The Shadows Behind

by Kristi Petersen Schoonover

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and the heat began. Four girls were cut at the end of heat one.

  I wasn’t one of them.

  Four girls were cut at the end of the second heat.

  I wasn’t one of them.

  Four girls, gone, at the end of heats three and four. Two of them ran to their parents’ arms, sobbing.

  It occurred to me that this was really a pretty cruel way of doing things, but my pity for those girls dissolved when I realized there were only four of us left—I’d made it to the final heat! I could see Dad, clutching his Styrofoam coffee cup. He was beaming.

  We finished, and the last ukulele note reverberated through the room. We held our final pose for several seconds, and then we were told to sit down and wait for the judges’ final decision.

  It was so quiet I could hear the big clock ticking on the wall.

  At last Mrs. Palakiko stepped to the microphone.

  “Our judges have come to a decision. Unfortunately, for the first time in Diamond Head’s history, we have a tie.”

  I’d swear there was an audible gasp from the crowd.

  “Since we all know there can only be one representative—and there is only one trophy, after all—”

  Polite chuckles through the crowd.

  “—the judges have decided there needs to be one more heat, as a tiebreaker. That final heat will take place here at ten a.m. on Sunday, after which we will have the awards ceremony and a traditional luau to celebrate.”

  My legs felt weak. This was it. Would I be named one of the final two?

  I saw Dad shift in his chair, cross one leg over the other.

  “The two dancers who will compete on Sunday morning—”

  Someone’s baby squealed.

  “—are Izmerelda Palana and Hailey Bell.”

  Hailey Bell.

  Hailey Bell! That’s me!

  The entire crowd of parents sprang to their feet in wild applause and cheers, and Dad—I’d never seen him run before—raced to me and actually lifted me off the ground, just like he used to do when I was little. He laughed and gave me a big kiss on the cheek. “When you’re Pineapple Princess we’ll celebrate. I can’t wait to see my little girl with her trophy!”

  At first, I basked in the glow of his love—I felt it coming off him, like the rays of the sun. And then a cloud shadowed over it, and I almost felt physically cold: I knew I wouldn’t beat Izzy. True, I was a natural, but Izzy—there was something about her; she exuded a radiance and charm that I knew I didn’t have. When she was doing the hula, she was a goddess in a grass skirt. Our execution could be identical, but that certain something she had would guarantee her the title.

  I glanced over at her and smiled. She was talking with her sister, playing with her hair.

  Her long, gorgeous, thick, oh-so-Polynesian hair that moved with her when she danced, as natural as the lapping of the ocean on the sand.

  There was only one thing I could do to ensure I took the trophy.

  “Dad?”

  He put me down. “Yeah?”

  “Do you think Izzy could sleep over tomorrow night?”

  He frowned, settled a hand on my shoulder. “You should be practicing for Sunday, preparing to crush your competition, not having your competition over for playtime.”

  I blinked at him. “Please?”

  He sighed, glanced over at Izzy, then looked back at me. “If I allow it, do you promise me you’ll win?”

  At that moment, it was a promise I knew I could keep. “Yes. Yes, Dad. I’ll win.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  I smiled and clapped my hands in glee.

  ~~**~~

  That night, I’d set Izzy up on the floor in my room. We did girl stuff, painted our nails, giggled about the boy she liked and Izzy told me all about sex, since she’d actually fooled around before. She was too excited to sleep, she said, and then she held up her hand and offered me a pinky.

  “No matter who wins,” she said, “we’ll be friends. Pinky swear.”

  I took her pinky, and realized it was the only finger on my hand that wouldn’t fit in the handle of the scissors I had carefully stowed beneath my pillow.

  Finally, two hours later, she was asleep.

  I crept from bed, knelt by her sleeping form, and reached out to touch her hair.

  It was like nothing I’d ever felt. Unlike my own wig, the hair was warm, alive, almost . . . pulsing. The feel of it sent small pins of excitement from my fingertips up through my arm. Wow. What would it be like to have this hair on my head? What would it feel like to brush it? And there was something else about it—scent. A faint whiff of something. I shifted my body and leaned closer, pressed my nose into the ribbon of it that snaked over my green shag rug.

