by Lori Adams
“You know about my dad?”
“Of course,” Rachel says. “We attend services every Sunday. We’ve been looking forward to meeting the new pastor.” I look at Bailey to see if she’s included in the “we.” She is studying her nails, bored.
“Yeah, well, I’m an alltheist so I’ll pretty much believe in anything, ya know?” She exaggerates a heavy sigh. “Well, listen, cupcake. You’re not in a hurry to get home so let’s grab some wake-up water.”
I smile. “Starbucks?”
She cocks her head and says, “Dafuq you talkin’ about?” and the earth falls out beneath me.
“You’ve never heard of—”
They burst out laughing, and I exhale with relief. It’s short-lived.
“Yeah so, we’re small town, but not that small. We know Bizzarebucks, we just don’t have one. The closest one is in Danbury. But listen, if you ever need to feed your addiction, let us know. We’ll go with.”
I nod. A universal bond.
“The Naughty Nectar Café has decent frappés. Syrups and nutmeg and shit like that. They have cold coffee, too. Whip cream and junk. It’s really the best we have.” She starts across the street. “Now, Cali, I wanna hear all about LA.”
I don’t move. They know Dad’s the new pastor and where we’re from? I wonder what else they know.
Bailey looks back and flicks her arms like some Italian gesture that says, Whatsa matta you, eh?
“Um, what about my stuff?” I look at the groceries.
“Don’t worry,” Rachel says, waving away my concerns. “It’s perfectly safe. Nothing ever happens in Haven Hurst.”
I follow the girls across the street to a sidewalk lining the park. The town square smacks of early Colonial, and the central park is loaded with trees and benches, people milling around, dogs on leashes, kids playing. The band on the open stage is, well, I think it’s playing music.
At the far end of the square sits an impressive Federal-style structure of white columns and red brick. The courthouse, I guess. A clock is centered in the white gable like an all-seeing eye. It blinks and shifts in my direction, and I gulp down my rancid imagination.
Across from the courthouse is another beautiful building of similar style but much smaller and more humble. It has an inviting porch that accommodates rocking chairs and game tables. No eye.
The Naughty Nectar Café sits on one corner of the block and the Soda Shoppe, a fifties diner, on the other. In between are eclectic touristy-looking shops: the Words ’N Water bookstore, the Aunt Tik furniture store, and the Hickory Stick. One thing for sure, everything is clean and orderly, small-town nice.
I notice knots of people in the park feverishly discussing something. Some are pacing off grassy areas, others are writing in notepads.
“What’s up with everybody?” I ask.
Rachel says, “They’re preparing for the Harvest Festival. It’s kind of a big deal around here.”
“Kind of?” Bailey gives us a look. “Try googlical proportion! And the town council is out in full force. Except Abigail Monroe, whom I assume has commandeered your domicile and is rearranging your furniture as we speak?”
I nod.
“McCarthy twins?”
“Baked bread.”
“The Red Hat Society’s welcoming committee,” Rachel clarifies.
Ah.
“Those three are a little—” I start.
“Yeah, they are,” Bailey finishes.
At the far end of the square, Sheriff White parks his motorcycle, swings his McBelly over the seat, and gives me the hairy eyeball. Uh-oh.
I pull the traffic ticket from my jean shorts pocket. “I just remembered I’m due at the newspaper office.”
Bailey reads the ticket, grins, and hands it to Rachel.
“Oh,” Rachel reacts and gives it back to me.
“What?”
“You’re a photographer?” Bailey changes course and leads us away from the café and in the direction of the Soda Shoppe.
“Well, not really. I mean, I have some nice digital equipment. Had a few photos published in our school paper but—”
“You are a photographer,” Bailey christens me with the undeserving title. “Better than who we have now.”
“Who’s that?”
She inhales and gives the truncated lowdown in one quick breath. “Last photographer left town, somewhat unexpectedly. Abigail Monroe wants the job so she can pawn off pictures of her grandkids. Miss Minnie refuses to publish them because they aren’t newsworthy. Miss Minnie is too old and busy to man a camera herself, and nobody wants to step on Abigail’s toes, thus, the feud.”
