Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

  “You can walk out there. It’s not that far from your house.”

  So much for subtle hints, I think.

  “Just make sure you stay on the bridge and off the railing,” Mr. Quattlebaum warns, shaking his head. “Crazy damn kids climb all over that thing…dangling off the sides and whatnot so’s they can scribble graffiti on any bare space they find.”

  Tate glances up at the wall clock behind Mary Jane and says, “I need to talk to Coach before class starts. See ya later.”

  The Quattlebaums say good-bye, too, and follow him out the door.

  “What do you suppose is bothering that boy?” J. B. asks Mary Jane.

  “What do you think? Just ’cause a kid’s in high school doesn’t mean he doesn’t need his mom.” Mary Jane glances at me, adding, “She moved away over the summer.”

  J. B. shakes his head. “The kids are always the hardest hit when a marriage splits up.” He sends me an apologetic smile and sighs. “Tate’s usually such a friendly kid. I’m sure the way he acted toward you wasn’t anything personal.”

  I cross my arms. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

  I pay Mary Jane, tell them good-bye, and step outside, pausing on the sidewalk to search the street for Tate. I don’t see him, so I cross at the intersection, then turn onto a side street and head toward school. Something nags at me, and it takes me a minute to realize what it is. Not only does Tate look like the phantom in the tree—the boy I think is Henry, at least in my dreams—they both write poetry.

  A block from campus, I pass an alley lined with tumbleweeds trapped by the fence. An old blue Mustang sits alongside a Dumpster, and a couple leans against the car kissing as the wind scatters leaves and litter past their feet. The guy wears coveralls—the sort mechanics pull over their clothes. He looks nineteen, maybe twenty, and his hair is pulled into a short ponytail. The girl’s back is to me. Long blond hair covers the name on her Cedar Canyon High School cheerleader jacket, but I recognize her, and in an instant, the coincidence with Tate and Henry flees my mind. I can hardly believe my eyes.

  I duck behind a bush, my dislike for Alison swarming inside me like bees. What is it about her that bothers me? Yes, she reminds me of Hailey. Yes, she’s a phony. Yes, her friends are epic jerks. But I don’t know Alison well enough to let her get to me so much.

  When she and the guy stop kissing, Alison backs up a step and glances toward the street, but she doesn’t spot me. I can tell by her expression that she’s afraid of getting caught with this guy, of everyone discovering she’s not as squeaky-clean as they think.

  Then she laughs, and the sound takes me back to the times she and her friends made fun of my hat, of Papa Dan—even Bethyl Ann Pugh—and anger coils in the pit of my stomach. The guy lights a cigarette, and when he offers it to her I see a tattoo on the back of his hand. Alison shakes her head, but he prods her to take it, and she finally caves.

  She lifts the cigarette to her lips.

  I lift my camera.

  Alison isn’t Hailey. I shouldn’t hate her because she reminds me of another girl who hurt and humiliated me, who stole my almost-boyfriend and betrayed me. Even though she hasn’t told her friends to back off, Alison hasn’t ever said anything mean to me—I’m not even sure she laughed at me or Papa Dan; she just didn’t try to stop the others.

  I know it’s wrong to spy on perfect Alison and her less-than-perfect boyfriend. I know it’s wrong to sneak their photograph. I should just walk away.

  Alison tilts her head back, blows out a stream of smoke.

  I hesitate half a second, then—click—snap the picture. Immediately, I take two more, unaware of the gray mutt running up beside me until it barks. Alison and the guy jerk their heads toward me. I duck farther behind the bush, unsure if I escaped being seen.

  Friday at noon, I find Bethyl Ann on the bleachers at the tennis courts. The truth is, I’m tired of eating by myself. And Bethyl Ann isn’t threatening like the other kids.

  The spaniel’s tail wags when it spots me, but I doubt Bethyl Ann will be as friendly as the dog. Tate isn’t the only one I’ve ignored all week. I wouldn’t blame her if she snubbed me. On the second day of English class, I even moved to a different chair to avoid her constant chattering. I’m not proud of it, but I never claimed to be a saint, either.

