by Gina LaManna
"Can we please, please, please go shooting on Friday?" A small human, who moved more like a bouncy ball than the nine-year-old girl she was, tugged on my arm. Though I hadn't lived in Minnesota since she'd been born, she'd been out to visit me in California a few times, and we Skyped once a week ever since she'd learned to use the computer. The distance hadn't kept us from developing a close relationship, and being home and able to see her in person was a thrill.
"We'll see." I planted my feet, trying not to topple onto her. My sister had gotten a brand new BB gun for her recent birthday, a gift from my brother who, of course, lived far enough away that he didn't have to deal with the ramifications of putting a metal gun in the hands of an elementary schoolkid. "Where's Mom?"
Harmony shrugged. "I don't know, but if we go shooting, can you please pick up more BBs? I ran out. Also targets. Mine are full of holes."
"Sure, Harmony." Unfortunately for her, my mother had decided to turn hippie right around the time my sister had been born. Before that, my mother had named my sister Aisling, a.k.a. "dream," during a brief gothic stint. My sister Charlie (real name Charles) got the worst of it during my mother's androgynous phase. All in all, the woman I called Mom changed men more quickly than I changed my hair color, and with it changed her identity.
I liked to say I went through a backward rebellion: my mom and dad had been unhappy together since I was born. I was the oldest. After two more children together and ten years, they divorced. My mom quickly began to "find herself," through process of elimination it seemed, and when gothic didn't pan out, she switched to hippie, and on and on went the cycle.
A few more children were added to the family throughout several additional phases. Going into high school, the only thing I wanted was normalcy. Hence the strict rules I set for myself and my no-nonsense policy toward anything out of the norm, unlawful, or subpar in terms of academic achievement. .
Now there were six of us kids, three from the same parents and three from my mom—and various partners. Harmony was the youngest, almost two decades my junior. She was part of the reason I felt obligated to come back and take over my grandmother's house. I knew how difficult life could be with my mother, and I wanted to be there when the going got tough. It wasn't saying very much that I considered myself a normal role model. But compared to my mother, I was as average as a very boring insurance salesman.
"There, there. Would you like a cup of tea? You seem stressed." Harmony dropped my wrist, which she'd been gripping tightly, and clamored over to the counter. Before I could respond, she had an array of teas set out and was filling the pot with water.
"I can do that." I stood. "Should you be using the stove?"
Harmony shot me a glance as if I were the most idiotic human being on the planet. "Of course I can use the stove. I'm nine."
The problem was, since I'd been back, I'd slowly been realizing that my sister had grown up into a self-sufficient young lady. I knew the feeling. When one grew up with a mom as flaky as ours, one learned to care for herself at a young age. It made me a tiny bit sad that my sister had spent nine years of her life becoming an independent little woman, and I'd missed a lot of it.
I reached out and squeezed her close. Harmony's small arms encircled my waist, and for a moment it felt like we were in our rightful places: She, a child in my arms. I, a responsible adult looking after my baby sis.
Then the tables turned and Harmony cast me a scolding glance. "Sit down and relax. Tell me about your day."
"When did you get so old?" I asked, sitting at the table and feeling like a child.
"I'm wise beyond my years." She giggled and winked at me.
"You're much wiser than me, that's for sure. And I bet you had a better day." I dunked my tea bag. "You know Alfred, the cop?"
Harmony wrinkled her nose.
"My thoughts exactly." I raised my eyebrows. "He touched my butt on accident today."
"Ewww! Gross. That's so sick." She squealed. "Boys are gross. I just want to be all alone like you when I grow up."
"Wow, gee. Thanks." I grimaced, not sure if that was the healthiest example to be setting for her. "Independence is good."
"All alone…who's all alone?" My mother breezed into the kitchen, tight yoga pants holding in her rather petite, almost fifty-year-old frame. She wore a strappy yoga shirt, bare feet, and a scrunchie. "No one's alone. We're all connected through this big, beautiful universe."
She scurried over to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. "Has anyone seen my yoga mat?"
