Donn's Hill

by Caryn Larrinaga

  “I feel awful,” I finished. “Honestly, I didn’t mean any of it. She’s the best friend I’ve got.”

  Striker chose that moment to jump onto my lap. She put her two front paws on my chest and meowed in my face, blowing cat breath right up my nose.

  “Ack!” I coughed. “Okay, point taken. My best human friend. You hold the overall title, little girl.”

  She seemed mollified by this and turned around to settle down on my lap. Graham leaned over and pulled open a drawer beneath the stereo, retrieving a small bag of kitty treats. He reached forward with one, and Striker shot her face forward, snatching the morsel from between his fingers.

  “You keep treats in your studio?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled another one from the bag and offered it to Striker. “She comes to visit me a lot while I’m working. I think she likes the smell of the clay or something. She always shows up right when I’m taking a break, so I started keeping treats around for her.”

  “That’s so funny. When I first moved in, I got the impression you didn’t like cats.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t. Well, that’s not true. I was indifferent, I guess.” He fed Striker another treat then scratched the top of her head. “This one, though, she’s something else. You just can’t help falling for her.”

  I smiled. “I know what you mean.”

  “So what are you going to do about Kit?” Graham asked.

  “Apologize to her, for starters. If I can find her.”

  “Why don’t you just call her?”

  I shifted on my stool, taking care not to dislodge Striker from her comfortable position. “That feels too impersonal. And it adds a lot of pressure. ‘Hey, can we get together so I can explain why I was such an ass?’” I sighed. “If I don’t run into her today, though, I’ll do that.”

  “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Thanks. And likewise.” I gestured around the studio. “Looks like you have your hands full.”

  He stretched his lanky arms over his head. “Oh, it’s all smooth sailing from here. The weeks leading up to the festival are the worst. I try to pump out as many pieces as I can, and I tend to work clear through the night.” He grinned at me. “Like last night, that was my lunch break you interrupted when you stormed into the kitchen.”

  “I’m glad you can joke about it. It might be a bit before I can.” I cleared my throat. “So what’s next? Do people come to the house to buy them?”

  “No, I rent booth space on the town square.”

  “Well, I’ll be sure to stop by. I’m volunteering as a runner, so

  I’ll—” I looked at my watch. “Oh, no. Speaking of which, I have to get to the orientation. Sorry.”

  I set Striker onto the counter next to me and stood up. Graham stretched his arms out to me, and I leaned forward to give him a hug. I expected it to be a quick one, but he pulled me surprisingly close to him and hung on.

  “I’m glad we’re okay,” he said.

  “Me too.” I pulled back from him. “Thanks for the soda.”

  I darted out of the studio and speed-walked toward city hall. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I felt slightly giddy. Did Graham have feelings for me?

  I was surprised to hear the answer clang into my mind: I hope so.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The town square was under construction. The early-afternoon sun shone down on workers who were erecting canopies in rows, leaving three wide pathways for pedestrian traffic. The sounds of metal bars clinking together and hammers pounding support stakes into the ground filled the air.

  I skirted through the chaos toward city hall. A large tent had been set up in the shade of the building, sporting a banner that announced first aid. A dozen or so people were hard at work, carrying totes full of equipment into the tent, all under the direction of a familiar figure.

  Penelope was dressed for a show, as always, in a light-green polka dot dress with a vintage cut. Her hair was pulled up into a high dancer’s topknot, and she was standing on top of a crate with a clipboard in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. The horn seemed unnecessary. Her imperious voice carried over the volunteers just fine as she shouted at them to get the lead out and begin organizing the first-aid station.

  I hadn’t expected to see her. While I wasn’t sure how long an appropriate amount of time for mourning was, I figured she’d hand the reins off to somebody else for at least a week. My stomach fluttered as I approached her; I had a feeling that coping with her husband’s death wasn’t going to improve her attitude toward me.

  “Hi, Mrs. Bishop.” Even though I’d been an official grown-up for nine years, there were still some adults I didn’t feel comfortable addressing by their first name without an invitation, mostly anybody old enough to be my grandparent and anybody who scared me a little.

  She turned toward me, and her lip curled upward into a sneer. Her eyes narrowed into thin slits and I knew without a doubt that, for whatever reason, she still despised me. “Ah, Ms. Clair. So kind of you to join us… at last.”

  I checked my watch. I was exactly one minute late. But I knew better than to fight with someone like Penelope. I’d spent the first half of my education at a private school, where the nuns had taught us to hold our tongues quite well.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said. No reasons, no excuses. Just respect. That was the St. Raymond’s way.

  “Don’t let it happen again. Now, let’s see.” She scanned down her clipboard then made a clucking sound. “Ah, you’re a runner. Go around to the back of City Hall. You’ll find your team lead in the parking lot.”

  Resisting a sudden, mad urge to salute her, I scurried around the building. Well, that could have been a lot worse. She definitely seemed a little nicer to me—or at least a little less mean—when there was an audience. I’d have to remember that for future interactions with her.