  Patting the dog’s head, she looks up when I pause in front of her. “Oh. Hi.”

  I lift my lunch sack. “Mind if I eat with you?”

  Her eyes widen and her scraggly brows shoot up. She scoots over and I sit beside her. Opening the sack, I remove my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and offer her half.

  Bethyl Ann takes the triangle and bites off a corner. “I waited for you the first day in the cafeteria. I don’t usually eat there, but I thought you might need someone to sit with.” She nods toward the school building. “The natives can be brutal to newcomers.”

  Shame rains down on me. “That was nice. I couldn’t get the nerve to go in there, you know?”

  “Do I ever.” She pinches off a piece of the sandwich and feeds it to the dog. “It’s better out here, anyway. Unlike the natives, Hamlet is civilized.”

  “Hamlet?”

  She points at the spaniel, and I smile. We stare out at the tennis courts for a minute, chewing in silence. The breeze is gentle today, but it smells like dust with a faint whiff of cattle feed yard mixed in. “What do you do for lunch when it’s cold outside?” I ask.

  “Wear a coat. But it’s never as cold out here as it is in the building. Not that the natives get to me anymore; I’m used to them. Sometimes I just need a break.”

  I pull a bag of chips from the sack and pass one to her. “Bethyl Ann—”

  “Call me Stinky. Everyone does.”

  “I’m not going to call you that. It’s a horrible name.”

  “You think Bethyl Ann is any better?”

  She has a point. “Okay. Beth, then.”

  Popping a chip into her mouth, she squints at me, as if trying the name on for size. “That which they call Stinky by any other name will smell as foul,” she says.

  “Please.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t speak Shakespeare.”

  We continue eating in silence. The breeze rustles the sack, but the weight of the candy bar inside keeps it from blowing away. “You must miss going to school with kids your own age,” I say.

  “Are you kidding? Middle school was worse than this. I spent more time stuffed in my locker than I did in the classroom.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Most of the time the kids here pretty much leave me alone. And they’re a lot more interesting than the naive middle-school pubescents. Some of them are even having S-E-X.” She wiggles her brows, then taps her temple with a fingertip and adds, “You’d be surprised what I’ve stored up here since I transferred to high school. Since I’m basically ignored, it’s easy to accumulate blackmail material without rousing suspicion.”

  “I could help. With the blackmail, I mean. You should see some of the pictures I’ve taken this week.”

  “Aha!” Leaning closer, she whispers, “Anyone I know?”

  “You know everyone, don’t you?”

  “Better than they think I do.”

  “What do you know about Alison?”

  “Alison Summers? Hmmm.” I sense a sudden reluctance in Bethyl Ann as she reaches to take another chip from my bag. “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em,” she mutters slowly.

  “Beth.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Alison expects a lot from herself. She has an image to uphold.”

  “I’ve noticed.” I lick jelly from the corner of my mouth. “I could blow that image.”

  She looks down at her lap. “I wouldn’t do that to her. She’s nice to me.”

  “Alison is your friend?”

  “We don’t have sleepovers or go shopping together or anything like that, but she’s friendly—you know, when we’re face-to-face. She usually say
s hi and stuff.”

  “Only when her friends aren’t around, right?” Bethyl Ann shrugs, and I add, “If Alison is so friendly, why are you out here with Hamlet instead of inside with her?”

  “As I said, Alison has an image to uphold. Nobody wants to be seen with me. Some kids even hide behind doors to avoid it.”

  I want to crawl beneath the bleachers and hang out with the gum wads where I belong. “Sorry about that,” I mutter.

  “I understand.” There’s a lightness to her voice, but she won’t meet my eyes, and I can tell her feelings are hurt. “You’re the new girl. I have an image. Alison has an image. You’re trying to find yours. I’m not exactly the friend you had in mind.” She sighs. “I have a perfect quote from All’s Well That Ends Well, but for your sake, I’ll refrain.”

