Lock and Key

by Sarah Dessen

  “I meant the silence thing,” Reggie told her.

  “Oh.” Harriet hopped up on the stool by the register, crossing her legs. “Well, maybe so. But it certainly cuts down the phone bill.”

  He shot her a disapproving look. “That is not funny. Communication is crucial.”

  “Maybe at your house,” she replied. “At mine, silence is golden. And common.”

  “To me,” Reggie said, picking up a bottle of Vitamin A and moving it thoughtfully from one hand to the other, “family is, like, the wellspring of human energy. The place where all life begins.”

  Harriet studied him over her coffee cup. “What do your parents do, again?”

  “My father sells insurance. Mom teaches first grade.”

  “So suburban!”

  “Isn’t it, though?” He smiled. “I’m the black sheep, believe it or not.”

  “Me, too!” Harriet said. “I was supposed to go to med school. My dad’s a surgeon. When I dropped out to do the jewelry-design thing, they freaked. Didn’t speak to me for months.”

  “That must have been awful,” he said.

  She considered this. “Not really. I think it was kind of good for me, actually. My family is so big, and everyone always has an opinion, whether you want to hear it or not. I’d never done anything all on my own before, without their help or input. It was liberating.”

  Liberating, I wrote down. Reggie said, “You know, this explains a lot.”

  No kidding, I thought.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Harriet asked.

  “Nothing,” he told her. “So what makes you give up the silent treatment? When do you decide to talk again?”

  Harriet considered this as she took a sip of coffee. “Huh,” she said. “I guess when someone else does something worse. Then you need people on your side, so you make up with one person, just as you’re getting pissed off at another.”

  “So it’s an endless cycle,” I said.

  “I guess.” She took another sip. “Coming together, falling apart. Isn’t that what families are all about?”

  “No,” Reggie says. “Only yours.”

  They both burst out laughing, as if this was the funniest thing ever. I looked down at my notebook, where all I had written was not speaking, comfort, wellspring, and liberating. This project was going to take a while.

  “Incoming,” Harriet said suddenly, nodding toward a guy and girl my age who were approaching, deep in conversation.

  “. . . wrong with a Persian cat sweatshirt?” said the guy, who was sort of chubby, with what looked like a home-done haircut.

  “Nothing, if she’s eighty-seven and her name is Nana,” the girl replied. She had long curly hair, held back at the nape of her neck, and was wearing cowboy boots, a bright red dress, and a cropped puffy parka with mittens hanging from the cuffs. “I mean, think about it. What kind of message are you trying to send here?”

  “I don’t know,” the guy said as they got closer. “I mean, I like her, so . . .”

  “Then you don’t buy her a sweatshirt,” the girl said flatly. “You buy her jewelry. Come on.”

  I put down the feather duster I was holding, standing up straighter as they came up to the cart, the girl already eyeing the rows of thin silver hoops on display. “Hi,” I said to the guy, who, up close, looked even younger and dorkier. His T-shirt—which said ARMAGEDDON EXPO ’06: ARE YOU READY FOR THE END?—didn’t help matters. “Can I help you? ”

  “We need something that screams romance,” the girl said, plucking a ring out and quickly examining it before putting it back. As she leaned into the row of lights overhead, I noticed that her face was dotted with faint scars. “A ring is too serious, I think. But earrings don’t say enough.”

  “Earrings don’t say anything,” the guy mumbled, sniffing the incense. He sneezed, then added, “They’re inanimate objects.”

  “And you are hopeless,” she told him, moving down to the necklaces. “What about yours?”

  Startled, I glanced back at the girl, who was looking right at me. “What?”

  She nodded at my neck. “Your necklace. Do you sell those here?”

  “Um,” I said, my hand reaching up to it, “not really. But we do have some similar chains, and charms that you can—”

  “I like the idea of the key, though,” the girl said, coming around the cart. “It’s different. And you can read it so many ways.”

