Parallel to the power lines was an access road, if you could call it that. Really more of an absence of yellow weeds in the red rutted dirt. She pulled her phone from the back pocket of her Dickies to check the time. 3:33 p.m.
Rebecca was never late, because she always gave herself extra time. Today, that extra time allowed her the choice to either: a) do a detour and take a few sick jumps some kid had recently built next to the quarry, or b) take revenge.
Easy choice. She pulled up next to the first transformer giant, and like a skier at the top of a downhill run, launched herself over the edge.
Dust flew up from the dirt track as she rocketed down. Past the second giant, the third, and her stomach dropped with the slope and then bounced back up as the steepness leveled out. A hard right behind the chain link of Clara’s elementary school playground, down another barren slope, behind someone’s backyard and into a drainage culvert, out onto a cul-de-sac in the Cedar Creek subdivision, and up the gently sloping street towards Rancho Alto Road, between the construction sites of the old-new mini-mall and the new-new mini-mall, and if she was lucky and fast enough none of the old perverts would even see her, much less whistle or yell crudities at her.
Last Wednesday as she had biked by, this one construction worker called to her all friendly at first, “Hey sweetie! Hey!” Then pissed off at being ignored, “Hey BITCH!” Then, totally enraged, he had hurled the C word at her.
Thursday morning, she snuck a couple of eggs from her mom’s chicken coop and left them behind the barn in the sun all week. They dangled heavy, one in each pocket of her hoodie. She sat back and pulled them out as the momentum from her downhill carried her up the street.
There, ahead, parallel parked next to the sidewalk on the outside of the construction zone, was a jacked up black truck with mudflaps featuring two naked metallic chicks with big flowing hair. Was it his? Might as well be. They were all the same anyway, she knew from the years she lived with her dad in Hermosa Beach and over the summers he’d take her to work. Until she turned 13 and he stopped bringing her. So if this wasn’t the guy that had yelled at her last week, it was a guy that would perv on some other girl, maybe even her, probably today or tomorrow or any and every time possible in the near future.
The eggs went splat! splat! on the rear window of the truck. She blew by, adrenaline giving her a spike of speed as she heard a raised voice behind her.
It was so easy to piss guys off. She flew up the street past the parked cars, her knobby tires singing on the asphalt.
Then, she heard doors slamming, an engine starting. A squirt of fear mixed with the adrenaline, making it hard to think but energizing her legs into pumping double-time.
Ahead, a huge orange muscle car shot out of the driveway of a business park, stopping right in front of her. She slammed on her brakes, but the bike high-sided and she got thrown halfway onto the hood. Faster than she could think, she scrambled back onto her bike and rocketed around the back of the car to get some distance. Her heart was pounding, her breath whistled in her chest, her asthma rearing its head. She peeked under her armpit like a jockey. No sign of the orange car, no black truck, maybe she was in the clear.
She took a hard right, through the old-new mini-mall, the one with only a few stores open. Why were they building that one across the street when this one was still a ghost town? But oh crap, here was mall security in a white econo-car with an orange light on top, pulling slowly around the corner at the far end of the building. She couldn’t afford trouble with the law, not here, not back home with Mom. Judging from his blank, stupid face the security guard hadn’t seen anything, but she’d have to get out of there without raising suspicion.
She slowed down, casually biked straight at him, then past him, and zoomed around back to the loading zone where she cranked the pedals to top speed, shot straight up the slippery ice-plant hill, and rocketed across the (luckily) empty drive-thru lane of WokChikaBok!Bok!
She braked hard between the dumpster enclosure and the back of the restaurant, and stepped off her bike. Her breath slowed, but a sinking feeling took over. Guess she’d have to find a new route to work. She reached into her bag for the chain to lock up her bike.
The orange muscle car screeched into the parking space nearest the dumpster and sat there, facing her, its throaty engine idling.
