by Jan Freed
“She was meeting a boy secretly?” Jack’s alarm increased. “When?”
“Over the Christmas break. Phyllis said he looked too old to be in high school. Tall, black hair, drives a red car, something sporty looking.”
Bruce Logan, Jack identified grimly. “Phyllis Lowrey needs to get a life,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you tell me about this when it started?”
His mother’s eyes flashed defensively. “You were either buried in here working on that thing of yours, or sleeping late. I didn’t want to bother you. Phyllis said she never saw them once school started again, so I let it drop.” Her chin came up at Jack’s aggrieved sigh. “You know Kate never listens to me, anyway. I do the best I can.”
Not trusting himself to touch that one, Jack headed for the kitchen, his mother at his heels.
He’d taught Bruce the year before and flunked his spoiled lazy ass. The kid had plenty of money and—rumor had it—weed to burn, but not an ounce of responsibility or self-discipline. It was a good bet he was using Kate to settle his score with Jack. First by eating lunch with his sister right under Jack’s nose, which he’d allowed to save Kate embarrassment. Now by supplying her with a couple of joints, which Jack damn well wouldn’t allow. He braced himself for a scene.
Kate was sitting at the dinette table, her head propped on one hand, her expression studiously bored. Her long hair appeared uncombed and unwashed. She wore an oversize black T-shirt with some dead-looking guy on the front.
His mother nagged Kate constantly these days about her sloppy clothes. He secretly agreed. But he’d tried to reserve his energy for more important battles. Now, he wondered if maybe he’d had his head in the sand again.
Without preamble, he held up the lumpy cigarettes. “Where did you get these.”
She shot him a surly look. “I found them under my pillow. The toke fairy left ’em.”
His heart twisted. Where was the baby sister who’d tagged after him worshipfully? “I’m waiting.”
Her mouth thinned. She looked away.
“I told you, Jack,” his mother said, fingering the embroidered bluebonnets on her white shirt placket. “She doesn’t care who she embarrasses or hurts. Thank God her father’s not alive. He’d be so ashamed.”
Jack didn’t miss the flicker of emotion in his sister’s eyes. “That’s not true, Mother.”
“Forget it, Jack,” Kate said bitterly. “She’ll never change her mind about me. It’s pointless to try.”
“All I know is your brother never hid drugs in his room,” Vera snapped, drawing her children’s attention. “Of course, he was a star on the basketball team and wouldn’t have done anything so stupid as pollute his body. Maybe if you’d made the volleyball team—” She broke off at the screech of chair legs against linoleum.
Kate leaped up. “I can’t listen to this anymore. Nothing I do is ever perfect enough, smart enough, responsible enough—you name it. I’ll never be enough like Jack to please you, Mom, not if I tried for a hundred years.” Her defiant gaze met her mother’s and clung for a tense moment.
Tell Kate you love her, Mother.
“Seems to me like you never try at all,” Vera said.
Kate looked away, her slow self-deprecating smile painful to witness. She raised her palms and shook her head. “I’m outta here.”
“Kate, wait!” Jack called to her disappearing back.
Seconds later, a loud slam rattled her bedroom door frame.
Jack uncurled his fist and examined the joints, crushed and pungent, in his hand. He hadn’t confirmed where Kate had gotten them. Or announced the punishment for her accepting them. She would have to be grounded, and forbidden from going anywhere near Bruce Logan. But Jack didn’t have the heart to lay into her now.
He met his mother’s gaze. A maelstrom of emotion darkened her eyes. She turned and walked to a large mixing bowl on the counter. Cooking had always been her joy...and her escape.
“I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that,” she said, adding a cup of walnuts to the bowl. “If I sound tough, it’s because I want her to live up to her potential.” She picked up a spoon and lightly tossed the bowl’s contents. “We’re having Waldorf salad with our roast chicken tonight. Oh, and there’s some mail for you over by the bread box.”
He didn’t have the heart to lay into his mother, now, either. She’d loved Brian Morgan with all her soul. When he’d died, it had taken a year before she could function normally for a full twenty-four hours. Medication and cooking controlled her depression these days. But he could see her hands trembling. His concerns would have to wait for another time.