  It smelled delicious. Like coconut and warm chocolate.

  I sat up. What was I thinking? I couldn’t destroy such a lovely, exquisite thing.

  Then I touched my own head.

  It was slick and almost cold, like one of those plastic balls you buy for ninety-nine cents at Kreske’s.

  Yes, I could cut it. I should have been born with hair like that. That hair is the only reason she’s made it this far in the competition, Hailey, the competition that you deserve to win, because no one deserves unconditional love more than you.

  And Dad will give you that when you win.

  Anger roiled inside me. I slipped my three fingers and thumb into the scissor handle. I cut. I cut and cut and cut and felt the hair die and grow cold as it stuck to my fingers.

  Izzy snored through the whole thing.

  When I woke the next morning, Izzy was gone—and the only evidence she’d been there were hair clippings strewn across the peach pillowcase.

  “Where’d Izzy go?” Dad asked, sliding pineapple pancakes onto my plate.

  “Oh,” I said. “Her sister came to get her really early this morning. She wanted to go home and practice for a little while before the competition.”

  Dad stared at me for a minute, then smiled. “Hurry up and eat your pancakes. You should probably get back in your room and do the same thing. Early bird catches the worm and all that.”

  I nodded, and dove into my pancakes like I hadn’t eaten in a week.

  ~~**~~

  Izzy didn’t show up for the final heat, so after a dance so the judges could watch me one last time, I was declared Pineapple Princess by default.

  It deflated me a little bit—winning due to forfeiture—and for a second I wondered if Dad would say this wasn’t going to count.

  But he didn’t. He simply said, “You would’ve won anyway.”

  That afternoon passed in a blur. I remember sitting at the head of one of the tables, next to my dad, who shook hands with every parent who came up to congratulate me. “Hailey,” he said, “you are finally perfect. You’re going to do something amazing with your life, now. I know you will.”

  When I got home, the scissors I’d used were lying on my pillow. I picked them up and started to make my way out to the kitchen to put them back in the drawer, and then decided that I’d rather never see them again. I threw them in the trash instead.

  I never saw Izzy again after that—she wasn’t at school the following week, and finally I heard she and her sister had moved away.

  To this day, I don’t know what happened to her. When I went to my ten-year high school reunion, I was told she never made much of herself; that she was living in some pitsy apartment up in Waterbury in the decaying brass district, another place, like Danbury, that looks like a bomb hit it.

  ~~**~~

  Growing up, I saw a lot of kids get picked on because they were considered freaks—they were too fat, they had too many pimples, one was albino. Technically, I should have been in that crowd. But I wasn’t. Because I could cover up my hairlessness, it wasn’t obvious I was a freak.

  Being hairless made me vulnerable in a different way. I felt unprotected, like a baby chick, always waiting for that fox to show up and inevitab
ly eat me. I made friends, I played, and I held my breath through every minute of each day, waiting for that moment when someone was going to discover I had no hair and my entire world was going to blow apart. I remember waking up every morning and thinking, will today be the day someone finds out? Sometimes it was such a sword of Damocles I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on simple things like taking notes in class.

  What was worse was that I was lonely—no one knew what I really was, and I couldn’t show them. I spent a lot of time leaning up against a coat tree in the basement; it was layered with all my mother’s coats and dresses that my dad had refused to donate. I’d wrap my arms around it and imagine it was someone who loved me unconditionally. A man who knew I was hairless and didn’t care. Someone I could talk to about anything and everything and all I would get was support. All this imaginary person would say was “I understand,” and “It’s okay,” or even, “I think your hairlessness is beautiful.”

  Then the eighth grade dance happened.

  In reality, it had been a relief: the other shoe had dropped. The painful waiting was over.

  But the heartbreak was just beginning. It wasn’t even so much that I’d been exposed and that Peter didn’t want me. It was that it fractured my fantasy: that someone who could accept me was out there. I’d lost all hope.

  Until this afternoon.

