by Lynn Stevens
“Oh my gosh, you scared me,” the squeaky-voiced one said. She was petite with long brown hair and wide hazel eyes that personified innocence.
“Look, there haven’t been any murders on or near campus, much less serial killings anywhere in this city. Everyone knows serial killers stick to a geographic area. If there was someone out there doing that, we would’ve heard by now.” I put my hands on my hips so they would think I actually knew what I was talking about. I really didn’t, but I could lie with the best of them. “Maybe hold back on the judgment until you actually meet some of the people in the shelter. They may surprise you.”
“Like you would know,” the other girl said. Her, I wanted to smack.
“I would know. My grandmother and I were evicted from our apartment and didn’t have anywhere else to go except the local shelter.” I leaned closer. “And I didn’t kill anybody.”
Mr. Redman stopped beside us. “Is there a problem, ladies?”
“No,” I said, angry more at myself for disclosing the tidbit than at them for their ignorance. “No problem.”
“Well, I think you made your point, Emerald,” Mr. Redman said with a sad grin.
And that was why I never told anyone about my situation. Former situation. I didn’t want nor need anybody’s pity. We’d stayed in the shelter for two weeks before moving into a new apartment.
I didn’t wait for the girls to respond. Keeping to myself, I walked down the sidewalk with my head held high. I’d earned my place at Camelot U. Nobody was going to take it away from me.
The shelter was closer than I realized. It occupied a building a few blocks behind the Church of Perpetual Sorrows, a twin-belled replica of the Notre Dame Cathedral. The bell towers stretched high into the sky, and the bells signaled the time several times a day every night. When I first moved onto campus, I found it annoying. Then, last year, the bells didn’t ring one night. It was a mechanical issue that was quickly fixed, but the emptiness in the air hung over campus.
Mr. Wilkes led us past the double glass doors to an entrance by a loading dock in the alley. Trash littered the dumpster, and a nauseous smell wafted toward our noses. We collectively held our breath until we were inside the building.
I glanced around a storage area while the other ten students diligently followed Mr. Wilkes through another set of doors into, what I assumed, was the kitchen. The produce was not quite rotting but not far from it either.
“They take what they can get.” Mr. Redman stopped beside me. “Sometimes, the best they can get is what we deem not good enough for our own tables. It’s a shame, really.”
I nodded as I stared at cans of evaporated milk on the shelves. Shaking my head, I headed toward the double doors. They opened, sending me a step back. A man walked through with a sack of potatoes. His head was down, and he mumbled under his breath.
“Excuse us,” Mr. Redman said politely.
His head shot up and met my gaze. Without the darkness, I could see his scarred face clearer. His blue eyes pierced mine in challenge.
“It’s you,” I said stupidly. Of course, he knew it was him. I wanted to slap myself in the face.
“I wouldn’t be anyone else,” he said as his lips curled into a smirk. He put the potatoes on the concrete and rubbed his hand on his jeans. “Philip Quinn. Most people just call me Quinn.”
Mr. Redman shook his hand and introduced himself. “We’re with Camelot’s Community Services class. This is one of our students, Emerald Paquette.”
Quinn pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Mr. Wilkes is assigning stations now. Emerald, can you help me grab some things back here?”
I nodded and swallowed the knot in my throat. “Emmy.”
He smirked again. “Okay, Emmy.”
“Good, you help Mr. Quinn here, and I’ll check in with the rest of the group.” Mr. Redman smiled at each of us in turn. He strode through the doors and out of sight.
“You doing okay?” Quinn asked, nodding toward the bruise. “That looks nasty.”
I reached up and touched it, causing myself to flinch. “It throbs, but not as bad. I … uh…” I stepped closer to him, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I never got to thank you for helping me.”
“Any decent guy would’ve helped,” he said. “Did they arrest the jerk?”
I shook my head. The cops said they talked to Colin, but he had the entire lacrosse team lie for him. They claimed he had been with them at the time of the accident. They also claimed campus security cameras didn’t have anything on them. I found it hard to believe. The cops blew me off after that.
