Authors: Lori Adams
The pain in my chest is warm and soothing like a menthol rub. The second heartbeat is calm and steady, reminding me of something I’m supposed to know … something about …
I spot Michael a few rows up. Like everyone else, he is sitting back with his head reclined and his attention on the constellations. Even in the dim light I can see his composure has changed, something about the room or the stars immediately calms him. He is peaceful and serene, so different from how he was in the cafeteria, older and commanding. So different from how he was with me a few moments ago.
I lean over and whisper to Bailey. “Why did the Patronus brothers take over with Casey James?”
“School nurse was out,” she whispers back.
“But why them?”
She shrugs. “Dunno. Boy Scout training maybe?”
I sit back and look at Michael. Boy Scout training? Seriously? Then why did Raph look drained and leave school immediately after? Why did Michael say “Not on my watch”? Why did Milvi and Gabe— My curiosity is cut off in mid-thought because Michael turns and looks at me. The room is dim and I can’t see his eyes but I feel their intensity just the same. My stomach clenches like I’m some visual stalker caught in the act. But I don’t back down. I have the strangest feeling that Michael knows what I am thinking.
The overhead lights flick on and everybody groans and complains. I sit up, still glaring at Michael. I’m tempted to yell,
What the hell is your problem?
But Michael turns away, and I’m left all twitchy with irritation.
Mr. Cummings begins his lecture, and it takes me a while to focus. When I do, I realize I’m in over my head, yet again. A feeling that’s becoming as familiar as the second heartbeat. He distributes a special assignment packet that we are to begin as soon as possible because it’s due mid-October. Mr. Cummings offers a few words of advice.
“It will take every one of your puny little brain cells, so don’t put it off!”
Wow, that just put the cherry on top of my day
.
I scan the instructions. Observation: field study … crap. Can this day get any worse?
“To make things easier,” Mr. Cummings announces, magnanimously like he’s
doing us peons a huge favor, “you may have partners.”
Yea! Sounds like a reprieve to my gloom and doom, and my mood brightens considerably. Bailey and I exchange let’s-be-partner smiles. I’m lucky that Rachel isn’t in this class; I’d hate to start a tug-of-war with friends.
The bell rings and we spring up. And then Mr. Cummings tosses out a second announcement that jacks my smile.
“The list of assigned partners is posted on the bulletin board.”
My shoulders sag. What are the odds that Bailey and I are partners? I’m probably not even on the list yet.
I start to walk over to check it out but Michael is at the board. Apparently, he doesn’t like what he sees and marches straight to Mr. Cummings. They have a quiet, heated discussion, and Michael leaves upset.
After some gratuitous flirting with Duffy, Bailey scans the list and groans. “Holy horndogs, Batman. I got Jordan. I’ll be sure to Brinks secure my thong.”
Duffy wraps her in a bear hug from behind. “Make sure he buys you dinner first,” he teases. They look over at him and Jordan leers.
“How ’bout some burgs and fries?” Jordan grins. “Heard you like to shake the ketchup bottle.”
Bailey smirks and fakes a laugh. “Only if it takes two hands.”
My eyes run down the list and stop. I’m there, at the bottom, paired with Michael.
Of all people!
My stomach tightens.
Bailey says, “Lucky you, wanna trade?”
Duffy smacks her on the butt and she yelps.
“There will be no trading!” Mr. Cummings bellows. He is irritated as though he’s already had complaints, and then I get it. Michael asked to trade partners.
Fine! I don’t want to be his partner any more than he wants me. The Flincher
vs.
the Bully! Bring it!
Chapter 9
Chary Thoughts and Root Beer Floats
Dad walks into the kitchen where I am snarfing down grape tomatoes like a stoner with the munchies. Not eating all day has caught up with me. I’m starved.
Sundance is begging so I toss him a few. He shags them out of the air and turns a happy circle, ready for more.
“So … how was your first day of school?” Dad’s voice is stilted, as though he’s rehearsed the question all day. As though he’s practiced being nonchalant. His complexion is sallow and he looks worn out, dark patches underscoring his eyes. But at least he came out of his office. At least he’s talking to me.