  I’ve drained the pitcher of Pineapple Dream, I’ve finished the bottle of rum, and now, fuck it, I’m on to the Southern Comfort, even though I can’t feel my lips. That’s right—I’m totally drunk. A slow kind of drunk, a haze on the brain, a my-limbs-don’t-want-to-work-that-fast-and-I’m-content-to-sit-and-stare-and-think-about-thinking kind of drunk, a there’s-a-tinnitus-in-my-ears kind of drunk, an it’s-hard-to-get-around-the-apartment-without-grabbing-something kind of drunk. And I’ve just figured out the crazy hula girls—the ones on the glasses, the ones on my bathing suit—they’re from inside me.

  They’re a warning: You know better than to have hope. Don’t go near Toke again. He will break you into so many pieces there’s no way you’ll be able to put yourself back together.

  Right now I’m the loneliest I’ve been in five years.

  I don’t do e-mail or Facebook when I’m drunk—especially not when I’m drunk and upset. More than a few times I’ve awakened the next morning to find I’d promised to loan someone money, admitted something shocking on somebody’s wall, or posted something snarky in a thread in which I was the only dissenter.

  Tonight’s an exception. I do have one hundred and seventy-five friends on Facebook. Someone will talk to me.

  I sit down at my laptop and boot it up.

  The first thing I notice is on my timeline: several people have posted things asking me if I’d like to talk, or GIFs with little hearts. A couple say “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Odd. But at least I know there are people willing to talk, right?

  The most recent notification: Fred Rueck has sent you a message.

  Ah, the Incredible Hulk the day I’d met Izzy. He sent me a friend request maybe a year ago, but I haven’t paid any attention to Fred since—last Christmas, I think, and even then it was just a stupid thing in my game requests, something like Fred Rueck has sent you a Christmas Ornament using Santa’s Sleigh!

  Curious, I click on his message.

  I’m really sorry to hear about your friend Izmerelda . . . Kristen Hansen posted that she drowned in the pool where you work. I’m really sorry to hear it I knew u were friends w/her and did the hula 2gether. If u want 2 talk PM me & I’ll send you my cell # or PM me your # and I’ll call u.

  This is what sticks with me: she drowned in the pool where you work.

  The pool where you work.

  I recall what Toke said this afternoon: Turned down a girl just yesterday, in fact.

  Oh my God. Had that been Izzy? Was there a chance the girl Toke mentioned this morning had been Izzy? Had she really found her way down to Florida to revive an old hula dream?

  No, that was impossible. No way.

  I read it again, aware that I’m drunk. It explains the weird condolence messages cluttering my page, but that can’t be right. I’d say Fred was pulling my leg, but for as big a joker as he is, he’d never do anything as cruel as this. I read it a third time. Izmerelda. How many other Izmereldas could there be in the world? And what the hell was she doing down here?

  Suddenly, I feel like I’m being watched.

  I hear a noise in my kitchen, as though someone’s dragging something across the tile.

  There’s movement near the pantry. A shadow. Subtle, but there; no trick of the light.

  I’m going to throw up.

  The pantry door creaks.

  Four fingers. Curled around the edge of the door.

  Run, I think, but I can’t move. I can’t do anything but stand there.

  The door opens. Slowly.

  I can’t breathe. There’s no air.

  A flash of a sickly whitish-blue forearm. The swish of something, like crinoline.

  Or like a grass skirt . . .

  The tap of a footstep on the tile.

  The click of . . . of shell bracelets—I’d know that sound anywhere . . .

  Go. Now.

  Galvanized, I race to my foyer, grab my tote bag, and hurry out, slamming the door behind me.

  My body seems to take the stairs faster than I can process going down them. Before I know it, I’m in the parking lot, near space 14-C, still not breathing, looking up at the second floor where my apartment is.

  I lean over and empty my guts onto the pavement.

  Strangely, I feel better—lighter. I take a deep breath. The air smells like chlorine, palm and vanilla; there’s no moon, but the sodium lights bathe everything in a pale-pink glow. Down at the basketball court, a couple of kids are shooting hoops. The lights in the Community Center are blazing, and I see shadows inside, dancing. There is the sound of swing music—“In the Mood”—and in the distance I hear the cars on the highway.

