Today, before she left for the new office, Mom had absorbed herself into her Cool Professional character—that’s Ms Leona Shaefer to you. I knew she planned overseeing the reloading of the Shaefer and Gerrold client database at the new offices. Now, she’d had to leave her “important” work early and come to the school, then home to reason with the problem child.
Mom’s face was red from the heat of anger. She didn’t bother to ask me if I’d been hurt. She went straight for the lecture. “What the hell is this, Fiona? You think I don’t have enough troubles? Do you know what it’s like to completely remodel an office? Do you have any concept of what I’ve been going through today?”
The irony triggered my own anger, and the sarcastic reply spit from my mouth before I could contain it. “No, Mom. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a group of boys try to gang-bang you in the hallway? During school hours, I mean.”
Her hand jerked to hit me, but she held back. I wish she had, though. Sometimes after she lost it, she’d hold me briefly and tell me how much she loves me.
The anger my jibe caused disappeared in a flash, and her face transformed from red-hot anger to a barely contained patience. “Fiona, I know this transition is rough, but try to give it a few weeks. You have to learn to like it.” She sighed in resignation. “You might try wearing a hat for a while until your natural hair color grows back in. Or how about we go ahead and dye it to something less outrageous? I’ll spring for the bottle.”
“Jesus, Mom! I get jumped in the halls, so it must be my fault. That’s your idea of being supportive? I happen to be in the right here, just in case you were wondering.”
“Fiona, they confiscated a weapon from you.”
“It’s a good thing I had it, too, or we’d be having this conversation in the hospital.”
“Then you’d better adapt to the situation! You don’t have a choice. Besides, what were you thinking, getting into a fight? This is all because of that Joey...”
Great. Only two days after the move, and she was already repeating herself. I sighed and waited out the tirade. I knew from past experience she had nothing else to say of any importance.
Chapter Three
“WAKE ME UP INSIDE! WAKE ME UP INSIDE!” I snapped my eyes open to the siren vocals of Evanescence’s Amy Lee exploding from my iPod™ alarm clock, set at a volume to rattle teeth. “SAVE ME FROM THE NOTHING I’VE BECOME!” I slapped the “off” button, muttering a quiet “Amen”.
I sat up, momentarily shocked I hadn’t awakened from the bright sunlight showing through the sheets I’d hung over the windows. Mom said we’d have to shop for “window treatments” as soon as she had time. I knew unless I’d made a prior appointment, I was out of luck for several months.
The alarm could mean only one thing. School. My uneventful suspension was over. Uneventful? Okay, maybe boring would be the better word to describe my last few days. I even broke down and read a science fiction novel. Sci-fi didn’t interest me much—that was more Joey’s thing—but Stranger in a Strange Land had a reputation as something special. According to Wikipedia, it had cultivated some sort of cult following back in the 60’s, similar to the very awesome The Lord of the Rings. A guy raised on Mars is taken to Earth and is perplexed by what passes for “normal” here. I wasn’t raised on Mars, but I was perplexed as well.
I listened for sounds of Mom. Total silence. She must have had an early meeting.
I slogged through the morning bathroom ritual, dressed for the day, and then grabbed my backpack off my rumpled Lord of the Rings quilt. I almost made it to the door when I thought better of it. I returned to my room, making a beeline for the wooden, closet door.
“The Box”—an old cigar box held closed by rubber bands—lay at the bottom of the closet toward the back, already buried by fallen clothes. I rifled through the contents until I found my switchblade. I reverently picked it up, gripping the cool, heavy handle; the blade still shone from the recent polish I’d given it right before I’d stashed it for moving day. If Clinty wants a rematch, I’ll be ready.
I stepped out the front door, overcome with a sudden uneasiness.
The previous owners had kept our lawn lush and trimmed. They’d also added a stepping stone path that cut through the grass to the driveway. I stepped off the porch and onto the path, sensing someone watching me.