  “You want me to give her a key?” the guy asked.

  “I want you to give her a possibility,” she told him, looking at my necklace again. “And that’s what a key represents. An open door, a chance. You know?”

  I’d never really thought about my key this way. But in the interest of a sale, I said, “Well, yeah. Absolutely. I mean, you could buy a chain here, then get a key to put on it.”

  “Exactly!” the girl said, pointing a finger at the nearby KEY-OSK, which sold keys and key accessories of all kinds. “It’s perfect.”

  “You’ll want a somewhat thick one,” I told her. “But not too thick. You need it to be strong and delicate at the same time.”

  The girl nodded. “That’s it,” she said. “Just what I had in mind.”

  Ten minutes and fifteen dollars later, I watched them as they walked away, bag in hand, over to the KEY-OSK cart, where the girl explained what she wanted. I watched the saleswoman as she pulled out a small collection of keys, sliding them across for them to examine.

  “Nice job,” Harriet said, coming up beside me. “You salvaged the sale, even if we didn’t have exactly what she was looking for.”

  “It was her idea,” I said. “I just went with it.”

  “Still. It worked, right?”

  I glanced over again at KEY-OSK, where the girl in the parka was picking up a small key as her friend and the saleswoman looked on. People were passing between us, hustling and bustling, but still I craned my neck, watching with Harriet as she slid it over the clasp, carefully, then down onto our chain. It dangled there for a second, spinning slightly, before she closed her hand around it, making it disappear.

  I’d just stepped off the greenway, later that afternoon, when I saw the bird.

  At first, it was just a shadow, passing overhead, temporarily blotting out the light. Only when it cleared the trees and reached the open sky did I see it in full. It was huge, long and gray, with an immense wingspan, so big it seemed impossible for it to be airborne.

  For a moment, I just stood there, watching its shadow move down the street. It was only when I started walking again that it hit me.

  It’s herons and waterbirds you really need to worry about, Heather had said. One swoop, and they can do some serious damage.

  No way, I thought, but at the same time I found myself picking up the pace as Cora’s house came into view, breaking into a jog, then a run. It was cold out—the air was stinging my lungs, and I knew I had to look crazy, but I kept going, my breath ragged in my chest as I cut across the neighbor’s lawn, then alongside Cora’s garage to the side yard.

  The bird was impossible to miss, standing in the shallow end, its wings slightly raised as if it had only just landed there. Distantly, I realized that it was beautiful, caught with the sun setting in the distance, its elegant form reflected in the pond’s surface. But then it dipped its massive beak down into the water.

  “Stop!” I yelled, my voice carrying and carrying far. “Stop it!”

  The bird jerked, its wings spreading out a little farther, so it looked like it was hovering. But it stayed where it was.

  For a long moment, nothing happened. The bird stood there, wings outstretched, with me only a short distance away, my heart thumping in my ears. I could hear cars passing on the street, a door slamming somewhere a few yards over. But all around us, it was nothing but still.

  At any moment, I knew the bird could reach down and pluck up a fish, maybe even my fish. For all I knew I was already too late to save anything.

  “Get out!” I screamed, louder this t
ime, as I moved closer. “Now! Get out now! ”

  At first, it didn’t move. But then, almost imperceptibly at first, it began to lift up, then a little farther, and farther still. I was so close to it as it moved over me, its enormous wings spread out, pumping higher and higher into the night sky, so amazing and surreal, like something you could only imagine. And maybe I would have thought it was only a dream, if Jamie hadn’t seen it, too.

  I didn’t even realize he was standing right behind me, his hands in his pockets, and his face upturned, until I turned to watch as the bird soared over us, still rising.

  “It was a heron,” I told him, forgetting our silence. I was gasping, my breath uneven. “It was in the pond.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  I swallowed, crossing my arms over my chest. My heart was still pounding, so hard I wondered if he could hear it. “I’m sorry for what I did,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  For a moment, he was quiet. “Okay,” he said finally. Then he reached a hand up, resting it on my shoulder, and together, we watched the bird soar over the roofline into the sky.