“Oh great! Just great!” I am exuberantly sarcastic. “Where to begin … let’s see. My IQ is about two hundred points too low for this school. Casey James died during lunch. And my Astronomy partner hates me. How was
your
day?”
Dad stares. “Someone died during lunch?”
“Casey James.”
“That boy who helped us move in? He died?”
“Yup. Pretty sure.” I pop in another grape tomato and crunch.
Dad judges my blasé attitude, concluding that I’m being a smartass. “Sophia, that’s not funny. What are you doing?”
“I swear. It’s no joke. He choked on a piece of apple and died, right in front of everybody.”
He reconsiders me. “Well, I should get over there. This is terrible.”
“Oh, he’s all right now,” I say as he turns to leave. He hesitates expectantly, and my adrenaline starts flooding. Finally, I get to tell someone
my
version, everything I saw and heard.
I go at it for a while with arms flailing to bolster my opinion. When I’m finished, I’m nearly out of breath. Curious though, the pain in my chest never flared up. Wasn’t it due to stress? And where is that freaky second heartbeat? Trying to convince Dad that I saw what I
think
I saw shoots my needle into the red zone, for sure.
“The boy must have fainted,” Dad says, unsympathetic of my assessment.
“But, Dad, Casey was chocking and turned
blue
! Just like when someone drowns
and turns blue; they are in cardiac arrest and need CPR! Even I know that! And Raph did
not
do CPR. He just put his hand there and—”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, Sophia. You said the boy is okay. Let it go.” He stalks down the hall, irritated like I’m wasting his time.
I am hard on his heels. “It’s not just that! There are a lot of strange things that have—”
Dad whips around, stopping me. “You’re too suspicious! Distrustful! Why do you always have to go looking for trouble? Just leave it alone!”
I step back, stunned by his accusation. Worse, I’m hurt. I thought we might talk, maybe even get along, if we weren’t discussing Mom.
I thought wrong. Dad hasn’t forgiven me for our last fight about Mom. The one where I openly accused him of neglecting her and letting her die in that horrible place.
I guess I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t forgive me either.
* * *
A few minutes later, I pack my camera and portfolio and head off to my first day of work at the
Gazette
. I ponder Dad’s diagnosis of me. Am I too suspicious, too distrusting by nature? Does it explain my insistence that Mom died under mysterious circumstances in that psych ward? Is this one of those compulsive disorders where people constantly check and recheck their locks? Or like smoking or drugs, an addiction that needs to be fed? Maybe I’m just curious. Okay, overly curious. Is that such a bad thing?
I walk past Hadley’s Market, considering. The list of bizarre things that have occurred since I arrived here is filling up all the nooks and crannies in my head. If I were honest, I’d say they’re all centered around a certain six-foot-three, blue-eyed individual.
* * *
Miss Minnie and her younger brother, LeRoy, show me around the
Gazette
’s tiny office. When I say younger, I mean he’s knocking on eighty. But LeRoy is friendly and wears farmer overalls and a dented straw hat. I expect to see a cane fishing pole on his shoulder.
LeRoy writes a column but is mostly in charge of circulation while Miss Minnie takes care of everything else. I’m told I will be in charge of
all
photography concerning the paper. Oh boy.
Miss Minnie hands me a stack of back issues of the
Gazette
to study. She says I
am to soak up the
essence
of the town. She’ll say that five more times before I leave.
I settle into a worn wooden chair that squeaks like a dolphin when I lean back, and get busy. Meanwhile, Miss Minnie scrutinizes my thin portfolio.
After about an hour, the bell on the door chimes and a lady walks in accompanied by a cloud of flowery perfume. Mid-thirties with loads of makeup, she is pretty in a cosmetic-counter sort of way. Her hair is bleached blonde—first-degree follicular homicide—and she is sporting a leopard-print blouse with the tightest black Lycra pants I’ve ever seen. I mean
tight
tight—like Sandy in
Grease
after she goes over to the dark side—tight.
Connie Caulfield is the proprietor of the Cut ’N Dye hair salon. She is also a part-time real estate agent, which is her business here today. She is twitchy with excitement and lays ten long leopard-print fingernails on the counter.
“Miss Minnie, you’ll never guess what’s happened. After all this time, I finally rented that monster of a house!”
