Odette C. Bell - Ladies in Luck - An Unlucky Reunion

by Odette C. Bell

  Denver paused. As he did, his lips thinned out, and one side tugged down in a half frown. “What kind of an argument?”

  “I don’t know; I didn’t really hear. I guess they were on their phone or something, and thought the back of the motel was a private place for a rant.” I shrugged my shoulders, but I was sure to keep one eyebrow raised the entire time. “Now, if you’re done here, you can either introduce yourself, or maybe I should get out of your way so you can continue to stalk the backyard of the motel, looking for strangers to relentlessly question.” I flashed him a hard smile.

  It was a strange smile too, but purposefully so. It was neither totally sarcastic, nor entirely friendly. It was somewhere in between. It was a move designed to get someone’s attention and to keep it.

  It worked. Denver stared at me, his eyebrows crumpling. “Do I know you? Are you here for the reunion?”

  I waited for a few seconds, then shrugged. “Yes you do, and yes I am. But as I said—”

  Before I could try to insult the guy again, his eyebrows just crumpled further. Then he clicked his fingers as a spark of recognition lit up his eyes. “You’re Nancy, right? Have you died your hair?”

  I snorted. Big time. And I didn’t care that it was a seriously unattractive noise.

  Nancy was an ice-blonde. She was a good few feet taller than I was. She had legs that went on forever and a laugh that could shatter glass.

  Denver had also dated her for several months during our senior year, before she’d unceremoniously moved on to his brother.

  “No,” I let my lips form slowly around the word. I had no idea whether Denver was taking the piss or whether all that high school football had resulted in lasting brain damage.

  “Stacy then?” he tried again.

  Stacy was a bombshell. She was also brunette, like me. That was the only similarity we shared, however. She’d been one of the most popular girls in all of high school, and had only played second fiddle to Nancy herself.

  I wasn’t sure if I should be dumbfounded or flattered. Was Denver playing with me, or did he really have such a shoddy memory for detail?

  “Wrong again?” he questioned when I didn’t slap my hands together and compliment his detective skills in the strong southern drawl Stacy was famous for.

  I nodded, fixing my shawl as another wind came in off the pine trees.

  “Then you’re going to have to help me out here. I swear you look familiar—I just can’t place you.”

  I wanted to string this out; I wanted Denver to go through every girl in high school until he realized I was Patti, but I didn’t have the time. Plus, it was freezing out here.

  “Patti Smith,” I said with completely no fanfare. Then I passed him and proceeded to make my way back along the wall.

  He turned, expression crumpling. Then I saw it: just a dance of humor lifting up his cheeks. “You mean the girl who lost her pants at the football game?”

  Though I was walking past him, I stopped. I turned sharply. I set my hands on my hips, and I unashamedly looked Denver Scott up and down. I wanted him to see I was appraising him.

  “Yes,” I answered, my voice strong and without a hint of embarrassment, “I showed all of our senior class my polka-dot underpants. I did other things in high school, but let’s face it, that was most certainly my finest moment.”

  I gave no hint that I felt ashamed.

  Because I didn’t.

  I recounted that story to my friends, not to therapists. I certainly didn’t wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of going to school without any pants on.

  I’d moved on.

  Now I was going to move on again. Turning from him, I gave a short wave over my shoulder. “If you’re done questioning me, stranger, I’m cold and I’m going back to my car.”

  “Denver, I’m Denver Scott.”

  “I know that,” I answered simply as I finally made it back around the side of the motel.

  I headed to my car purposefully.

  I half expected him to follow me. He didn’t. Instead he stayed around the back of the motel building. Perhaps he was being a good citizen and picking up my blue pin to throw in the bin.

  I didn’t dwell on it, and neither did I look back. Instead I got in my car, turned up the heating, and headed into town. I had a couple of things to do before the reunion.