  At the back of City Hall, a large parking lot connected the building to the residential street behind it. I spotted Dr. Lee with a small group of people clustered around a few golf carts. Her dark-blond hair and white lab coat made her stand out among the rest of the jeans-wearing volunteers. I sprinted the rest of the way, reaching my fellow runners just as a gray-haired man was straightening up from a supply tote.

  I suppressed a groan. It was Phillip. His arms were full of walkie-talkies, and his ever-present sweater vest was accessorized with a badge that read team lead.

  “Now, you’ll all be needing one of these—ah, Mackenzie!” His eyes fell on me, and they lit up. “Wonderful! We’re all here. Welcome, everyone, and thank you for donating your time and skills to our festival. Now let’s get started, but first, allow me to outfit you with the gear you’ll need to perform your duties.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment to hide the fact that they were rolling up into my skull. Phillip was nice enough, once you got past his lecherous tendencies, but his theatrical manner of speaking drove me bonkers.

  Phillip handed each of us a walkie-talkie, a navy-blue T-shirt that read “Volunteer” across the front and back in Day-Glo orange print, and a map of Donn’s Hill. “As you can see,” he said, “the festival is spread out across town. The two biggest attractions will be the vendor booths and food trucks at the town square and the midway in the high-school parking lot. I expect you’ll be going back and forth between those two locations most often.”

  I studied the map. The town square and Donn’s Hill High weren’t terribly far apart—about a half mile or so—but it would get tiring to run between them throughout the entire weekend. In addition, there were a dozen other places that might need deliveries: the workshops and classes at the community center, the paranormal film screenings at the theater, and the séances and readings at various venues around town, including Gabrielle’s shop. I raised an eyebrow at Phillip in question.

  “If you’re concerned about making the journeys, especially while burdened with totes full of supplies, fear not. You’ll be traveling in style, my
friends.” He stepped to one side and swept his arm outward, indicating the golf carts.

  A slow grin spread over my face. I’d always wanted to cruise around in a golf cart. It was the natural evolution of my unfulfilled childhood dream of having a pink Barbie Power Wheels Corvette. I’d once considered taking up the sport, just for the cart and the little hats, but quickly learned that I golfed so poorly that even playing nine holes ate up an entire day. Sitting on a lounge chair with a good book was more my thing anyhow.

  I deflated somewhat as we were lead into a city hall conference room and forced to sit through a twenty-year-old video about the proper operation of golf carts and the various policies and procedures we needed to follow. We even had to take an exam to prove we’d been paying attention and sign a waiver of liability before Phillip would give us the keys.

  “I must warn you all,” he told us, “that any safety violations will result in the immediate revocation of your cart privileges, and you’ll be reassigned to another team.”

  I nodded and accepted my key. No way would I take any chances. I didn’t want to trade in riding around in a golf cart for a stint at a ticket booth.

  “Go ahead and get changed, my little carrier pigeons. The festival will be kicking off this evening, and we have an enormous amount of work to do before then.” He leaned toward me and waggled his eyebrows. “If you need a place to change, my dear, I can offer you the privacy of my command tent.”

  “Uh, thank you, Phillip. That’s very generous.” I forced a smile. “But I’ll change in the ladies’ room.”

  My first assignment wasn’t particularly glamorous; I had to run several cases of bottled water to the high school, where the festival kickoff was taking place that evening. But I almost felt like a cop, responding to calls on my walkie-talkie and strutting around in my volunteer T-shirt. It was exactly the kind of fun I needed to erase the events of the day before.

  I put the cart into the “forward” setting and gently eased the gas pedal toward the floor. It picked up speed smoothly, and I got the hang of steering it by the time I’d left the parking lot. Soon I was cruising down Main Street toward Donn’s Hill High, wishing I owned some cool aviator sunglasses instead of my big rectangular plastic ones.

  The town had come alive. The normally quiet streets were bursting with traffic as scores of tourists arrived. I carefully threaded the golf cart through the influx of cars—many of them sporting license plates from states across the country—and wondered where all these people would be staying. I didn’t imagine the owners of the BMWs and Mercedes that were flooding the streets would deign to stay in a place called the E-Z Sleep Motel, even if it wasn’t a dilapidated whorehouse, and there weren’t enough B&Bs to hold this many visitors.

  My question was answered moments later as I passed an old house that had been converted into an antique shop. Above the sign that advertised breakfront cabinets and hand-carved furniture, a banner was hung that read rooms available. It wasn’t the only one; on my way down Main, I passed a dozen more businesses and residences that were now billing themselves as quaint bed and breakfasts.

  At last, I pulled into the school’s parking lot. It had been turned into a miniature carnival, and workers were erecting rickety-looking rides across the parking stalls. I saw the value in being given a golf cart when I was able to drive up onto the sidewalk and get my cargo straight to the gates of the athletic field. The school was a hive of activity; teenagers were everywhere, preparing for the opening ceremonies. The afternoon sun beat down on the squad of cheerleaders practicing their routines and the army of students cleaning the bleachers.

  I parked alongside a square brick building marked concessions and hopped out of the cart. A group of students were on their hands and knees on the running track, bent over their work. I saw a familiar flash of green as someone’s hair caught the light.