  “Thanks.” I shrink inside to think I have anything in common with Alison. Ever since I caught her in the alley yesterday, I’d swear she’s been looking the other way when we pass in the hallways, careful not to glance in my direction in class. Of course, I could be imagining this, due to the fact that I’m afraid she might have seen me taking her picture. Even though I don’t like her, I feel a little guilty about that. “By the way, I never said I wanted to blow Alison’s image,” I tell Bethyl Ann, “I just said I could.” When she doesn’t respond, I ask, “How about Tate Hudson? What’s he like? Could you blow his image?”

  “Tate Hudson!” Bethyl Ann’s voice booms like a sports announcer. “Football god! Worshipped by the masses!” She scratches Hamlet’s head then, in a scoffing tone, says, “He used to be really full of himself. Him and his Tate-a-licious blue eyes.”

  Smiling at her description of Tate’s eyes, I say, “Used to be? What changed? His mom leaving?”

  “I’m not supposed to gossip, but if you already know—”

  “I heard the pharmacist and Mary Jane talking about it.”

  Words rush out of Bethyl Ann as fast as air from a punctured balloon. “It was right before school let out last year,” she says eagerly. “That’s when Tate got all quiet and moody. His older brother, Evan, was away at college and he didn’t come home for the summer, so Tate was left alone with his dad.”

  “Why’d his mother move out of town?”

  “Who knows? Mom says Mrs. Hudson has city blood.”

  “I can relate,” I murmur.

  “Tate’s dad is a farmer. I can’t see him living in a city.”

  I toss Hamlet a crust of bread. “I don’t think Tate likes me.”

  “Yond Tate has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much; such men are dangerous, Tansy Piper.”

  I groan, and one corner of her mouth curves up.

  “Sorry,” she says, “I can’t help myself. Don’t worry about Tate, though. These days, he doesn’t seem to have much use for anybody. But I can put out my radar for you. If I hear that he has something against you, I’ll let you know. That’s not really gossiping, just helping out a friend, right?”

  “Whatever you say.” I take out the candy bar, break it apart in the center, and pass half to Bethyl Ann, wondering what she knows about Alison that she’s not willing to share.

  Bethyl Ann eyes the candy bar, then shakes her head and points at her braces. “Can’t have peanuts,” she says.

  Chattering and laughter draw my attention toward the side street where Mary Jane is leading her kid’s class down the sidewalk. I look at my watch. Five minutes until the bell.

  “Is it spooky living in the Peterson house?” Bethyl Ann asks.

  “Sometimes. In a way I like it, though.”

  She leans closer, a secretive smile on her face. “I went there a few times,” she says quietly. “Mrs. Quattlebaum had gallbladder surgery a few weeks before you moved here. Mom and I would take casseroles to her and Mr. Quattlebaum, and while they visited, I walked over to your house. It was empty then.”

  “You went inside?”

  Her smile falls and she shakes her head quickly, like she’s afraid I’ll get her into trouble. “No, just outside, but that was enough.” She folds the paper sack into a square, avoiding my gaze. “No wonder everyone says it’s haunted.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask too quickly, leaning toward Bethyl Ann. “Did you see or hear something?” Henry’s rosewood box comes to mind, and before she can answer me, I ask, “Did you find something?”

  Eyeing me suspiciously, she asks, “Did you? Is that why you’re so overwrought?”

  I lean back, embarrassed. “I’m not overwrought. And that sounds like a word my mother would use.”

  She lifts her chin. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I shrug. “I’ve heard a few strange noises at night. It’s an old creaky house, and the wind blows constantly.”

  Bethyl Ann keeps staring at me with that skeptical look on her face. I can’t tell if she knows I’m keeping something from her, or if she’s the one who’s keeping something from me. She never answered my question, either.

  She sits back and flattens the paper sack between her knees. “I wish I’d been around when Henry Peterson was alive,” she says. “He’s probably the most intriguing person who ever lived in this two-horse town.”

  “Intriguing?” I squint at her. “How?”

  “Sometimes he hurt himself on purpose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “People say he’d get mad at his parents or somebody else and hurt himself out of spite. I’ve read articles about him in the library archives.”

  Disturbed by the rumor, I ask, “Will you show the articles to me?”

  “Sure. We could walk to the library after school. I usually go see Mama, anyway.”

  “My mom’s picking me up today. Can you meet me there in the morning?”