"I bet it's not in there," I said, watching her sift through an array of yogurts.
"Hello to you too, darling." My mother waltzed over and kissed my cheek. "Don't you go spreading the nonsense that being alone is the way to spend your life. Just because you like to run away from—"
"I don't run away!" I stood up and took a few steps toward the front door. "What is it with everyone today?"
"There you go, dear, running away."
"I'm not running. I'm walking."
"You're walking very quickly," Harmony piped in.
I refrained from rolling my eyes at the world.
"Can you watch your sister Friday? I'm going out with Darren." My mom flounced down in the seat I'd recently evacuated.
"Who's Darren?"
"My yoga instructor." My mother leaned forward conspiratorially. "The only one in town."
"Wow, Mom. Good job." I eyed her up and down. That explained the getup.
"Do I look…yoga-ish to you?"
"Lose the scrunchie, Ma."
"I like the scrunchie."
"Darren won't like the scrunchie."
"But it's yoga-ish."
"No, it's hippie-ish."
"Oh." A little dejectedly, my mother pulled the scrunchie from her hair, which was still light brown and thick, curling in cute little swirls around her shoulder. Of all things to inherit from my mom, I wanted her hair. Instead, I'd gotten her average nose and nothing else. I'd also missed her ability to land an endless stream of dates, husbands, and friends. Despite being odd and flighty, my mother was a kindhearted fixture of the town.
She had friends from church, PTA, softball league, bar league baseball, and now yoga, I highly suspected, among a number of other things. My mom was pleasant and easy to get along with—as long as she wasn't your mother. Stability and discipline weren't high on my mother's priority list, which had made growing up under her quite a roller coaster.
"Friday is fine." I put a hand on Harmony's head. "We were gonna hang out anyway."
"Unless she's in J-A-I-L." Harmony spelled it out from under my hand.
I turned her head to face me. "Excuse me? Where did you hear that?"
"Honey, people are talking," my mother said. "I've gotten no less than eleven phone calls this morning."
"I didn't do anything!"
"Of course you didn't," my mother said. "We know that. It's just…people like to talk."
"What are they saying?"
Harmony opened her mouth to speak, but my mother shook her head. "I'm late for yoga class. Don't worry, dear. I'm sure everyone believes you didn't do it."
My mother whisked out the door, kissing both me and Harmony on the cheek but not quite making eye contact with me.
I gave a long, deep sigh.
"Life is tough sometimes, isn't it?" Harmony said.
"You're tellin' me."
"Here." My sister reached up and pulled down a box of Froot Loops. "This always helps me."
I smiled. "Guess we're related."
"Yeah." She grinned. "I'm glad you're back. It's not everyone who has an older sister that gets away with murder."
"I didn't do it!"
"I'm kidding. Lighten up, sista." Harmony shook her head, a smirk on her face as she popped in one Froot Loop after another.
"Gimme those." I ruffled her hair and grabbed a handful for myself.
"What's next?" she asked.
"I don't know. I have some more poking around to do, bu
t I feel like I'm at a dead end right now. I need to find out what business Anthony Jenkins had in my office, but nobody seems to know."
"Maybe you're just not looking in the right spot. Sometimes if you take your mind off it, things just pop into your head. Like last night I was taking a shower, and the answer to my math homework just appeared right in my head."
"Are you trying to tell me I need a shower?" I asked.
Harmony grinned. "It's a saying. Just do whatever you do normally, and maybe something will come to you."
"You're smarter than most adults, you know that?" I raised an eyebrow at my sister.
"Yeah." She gave me a huge, cheesy smile. "I know that."
"And just as humble too." I grabbed my purse. "I've got a last errand to run before I teach class today. My first one."
"Don't forget about Friday," my sister called in a singsong voice.
"It's a date." I gave her a side hug and headed out the front door.
It'd be the only date I'd get in this town for a while.
Alfie's accidental butt graze excluded.
CHAPTER NINE
"Do you have any recommendations of what I should buy to shoot out of a BB gun?" I asked the robed man before me.