I looked at the house next door. An old woman—no, an ancient woman—was perched in a rocker on her covered porch. She stared at me. Her gaze took me in. I slowed my steps to a meek walk, and then I stopped. My feet didn’t want to move, so I stood where I was.
A faded, off-white cloth-like something lay over her knees like a pile of cobwebs, a pair of knitting needles entangled within. Her lips pulled upward into a crinkled smile.
I turned away and walked toward the sidewalk.
“Young woman,” the crackling voice called.
Damn. Just a few seconds from a clean getaway. This I did not need.
I replied with my most respectful voice. “Yes, ma’am?”
“You’re the new neighbor,” she proclaimed with deliberate slowness, as if we didn’t exist until she’d spoken it. “It’s good to have young people around. There aren’t enough in this town. Just a bunch of us old ghosts haunting the streets.” Her eyes glazed over. She seemed to drift away for a moment.
Who was I to pick a fight with a senile bag? “Yes, ma’am.”
The woman squinted at me, staring. An uncomfortable chill ran through my body at the close scrutiny.
“My eyes ain’t what they used to be, girlie. Come closer. I swear—your hair looks blue! Come, girlie.” She motioned with one gnarled hand. “Closer. I won’t bite you.”
I stepped across the yard and waited for her to realize my hair color was not a trick of the light.
“My name’s Sylvia, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her eyes widened. “My goodness, girlie, I thought my hair looked bad after my last trip to the beauty parlor. I hope they gave you a refund.” She attempted a laugh that came out as a shrill cackle.
“Actually, I did it myself. On purpose.”
Even I couldn’t help but smile. She broke into a cough and had to catch her breath.
She leaned forward in her chair. “So, you’re Fiona Felicity, the Shaefer daughter. Fine mother you got there. Bringing a lot to our community.”
I shuffled in the tall grass, crackling the brown leaves and wondering if I should take credit for something I had no control over. I decided to keep it neutral. I focused on the oak tree in her yard—something we didn’t have.
This was one of those “mixed” neighborhoods. The older homeowners had cute, little houses with wraparound porches. Then, there were the newbies, like us. The previous owners had taken the small lot and built a house covering nearly every inch of land. We still had a front yard but no back. I wondered how long it would be before all the houses were like ours—large and grand but missing the charm and warmth of the smaller places. Still, I had to admit, Sylvia hadn’t been diligent with the upkeep. Her place could use a coat of paint and a gardener with a troop of helpers.
“Yes, ma’am. Please, call me Fi-Fi, though, ma’am.”
“Fi-Fi. I already heard stories about you.” She cackled and sputtered like a dying car engine. “Great, wonderful stories.”
“Stories?”
“Inquisitive. Destined for trouble, but a great spirit. I’ll be watching you. Each spirit offers its own unique shape to the community. Yours could shape the rest of us, if you put in the effort.”
I rolled my eyes. “That…trouble…was just a misunderstanding. Someone at school was looking for a fight, so I gave him one. I don’t plan to stay in this town long enough for anyone to have to worry about me being a problem. As soon as I graduate, I’m gone.”
The old woman sighed. “Perhaps. Though, if you’re always looking over the next hill, you can never enjoy the valley.”
“I didn’t ask to be here, and yeah,” I shrugged. What
did it matter what I admitted? “I don’t like it here.”
“Well, perhaps we can change your mind if you give us a chance. Then again, perhaps not.”
She continued to stare at me, and my legs weakened.
I took a step. “I need to get to school.” I struggled for an appropriate exit line. “Nice to meet you, Sylvia.”
“Wait just a minute, girlie.”
I stopped. What more does she want from me? Last thing I need is to be late my first day back.
“You got sumthin’ in that pack of yours you need to be leavin’ at home.” She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow.
My thoughts went straight to the knife safely nestled among my books and papers. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Nothin’ but trouble in there—trouble you don’t be needin’, girlie.”
The look of confusion I gave was real. I remained silent. There is no way she could possibly know—
“The knife, girlie. Get caught with that, and you’ll never be goin’ back to that-there school, and young ladies need to learn.”
