by Marta Acosta
The manager was near the front door and he watched me as I came in. “Good afternoon, miss.”
“Hi,” I said, but not in a friendly way. I scanned the registers, but didn’t see Ornery. As I went to get milk, cereal, and fruit, I peeked to the mirrors mounted on the market’s ceilings. Each time, I was able to see the manager. Which meant that he was standing so that he was always able to see me.
I went to a register, chose a handful of candy bars, and paid. The manager had once again moved to the doors at the store’s entrance. I went up to him, set down my grocery bag, and opened up my tote. “Go ahead and search it.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t get your meaning.”
“You’ve been surveilling me the whole time. I didn’t steal anything from your store. I don’t need to steal. I have money to pay for things now.”
He waved his hand palm outward toward my tote. “Oh, good heavens, no, I didn’t think you were taking anything, miss! I recognized you as the new Birch Grove girl. You’re a friend of Orneta’s, aren’t you?”
“We’ve met,” I said, suspicious of his interest. “I didn’t see her here today.”
His lips moved up and down, from a smile to a frown to a smile again. “She quit rather abruptly a few days ago. She didn’t happen to tell you anything about why she was leaving, or any problems she had with the store? She seemed very happy here.”
I shook my head. “We weren’t that close.” Ornery must have been thrilled to get away from this creep.
“Well, I hope you won’t stop shopping with us! Enjoy your afternoon.”
I was thinking about my conversation with Ornery when I went to the library and did a search for any Birch Grove suicides. There was one newspaper story dated last March.
Claire Dana Mason, 43, of Greenwood, Calif., was presumed dead when her car was abandoned on the highway shoulder at Devil’s Slide. After drivers reported the vehicle as a road hazard, CHP officers found a note addressed to Mrs. Mason’s husband, Albert Mason. The contents of the note have not been disclosed. An acquaintance believed that Mrs. Mason had been depressed after a miscarriage.
The Coast Guard is conducting searches on nearby beaches, but an unnamed officer stated that a fall from the Devil’s Slide promontory “has a zero percent chance of survival.”
Mrs. Mason was a nurse at the exclusive Birch Grove Academy for Girls in Greenwood. She was also an alumna of the school. Birch Grove Academy’s representative said, “Our prayers and thoughts are with Mr. Mason at this difficult time.” Mrs. Mason had no other living relatives or children.
I wanted to find out more, but an older woman was impatiently waiting for the computer, so I picked up my groceries and took the shuttle back to Birch Grove. As I walked by the main building, I stopped to consider what would happen if someone jumped from the building. A fall from the third floor or the roof would certainly be fatal.
I knew nothing about Claire Mason except that she was a nurse, married to a science teacher. In other words, she was practical. Would a practical person take a long and treacherous drive to throw herself off Devil’s Slide when she could have jumped off the building here or overdosed on meds from the nurse’s office? The official story was possible, but seemed improbable.
I didn’t know why or how, but I had a sudden gut feeling that Claire Mason had run away from Birch Grove.
Why did they bring me here to make me
Not quite bad and not quite good,
Why, unless They’re wicked, do They want, in spite, to take me
Back to Their wet, wild wood?
Charlotte Mew, “The Changeling” (1916)
Chapter 14
By late afternoon, the cottage was gloomy and I felt cramped. I turned on a few lamps and went outside to stretch. Then I heard someone calling my name.
“Jane! You home?” Lucky was coming down the path.
“Hi!” My heart leaped, and I pulled the rubber band from my hair and shook it out. “Did you want to change our lesson? Or cancel? You could have called.” Anxiety ran through me.
Lucky stepped onto the porch and his height made me feel much smaller. “I was just coming by to say hi, but if I’m bothering you…”
“No, I thought…”
“I had to get out of the house.” He pushed back his thick honey-colored hair.
“Come on in.”