He walked to the sink and ground the two joints in the garbage disposal. What would it feel like to get high just because it felt good? With no thought of who might be affected by your actions, or what would happen to you later? The thought of such...such freedom almost made him dizzy. He washed and dried his hands, then went through his mail.
Bill, junk mail, renewal notice for ScreenWriter magazine, junk mail, bill—“The Greenbloom Agency” leaped out at him from a return address.
Jack’s heart slammed against his ribs in great battering ram beats.
His forehead went clammy.
This was it!
Jeez, his hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t get the damn thing open.
He finally ripped it all to hell and unfolded a somewhat mangled letterhead. His gaze skimmed frantically over the body copy, backtracking to reread two sentences again. Then again.
I believe your screenplay Free Fall has great potential and would like to represent you on the project. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss...
The words blurred. Jack closed his eyes and drew in a deep dizzying breath.
He’d wondered how it felt to get high with no thought for anyone else. Well, now he knew.
It felt pretty friggin’ wonderful!
CHAPTER SIX
BY LUNCHTIME Monday, Sarah had convinced herself Jack had only shown the natural enthusiasm of a teacher for both a favorite subject and an informed student. But her stomach jumped a little as she entered the noisy cafeteria.
He was in here somewhere. She would be cool, remote and disinterested when she saw him. Heading for the deli line, irritatingly long because she was late, she scanned the room for his tall lean form....
There! By the pizza line. As if sensing her stare, he looked up into her eyes. His gaze sharpened. Intense. Curious.
Suspicious?
All sound faded. Only a muffled roar in her ears remained. When he looked away, she released her breath slowly. The clink of utensils and yammer of voices returned. Blinking, Sarah yanked her gaze straight ahead and moved into the deli line.
Well, gee, she’d handled that coolly. If she were any more disinterested, she’d need CPR. Taking several deep breaths, she managed to calm her runaway heartbeat.
Why had he looked at her like that? As if she were a doe in a rifle scope, examined, then found unworthy of shooting. Now that she thought of it, his dismissive look was more insulting than Bruce Logan’s leer had been. The macho kid’s lack of respect meant nothing, whereas for some bizarre reason, Jack’s did.
Shaking off her uneasiness, she shuffled forward with the rest of the slow-moving students, spotting Elaine, who smiled and waved from their table. They’d shared a lot about themselves since that day Sarah had rejected Wendy’s table in favor of sitting with Elaine.
So much about the girl reminded Sarah of herself at the same age. The good grades. The taunts about her weight. The unhappily married parents who reduced, instead of bolstered, her self-esteem. Elaine was quiet and shy, however, whereas Sarah had wisecracked her way through pain. Sting ’em first before they sting you, had been her motto. She’d never been any teacher’s pet.
After joining WorldWide Public Relations, she’d adopted a wiser, more discreet attitude. One that had promoted her steadily within the organization. For six years she’d been savvy, circumspect and po
litically correct.
Now, as Sarina, she didn’t seem to care who she angered in defense of her beliefs. It was a great feeling. Better than se—Well, it was great, anyway. And she was probably overrating the other. One and a half years tended to exaggerate the memory of most things...most sensations...
...Like the weight of a masculine body. Heavy, but welcome. Pressing her deep into a mattress. Warm bare skin. Hard bunched muscles. Long blunt-tipped fingers stroking slowly at first, building exquisite tension, then moving faster, keeping pace with her heartbeat. Whiskers rasping against her flushed cheeks, her tender breasts, her sensitive belly. A tousled dark head lifting up, hazel eyes burning—Sarah drew in a shocked breath, then glanced furtively at the boys behind her in line. No snickering looks. Thank heavens.
Where had those thoughts come from? Certainly not from any encounter with Mark or, for that matter, any other of her limited sexual experiences. Plucking up a bit of shiny brown fabric from between her breasts, she fanned the material in and out. Her shirt and jeans suddenly felt too hot. Too tight. Because of the humid air, of course, heavy with the smells of burgers, chicken nuggets and soggy vegetables.