  As I went to the drug store, grocers, and had a cup of tea at a little café with a fine view of the mountains, I thought about the past. I reminisced about high school, Denver, Nancy, Stacy, even the disastrous football game.

  From the flash of Nancy I had seen last night, I could tell she hadn’t changed. Her high heels had gotten higher, and I fancied she had more than a few conquests under her fake designer belt to add to the Scott brothers, but she would still be the same.

  As for Wetlake itself, my short walk around town had confirmed it hadn’t changed a bit. There were still the same old stores, same old buildings, and same old weather. Even the fashion and the cars looked the same. This place was stuck in a time bubble, like a fragment of history that would never give way to the present.

  Apparently some things never changed.

  Some things did.

  Me. I was now completely different.

  No longer small and insignificant, I’d made a life for myself. The people and embarrassments that had tormented my teenage years were now nothing but memories.

  It was in this reminiscent mood that I finally arrived at the reunion.

  If I’d been searching the town and my old classmates for any sign of change, I would soon realize I’d been looking in the wrong place.

  In the space of the next few hours, my life would change. Abruptly, violently, and rather horribly.

  Chapter 3

  I pulled up to my old high school with a knot in my stomach. It wasn’t nerves, it wasn’t excitement, and it wasn’t hunger.

  It was an old feeling. A faint memory from my teenage years.

  I’d hated this place.

  I’d really hated it. Every hour spent in the yard, every minute spent in class. I’d barely had a single friend, but I’d had my fair share of tormentors.

  Now I was back. Voluntarily.

  Undoing my seatbelt slowly, I took the time to force a slow and careful breath.

  Then I immediately got out of the car.

  This memory and this feeling were old.

  I’d since replaced them with experiences richer and more rewarding.

  To prove that to myself, I confidently grabbed up my purse, closed the door, locked the car, and walked across the car park.

  I didn’t flinch as I glanced up at the school, looking everything but glorious with its ’70s brick cladding and brown roof tiles.

  Other people had already arrived, and I joined a steady stream of thirty-year-olds as we headed for the lawn.

  Everyone was staring around at everyone else, pointing out people they knew, hiccupping with laughter, mumbling, and generally looking entirely awkward.

  I hadn’t said a word yet; I was too busy watching. With wide sweeps of my gaze, I tried to pick up everything. From the look of the yard, to the dresses, to the suits, to the slate-gray sky above.

  We all made our way out towards the lawn. It was impossible to miss where the reunion was being held, because there were that many balloons, streamers, and posters that it would take a team of fifty a week to pick all the glitter and sparkle out of the grass.

  There were several long tables set out on the lawn, covered in white linen tablecloths that were flapping gently in the breeze. Set on top were name cards, old photos from our senior year, piles of the yearbooks, and cheap Wetlake High School memorabilia.

  Presumably we were meant to wander up to the tables, introduce ourselves, grab our nametags, and then mingle.

  In fact, there was a tall, very smiley woman standing behind the tables waving people over. She was in a bright-pink dress with a set of heels to match and lipstick the color of red candy.

 
She was beyond cheery. She’d tipped right over into mania.

  I recognized her at once. Annabelle. She’d been the one to organize the reunion, and that did not surprise me in the least. She’d probably been planning this thing since we’d all left high school, and was likely already organizing our next one. She was the kind of woman who scrapbooked everything: every photo, every ticket to a concert, every letter from a friend. During high school, she’d been on every single committee and had joined every single club. She gave a new meaning to the term sociable.

  Though I wanted to ignore her and head straight to the table holding the alcohol, she caught my eye and practically shrieked at me to come over.

  She knew my name. She knew I was Patti Smith. She’d tracked me down, after all.

  “Patti, Patti, I’m so glad you could come! You said you couldn’t! But I printed out a nametag for you just in case,” Anabelle waved her hands around excitedly and loped around the table, her pink stilettos sinking into the soft grass with every step.