We went inside and Lucky sat on the sofa and patted the space beside him. I sat close, but not too close to him, noticing the way he spread his legs, in the way boys do, taking up space. Then he pivoted toward me. “Do you want to know something about me, Jane? I don’t have any friends.”
At first, I thought he was joking, but his expression was serious. “Lucky, you talked about all the friends you supposedly don’t have when I went to your house for dinner.”
“Okay, I have lots of casual friends, but not anyone close to me, someone I can really talk to.”
“You have your brother.”
“Brothers don’t count. They have to talk to you.”
“Are you seriously trying to get me to feel sorry for you?”
“No, but…” He rubbed the stubble on his cheek and I couldn’t help staring at his long, strong fingers. “What I mean is, I’d like to talk to someone who likes me for me, not because I’m a Radcliffe or because my mother’s the headmistress. Money doesn’t solve loneliness, Jane. It makes it harder for me to figure out who my real friends are. People here assume they know exactly who I am, already. I want a friend who doesn’t come with any ideas of how I’m supposed to act, or be.”
So he had come here wanting to talk to Jane, the friend. I sighed. “I like you for you, Lucky.”
“Maybe once you really know me, you won’t like me. Would you like me no matter what?”
In the soft light of the lamps, I could see the angles of his perfect face. I imagined what it would be like to slip my hands under his shirt and feel the skin and muscles beneath. “I wouldn’t like you if you were stupid or mean, and I know you aren’t stupid, and you’ve been nice to me.”
He edged closer to me until our knees touched and I felt that slight contact run all the way up my leg and thigh. “Jack says I’m selfish. Yeah, maybe he’s right. Maybe I do use people sometimes. Maybe they’re okay with that. Would you mind?”
Pretty girls got used for sex and rich girls got used for money, and I was neither pretty nor rich. “You’re not using me, Lucky. I’m getting paid a lot to tutor you.”
“What I mean is—” he began, and then we both heard the sounds outside of skidding and metal clanging against wood.
I’d left the front door open and now Jack strolled in, wearing his ragged shorts and an old t-shirt. “Hi, Jane. Lucky, I was looking all over for you.”
“Well, here I am.” Lucky moved away from me on the sofa.
“So I can see. You’ve gotta go. Dad wants to talk to you.”
“He’ll see me later.”
“He said now.”
When Lucky stood and walked to the door, I followed him. He scowled back at Jack. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Dad wants you, not me.”
“Whatever, jackass.” Lucky’s face flushed with anger. “See you tomorrow, Jane.”
“Okay, bye.”
Jack’s bike was propped haphazardly against the porch steps and Lucky kicked it as he went by. I watched him until the trees hid him from view. When I turned back to the living room, Jack was sitting in the armchair with his feet on the coffee table.
“Get your damn feet off the furniture.”
“Ooh, snappish.” He swung his legs down.
“I didn’t ask you to stay.”
“Do you have other plans?”
“I might go out with Mary Violet.”
“That’ll be news to her. Hattie told me that MV’s stuck with her crazy grand-mére all night. How’ve you been?”
I sat on the sofa. “If you thought Lucky might be here, you could have called.”
“This is more neigh
borly,” Jack said, and I noticed the warm timbre under the teasing of his voice. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“All you ever have is questions. I’ve been fine.”
He tipped his chin toward the mantel. “Is that one of Mrs. Holiday’s paintings?”
“She gave it to me. It’s the birches.”
“She must have a high opinion of you. Mrs. Holiday’s kind of famous and that’s probably valuable, so take care of it.”
“I’ll take care of it because it’s wonderful.”
“That’s an even better reason. I think so, too, but I love the birches.” He picked up my Latin book from the coffee table and flipped it open. “Nihil boni mihi hic inveniri potest,” he read slowly. “How was that?”
“Terrible. You’re supposed to pronounce the v’s like w’s.”
“Vhy?”
“Because that’s how it is.”
“Vhat does it mean?” He repeated the sentence.