  “Okay.” She hands me the paper sack. “Is ten o’clock okay? I like to sleep in on Saturdays.”

  “Okay.” I stand.

  The bell rings. Bethyl Ann sends Hamlet off with a pat to the rump. “Come, Tansy Piper.” She hooks a thumb toward the building. “Let’s away to prison.”

  Mom makes chicken noodle soup out of a can for dinner. One of her specialties. While we eat, she talks nonstop about how much she loves small town life. She mentions that Mrs. Pugh called her today about presenting a program at the library sometime. I tell her a tiny white lie—that Mrs. Pugh’s daughter and I are getting together to do research for a school project in the morning. Mom’s face lights up. I’m not sure what pleases her more—the fact that I’ve made a friend or that I’m doing homework on a Saturday.

  Maybe if she thinks Bethyl Ann and I are becoming best buds, she won’t ask me about Hailey anymore. More than once, she’s brought up the fact that I’m not answering Hailey’s calls, and I can hear the worry in her voice.

  As I’m clearing the table, I notice that Papa Dan’s soup bowl is almost full. Pausing with the bowl in my hand, I watch him follow Mom from the kitchen, startled by how thin he looks. He’s lost weight in the short time we’ve lived here. He looks older, too. Though I ate plenty, my stomach feels hollow as I pour his meal down the disposal. The television comes on in the next room and a few moments later, Mom returns and joins me at the sink. When I mention the changes in Papa Dan, she assures me the new medication he’s taking is probably the cause, adding, “Loss of appetite is one of the possible side effects.”

  But I’m not convinced that pills are the reason for his weight loss or anything else that’s going on with him. A nagging voice in the back of my mind tells me this house has something to do with my grandfather’s problems. Now, if I could only figure out why.

  After dinner, I sit in the turret on the purple velvet chair. The trash bags I bought at City Drug cover the windowpanes to keep out daylight during the day, so as not to disturb the developing process. No chance of that now, anyway, since it’s dark outside. I haven’t been up here at night since I dreamed the crystal’s beam carried me into the photograph, and I’m so antsy I can’t sit still. I need to prove to myself t
hat what I experienced was only a dream. I refuse to accept I’m a loony tune, and that’s the only other option.

  I tap my foot against the floor as I study the room. It’s quiet up here. The television Papa Dan watches in the living room downstairs and the click of Mom’s fingers on her laptop don’t reach me. I only hear the old house’s creaking joints. A soft glow cast off by the lamp brightens the tarnished gold of Henry’s pocket watch, open on the round table, stopped again at 12:22. I look at the black-and-white photos I developed earlier, spread out on the floor at my feet, and rub my thumb across the crystal teardrop.

  The pictures I took at the Watermelon Run are of cheerleaders jumping, Rooster Boy strutting on the sidelines in his bobcat suit, family members clapping and cheering in the stands as the football jocks rush onto the field. I look at the photo of Tate, the tense set of his jaw, his beautiful, unhappy eyes. Setting that shot aside, I look at the one of Bethyl Ann feeding Hamlet. She looks so happy, like life could not be better. I scan the image of the painter in town arguing with his client from the top of a ladder, the woman and toddler washing the dog in their yard, the line of little kids dancing behind Mary Jane, who is as big as the cow Sheriff Ray Don leads down Main Street in another photo. I pause on the next picture, the one I shot of Alison exhaling cigarette smoke, then glance at a second shot of her coughing as her boyfriend laughs.

  I puff out my cheeks. How does the camera see things that I miss? All these people seem different in the pictures than they are in person. Not ominous at all. So why can’t I give them a chance? Why am I so afraid?

  Shifting again to the picture of Tate Hudson, I wonder for the millionth time why he’s so pissy around me. Could I remind him of someone he wants to forget, like Alison reminds me of Hailey? Deciding I’m wasting my time trying to figure out Tate, I pull the photographs I had developed in town from the table drawer. When birdsong twitters outside, I jump and glance at the rattling window, amazed any bird would be out of its nest on this blustery night. The bird has been silent lately. The last time I heard it sing was the night I had that freaky experience with the crystal. Or dreamed it.