Jesus Christ. How stupid could she be? What was to stop those guys from hunting her down and beating the shit out of her? It’s not like she was that hard to track down. How many tiny punk Mexican-Irish teenage girls ride BMX bikes around Stepford-ville, throwing organic free-range rotten eggs at construction workers? She clenched her teeth and wrapped the chain, still hidden in her bag, tightly around her hand.
Mr. Fariz popped his head out the back doorway, interrupting her stand-off with the construction crew death squad. She heard the engine shut off, saw a guy get of the car and walk towards them. He was tall, broad across the shoulders, tapering to skinny hips. Words of warning caught in her throat. She swallowed and tried again. “Run!” she squeaked.
But Mr. Fariz was already talking, loud and cheery in his Persian accent, not hearing her. “Rebecca! What wonderful timing. Meet our new chef, Jeremy!”
‘Jeremy’ looked out from beneath his dirty blond forelock, barely acknowledging her. He hitched his stupid low slung jeans up as they mumbled some form of “hi” to each other.
She released her grip on the chain, and immediately felt the blood draining from her head back into her hand. “Rebecca, are you alright?” Mr. Fariz asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.
No, I’m a total idiot and I’ve basically painted a target on my back. Black corners swallowed her vision. But she smiled and nodded, which seemed to satisfy him. She kneeled to lock up her bike, hanging her head and taking a few deep breaths until her tunnel vision receded.
Mr. Fariz followed the new guy inside and was showing him around—the locker room, staff bathroom, and finally his office, where he and Jeremy went in and shut the door. She slipped into the bathroom, changed into her uniform, put her stuff in her locker, grabbed an apron and headed to the front counter.
“Hi Billy,” she said.
“Hi Rebecca,” Billy said in a far away voice, not even turning around, just staring out the drive-thru window at the sky.
“Busy, huh?” she said, more to herself than him. No answer anyway. He was probably making animals out of clouds—if there were any clouds. There was a drought going on after all.
She looked around the nearly empty dining room. Even though dinner ‘rush’ was really more of a steady trickle mid-week, she got busy prepping bags with soy sauce, napkins and chopsticks, not sure how much of a shitshow their first shift with the new cook might be. He didn’t seem all that bright, and looked like a complete doofus with his saggy jeans hanging off his ass, but she was actually glad they had a new cook. She hated the wok and despised the deep-fryer. Over the summer Darius would take pity on her and do it, but lately he’d been missing a lot of work to study for his PSATs, Academic Decathlon, debate team, all that college prep kind of stuff. They used to be pretty close, she and Darius, but that was in elementary school when they’d bonded over sometimes being the only two kids in the most advanced math group.
Speaking of Darius, he showed up at 4:30, and his dad tasked him with training Jeremy, thank god. She didn’t have the patience to deal with that. Billy was enough for her, even though with his Forrest Gump-like innocence, she had a soft spot for him and would never release her full ire upon him.
From 5 to 8, zombies in their mini-boxes slid through the drive-thru on their way back to their identical houses. Glassy eyed from staring at a computer screen for eight hours, and hungry not for brains but for a predetermined ratio of fat, salt, and sugar, which, when combined with the requisite dose of four hours of television, would render their bodies nearly comatose long enough to slip into a spine-wrecking slumber on the couch, so that come morning, they could begin the whole process again.
; She shuddered. Stepford to the max.
* * *
DEIRDRE GUNNED THE BRONCO down the rutted dirt road into the shade of the overhanging trees, splashing over the wide cement crossing at Hidden Creek. The tires lost traction for a second and slid on the algae, and Clara let out a frightened whimper.
“Sorry honey.” She put a hand on Clara’s, and Clara lost her worried look and smiled at her.
“It’s okay Mama.”
Walt had promised to pick up Justin if he wanted to play golf again, but he’d called her at 5:30, saying he had to work late tonight. Things were tense at his job with talk of layoffs, so when the boss asked him to work late, he did. So, she’d fed the horses and cleaned their stalls in double time, loaded Clara into the car, and took off for the golf course, still covered in dust and hay.