Father Olaf, the town pastor, opened a catalogue before him. "You're going to have to head over to Al's in order to get the good stuff."
"There's nothing here?" I looked around the lost and found at the church. I didn't make a habit of looting from the dredges of the parish, but Father Olaf was one of the best marksmen in town, and I thought he might have something left over he wouldn't need.
"I don't have anything here," he said, gesturing to the arrays of soccer balls, mittens, packs of gum, and the odd cell phone or two. "You better believe if someone dropped off a pack of BBs, I'd find a use for them."
"Okay, Al's it is," I said. "What should I be looking for?"
Father Olaf pointed toward the gun catalogue before him. He was not only the town pastor but also the head of Little Lake's social atmosphere. He ran the only Catholic church in town, and it was the place to be on Sunday mornings.
I wasn't particularly religious about going, but I'd been a member of the parish since I was a kid. Father Olaf had been there even longer than I had, though he appeared not to age. I think he might have been born sixty years old and would stay sixty years old until the end of time.
"This one is particularly dangerous," he was saying. "You'll want to be careful with those."
"Something less dangerous, maybe," I said. "We're just shooting for fun."
Due to Father Olaf's influence in the town, his church bulletin was the place for a business to be seen. I'd been begging to get an ad in there for my studio since I'd come back to town, but I'd been turned down time and time again.
"About the ad," I said, ignoring Father's explanation of why certain BB-gun bullets were particularly dangerous. "Can I please, please put an ad in the bulletin?"
He glanced at me with a fairly judgmental stare. Probably built up from years of practice in the confessional. "You didn't come here for advice on guns, did you?"
"Please," I begged. "Just one ad. It would really help."
He looked a bit disappointed, and I felt a twinge of guilt. It was true. I'd come here with an ulterior motive. My sister asking me to go shooting had been just the excuse I'd needed.
"You have no money for an ad. Plus, it's not a typical venture for the church to promote."
"It's a dance class. The citizens need something fun in their lives. Knitting club has plenty of ads and members already. Plus, I scheduled classes on a night that wouldn't interfere with Bible study."
"I said no."
My heart sank. "I need students."
"Then get them. But not through the church bulletin."
"Ugh…" My shoulders slumped. "Fine. But seriously, do you have a recommendation for a good shooting range? My sister is dying to go."
* * *
After meeting with Father Olaf, it was about time to head to the studio for class. Opening the door still felt a little bit creepy, even though the sun was shining, the sky a bubbly blue.
The building proved deserted upon a quick inspection. I set Harmony's BB gun down on the desk, ignoring the fact I'd held it in front of me like a real weapon as I quickly looked through my office and the studio for traces of life.
Luckily, not only was the studio free from creepy strangers, it was also free from red paint spelling out threatening words. Donna had made good on her word, and as I very quickly stuck my head in the office, I noticed she'd even set fresh sunflowers—my favorites—in a vase inside the room.
It smelled like a light mixture of false outdoors and fake wildflowers combined with Lysol and fresh-linen aerosol. The gesture was sweet, and I made a mental note to swing by Sweets and thank Donna for everything she'd done to get the place cleaned up in time for class.
I quickly grabbed a notebook from the desk and went back to the studio, where I plopped on the floor and started scratching down a few last-minute adjustments to my standard first-timer's lesson plan.
Today wasn't my first day teaching. When I'd lived in Los Angeles, I'd mostly been a performer, but I supplemented my income by teaching bachelorette and birthday party routines at the studio where my company was based. The extra cash infusion helped in a city where a cup of coffee cost a small pile of cash, and gas was more sacred than holy water.
I was feeling slightly nervous, however, since this was the first time teaching in my own studio. If I lost students…well, I couldn't afford to lose students. But I also truly wanted to provide a good experience and show women that they could be sexy and fun and flirty, no matter what age or level of experience.