“Well, I’m not doing it,” I declare aloud. “I’ll just pay the stupid ticket.” Seriously, they can’t make me take the job. Right?
“Uh-huh.” Bailey grins and pops her gum.
We bypass the Soda Shoppe and round the corner where I collide with a branch from one of the numerous trees lining the walk. After I wrestle my hair free, I catch up to the girls waiting outside the Gazette’s old-fashioned storefront.
A bell chimes a few doors down and a string of guys file onto the sidewalk. I catch my breath in recognition. It’s the blond guy from the accident.
I don’t know how to feel. I was up half the night convincing myself I didn’t see through him, that he and the grungy guy didn’t disappear into thin air. Part of me was convinced the whole incident had been a misunderstanding or my mind skipping a beat due to exhaustion.
The other part of me played to my worst fears; I’m going insane like Mom.
There are two guys with him who look like brothers but the blond guy in the middle is taller, more muscular. He moves with an air of authority and confidence that’s missing in the others. They are wearing faded jeans and tight Tshirts shoring up overworked pecs. Several dark-haired guys follow in their wake, like trolling for leftovers.
Bailey pulls me aside, laughing. “Bong appétit, huh? A girl can get high just looking at ’em.”
“What?” I blink out of my stupor.
“We all had that reaction when they moved here. That’s the Patronus brothers, the blond ones. We hit the Trifecta.” She sighs wistfully.
“You can see—” I catch myself, relieved. If Bailey can see them, I’m not going insane. Right?
“They just startled me, is all,” I lie.
“Uh, okay.” Bailey smirks and I want to tell her I saw the tall guy playing Dance Dance Revolution on somebody’s neck, but she says, “Anyhoo, the one in the middle, Michael, is in our class. Hey, you’re a senior, right? Good. So Raph, the one on the right, is a junior, also absolutely gorgeous. A smaller version of Michael.”
She is stating the obvious.
“And Gabe,” Rachel adds. “A sophomore, although you wouldn’t know it. He’s a brainiac. Oh, and you’ll meet Milvi!” She brightens considerably. “She’s their cousin. Hashtag—most fun person in the world!”
Bailey rolls her eyes. “I swear to God, Rach, you hashtag me again and I’ll slap the curls out of your hair.” She looks at me and grins. “But seriously, I thank the party gods for Milvi. Chica livens up this one-horse town. Every time she visits her boyfriend back in Estonia we’re bored to death.”
I want to ask about Estonia but the second heartbeat erupts again and catches me by surprise. I haven’t felt it since last night at the accident. The closer the guys get, the more violent the drumming becomes. I must be more nervous than I thought.
I grit my teeth and tough it out, wanting a closer look at Mr. Smackdown.
When they stop a few feet away, the three brothers stare so intensely that I feel the need to cover something. Gabe is scrutinizing me like a specimen. Not hostile or unfriendly, but clinically.
Raph hooks his thumbs through his belt loops and flashes a cocky grin. I recognize Decyfer Down blaring from his earbuds.
Mustering my courage, I look straight at Michael. The pain in my chest unfurls like a flower and a sense of peace washes over me, reminiscent
of last night. Right before he beat the crap out of that grungy guy.
Michael arches an eyebrow without smiling, and I have no idea what it means.
Bailey says, “Hey, guys. A new plaything has been delivered unto us. It is called Sophia St. James but will answer to Cali, her home planet.” The other guys along the sidewalk stop goofing around and wander over.
Rachel clarifies, “She’s the pastor’s daughter,” and heat gathers in my cheeks.
I hate being the center of anyone’s attention and now everybody is staring. I mumble “Hey,” and lower my head to hide my scar. I don’t have bangs so it never really works.
“Sophia.”
My name is whispered like a breeze and I barely hear it but somehow I know it came from Michael. I look up to find him calmly staring at me as though seeing beyond flesh and bone and into the deepest part of me. His eyes are pale blue now, minus the iridescent effect of last night that left a retinal residual image that haunted my dreams. His unwavering concentration makes my second heartbeat turn erratic, like I swallowed a set of drums. It’s outdrumming my normal heartbeat, the effect reverberating up my throat.
Please don’t start coughing.