Obviously, I wasn’t reliable. My ass.
“Really? I gave them a good description. You knew his name.” Quinn’s eyebrows furrowed tight. “They should’ve done something.”
“They won’t do anything.” I stepped back, wanting to change the subject. “So, what do we need to do here?”
Quinn stared at me for a moment. I could tell he wanted to ask more questions, but maybe he sensed I was done talking about it.
“Over here,” he said, moving around me and pointing to the cans on the shelves. “We need to bring six of each to the kitchen.”
The cans were huge. I picked up one of the green beans, and it read six pounds. Taking my time, I stacked them in my arms, balancing three on one side and three on the other. My ballet skills came in handy with this load.
“You don’t need to try to carry all of them at once,” Quinn said with a smirk. He had also loaded his arms with six cans. But his arms were significantly larger than mine. “You look like you’re going to break under that weight.”
I grinned at him over the top of the cans. “I don’t break easily.”
“I can tell.” Quinn strode to the doors and kicked them open, holding them for me. “After you, ma’am.”
If I could have, I would’ve dropped into a curtsy, but my balance wasn’t quite back yet. I walked through the doors into the loud kitchen. My classmates were scattered around a huge table, each peeling and cutting a mountain of potatoes. Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Redman stood nearby.
Three other people were in the kitchen. One at the sinks, another at one of the stoves— stirring a giant pot while three others waited on the burners—and the third cut tomatoes, tossing them into a large bowl of lettuce.
“Here,” Quinn said. His arms flexed as he took the cans from me and put them on the counter, besides the ones he carried.
“Thanks.” I shook my arms and glanced around.
Mr. Wilkes had moved toward the rest of the class, showing Amber how to properly peel a potato. At least, I thought her name was Amber. If I was totally honest, I didn’t bother with too many people’s names. They reeked of privilege. Not that there was anything wrong with having money, I just couldn’t relate to them or their panic attacks if their favorite designer shirt was no longer in style.
A buzzer sounded near the stove, drawing my attention back to Quinn. He bent down to open the oven door. It was a nice view. I hadn’t had much of a chance to admire his athletic frame until now. His arms were taut with muscle, but they weren’t overly built. His broad shoulder reminded me of a swimmer’s build, but his tight ass was more like a dancer’s. He pulled out three trays of meat from the oven and moved with grace around the guy who continued to stir a pot on the stove. I imagined he could really tear up a dance floor.
“Emmy?” he said, motioning me to his side with a tilt of the head. I stood beside him as he handed me a large knife. “Can I trust you with this?”
I snorted at the laugh in his voice. “I can handle it.”
“Good,” he said with a smile. He picked up another knife and made a swift cut along the meat, leaving a round slice not too thick and not too thin. “Just like that.” He did it again. “Got it?”
I shook my head and cut three medallions of what I now knew to be pork loin. It didn’t look like pork when he pulled it from the oven. “Good enough?”
“You’ve done this before?” he asked with a r
aised eyebrow.
I nodded, but it wasn’t sharing is caring time. “A few times.”
“Finish them off then. I’ll get the beans going.” He sat a warming pan on the counter near me. “When you’re done, put them in here.”
It didn’t take long to slice all six pork loins, but my hands cramped by the time I was done. I stretched them, spreading my fingers wide to relieve the tightness, then grabbed a spatula and laid the pork into the warming pan. When I turned around, the class had finished with potatoes and moved on to carrots.
“Hey.” Quinn sidled up beside me with a large pot. “You wanna join them?”
“Not really.” I took the towel hanging off his arm and wiped my hands. “What else you got?”
Quinn’s smile was infectious. “Ever mash potatoes?”
“Only every time my grandmamma made them.” I turned toward him, matching his grin. “What do you want me to do with the pork?”
“I’ll get that.” He motioned with his head for me to follow him toward the stove. I stopped beside him again as he put the large pot on the burner. I couldn’t see over the top into the pot. “Um… maybe a footstool?”