My mouth opened and my jaw dropped about five inches. “How did you—”
“Doesn’t matter. You turn right around and put that thing away.”
I wanted to leave, but my feet felt like they were encased in cement.
“Go on, git!”
My feet decided to oblige. I turned and took two steps, but then chanced a glance over my shoulder.
The old woman was gone. The rocker moved at a steady pace, even though there wasn’t a lick of wind. How did she possibly get up and go into the house in the span of two seconds?
I don’t want to know.
I turned and stumbled toward the door of my house, grateful to shut out the old woman and rocker. She gave me the creeps!
I returned the switchblade to “The Box”. She was right about one thing. That sort of mischief had caused me enough problems. I hoped I could stay out of trouble long enough to graduate.
* * * *
I made it to school on time and decided to ignore my classmates, absorbing myself in my classes. Back in Ripple, in spite of what my teachers liked to call my “personality conflicts”, I’d made it a point to maintain an “A” average. That is, until last year when Joey made my head spin and my brain work backwards, as well as my grades. If nothing else, I came into town with a clean slate and no distractions.
I’d made it through third period without an incident. Clinty had yet to return to school, and I took some satisfaction in the thought that his injuries had left him in so much pain (but only bruised ribs, thank you very much) that he might be out another few days. More likely, he’d skipped class to light up with his cronies, but hey, I can dream, can’t I?
My new English teacher, Mr. Robbins—a humorless man with thinning dark hair—stood before the class like the executioner waiting for the condemned. To me, however, his assignment offered a ray of hope and an easy “A.” He wanted us to write a free-verse poem on any subject. Most of the students groaned, asking the usual delaying questions: “How many pages?” “What’s the minimum number of lines?” “How many words per line?” Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, as the King of Siam might say. Meanwhile, I penned a rough draft into my notebook before the hour ended.
I scribbled, biting my lip, unable to contain my excitement. A creative assignment was right up my alley—just what I needed to boost my average while I tried to catch up on all the days I’d missed.
I read through the lines of my draft:
American Idol Finalist
The camera eye
the single I
Ole One-Eye
Pans
down her shirt
and up her skirt
She’ll be singing
something
about teen suicide
I think
I left class in a terrific mood, letting the current of the crowd carry me to the cafeteria. Most people ignored me, and I ignored them. Fine with me. It would change, or it wouldn’t. Today, I floated on a cloud of optimism. Even the pizza-shaped grease couldn’t wreck my spirits. I methodically chewed my food, holding pizza-stuff in one hand and my copy of The Bell Jar close to my nose.
A thumping noise shook the table. I glanced over the book. A small, wiry guy had taken the seat across from me. Most guys I knew were putting on weight, but he hadn’t started yet. His short, brown hair was rumpled in spite of his severe military cut.
I stared at the source of the impressive thud that had ruined my concentration. A stack of perforated, fold-over, crappy computer paper only geeks find useful, lay between us. You could measure the stack in inches, and I didn’t think five would be enough.
I couldn’t concentrate on the book. The amazing thing was, he’d buried his face between two pages, and he hadn’t looked up yet. He must have found the table by some sort of sixth sense, which now helped him find the food on his tray while he flipped the pages over, letting the folded-over portion flop onto the open tabletop between us.
The pages almost ended up in my potato-substance. Still, he didn’t notice. The nerve of this geek—sitting at my table, taking me out of my novel, ruining my concentration, and not even bothering to notice me.
I studied his face. He’d been trying to create a goatee, but so far had succeeded in growing dirt-colored “peach fuzz” under his chin. He wore a jacket of slick, brown leather that looked too nice and fit too well, and thus blew his façade.
It was the sort of lame-ass camouflage a computer geek would use to keep punks like me off him, ironically guaranteeing we’d whale on his ass as soon as we had a chance.
Still, that was then. I no longer condoned the hassling business. Besides, I thought I noticed Aragorn-blue eyes. If I could get his attention, I could confirm it.