Not because of a fantasy her abstinence had prompted, or the convenient leading man her brain had supplied. The cafeteria was always at least ten degrees warmer than the classrooms. She complained every lunch period. Today was no different. No different at all.
Finally, the line took her up to the lunch counter. Sarah made her selections, slid her tray next to the register and handed over her money.
The student cashier met her eyes and cleared his throat. “Don’t you, uh, get tired of eating turkey sandwiches?”
She blinked. “You’ve noticed what I get for lunch?”
A flush evened out his complexion, spotted with a teen’s worst nightmare: acne. He looked down at the open cash drawer. “You always get the same thing. I was, uh, just curious.”
“Hey, uhhh, you at the register,” the boy behind Sarah called out. “Hurry it up. She doesn’t, uhhh, want to talk to you.” His three buddies—the last people in line—snickered obnoxiously.
The cashier’s face grew even redder. He fumbled in the register drawer for coins.
Sarah threw a killing glance at the jerk on her right before extending her upturned palm for change. “I’m Sarina Davis. What’s your name?”
He reached out and shook her hand. “Ro-ger.” His voice cracked into falsetto on the last syllable.
The other boys hooted. “She wants her money, you idiot,” one of them jeered.
Snatching back his hand, Roger dug once more in the cash drawer and extended her change. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Sarah smiled warmly.
Coins dropped beyond her fingertips to the red-andblack tiled floor. They both bent down to gather the money and knocked heads.
“What a spaz!”
“Way to go, pizza face.”
“That’s the only way you’ll get a girl to lie down.”
Morons, Sarah thought, grabbing the last twirling quarter. Roger’s parents were morons, too. Modern dermatology had virtually eliminated acne. There was absolutely no reason for their child to suffer unnecessary teasing.
She rose with Roger and winked on the way up. “Actually, I don’t get tired of turkey sandwiches. But I wish they sold fresher apples. Maybe they could put out some oranges once in a while, too? Do you know who I can talk to about that?”
“Uh.” Roger glanced at the other boys and back. “I guess I can tell Mr. Crowley. He sets out the food and stuff.”
“Would you? That’d be great. So, Roger, this seems like an interesting job. How long have you been a cashier?”
He swallowed hard. “Since I was a sophomore. I’m a junior now.”
“You’re kidding. You look more like a senior. Have you always worked at the deli counter, or have you—”
“Hey, man, what’s going on, here?” the boy on her right protested.
Sarah turned. “It’s called a con-ver-sa-tion,” she enunciated slowly. “Something you haven’t mastered beyond juvenile insults, yet. And you were wrong, before. I do want to talk to Roger.”
“Well we wanna eat sometime today.”
“You wanna eat? You apologize to Roger,” Sarah stated.
“Yeah, right.”
Sarah smiled coldly, then faced the cashier. “So, Roger, what electives are you taking this semester? I should’ve signed up for art—”
“Listen, bitch, you can’t hold us up like this. Move it!”
A bony adolescent shoulder bumped her hard enough to make her stumble. She whirled on the balls of her feet, her hands upraised.
The boy cackled. “What are you gonna do, Grasshopper, some kung fu shit?”
“Cut the crap, Greg,” the last kid in line called out. “Quit bein’ so callous.”
“Callous?”
Amazed, Sarah lowered her hands.
“Yeah, callous. Quit bein’ an asshole,” Greg’s buddy defined. “It’s a West Coast word, right, Sarina?”
She choked back a startled laugh. “Right.”
“Is there a problem here, Roger?” a deep voice rumbled near her left ear.
“Uh...no, Mr. Morgan,” the cashier said. “There’s no problem.”
Sarah twisted and looked up. Way up. She swallowed hard.
Jack had grown taller over the weekend. And his shoulders had broadened, too. They looked impressively wide beneath a boring white Oxford shirt. She inhaled the scent of Old Spice, which—granted—was sort of old-fashioned, but was growing on her fast. It didn’t remind her at all of her grandfather any more.