She wasn’t sure why Justin’s golf ambitions irritated her so badly. Of course he would make new friends at this school. Of course he would want to do things with them. She just didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
They came out of the trees and the setting sun spilled across her dirty windshield, temporarily blinding her. As she let off the gas, her annoyance subsided. If Justin was really destined for greatness, or at least upper-middle class success, he should learn to golf anyway. Besides, it was safer than football, which he was set on playing when he reached 9th grade. Maybe this would divert his attention.
At the top of the canyon on the other side, she was officially in Rancho Alto. She always felt like she was sneaking in a back door, but she wasn’t really. Despite its affluence, Rancho Alto was not a gated community. Oh sure, each individual estate always had its own walls, and the covenant’s private security team, although rarely seen, was known to be deadly—especially if you happened to not be white.
It was kind of ridiculous. An army of workers came and went every day. Maids, nannies, gardeners, cooks, stable hands, pool maintenance, personal trainers, acupuncturists, piano teachers…the list went on and on. Every one of those workers had the security code to at least one estate, along with all of the plumbers, electricians, veterinarians, horse trainers, housesitters, and who knows who else—probably even the pizza guy. When you required that much labor to maintain your lifestyle, the idea of security was an illusion. They’d be better off if they tore down the walls and got to know their neighbors instead. If they did, maybe they wouldn’t be notorious for things like the cult that had rented a mansion here and lived undetected in their midst for months, until they’d all offed themselves on the mistaken belief that they’d get to ride a comet or something.
Nothing like that could ever happen in Fairy Glen. Everyone was too nosy.
She made a right turn. A lane snaked down a gentle slope, with, of course, a gated entry at the end. A wall with a crenelated top, styled like the citadel of an Italian city-state, held a bronze sign that said The Ramparts in medieval calligraphy.
She gained entry, despite her lack of membership, by emphasizing to the guard that her child was inside.
As she left the car parked under the covered entryway, a skinny teen in a pink polo tried to come out and take her car keys, but she fought him off. “I’m picking up my son. I won’t be a second.”
“Ma’am you can’t leave your car here!” he called after her half-heartedly, his voice cracking. It was a Wednesday evening, hardly a busy time, and he gave up easily. She took Clara’s hand and led her through the huge doors.
It was like she’d entered another world. A tasteful chandelier hung from the center of a coved ceiling. Sconces cast soft light up polished wood walls. The air was perfectly conditioned, tinged with a faint, not overpowering scent of jasmine. Soft music played.
To her right, the entrance to the restaurant. Down a few wide steps, an expansive room with wall-to-wall patterned carpet that looked like you could lie down and take a very comfortable nap in it. Tables were scattered throughout the room, enough space between each that your conversation wouldn’t be overheard—as long as your voice was as subdued as the surroundings.
The west wall was made entirely of glass and overlooked the golf course with its complicated three-dimensional design. Each green on top of a separate plateau, separated by hanging bridges, disappearing into the darkness. The sun had dropped behind the ocean, and the horizon was a hard navy blue line with a hot pink ribbon above it, fading into the night sky above.
She pulled Clara close to the window and peered across the canyon. The promontory where she’d been yesterday was barely visible, outlined in the twilight.
A glimpse of something reflective in the dark shrubbery. Then just as quickly, she lost it. She looked again, straining her eyes. But the sun slipped lower and the canyon went black.
Now, in the window’s reflection, she spotted Justin’s round head and wavy brown hair. He was leaning towards a sandy haired kid. The two boys sat in a booth on the back wall, deep in conversation. No adult in sight.
She spun around, but waited. They were so engrossed they didn’t see her. She placed a finger to her lips, and Clara picked up on the game.
They got closer.
The Bartley boy was talking animatedly. “When we grow up we can live across the street from each other. We’ll have matching Porsches, and be partners in a law firm,” he said.
“I don’t wanna be a lawyer,” Justin said.
“My dad says ‘Study law and you can do anything you want.’” The boy imitated a deep voice. These kids were full of Bartley quotes.