Numbered lines filled the pages he held. Computer-garble. Several years ago, my second grade teacher taught us some commands in BASIC to help us understand how a computer “thought”. I could probably make “Fi-Fi Shaefer is a Beauty Queen” scroll up the screen forever until you stopped the program, but nothing more, assuming you could even find a computer that accepted BASIC. I used spreadsheet and word processing software, and like everyone else, lived part-time on the Web. Though, I hadn’t found the time to check my Facebook® page since we’d moved. I knew nothing about programming, on account of my allergy to math.
I had to clear my throat about three times before he glanced my way, a startled expression cracking his zombie-bland face.
“Oh, hello.” His voice was normal enough, not hesitant or quiet—a little apologetic, perhaps.
I was right about the piercing blues. Lucky me!
I indicated the stack of papers with the grease-covered dough in my hand. “School project?”
“Oh, no. Just a program I wrote. It’s sort of a number randomizer, for a role-playing game. You know, Dungeons & Dragons©?”
“Oh, yeah,” I nodded. D&D, in spite of its reputation for being a geek-fest, permeated several cliques in the college crowds to different extents. Though, the Goths in Ripple preferred a live action Vampire version, of course. “I know some people who played—back in Ripple. I figured there’d be some sort of law against D&D around here.”
He laughed. “Well, there was, but my friends and I erased it from the town’s computer files a few months ago.” An embarrassing, seal-like laugh erupted from his throat. He cut it off a few seconds later when he realized I hadn’t joined him. He moved right into his next thought without skipping a beat. “That hasn’t kept a group of us from getting together.”
He extended a thin-fingered hand. “I’m Chip. Chip Farren. You’re Fi-Fi Shaefer. The girl who beat the shit out of Clinty Buckner.”
I couldn’t help it. I giggled and grinned. “My reputation precedes me.”
“I know a lot of guys who are glad you did that, including me. He’s been tripping me all semester. Real pain in the ass, but I couldn’t…” He seemed to internally switch gears, and then re
started. “Well, hey, I guess you want to be left alone. I’ll just sit somewhere else.”
“No. Wait, Chip Farren. You’re the first person who’s approached me since I’ve come to this town, even if you didn’t see me for the first five minutes.”
Chip grinned. “How do you know? Maybe that’s just what I wanted you to think.”
I laughed. “Okay, Mr. Smooth. Nice recovery.” That’s when I noticed the Starship Troopers paperback sticking out of his backpack.
I pointed. “I just read a Robert Heinlein.”
Chip’s eyes followed the direction of my finger. “Yeah? Which one?”
“Stranger in a Strange Land.”
Chip grinned, and his eyes lit up. I imagine I looked the same way. “That is a great one, if you can get past the two-by-four messianic symbolism at the end.”
I nodded. “I wish they’d make Stranger into a movie instead of the one you’re reading. Starship Troopers the movie was a steaming pile, but my…” I stopped myself short of saying “my boyfriend”. “A friend of mine owned the DVD. Watched it all the time. I think he just loved the co-ed shower scene.”
Chip rolled his eyes and plucked the paperback out of his pack. “Here. If you already thought the movie was bad, you’ll really hate it after reading the book.”
I gripped the paperback, marveling at the crinkled, ruffled pages, noting the bookmark partway in. “Don’t you want to finish it? This looks pretty old.”
Chip waved a dismissive hand. “I’m on my third time through it. It’s my Dad’s. We won’t miss it for a few days.”
I held the book between my fingers, considering. Accepting his offer meant committing to something. At the very least, we’d have to talk again. I decided that would be a good thing, and placed the book in my own pack. “Thanks, Chip.” I returned his grin, happy I had made my first friend.
Chapter Four
Perionne—November, 1978
“I got laid off today.” In the living room of the clean but small house he shared with his mother and pregnant girlfriend, Gunther Stalt broke the bad news.
Haunting Blue Page 3