I must look petrified because Michael’s mouth tugs into a lopsided grin. I realize he is even more beautiful in daylight than in moonlight. His face is flawless, like the best airbrush tan I’ve ever seen, except it isn’t. A faded sunburn across his cheekbones suggests he spends a lot of time outside.
And he is definitely not translucent.
We stare while Raph and Gabe play tennis spectators: back and forth, back and forth. Michael seems so different from last night. So calm and self-assured. And obviously less violent. I’m starting to doubt everything I think I saw. I consider myself a rational person but no matter how I tilt things, I can’t decide if last night was real or my unreliable imagination.
Since I’m blessed with an abundance of curiosity and since no one is talking, I say, “Hey, I saw you last—”
“Hiya, Sophia! I’m Raph!” His interruption is so abrupt that I’m forced to break off my sentence in mid-thought. Suspicion flits through my mind but I can’t chase it at the moment because Raph is holding out his hand. I shake it politely and then try to let go but he tightens his grip. His hand is warm and strong, and he holds mine too long, like he’s assessing me or something. Just when it starts to get awkward, he relaxes and grins. I pull away and look at Gabe. He gives me half a smile so I give him half of mine.
I’m determined to ask Michael about last night but I’m distracted. There is a guy the color of my favorite mocha latte hovering in my peripheral. He strolls over in a football jersey and a funky straw cowboy hat that possibly lost a fight with an umbrella.
“Duffy,” Bailey says like he’s the cause of swine flu. Duffy bows and whips off the hat, revealing golden curly hair.
“Before you ask, let me 4-1-1 you, baby. I’m half-and-half; half chocolate, half vanilla, and one hundred percent male.” He cops a walk around me, and everybody laughs at my embarrassment.
“Jesus, Duffy!” Bailey knocks him off the curb.
He laughs with fake innocence. “Hey, just checking the ingredients on the package.”
“You’re such an eh-hole! Leave her alone.” Bailey strolls away, hips rocking like an invitation.
“Yo, girl!” Duffy jabs his arms in the air and cocks his head. “Now don’t make me come over there and use my Upper Case voice!”
Bailey rolls her eyes and then winks at me. It seems a common play with them. She is basking in the flirtatious afterglow, and I sense there isn’t anyone she can’t have, if she wanted.
There is a bunch of other guys with Duffy, and they all start talking at once. I can’t follow the conversations. Something about Monday’s homework, a tough project.
The Patronus brothers remain quiet and watchful of me. I feel the need to escape so I slip into the newspaper office. The storefront is all windows, so I can feel their blue eyes penetrating the layer of glass as they continue their visual inspection.
An old lady—old being kind, ancient being more accurate—behind the counter shuffles forward. “Ah, there you are!” she sings out happily, raising her hands. I glance around to see if I’ve been followed. “No, I’m talking to you, Sophia.” She says with a strange familiarity. I’m quickly learning how unnerving small-town friendliness can be.
“Miss Minnie?” I lay the ticket on the counter. “It’s nice to meet you but I’m afraid there’s been a—”
“Oh, don’t be afraid, dear. This is going to be the best job you ever had. I guarantee it.” She beams.
Okay, so she’s adorable. Crinkly blue eyes, curly gray hair, cute upturned nose; I bet she was beautiful once, a century ago.
“Well, I don’t—”
“Now, what kind of equipment are we talking about?” Adorable aside, she is all business. “Digital, I assume? You have more than one memory card? And a jump drive? We’ll need to upload everything on the—”
“I, uh—”
“Well, there’s time for that later. It’s Saturday and you’re just meeting the gang. I don’t want to keep you. Monday after school works for me.”
I don’t know what to say so I stare. She gives me a slow encouraging nod like I’ve forgotten my lines in the school play. I say “Thank you?” and she swells with pride at a job well done. I am six years old again.
“No, thank you for coming in.” She pulls the ticket across the counter, and I walk out, bewildered.
Bailey and Rachel are alone on the sidewalk, smiling. “When do you start?” Bailey asks.
“Monday after school,” I mumble. “That was the strangest conversation I’ve ever had.”
She throws an arm around my shoulders and laughs. “Now tell me, you aren’t really surprised.”
I scoff. “Well … yeah.”
