”
One by one, Natalie brought out the paintings. Not only were they beautiful to look at, they told a visual story.
“I get it,” Amy said after she saw the final image, a sunset similar to the cover, only from the perspective of the beach looking inland. “I especially love the pictures where the children are building the imaginary pirate boat from driftwood, and Sarah’s encounter with the jellyfish.”
“That makes me feel great.” Natalie paused.
“Now, the part I’m nervous and not excited about—the text.”
“Don’t be.”
Natalie pulled a thin stack of papers from the portfolio. “I’m going to leave the room and clean the toilet in the boys’ bathroom while you read it. I know you can’t tell me everything that needs to be fixed on a first reading, but I’d at least like your impressions. There are pencil sketches of the illustrations on the pages where I think the words should appear.”
“Are you really going to clean the boys’ toilet?”
“Or find something to do. If you hear me pacing back and forth upstairs, try to ignore it.”
Natalie left the kitchen. Amy picked up the pages. She knew her friend’s anxiety was misplaced.
Until she read the first page.
The lighthearted serendipity of the paintings never made the leap to the printed words. Some sentences were stiff. Others were way too long for a children’s book. Worst of all, the words didn’t open a window to the innocent imaginations of the children that were the heart of the story. Amy started reading faster, hoping the writing would improve. But it didn’t. She found only a handful of phrases that vibrated with vitality. She took a pen from her purse and put a star beside each one.
Amy could hear Natalie’s footsteps as she walked up and down the hallway on the second floor. Not sure what to do, she read the story again. It didn’t improve the second time, but Amy’s lowered expectations helped her appreciate the effort Natalie put into it. She put down the final page and looked again at the wonderful paintings. When she looked up, Natalie was standing in the doorway.
“I didn’t hear you come downstairs,” she said.
Natalie held up her shoes in her right hand. “I crept down quieter than Noah stealing an after-bedtime cookie.”
It was the kind of sentence Amy had hoped to see a lot more of in the story but didn’t.
“How bad is it?” Natalie continued.
“It has its moments,” Amy responded, and immediately regretted her choice of words.
“But there aren’t many of them.” Natalie finished the thought before Amy could continue.
“I marked some of the sentences that really sing,” Amy said, trying to keep a positive expression on her face. “But overall, I think it needs work.”
Natalie stepped forward and slumped down at the table.
“Can you fix it?” she asked with a forlorn look on her face.
“It’s a different genre. But I’m sure I can toss out a few ideas that might help.”
“Anything you can do would be awesome. Did anything come to you as you were reading?”
“Yes.” Amy nodded. “Every time I looked at one of the paintings, it sparked an idea. The visual message is there. All th
at’s lacking is to sync up what you’ve created using watercolors with the words on the page. In an illustrated book, less can be more. It’s common for the narrative to be very sparse for several pages, then the writer tosses in two or three paragraphs that fill in the blanks and add texture to what the reader’s mind has already visualized with the images.”
“I read a bunch of children’s books but never noticed that,” Natalie replied.
“And it’s necessary to resist the urge to explain everything. Make the reader, even a child, work a bit to follow the story. Overstating things slowed me down more than anything else. For example, building the pirate ship needs very little explanation once the children get started. You show it happening. The words come in when the kids are in their places, and Peter hoists the flag made out of their father’s old Hawaiian-print shirt. That’s the point where you show the children’s imaginations in action. One of the best lines is at the end of that scene when you encourage readers to tell their own pirate story. It will segue into a nice discussion between parent and child.”
“I tossed that in as an afterthought.”
“It was a good one.”
Natalie rested her elbows on the table.
“I’m overwhelmed,” she said.
“Don’t be. Here’s what we’ll do,” Amy said. “Make copies of the paintings on a color copier. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if the originals were at my house. And I’ll take the text and begin to play around with it.”
“What about your own book?”
“I can do this during my lunch break at work. And this will be a fun diversion at home that will perk me up when I need a break from my novel. Your book isn’t the sort of thing that warrants several hours of writing at a sitting. Short spells may actually be better.”
“And you’ll take credit for the story.”
“Maybe. It depends on how many of my changes make it into the final version.”
“I know they will.”
Amy smiled. “That means we’ll split the million dollars received in royalties fifty-fifty. We could use the money to go in together and buy a fabulous house at the beach. Your family can use it for two weeks, then we’ll come down for a joint week, followed by two weeks on our own.”
“I like that idea.” Natalie perked up. “And it’s only right that it would be the beach since a beach story made it possible in the first place.”
Driving home, Amy hoped Natalie’s lighthearted comments at the end of their conversation didn’t give way to tears as soon as her friend was alone. Insecurity crouched on every writer’s shoulder. Amy knew its condemning voice well.
When she pulled up to the house, Jeff hadn’t returned yet. Amy went inside. There was no sign of Megan, either. She went upstairs. The door to Megan’s room was closed. Amy turned the knob and pushed it open. Megan was lying on the bed, fast asleep.
“Megan!” Amy said. “Wake up!”
Megan rolled over and barely opened one of her eyes for a second, then closed it again. Amy shook her.
“Wake up! What did you take that made you fall asleep?”
“Take?” Megan mumbled. “Take what?”
“That’s what I’m asking you!” Amy repeated in a loud voice.
Megan rubbed her eyes and opened them. It looked like she was having trouble focusing.
“Tell me what you’ve done, or I’m going to take you to the hospital.”
Megan unsteadily forced herself to sit up.
“I was sleepy,” she said.
“No, you were unconscious, passed out. What did you do, and where did you go after dance class?”