  Chapter Ten

  “You want buttered, or not?”

  “Either is fine,” I said.

  Olivia eyed me over the counter, then walked over to the butter dispenser, sticking the bag of popcorn she was holding underneath it and giving it a couple of quick smacks with her hand. “Then you are officially my favorite kind of customer,” she said. “As well as unlike ninety-nine percent of the moviegoing population.”

  “Really.”

  “Most people,” she said, turning the bag and shaking it slightly, then adding a bit more, “have very strong views on their butter preference. Some want none—the popcorn must be dry, or they freak out. Others want it sopping to the point they can feel it through the bag.”

  I made a face. “Yuck.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t judge. Unless you’re one of those totally anal-retentive types that wants it in specific layers, which takes ages. Then I hate you.”

  I smiled, taking the popcorn as she slid it across to me. “Thanks,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “What do I—?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving me off.

  “You sure?”

  “If you’d asked for butter layers, I would have charged you. But that was easy. Come on.”

  She came out from behind the counter, and I followed her across the lobby of the Vista 10—which was mostly empty except for some kids playing video games by the rest-rooms—to the box office door. She pulled it open, ducking inside, then flipped the sign in the window to OPEN before clearing a bunch of papers from a nearby stool for me to sit down. “You sure? ” I said, glancing around. “Your boss won’t mind? ”

  “My dad’s the manager,” she said. “Plus I’m working Saturday morning, the kiddie shift, against my will. The girl who was supposed to be here flaked out on him. I can do what I want.”

  “The kiddie—?” I began, then stopped when I saw a woman approaching with about five elementary school- aged children, some running ahead in front, others dragging along behind. One kid had a handheld video game and wasn’t even looking where he was going, yet still managed to navigate the curb without tripping, which was kind of impressive. The woman, who appeared to be in her mid-forties and was wearing a long green sweater and carrying a huge purse, stopped in front of the window, squinting up.

  “Mom,” one of the kids, a girl with ponytails, said, tugging on her arm. “I want Smarties.”

  “No candy,” the woman murmured, still staring up at the movie listings.

  “But you promised!” the girl said, her voice verging on a whine. One of the other kids, a younger boy, was now on her other side, tugging as well. I watched the woman reach out to him absently, brushing her hand over the top of his head as he latched himself around her leg.

  “Yes!” the kid with the handheld yelled, jumping up and down. “I made level five with the cherries!”

  Olivia shot me a look, then pushed down the button by her microphone, leaning into it. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said, still staring up, “I need . . . five children and one adult for Pretzel Dog Two.”

  Olivia punched this into her register. “That’ll be thirty-six dollars.”

  "Thirty-six? ” the woman said, finally looking at us. The girl was tugging her arm again. “With the child’s price? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s crazy. It’s just a movie!”

  “Don’t I know it,” Olivia told her, hitting the ticket button a few times. She put her hand on the tickets as the woman reached into her huge purse, digging around for a few minutes before finally coming up with two twenties. Then Olivia slid them across, along with her change. “Enjoy the show.”

  The woman grumbled, hoisting her bag up her shoulder, then moved into the theater, the kids trailing along behind her. Olivia sighed, sitting back and stretching her arms over her head as two minivans pulled into the lot in front of us in quick succession.

  “Don’t I know it,” I said, remembering my mom with her clipboard, on so many front stoops. “My mom used to say that.”

  “Empathy works,” Olivia replied. “And it’s not like she’s wrong. I mean, it is expensive. But we make the bulk of our money on concessions, and she’s sneaking in food for all those rug rats. So it all comes out even, really.”

  I looked over my shoulder back into the lobby, where the woman was now leading her brood to a theater. “You think? ”

  “Did you see that purse? Please.” She reached over, taking a piece of popcorn from my bag, which I hadn’t even touched. Apparently she’d noticed, next saying, “What? Too much butter?”