I translated the words in my head. “Nothing good can be found here in my opinion.”
He gave a hoot. “That sounds about right. That should be the Birch Grove motto.” He repeated the sentence as if memorizing it. He slapped the book down on the table. “Why Latin instead of a modern language?”
“It will help with my science studies. I like it because it’s specific—the declensions break things down into gender, number, tense, and mood. English is too ambiguous and you’re always guessing what people actually mean.”
“Do you think everyone should say exactly what they mean?”
I glared at him. “I wish you would. You’d probably benefit from taking up Latin.”
“Maybe I vill. Everyone at school treating you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Because these schools can be a bit, you know, elitist and controlling. That’s why I decided to go somewhere else.”
“Yes, you already told me you didn’t like the rules, but your mother told me you went to public school for the music program.”
“And for the friendly girls, of course.”
As he sat there, I studied him and his out-of-control curls. His eyes were light and clear against the dark lashes and his strong nose was balanced by his broad forehead, wide cheekbones, and square chin.
“So, Jane, do you approve of what you see?”
“Your hair is a mess and you’ve got bike grease on your leg.”
He raised one thick eyebrow. “That’s another reason I couldn’t go to Evergreen Prep—my hair is too messy. Do you think I’m better-looking than my brother?”
“No one thinks you’re better-looking than Lucky.”
“You could at least pretend. You could have said that I was good-looking in my own unique way, like a snowflake.”
“You’re not a snowflake, and it’s obvious that Lucky is really good-looking.”
“Yeah, that’s what the mirror tells me, too. The girl I’m crazy for tells me that. Appearances are so important. And Lucky’s nicer than me, right, Halfling?”
“He has better manners. He doesn’t call me ridiculous names.” When Jack talked to me, I felt wide-awake because I had to be completely alert to follow the twists in his conversation. “But you did bring the pizza that time.”
“It was the neighborly thing to do, like this. A visit to chat. You should chat more.”
“I believe that we’re allotted a limited quota of words in our lifetime and you’re using all of mine up.”
“I’m borrowing them since you’ve got so many getting dusty in the attic.” He lifted his hand and wiggled it, saying, “I like your hair that way, like ripples in a stream. You’re as small and elusive as a fairy creature, yet you’re as silent and mysterious as a sphinx. Mary Violet would call that a sphinxling. Tell me something in your native woodland language. Or, since ve’re svitching v’s and w’s, voodland.”
“My native language would get me detention.”
His pond-green eyes sparkled with humor. “Jane, one day I’ll discover the magic words to win your trust. They may even be in Latin, although I think your tongue predates human history.” Then he stood up. “Guess I’ll go and get ready for my date. I’m taking Hattie out tonight. She’s gorgeous, don’t you think? She’s as gorgeous as Lucky is handsome.”
“What’s important to me is that she’s friendly and not stuck-up.”
“Not many girls are gorgeous and smart and talented, and her family has truckloads of money. Have you heard her play the piano? Like an angel, and she speaks French like Marcel Marceau. She draws extremely well.”
“You better not be late then.” I stood and walked him to the door. “Jack, did you break my flowerpot with your bike?”
“I don’t think so, but go ahead and blame me anyway. Aren’t you going to give me a hug good-bye?”
Jack stood waiting, holding his arms out, and I suddenly knew why Hattie would think he was sexy, with his eyes sparkling with mischief and wide, sensual mouth that was always curling up in amusement, his strong shoulders, his muscled legs, and his scent of fresh green things and earth.
“Jane, a hug is the neighborly thing to do.”
I thought of what it would be like to be pressed up against his body. “I come from a different neighborhood.” I swung the door shut before he could answer.
Then I wondered what had just happened. Why did everything the Radcliffe brothers said seem to have an alternative meaning?
I sat at the wooden desk and took out a new composition book. I drew a line vertically down the page. On one side, I wrote down everything I’d remembered Lucky telling me. On the other side, I wrote possible interpretations. Why had Lucky asked if I would mind if he used me? People who used people didn’t ask permission.