  Without warning, she threw herself at me and wrapped me up in the most enthusiastic hug I’d ever received. She even bounced me up and down until finally peeling back, squeezing her shoulders up, and grinning at me with as much tooth showing as a chimpanzee.

  “Annabelle,” I straightened up my shawl and tried not to look too shocked.

  “I’ve read all your books,” she suddenly admitted, taking a step back as she grinned again, “and I can’t believe you’re the same person.”

  I didn’t know how to react, so I settled for an unsure smile. “Well, I am. I can draw up some dental records if there’s any doubt.”

  After an awkward pause, Annabelle burst into peals of excruciatingly loud laughter.

  “Yeah… ,” I tried to join in, but my chuckles petered out quickly. “How many people have you told that I am—”

  “Rich and really successful?” Annabelle winked and elbowed me lightly. “Oh, I’m leaving that for later. You know, today is only the first get together. Just a chance for a chat. The main event is tomorrow night. Then we’ll be handing out the awards. I had them engraved myself,” she winked conspiratorially, as if engraving was not something one admitted to in public.

  “Awards?”

  “Oh yes. Of course. It will be just like the senior prom. Except instead of people guessing who will be the most likely to succeed, we already know,” Annabelle laughed again. Really loudly.

  “Oh,” my voice shook a little, “oh… that’s… great,” I managed through a swallow.

  “I know,” Annabelle grabbed my shoulder and squeezed it as she offered another rabid grin. Then she became distracted by her phone ringing, and waved at me one last time before loping off again in her stilettos.

  I winced and let a slow breath of air through my locked teeth.

  Great.

  The last thing I wanted to do was stand up in front of my whole senior class and be forced to make a speech about how rich and successful I’d become. I hated elitism, and the last thing I liked to do was draw attention to my wealth.

  Perhaps if I left now, no one would find out.

  Before I could turn and rush back to my car, I realized there was someone behind me.

  Denver Scott.

  He walked past me and grabbed his nametag. Hoping he hadn’t overheard Annabelle’s chatter, I went to leave. Just as I yanked my gaze off him and that terribly rugged stubble, he cleared his throat.

  “Patti,” he handed me my nametag.

  I hesitated, and then I took it off him. After a long pause, I managed a barely audible “thank you’.

  “You thinking of ditching this already?” he asked, very perceptively.

  I cleared my throat and shifted my shawl around, still holding the nametag awkwardly.

  “You know you’re meant to put that on; it’ll help people remember who you are.” Denver fixed his own nametag to his shirt, managing to attach it neatly without even looking. “Well?” he prompted when I didn’t react immediately.

  Who was this guy? Where did he get off prying into my business and asking so many damn questions? I mean, I knew who he was, but who had he become? The Denver Scott I remembered just swanned around being good at sport and dating all the hot girls of Wetlake.

  “So, rich and successful, ha? What exactly do you do, Patti?” he continued, undaunted. It clearly didn’t matter to him that I hadn’t said a word and had mutely accepted the nametag without a hint of enthusiasm. He was steamrolling ahead with his questions as if he pried into people’s lives for a living.

  I grated my teeth together. “You heard that?” I asked carefully.

  He nodded. “Annabelle ain’t exactly quiet. Oh, by the way, I’m Denver Scott. We had fourth-period English together with Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” He tapped his nametag as he introduced himself and then offered me his hand.

  One of my eyebrows inched up. “I know who you are. We’ve already established this at the back of our motel.”

  “Yeah, and you also established that I had two options: introduce myself to you or move on. So this is me introducing myself.”

  I held his gaze and then finally deemed to hold his hand as he did all the shaking.

  He had a warm, firm grip, and the kind of strong, large fingers that could wrap right around your hand tightly.

  I had a thing for hands. Hell, I had a thing for arms, necks, jaws, eyes, and backs too. Right now I was well placed to appreciate that Mr. Denver Scott sure had nice hands.

  I was allowing myself to get distracted.