“Are you waiting for change, Sarina?” Jack asked.
Those thick dark lashes of his could sell mascara with a single blink.
“Sarina?”
“Hmm?
“You’re holding up the line. Are you waiting for change?”
It was a curse, having such pale skin. “No, no change. Just an apology.”
His expression darkening, he glowered over her shoulder. “Is that so?” He obviously hadn’t seen the earlier scuffle.
She turned to the boys in line, who seemed to have lost their swaggering cockiness along with their voices. “Yes, but we don’t need to bother you with the details, do we guys? A simple ‘I’m sorry, Roger’ will do.”
Jack looked surprised. “Roger?”
“That’s right.” Capturing Greg’s gaze, she deliberately rubbed the shoulder he’d shoved. “Like I said, there’s no sense boring you with specifics when all these guys need to say is ‘I’m sorry, Roger.”’
Four gazes dragged reluctantly to the cashier. Four voices mumbled, “Sorry, Roger,” with lukewarm sincerity.
Sarah nodded at them sweetly, then gathered up her tray. “Bye, Roger. See you tomorrow.”
“Uh, bye, Sarina.” He smiled for the first time, revealing a mouth full of silver.
“See you in fifth period, Mr. Morgan.” She glanced up. He had that hunter-looking-through-a-scope expression on his face, again.
Turning, she made herself walk away slowly, despite the crosshairs centered between her shoulder blades. Oh, God, did he suspect something? If Jack found out her little secret, he’d pull the trigger and blow her cover for sure.
Sarah arrived at her lunch table feeling as if she’d hit the safety of the woods. She set down her tray amid greetings from six kids who were outcasts to the rest of the school. But at this table, they were simply friends.
Sinking gratefully into her chair, she smiled all around. There was Beto, the court jester. Fred, the geeky computer nerd. Janice, the six-foot painfully shy girl in Sarah’s gym class. Derek, the loudmouth, whose habit of blurting out everybody’s business could be funny or annoying, depending on whether or not the business was yours.
“Something is wrong,” a soft voice on Sarah’s right spoke. “Did you get in trouble with Mr. Morgan?”
And then there was Elaine. How anyone could not see this girl’s inner and outer
beauty was a mystery to Sarah. She met her young friend’s perceptive gaze. “Nah, he was only asking about the holdup at the register.”
Beto pointed an unpeeled banana across the table. “Hand over da pastrami on rye—and nobody gets hoit,” he said in a low gruff mobster voice. He basked in several chuckles.
“Don’t encourage him,” Fred scolded, pushing up his glasses. “You know he’ll only keep going.”
“Your coleslaw—or your life,” the gruff voice continued.
Fred rolled his magnified eyes. “Here we go.”
“Hands oiff da garlic dill, wise guy, only unmarked pickles in da bag. Ya tink I’m stupid, or sumpin’?”
“Yeah, yeah, enough already,” Fred pleaded, but he grinned while he said it.
“My cousin Randy was arrested for indecent exposure in a grocery store,” Derek piped up. In the startled silence, he crunched potato chips.
Fred recovered first. “Thanks for sharing that, Derek.”
Hiding her smile, Sarah took a big bite of her sandwich.
“Aunt Doris says she can never show her face in the produce section of Krogers again. That’s where Randy did it. Unzipped his pants, I mean.”
Sarah swallowed her half-chewed bite with an audible gulp. “Der—”
“Right next to a lady picking out fruit. She might not have screamed if Randy hadn’t asked her to squeeze him instead of the cantaloupe. That was dumb.”
Half laughing, half groaning with the others, Sarah shook her head.
Beto flung his partially eaten banana inside a paper bag. “Jeez, Derek, do you mind?”
“What’d I say?”
Sarah met the blond-haired boy’s ingenuous blue eyes. “Do you suppose your aunt and cousin would want strangers to know about something that obviously embarrasses them?” They’d talked a little before about respecting people’s privacy. “You’ve gotta think before you speak.”
He flushed guiltily.
“It’s okay, Derek,” Janice said. “I usually think too much before speaking, and then I end up not saying anything at all.”