“You have one?” I wasn’t short, and I wasn’t tall. I was average. But apparently, that meant short in this kitchen.
Quinn kicked one out from under a nearby table. “Yep.”
I stood on the small wooden stool, meeting his gaze head-on.
“Then, get to work!” Quinn smiled and handed me a potato masher.
I wrapped my fingers around the handle and, inadvertently, around his fingers. His skin was warm and calloused. It sent a little thrill up my arm. He quickly let go, and I almost dropped the potato masher.
“Sorry,” I said, dropping my embarrassed gaze. I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t on purpose, but I still should’ve moved my hand first. He was going to think I had Stockholm Syndrome. That didn’t sound right. He wasn’t my kidnapper. He was my rescuer. My white knight. Rolling my eyes, I focused on the task at hand. There was no such thing as White Knight Syndrome. I went to work on mashing the potatoes, doing whatever I could not to flirt with Quinn.
One of the other regulars— Joe, I think his name was—tipped a little milk in as I mashed. He continued to stir his own pot of delicious smelling soup.
“What all’s in there?” I needed to rest my arm from the repetitive physical labor.
Joe smiled. His front teeth were missing, and the rest weren’t in great shape. “Everything.”
I laughed at the twinkle in his eye.
“He’s not kidding,” Quinn said as he joined us. He leaned over Joe’s giant soup pot and inhaled. “Joe doesn’t hold anything back. His soup never tastes the same way twice.”
“That’s why people like it,” Joe said. He grinned and glanced at each of us before turning back to his soup.
Quinn inspected the potatoes. “They look good. Not to0 dry.”
“They need butter.” I stirred the lumpy potatoes with the masher and gave a few bigger chunks a good whack to break them into smaller bites. “And real milk. Not that evaporated stuff.”
“We use what gets donated.” Quinn’s smile fell. “Sometimes, it’s not enough. Sometimes, it’s on the verge of going bad. Sometimes, it’s already bad, and we have to throw it out. These guys don’t deserve this.”
“Nobody does,” I agreed.
Quinn turned his head and met my gaze. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
I was lost in the intensity of his deep blue eyes and swallowed hard. “Why wouldn’t I?”
We stared at one another until someone shouted his name. Quinn shook his head and leaned away. I drew back, too. He was like a magnet for some weird reason. I kept drifting toward him. The only things I knew about him were his compassion for others and his willingness to help strangers in need. Maybe I was suffering from some White Knight Syndrome type thing.
I finished the potatoes and joined the rest of the class as they began to take food to the dining room.
I avoided Quinn and this strange pull.
Chapter Three
I sat in front of my editor at the Camelot University Dispatch, twisting the papers in my hand. My article on the lacrosse team wasn’t ready. The sources had dried up. I just needed to find a new one. When Max took over at the end of last term, I’d brought him the scoop. He was losing patience at this point.
“I get it,” I said, a desperate plea in my voice. There was already a ton of work on the article, but I needed more corroboration, or it was just slinging mud. “We can’t print it without at least two more sources.”
“I need something by the end of the week, some progress, or I have to kill it.” Max steepled his fingers as he put his elbows on his desk. “I need you on other stories. What else are you working on?”
“The genealogy piece is almost done. I’m finishing up my family history. Most of it is written though.” I scooted to the edge of the cheap plastic chair, preparing to pitch a new idea. The problem was, I didn’t really have one. I drug out each word until something hit me. “What… about… a piece… highlighting the homeless shelter near campus?”
Max’s eyes widened. “There’s a homeless shelter near campus?”
“Yeah, didn’t you take Community Services?”
“Of course. We put together groceries and delivered them to the elderly.” Max’s hands dropped to his desk. “Did you go to this shelter?”
“Yesterday. You didn’t know about it? At all?” This was getting more and more interesting. Maybe the shelter was new. Or maybe this was the first year they had taken a class there.