  “Hey,” I called, flagging down a passing student. “Do you know where I’m supposed to leave this water?”

  The girl was wearing a cheerleading uniform and her brown hair bounced around her shoulders in two pigtails. “Oh yeah, right in here,” she said brightly, opening the door to the concession stand.

  I unloaded my cargo as quickly as my skinny arms allowed, then hustled around the springy track. As I drew nearer to the hunched group of students, I saw they were bent over huge lengths of butcher paper. The half-finished banners were impressively detailed and depicted the various activities available to festival-goers. There was an abstract roller coaster and carnival tent, a family eating corn dogs and cotton candy, and a woman wearing a gypsy scarf and holding a crystal ball. Kit was standing over the last banner, giving a student advice about how to paint the ball so it appeared to be glowing.

  She looked up at me when I stood beside her. Her eyes were puffy.

  “Hi. Can we talk?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  She nodded then directed the students to keep working. We started down the light-brown track, headed toward the far end of the field. For a few minutes, we walked in silence.

  “I didn’t know you were an artist,” I said at last.

  “Yep.”

  I glanced at her. Her shoulders were slumped forward, and her mouth was turned down at the corners so deeply that her entire face sagged. She radiated unhappiness like a thundercloud.

  “I painted the van,” she said after a moment.

  “The Soul Searchers logo? That was you? It’s really nice.”

  My brain, impatient for things to get back to normal, objected to the small talk. Come on, Mac. Quit stalling. This is your chance to apologize. Just get it over with.

  “Listen,” I began, “I’m really glad I ran into you here. About last night… I’m so sorry. I was tired and hungry and scared, but that’s no excuse for the way I treated you.”

  The track curved, and we stopped in the shade of the large electronic scoreboard that sat at the end of the field. Kit’s eyes were downcast. I couldn’t gauge her reaction.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said again, for good measure. “I didn’t mean it when I said I wished I’d never met you.” I cringed, remembering the look on her face when I’d said it. “And I didn’t mean it when I said I quit. You didn’t tell your dad I said that, did you?”

  She shook her head, still looking at the ground. “No.”

  I let out a low breath. “Thank you. I still want to work with you guys. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? I just want things to go back to how they were.”

  Kit finally raised her head and looked me in the eye. “Listen, Mac, there’s something I need to tell you. But before I do… Well, I know it sounds weird since we only met a couple of weeks ago, but I want you to know that you’re my best friend. Okay?”

  Something about her voice made my shoulders tighten. She didn’t say she forgave me for acting like a jerk the night before. What was coming next? Was she going to tell me to screw off and there was no way we could ever be friends again?

  She sighed and looked back down at the track beneath our feet. “I never had many friends. You know how kids are—they have a built-in radar for anything weird, and they pounce on it. My mom walked out on us when I was four, so I was this little strange half-orphan being raised by a ghost-obsessed dad. I didn’t even have a chance. I was doomed to be an outcast. Even after we moved here, to this crazy town that loves ghosts as much as Dad, I still never felt like I belonged.”

  I could relate. Being raised by a single parent was tough. But Kit and I were lucky, in a way. The parents we were left with were amazing and obviously up to the task. We turned out okay. I started to tell her as much.

  “Kit, I—”

  She raised her head and held up a hand to stop me from speaking. “Wait. Just wait.” She took a deep breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that my entire life has been just me and my dad. We’ve been each other’s top priority. I’ve never really had to balance anything else against that, you know? So what you said last night about me being selfish
… it’s true.”

  I stared at her. Why was she apologizing? I was the one who’d been out of line. But as soon as I opened my mouth to speak again, she glared me into silence.

  “Dude, come on. This is hard enough. Just let me get it out.” She ran her hand through her short hair. “I just need to explain, okay? Yeah, I’m selfish. But not just for me. It’s for my dad.”

  She paused, and it looked like she was mentally groping for the right words. I sat in silence, waiting for her to continue. I’d never seen her look so vulnerable. She suddenly looked very young, like a teenager trying to explain why she’d stayed out all night with her boyfriend. She interlinked her fingers and stared down at her hands as though the words she was looking for were written on her palms.

  “This whole thing is his dream. It’s been his passion for as long as I can remember. I learned how to use an EMF meter before I learned how to ride a bike. And it’s never, ever gone anywhere. But he’s never given up. He put every penny he has into this, hoping it’ll take off, but the ratings haven’t been that great. There’s just too much competition out there from shows with better budgets that are willing to use special effects to fake their proof. Last year Dad emptied his retirement to keep it going another season, but it wasn’t enough.” Her voice broke. “The network told us we had one last shot—just one more episode—to show them we could change things up or they’d cancel the show. That’s what we were filming at the Grimshaw Library. We thought it might be the last place we ever got to investigate.”

  She looked back up at me, and her cheeks were flushed. “Oh, please, please don’t hate me for lying to you, Mac.”

  “Lying? When did you ever lie to me?”

  She sighed. “For starters, we actually had to fire our other production assistant months ago. We couldn’t afford to keep him. When I told you he called in sick… well, I figured you’d be more likely to come help out at the library if I made it sound more urgent and didn’t give you as much time to think about it.”