“Uh.” Megan hesitated for several moments. “Mr. Ryan dropped off Molly at her house, then we went to get a burger and shake for lunch.” Megan yawned. “There were a bunch of people there who’d been at the school working on decorations for the prom.”
“Who?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you know any of them?”
Megan brushed her hair out of her face and yawned again.
“They were mostly juniors and seniors.”
“Was David Springsteed there?”
“No, why are you asking about him?”
“Who did you talk to?”
Megan opened her eyes wider. “I mostly watched and listened. They were more interested in Mr. Ryan than me.”
Amy took a deep breath. “Did anyone give you anything?”
“Give me something? Like what?”
“A pill.”
“You think I took some kind of drug that made me sleepy?” Megan asked incredulously.
“Why else would you pass out on a Saturday afternoon? This wasn’t a normal nap. There’s a reason why it was so hard for me to wake you up.”
“You think I would take a pill that someone from school gave me?” Megan repeated, shaking her head in disbelief.
“What am I supposed to think? You’ve never answered my question.”
Megan stared hard at Amy. There was now no doubt she was fully awake.
“I didn’t take any pills and never would. I can’t believe you think I’m that stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid, but I know how peer pressure works, especially with older and younger high school students.”
“Mom, you’re crazy. Or what’s the word? Paranoid.”
Amy felt steam about to boil out of her ears. If Megan were Darla Connor’s age, Amy would apply a paddle to her bottom. But you couldn’t spank a teenager who just used the word paranoid.
“I was sleepy,” Megan said, perhaps sensing she’d pushed her mother too hard.
“So what’s your explanation? Was dance practice hard?”
“Not really. Maybe it’s my hormones.”
It was such an unexpected answer that Amy’s jaw dropped. She was speechless.
“If I’m paranoid, I guess you have the right to blame your hormones,” she managed. “That’s always a woman’s prerogative. But if this keeps up, I’m going to take you back to Dr. Simmons for more tests.”
“Fine. I’ve not done anything wrong, and I don’t have anything to hide.”
“I’m just trying to figure out why you’re so sleepy.”
“Then I wish you’d stick to things that don’t involve accusing me of being a terrible person. Now that I’m awake, would you please leave me alone?”
The last thing Amy saw as she left the room was Megan picking up her cell phone to send a text. She started to ask her not to send any text messages about their conversation to her friends, but that was an unrealistic request. Teenage girls were going to talk. It was as much a part of their DNA as emerging hormones.
Amy went to her bedroom and closed the door. Taking out her own cell phone, she punched in the number for Greg Ryan.
“It’s Amy Clarke,” she said as soon as the teacher answered.
“Hey, Mrs. Clarke—”
“Call me Amy. We’ll save the formalities for the school campus. I came home a few minutes ago and found Megan passed out in her room. It was almost identical to the other day. After I got her awake and talking, I asked her if she’d taken any kind of drug. She got offended and denied it. She mentioned you ran into a group of older students while you were eating lunch. What did you see? Who did she talk to? Was she ever out of your sight? What sort of condition was she in when you dropped her off at the house?”
“Let’s back up a bit,” the teacher said. “Yes, we went to Jackson’s Shake Shop after I took Molly Prichard home. During the drive and when we first got to the restaurant, I asked Megan to give me a rundown on her friends. I already knew most of them, of course, but I wanted to find out if there was someone on the list who would be a red flag. Megan considers a lot of people friends.”
“Yes, she’s much more social than I ever was.”
“I don’t know all the kids at the school, and a couple of names came up that I wasn’t sure about. Both of them were boys. One was Keith Nelson, and the other was Bruce Peabody.”
“She’s known both of them since they went to Broad Street Christian School together. I’m surprised Megan considers them friends. Bruce is so shy that he usually keeps to himself. That may be why he’s unfamiliar to you. And Keith’s mother tells me that he’s more interested in video games than girls.”
“That’s true of a lot of boys at the high school.”
“Was Keith at the burger place today?”
“No. That was a group of juniors and seniors who’d been at the school getting the gym ready for the prom tonight.”
“Yeah, that’s what Megan told me.”
“And to answer your questions, Megan didn’t leave the booth where we were sitting except to go to the bathroom with a mob of other girls. I don’t know what happened during that time. Other than that she was sitting across the table from me while students came by to chat. During the drive to your house, she mentioned she was going to take a nap because nobody was at home and the house would be quiet. I let her out and waited in the driveway until she went inside, then left.”
“She didn’t have any problem walking into the house?”
“None that I could tell. She looked normal to me.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, about one fifteen. We spent a little over an hour at lunch. I’m sorry there’s not more to tell. I know you’re concerned, but it may simply be that her body is craving sleep right now.”
“Yeah. Megan mentioned hormones.”
“I don’t know much about that. I grew up in a family of boys.”
thirty
By the time Jeff came home, Megan was sitting in her room listening to music, texting on her phone, and reading a book—all at the same time. Jeff listened to Amy’s story.
“It sounds like she took your question about using drugs better than I expected,” he said.
“How can you say that? We haven’t talked since.”
“She could have left the house without telling you where she was going.”
When she was a little girl, Megan ran away from home twice. But like Hansel and Gretel, she left a series of breadcrumb clues that made the incidents more cute than scary.
“I didn’t even think about that.”
“If she was connected to a bad network of kids, that could have been one of her first responses. She would flee to her ‘friends’ for support. Sending Bethany a text message telling her how terrible you are is probably a good thing.”
The Living Room Page 30