We retrace our steps and round the corner of the Soda Shoppe. The guys are down the block by the Hickory Stick, a long, narrow store specializing in video games, graphic novels, and beef jerky. We stroll over and Bailey and Duffy start flirting again, the kind where teasing and insults are really foreplay. Or maybe I’m wrong and they hate each other; who can tell?
The Patronus brothers are talking privately and have lost interest in me, so I return the favor. Rachel and I watch the eight-piece band in the park. As they leave the stage, Duffy predicts that Vern Warner, the goofy-looking trombone player clad in mailman shorts and white knee socks, will fall before he reaches the grass.
As if on cue, Vern stumbles on the third step and collapses on top of his instrument. Everybody laughs. Mom would say, The poor soul should be righted, not ridiculed, and I would hate myself for laughing. But Mom isn’t here to witness the sheer power of Duffy’s prediction propelling Vern down the steps.
“Aaaand … that’s why the mail is always late,” Duffy says, and then launches a debate as to Vern’s greatest talent, his inability to negotiate gravity or his lack of prowess as a mail carrier.
The second heartbeat flares up again, and I turn toward the café hoping to get a drink before I start coughing. I smack directly into Michael. He is a brick wall to my spaghetti spine and I bounce back, sputtering an apology and feeling heat color my cheeks.
Michael smiles, his white teeth flashing against tanned skin. We’re so close I can see his eyelashes, black and heavy, weighing down his eyes as he slowly blinks at me. He has a serene beauty that is disarming, and I can’t believe he is the same person who stomped on that poor guy’s throat. I expect he’ll mention last night, but he raises a hand to my head—and I flinch.
I flinch! A horrible, full-fledged, don’t-hit-me flinch!
It’s a silent reflex that speaks volumes, and my scar becomes a neon sign advertising the damaged goods inside.
Michael’s hand is poised above my forehead. His eyes flick to the scar, register understanding, and drift away. He has a far-off melancholy look; and so … he knows. My hope of starting fresh disappears in a bli
nk. Word will spread. Labels will stick. Sophia will retreat.
I expect an interrogation, but Michael’s eyes soften as he gently pulls a leaf from my hair. “There,” he murmurs, and I watch it float to the ground with my dreams. My chest tightens and a lump forms in my throat. I want to appear strong and unaffected, so I raise my chin with a semblance of arrogance. It doesn’t work; my eyes burn with tears.
I can take being a loner. I can take the label. But I can’t take the look of pity in his eyes.
I would give anything not to have that damn scar.
Chapter 5
And Then Again, Maybe Not
It’s Monday morning and I am staring in the mirror and searching for the scar on my eyebrow. I can’t find it.
“Un-freakin’-believable!”
Half an hour of this and I still can’t find it. It’s gone. Vanished. Poof. Just like that, both eyebrows are identical again. Stitching and swelling and tenderness no longer exist. I make a nervous, demented sort of laugh and race downstairs.
“Look!” I startle Dad behind his desk, and he looks up annoyed. His new home office is small, dank, and a bit creepy but I don’t care to complain now. “It’s gone! My scar is completely gone!” I thrust my face into the lamplight, but Dad sighs and returns to his scriptures.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles. He has rebuffed all reminders of the incident and so he doesn’t react when I’ve lost my last souvenir from Psycho Steve. If it was a visual torment for Dad to see my bruised jaw and swollen eye, he hid it well. He hardly said a word except that I should’ve pressed charges.
But I’m healing! Dad should be elated. Dad should pay attention. Dad should be a lot of things.
I withdraw without a word but think, Here I am showing a Man of God a miracle and all he can say is “Uh-huh,” like I found a potato chip shaped like Mickey Mouse.
Spite wants me to say, By the way, your welcoming sermon yesterday was subpar, but I can’t be that cruel. I’ve always loved Dad’s sermons, well, the ones before Mom died. Dad is a riveting speaker, spellbinding his audiences with hope and purpose. After Mom died, Dad’s light dimmed. It’s understandable, but after two years his sermons still lack enthusiasm and … oomph. And lately they’ve become lifeless and stale. I was hoping this move would spark that fire he’d always had. But it hasn’t, and he won’t explain why.