“No,” Max said, adding a shake of his head for emphasis. “I’m curious how long it’s been there and why nobody on campus knew about it until now. Run with it and get back to me by Friday. We’ll decide then if there’s a story there. Get me the genealogy article by Thursday. And have a few more stories to pitch. You’re one of my best reporters, Em, but if you’re not reporting, you aren’t doing the paper any good. I’ll have to take you off features and put you somewhere else.”
It was a kick to the sternum. He was right, of course, but I’d been on features since my sophomore year. I wasn’t sure what else to write.
“How are the dance auditions going?” Max asked, pulling me out of the pit of despair I was spiraling down. “Good?”
I pointed to my face. “Not going at all since the concussion. I’m not cleared to dance yet, and I won’t be able to audition. There’s always next year, right?”
“What happened?” Max smelled a story. His left eye twitched whenever he thought he was onto something. Not that he was necessarily right all the time, like when he thought I had a crush on him, but his instincts were solid, especially in this case.
“Let’s just say I need to stick with the lacrosse team scandal and leave it at that.” I averted my gaze. If I looked Max in the eye, I’d cave. He had a way of making me talk, and the last thing I needed was more issues with Colin at the moment. “Please.”
“If we kill it on Friday, you’ll tell me?” His face was expressionless, but the slow simmer in his eyes told me he already knew.
“Maybe.” I faked a smile. “But you’re not killing this story. That’s a promise.”
I went to the studio after my meeting with Max. The rest of the class was already dressed in their light pink leotards, leggings, and ballet shoes. They stretched by the bar while I sat in the corner in my shorts and tennis shoes.
Madame Gutherie demanded I come to rehearsals and auditions, even if I wasn’t medically cleared to dance. I argued I could write a paper on the effects of modern dance on classical ballet, but that didn’t fly with her entirely. Instead, I got the pleasure of doing both. Good job, me.
The auditions for Coppélia were about to begin. It was similar to The Nutcracker, since it appealed to all ages, but with less of a following. I was going to audition for the lead. This was the first year I thought I had a shot. Instead, I would end up as a villager or one
of the dolls, and Heidi Younger and Ceci Wilkes would be Coppélia and Swanilda, the two biggest roles.
I didn’t want to watch.
Not that I didn’t like Heide or Ceci. They were okay, but ballet was competitive and none of us were really friends.
Madame Gutherie took everyone through warm-up stretches. I sat in the corner and pulled out my laptop. The brightness of the screen caused a throb to begin in my head, an aftereffect of the concussion. I darkened the screen and worked on my genealogy article. It was more personal than anything I’d ever written. Since I started down this path, I’d learned my great grandfather had been born of Roma and French ancestry. He did not pass along his family history, so it was lost. My grandmother had insisted it was true, but she didn’t have any proof. Now, with all the websites devoted to genealogy, everything was more out in the open.
By the time the three-hour audition was over, I’d finished the article and revised it. Once I got a Wi-Fi connection, I’d email it to Max.
“Emerald, a word please,” Madame Gutherie said with her thick accent. Nobody really knew where she came from, and nobody had ever been bold enough to ask. She was a fierce dancer in her time, but it was cut short by a knee injury.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, standing as erect as I could. Any slouching would earn a serious chew down. Her eyebrows furrowed, and I moved my feet into first position.
She nodded her approval. “I am concerned with your injury.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Every sentence she spoke required a response.
“You will be ready for the ballet,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied dutifully. There was no way I wouldn’t be ready. We had five weeks of rehearsals. The concussion symptoms would be gone in a week or so.
“You may go,” she said, pirouetting away with a grace I could only dream of possessing. The door closed, without a click, as she left the room.
Shaking my head, I wondered, and not for the first time this term, why I was at Camelot and why I was majoring in dance. It was a great university with a great dance program. I just wasn’t sure it was my calling anymore. My grandmother said I was a natural. Maybe I was, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed it. The constant rehearsals, the constant diet, the constant in-fighting, those were things I could live without. I loved being on stage though. Grandma always said I chased the spotlight.