“Is that right? Not a sale, just rent?” Miss Minnie is trying to conceal her surprise. I don’t know her very well, but I’d say she doesn’t look pleased.
Connie wrinkles her professionally powered nose. “Oh, nobody’s ever going to buy that thing. But now that it’s rented, the town council can’t approve razing it. Right?” She smiles calculatingly, and I get the feeling that this is no airhead blonde. She’s obviously outmaneuvered city hall.
“Well … I guess that’s true,” Miss Minnie ruminates, and then says, “Who’s renting?”
“Some family from Italy. Can you believe it? They’ve been emailing and faxing all their info. It seems the father—I suspect he’s loaded—is arriving later this year and he wants his sons and nephews in school so he’s sending them on ahead. Kinda like that Middle Eastern family renting Donald Trump’s place in Upstate New York.” She shrugs. “Anyway …”
“And you want me to pull your ad? Take the photos off the website?”
“Please.” She waves her thanks and then flings open the door and breezes out, her perfume trailing like a pack of vicious poodles.
Miss Minnie is quiet and pensive, obviously disturbed by the news. I ask about the mansion.
“It’s the old Hardgrave place. A huge mansion Doc Hardgrave and his family used to live in.”
“Used to?”
She stares at me as if contemplating explaining. “His wife died there in a terrible
freak accident.”
“Oh … how?”
“She fell down that huge staircase. You see, she’d taken sick after the twins were born and had a terrible fever but wouldn’t go to the hospital like Doc wanted. She said he was the only doctor she needed. Then one night she goes downstairs for a drink of water and falls all the way to the bottom. Snapped her poor neck like a twig. Three months later Doc Hardgrave and his seven children move out to a place south of town.”
“And no one’s lived there since?”
“Nope.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Oh, about five or six years, I suppose.”
We fall silent, and I think,
should
anyone live there?
A few minutes later, the McCarthy twins, Norah and Gracie, arrive in purple dresses, red hats, and rouged cheeks. I am beginning to understand that this is their permanent attire—clothing may vary but colors remain true to the Red Hat Society.
While they whisper with Miss Minnie, I try not to eavesdrop, really. But when I hear Miss Minnie say, “She’s gone and done it. Rented the mansion,” I get a prickly sensation. And then the twins get nervous and cover their mouths, whispering God knows what.
I am leaning so far back in my chair to hear them that I almost capsize. I flail my arms and pop forward just as Bailey and Rachel appear at the front window. They smash their noses against the glass and become Miss Piggys. They laugh and wave, and I glance at Miss Minnie.
“Go ahead,” she says, answering my unspoken question. “That’s enough for today. See you tomorrow.”
I grab my gear and step onto the sidewalk, wondering if Miss Minnie really just wanted me out of the way so they could talk openly. The wind catches my hair, making it dance around my shoulders. I wish I’d taken the time to braid it this morning.
“Where are the guys?” I ask, following the girls along the walk. I noticed during school that Duffy, J.D., and Holden are never too far behind Bailey and Rachel.
“Hiding from the mayor,” Rachel says.
Bailey pulls a red Twizzler from her mouth. “Explain.”
“Well, Duffy filled a balloon with flour and rigged it in a mailbox. When Vern delivered the mail, the balloon popped and blasted him in the face with flour.”
I ask, “Why in the face?” and she elaborates
“Last year the guys put a snake in the mailbox, and Vern stuck his hand in and got
bit. It was harmless really, but ever since then Vern looks inside before sticking his hand in, thus, flour in the face.” We reach the Shoppe, and Bailey swings the door open.
I still don’t get it. “But why are they hiding from the mayor?”
“It was the mayor’s mailbox.”
Ah.
The wind picks up again, blowing leaves inside the door and bringing the sweet smell of distant rain to my nose. It’s only four-thirty and the sky is awash in blue and gray from an approaching storm.
The Soda Shoppe is a fifties diner with the appropriate motif: a long serving counter with padded red stools, gray Formica tables with thick chrome legs, and red chairs. Glossy red booths line a glass wall that overlooks the town square. Colorful posters of Pepsi-Cola girls and hot rods adorn the walls. Elvis is in the jukebox grinding out “A Little Less Conversation.”
We slide into a booth by the window as Bailey explains why she can stay only a few minutes.