I didn’t have enough information, so I added all the bewildering things Jack had said, too. While I was doing this, all sorts of other questions came to me … including all the peculiarities around Bebe leaving the school and Claire Mason’s disappearance. I’d never even met them, but when they were mentioned, I got an uneasy sensation, like walking into a cobweb and feeling the invisible sticky threads catching at me.
There might be reasonable explanations for everything, but the more I thought about the unanswered questions, the stranger they seemed. I hid the notebook in the laundry room with my stash.
A nameless spell seemed to attach him to her; even the shudder which he felt in her presence, and which would not permit him to touch her, was not unmixed with pleasure, like that thrilling awful emotion felt when strains of sacred music float under the vault of some temple; he rather sought, therefore, than avoided this feeling.
Johann Ludwig Tieck, “Wake Not the Dead” (1800)
Chapter 15
On Sunday afternoon, I filed my short nails until the edges were even. I carefully stroked on the clear pink nail polish that was in the bag that MV had given me. Some smeared on my cuticles, and I had to start over again. When the nail polish dried, I got dressed in my best jeans and a black t-shirt under a purple sweater. I used some of the hair care samples and my hair waved glossily down my back.
I patted concealer on a red spot on my chin that had erupted overnight. I stroked on mascara, rubbed on a little blush, and slicked on lip gloss. I smelled the perfume samples and dabbed on the flowery one I liked best.
I left the porch light on and locked the front door as I left. The days had quickly become shorter and cooler. As I walked up the path toward the house on the hill, I passed the amphitheater. A faint ray of sunlight flashed off something on the ground among fallen leaves.
At first I thought it might be a bottle cap. With the edge of my shoe, I pushed aside the dry leaves and saw a silver penknife. As I leaned over to pick it up, I noticed two brownish maroon spots on the marble bench. On impulse, I licked the tip of my finger and dragged it across one of the spots. My finger came away rusty red. It was blood.
I examined the area nearby, but there were no signs of serious injury, like a trail of spots or splatters or a
damp splotch.
The knife, less than four inches long, had the soft glow of old silver and a delicate floral etching. I thought of Hattie sitting here at night. The cutters I’d known had been like cracked glass, able to shatter at any moment, but Hattie was sure of herself. I put the knife in my pocket and walked up the hill to the headmistress’s house.
Mrs. Radcliffe answered my knock. “Hello, Jane. Don’t you look nice today!”
“Hello, Mrs. Radcliffe.” Once again, I was struck by how dim the interior of the house was.
“Lucky is in the boys’ study. Go upstairs, turn right, and it’s the second door.”
As I walked upstairs, the penknife in my pocket hit my thigh. My footsteps were muffled by a woven rug in shades of deep reds and browns, the color of dried blood and dead leaves. The door was open, and I walked into a comfortable room with windows facing the pines that crowded the house. There were desks against the walls and built-in bookcases. The back of a long blue sofa faced me. Opposite the sofa were a navy blue leather chair and an ottoman.
“Lucky?”
His blond head popped up from behind the sofa’s back. “Hey, Jane. Come on in.” His head dropped back out of sight.
I went around the sofa, where Lucky was lying on his back, tossing a baseball from hand to hand. I admired the tendons on his arms for a moment before saying, “You have your own study?”
“I’d rather have a home theater. My mom thinks the bigger the screen, the smaller the brain.” He swung his legs down and sat up. “I guess we better get to chem.”
I followed him to a desk and struggled to keep down my emotions as we spent an hour reviewing metric units of mass and volume. I helped him prep for his next chapter on the physical properties of matter. He kept up easily with the problems.
“You don’t need my help,” I blurted.
“I do need you, Jane.” He put down his pencil and faced me.
“I mean, you don’t need me to explain. You can do all this on your own.”