  I shook my head, looking down at it. “No, it’s fine.”

  “I was about to say. Don’t get picky on me now.”

  The minivans were deboarding now, people emptying car seats and sliding open back doors. Olivia sighed, checking her watch. “I didn’t really come here for the popcorn,” I said. “I wanted . . . I just wanted to thank you.”

  “You already did,” she said.

  “No,” I corrected her, “I tried—twice—but you wouldn’t let me. Which, frankly, I just don’t understand.”

  She reached for the popcorn again, taking out a handful. “Honestly,” she said as another pack of parents and kids approached, “it’s not that complicated. You did something for me, I did something for you. We’re even. Let it go already.”

  This was easier said than done, though, something I considered as she sold a bunch of tickets, endured more kvetching about the prices, and directed one woman with a very unhappy toddler in the direction of the bathroom. By the time things had calmed down, fifteen minutes had passed, and I’d worked my way halfway through the popcorn bag.

  “Look,” I said, “all I’m saying is that I just . . . I want you to know I’m not like that.”

  “Like what? ” she said, arranging some bills in the register.

  “Like someone who ditches school to get drunk. I was just having a really bad day, and—”

  “Ruby.” Her voice was sharp, getting my attention. “You don’t have to explain, okay? I get it.”

  “You do?”

  “Switching schools totally sucked for me,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “I missed everything about my life at Jackson. I still do—so much so that even now, after a year, I haven’t really bothered to get settled at Perkins. I don’t even have any friends there.”

  “Me neither,” I said.

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “You have Nate Cross.”

  “We’re not really friends,” I told her.

  She raised her eyebrows. “The boy drove fifteen miles to pick you up out of the woods.”

  “Only because you told him to,” I said.

  “No,” she said pointedly. “All I did was let him know where you were.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Actually, i
t isn’t,” she said, reaching over and taking another piece of popcorn. “There’s a big difference between information and action. I gave him the facts, mostly because I felt responsible about leaving you there with that loser in the first place. But going there? That was all him. So I hope you were sufficiently grateful.”

  “I wasn’t,” I said quietly.

  “No?” She seemed genuinely surprised. “Well . . .” she said, drawing the word out. “Why not?”

  I looked down at my popcorn, already feeling that butter-and-salt hangover beginning to hit. “I’m not very good at accepting help,” I said. “It’s an issue.”

  “I can understand that,” she said.

  “Yeah? ”

  She shrugged. “It’s not the easiest thing for me, either, especially when I think I don’t need it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But,” she continued, not letting me off the hook, “you were passed out in the woods. I mean, you clearly needed help, so you’re lucky he realized it, even if you didn’t.”

  There was a big crowd approaching now, lots of kids and parents. We could see them coming at us from across the parking lot like a wide, very disorganized wave.

  “I want to try to make it up to him,” I said to Olivia. “To change, you know? But it’s not so easy to do.”

  “Yeah,” she said, taking another handful of popcorn and tossing it into her mouth as the crowd closed in. “Don’t I know it.”

  Everyone has their weak spot. The one thing that, despite your best efforts, will always bring you to your knees, regardless of how strong you are otherwise. For some people, it’s love. Others, money or alcohol. Mine was even worse: calculus.

  I was convinced it was the reason I would not go to college. Not my checkered background, or that I was getting my applications together months after everyone else, or even the fact that up until recently, I hadn’t even been sure I wanted to go at all. Instead, in my mind, it would all come down to one class and its respective rules and theorems, dragging down my GPA and me with it.

  I always started studying with the best of intentions, telling myself that today just might be the day it all fell into place, and everything would be different. More often than not, though, after a couple of pages of practice problems, I’d find myself spiraling into an all-out depression. When it was really bad, I’d put my head down on my book and contemplate alternate options for my future.