On the heavy white tablecloth sat white plates with the remnants of fries and smears of ketchup. The kid, who had twinkling eyes and a splash of freckles across his nose, noticed her and looked up with polite concern.
Justin’s head whipped around. “Oh, hi Mom,” he said, a trace of guilt in his voice—or was it embarrassment?
The other boy stood up and stuck out his hand. “Hi Mrs. Boyd, nice to meet you. I’m Brian.” He was about the same height and weight as Justin, wearing a higher quality facsimile of Justin’s shorts and polo outfit.
“Hi Brian,” she said, taking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“And lemme guess, this is Clara?” he said, and Clara gazed up at him with a rapt, gap-toothed smile.
“Justin? I’m double parked,” Deirdre said.
“I’ll walk you out,” Brian said. Chalk one up for manners for this kid.
“And I see you ate dinner. Where do I pay?” she asked, looking around but realizing too late that she hadn’t brought her wallet inside.
“Oh, I don’t really know.” Brian looked around too, flummoxed for a second. “But it’s on the tab, so you don’t need to.”
“Well, that’s very generous of you,” she said. She wished she saw any kind of waiter or maitre d’ or something so she could pay anyway. It didn’t feel right accepting the generosity of a kid who may or may not have permission to put things ‘on the tab’. As they exited the restaurant and walked through the lobby, she asked, “Where’s your dad, Brian?” She still hadn’t met this man who held such sway over her son, and it irked her.
“He had a business meeting.” He held the front door open, and they left the air-conditioned bubble for the humid night air.
“I don’t like you boys being left alone here. Do you need a ride home?”
“Or else he’ll get eaten by coyotes, right Mama?” Clara said, and her face heated as she boosted Clara into the backseat.
Brian chuckled. “No thanks, my dad’ll be back soon. He’s just up there.” His eyes softened and moved their focus to an imaginary spot above her head. She turned to see where he was looking, and it felt like someone had pulled the drain plug in her stomach. Against the periwinkle wash of the early evening sky, hard shapes stood out in black relief on the ridgetop.
In a deep voice, Brian Bartley Jr. said, “Paraiso. Our next masterpiece. Nine custom luxury estates, above it all. Sweeping views from San Clemente to the international border.” He gestured up and down the coast. “The finest living in all of
Southern California.” It could’ve been the most obnoxious thing ever, except he must be aping his dad for comic effect. It was working. She laughed. He laughed too, wrinkling his nose in an impish way that scrunched all his freckles together.
“So that’s your dad’s project?” she asked, closing Clara’s door.
“Yep. We stay up there a lot. We’re moving up there when it’s done.”
“Oh. Just you and him? Or…” She felt Justin tense beside her. She was fishing, but that was her right as a Parent.
“Me, my dad, and my mom,” he said. Justin discreetly tugged her sleeve.
“Well, nice to meet you Brian,” she said, walking around to the driver’s side. “Tell your father thank you for the game, and for dinner.”
“I will,” he said. “Bye!”
As they drove out of the Ramparts, she could see Brian Jr.’s lone form silhouetted against the yellow light spilling out of the club entrance, waving at them. With the windows down to let in the warm night air, she swore she heard a coyote howl in the distance.
She dropped Justin and Clara at home and hurried to her neighbor Morgan’s Wednesday night pay-what-you-can yoga class for Fairy Glen residents only. Morgan’s other clientele mostly came from outside Fairy Glen, arriving in their sleek cars, skinny haunches making them resemble greyhounds in lycra. Morgan made a good living, enough that she didn’t care who paid what, if anything, for this class.
The living room, a large space devoid of furniture, was dim. New-age music played softly. Outside, the remains of the twilight left an indigo glow in the western sky and a few stars were visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Deirdre tiptoed in, dropping a crumpled five into the fishbowl by the entrance. She’d forgotten her mat, but at least her daily uniform of stretchy pants, sports bra and t-shirt was as practical for yoga as it was for riding. She borrowed a mat from the box along the wall and found a spot, joining in with the standing warrior pose.
October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1) Page 3