  There’s nothing here to be afraid of, I think. This is your home. There are people around. Just go back upstairs, turn on every light and the TV, and you’ll be fine. You’re drunk and this whole thing has you completely spooked and now you’re seeing even worse things.

  But when I look up at my apartment slider, the sheer curtain shimmies.

  I can’t go back up there. No way.

  I remember what Toke said: “You change your mind, come see me.”

  I know what he wants. I want it, too.

  The girls on your glasses, the girls on your bathing suit. Remember your warnings.

  Stupid girl! Toke probably doesn’t have anything that even resembles a hula girl in his apartment.

  Don’t you want it? What’s the worst that could happen?

  You leave. You sleep in your car.

  Wouldn’t you rather sleep on a couch or in a bed?

  I’ll feel that sword of Damocles hanging over my head. I’ll be waiting for that shoe to drop.

  Wouldn’t you rather not be alone?

  I fumble in my bag for my keys, and my numb fingers and klutzy grip on items like my wallet and cell phone remind me that there’s another reason I shouldn’t go—I’ve been drinking.

  I sigh and look up at the apartment again.

  Fingers. There are fingers clutching the edge of one of the sheer curtains.

  She’s waiting.

  His complex is only three miles up the road.

  I can make it that far.

  ~~**~~

  His apartment building is older, garden-style and only two floors—he lives on the first one, and I am fortunately clear-headed enough to remember which door he’d come out of when I picked him up this morning.

  I knock, and suddenly feel like I’m going to pass out. This is your last chance, Hailey; this is the last chance you have to call this whole thing off. He doesn’t come to the door for what seems like forever, and then, I think, what if he doesn’t answer—

 
; —it opens with a click-swish and I’m hit with the smell of beer and cigarette smoke. He’s in a gray T-shirt and navy shorts and seems so much taller than he did this afternoon; then I realize there’s a step up to enter his apartment. “Hailey.”

  I nod and force a smile, but I know it’s a nervous one. “Yeah. I just . . . changed my mind, is all.”

  “Jesus, woman. You’re practically white. You good?” He motions me inside, and the second I cross the threshold I feel comfortable and . . . safe; not what I’d expected to feel. I set my bag on the floor in the corner and glance around his apartment. It’s not bright and typically Floridian—it’s got walnut paneling. There are two mission-style futons. Gray-and-blue flecked rug. Cheap, badly put-together furniture, like the kind you buy in boxes at Walmart and assemble with flimsy included tools. No colors match: green cushions, maroon cushions, rust curtains, gold raised-velvet wallpaper.

  I was right. There are no hula girls here.

  I realize I’m not really drunk anymore, probably a combination of fear, adrenaline, and the fact that I’d puked up most of the remainder of the bottle of rum and the last couple of shots of SoCo before they’d had time to seriously take effect. “Fine. Like I said, I changed my mind.”

  Terrified I’ll see the hula girl standing in the parking lot, I peer outside before closing the front door.

  He motions to the futon. “Come. Sit.”

  I do. The cushion is much more comfortable than it looks; I sink into it.

  He goes into the kitchenette and opens the refrigerator; I’m close enough that I can see all that’s in it is alcohol, a couple of Chinese food containers, and what looks to be a pile of onion peels or something on the very bottom. “Want a beer?”

  I’m not big on beer, but recall with horror that, yes, I had gotten sick, and yes, I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I was going to need something to cover that up. “Sure.”

  “Miller Lite, Killian’s Red, or Bud?”

  We don’t serve any of that at the Kahiki, so I don’t really know what the difference is. I decide on the most interesting name. “Killian’s sounds good.”

  “Woman after my own heart.” He bends over and I hear him slide out a drawer.

  For the first time, I notice a long mark on the back of his left thigh. It’s like the amoebas I used to see in my science textbooks way back when, a big white blob fringed in a brown fuzzy ring.