It didn't take me long to add a few new twists to the lesson plan, and I was feeling significantly fewer butterflies banging around my small intestine by the time my first student moseyed in. Of course it was Barbara Jones, a woman with a nose longer than Pinocchio's, who used it to sniff out gossip like a bloodhound.
"Oh, hello, Misty. It's been so long." Bony Barbara craned her neck around the door. "Am I early?"
"Just on time." I smiled and stood up, waving her into the studio. "How are you?"
"I'm well. Very well." Mrs. Jones vaguely resembled a mouse, and if she had whiskers, they'd be twitching at the moment. I was reminded of my earlier thought that if I could teach Mrs. Jones burlesque, I'd feel just as accomplished as if I'd taught a robot to tango.
She peered at me. "And you? How are you…coping with everything?"
I gave a small, internal sigh while I plastered on a big, fake grin. Straight to the point, I thought, though thankfully my mouth said, "Coping with what?"
"Oh, you know." Mrs. Jones glanced around as if looking for a hidden camera. "The whole…Mr. Jenkins business. I heard from Betty Sue, who thought Marianne had heard it at Froggy's."
"Oh, interesting." I looked around. "I'm not sure what they heard, but they wouldn't be letting me teach dance classes if I had been found guilty, now would they?"
I felt like cheese would start oozing from my mouth pretty soon with how fake my smile was—even though Barbara didn't seem to notice. She was too busy making her way over to the closet and poking around places she didn't belong.
"Do you need something?" I asked.
Barbara looked surprised. "I just…I was going to hang my purse up. This isn't a coat closet?"
She flung the door open to the props closet before I had a chance to respond. "Ah…I see. My apologies."
"Those are for class," I said, my voice dripping with sweetness. "Don't worry. By the time you leave, you'll be dressed in nothing but satin gloves and a man's button-down shirt, shimmying your way home."
"Oh, uh. My. That sounds…" Barbara glanced around, but luckily a pretty blonde head bobbed into the doorway at that moment.
"Burlesque?" a high-pitched, girly voice asked. "Am I at the right spot?"
"Yes, absolutely." I tried to mimic the level of swe
etness in her voice, but it just didn't come naturally. In fact, it sounded more like a grimace. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Yes…Intro to Burlesque. How are you, Sarah?"
"Oh, wow. That's you!" Sarah pretended to peer closer, her cute blonde hair swinging over her petite shoulders and her clear blue eyes squinting in my direction as if I were a Rorschach blot. "Misty? Wow, you look different."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The email I'd sent had my name on it. There was no surprise I'd be here teaching the class. But I was determined to take the higher road. I could do it. Take the mature route, Misty. Plus, the tooth fairy didn't exist anyway. I knew that now. I didn't need to hold a grudge from kindergarten.
I shifted my gaze between Barbara and Sarah. "We're waiting for a few more."
"Who else?" Barbara butted her nose in where it didn't belong once again.
"You'll see," I said. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the one and only Mrs. Jenkins strolled through the door.
"Well, isn't it just the woman of the hour," Barbara said in a screechy voice. She fidgeted with her hair and tucked her hands first under her arms, then in her pockets, and finally behind her back.
I looked at Mrs. Jenkins to see if she'd say anything about Barbara's insensitive comments. I absolutely didn't want a fight starting here on my first day of classes. This place was starting to feel jinxed.
Sarah yawned fake and loud, and I was grateful for the distraction. "Gosh, I'm tired. Late night yesterday. I'm excited for class though. How many more are coming?"
I was grateful for the distraction, and I spent a few minutes chatting with Sarah over Barbara's pointed questions as the rest of the class trickled into the room.
Despite the fact that I knew most of my students were here solely for morbid curiosity, there was a small twinge of pride in my belly. I'd moved across the country, built up the studio, recovered from the accident that had halted my dancing career.
It'd been one show, one night, and a torn ACL. Months of rehab had left my knee functional again, but I'd never be the same. In addition, the injury had cost me a coveted spot at a well-known dance company along with most of my recurring freelance gigs. Broke, alone, and hurt, I'd finally accepted that it was time to try something new.