  “Right, now I’ve introduced myself, you probably want to know what I’ve been doing since high school, right?” he kept bowling ahead, still not caring that I had barely said a word to him. “I’m a Federal Agent. I live in Washington, in a really shitty apartment, but it’s close enough to a nice park. I like running, hiking, and being on the water. I’ve never been married, and I ain’t got no kids. I do, however, have an enormous Great Dane called Dane.”

  It was a lot of information to take in all at once. I felt like we were on a speed date.

  “This is where you jump in and tell me all about your life, Patti Smith. Also, you still haven’t put your nametag on.”

  I laughed. I had to. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or if Denver had gotten really anal.

  He was a Federal Agent, so perhaps it was the latter.

  Suddenly his behavior behind the motel no longer seemed as strange, neither did his constant barrage of questions. Denver Scott appeared so practiced at prying into people’s lives, because he was.

  A Federal Agent, ha?

  “Patti?” he prompted again.

  “Fine, damn, you don’t allow a girl a moment of silence, do you? You want to know all about me? Well there isn’t much to tell.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Except that you clearly left Wetlake, completely reinvented yourself, and have returned a new, rich, and successful woman. So what do you do?”

  “You don’t stop, do you? I see you question people for a living, but I’m not in trouble now, am I?”

  “You’re pretty good at dodging questions, Patti. Or would you prefer I call you Pat?”

  “I don’t remember you being this pushy, Denver.” I was still holding onto my nametag, thumbing the edge of the plastic and tracing my fingernails over the pin at the back.

  He laughed again. It was a brusque, quick move, as if the man simply didn’t have the time to find anything too funny. “I find pushy gets things done.”

  My lips crinkled in with a very specific kind of smile. “What makes you think you’re going to get to do me?”

  Yep. I actually said that.

  Patti Smith, the awkward girl from high school, had gone away and become spunky.

  Denver coughed quickly.

  Before he could say anything or heaven forbid start to blush, a man walked up behind him and clapped him squarely on the shoulder. “Denver!”

  Denver turned, and it gave me just the opportunity I was looking for. Ducking tow
ards the table, I tucked my nametag down underneath someone else’s, and then promptly scooted off.

  During high school I would have given anything to talk to Denver, anything. In fact, I remembered making silent pacts with God, the Devil, Hecate, my ceiling, or anything that would listen. I’d been prepared to give up my cassette player and my electric green wristband for a bit of attention from the finest Scott brother. Now here I was, running away from the guy.

  Before I could run all the way back to my car to hightail it out of Wetlake, I began to mellow. My mother’s words started echoing in my ears, and I soon became fascinated by the people around me. With a little bit of effort, I could recognize them all. Some had become fat; some were now thin. Some looked unchanged, and some looked like they were already fifty.

  All too soon I found myself grabbing up a wine and chatting to a girl who’d flunked out of chemistry, only to go on to be an astrophysicist. Then I met a couple who had been high-school sweethearts and now had five children, with a sixth on the way.

  I met teachers, nurses, stay-at-home mums and dads, chefs, architects, shop assistants, and even a news anchor I’d vaguely seen on TV.

  Despite my assertions otherwise, my classmates clearly had changed. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d grown up, landed a job, and moved on from the football game.

  I mingled for a few hours until I found myself pinned in a corner by a rather ruddy man who’d had a few too many beers.

  “Where’s your nametag?” he slurred my way as he gestured at me over the top of his beer.

  “I burnt it and buried it in the yard,” I quipped dryly.

  He looked confused, and then proceeded to peer at me, narrowing his bloodshot eyes in what looked like a concerted effort at concentration.

  He would be lucky if he didn’t strain something, but all too soon, his eyes widened with recognition. “Hey, hold on, aren’t you that girl from high school?”

  I took a long moment to look from the left to the right, waiting for him to clarify.

  He didn’t; he simply took another swill of his beer then shrugged his shoulders. “Well?” he prompted me.