by Askew, Kim
“I think Miss Kingston has learned a very tragic lesson about hanging out with the wrong crowd, isn’t that right, Skye?” said Schaeffer. I cleared my throat but said nothing, stunned that the conversation had just taken this tamer turn. I held my breath and hoped that this was almost over.
Chief Towers flipped through a few more pages on his clipboard and gave me a grim glance, as if I’d just completely wasted his time.
“Well, I suppose that will be all, then,” he said.
“Thank you very much, Skye,” said Principal Schaeffer. “Please return to your sixth-period class. Miss Hen will write a note excusing your absence.”
“That’s it?” I said, confused. “You’re finished with me?”
“Thank you for your assistance.”
Was that it? Did I just run the gauntlet unharmed? I breathed in deeply, grabbed my messenger bag, and walked numbly out of the office, only to momentarily freeze on the other side of the door. Beth was in the same chair in the reception area where I’d been seated before. Why did she always elicit the same startled reaction from me? As I waited for Miss Hen to fill out my absentee form, I glanced at Beth again out of the corner of my eye. She was clutching the oversized designer purse she used for a book bag against her torso with both arms. Her legs were crossed and her left ankle boot tapped the air in a nervous, impatient twitch.
“You can go in now, Beth,” said Miss Hen, reaching up to hand me my pass. As Beth slid by me, I wished, for one second, that I could telepathically tell her not to be frightened and that everything would be okay. But, really, why should I tell her that? She was the cause of this whole thing! Accident or not, she knew the truth about Duncan’s death, and maybe if it all came to light, I could stop feeling so twisted up in my gut every night before I fell asleep. Besides, now that Craig was being such a jerk to me, I was getting mighty close to not caring whether he ended up in trouble anyway. Hiding Craig’s cell was the last thing I would do to save his butt, and he would never even know I did it. Why did I care what happened to some cute boy who once deigned to give me the time of day? He wasn’t my problem anymore, and Beth shouldn’t be, either. The police had no reason to involve me any further in their investigation now that I’d navigated their murky line of questioning with my conscience intact. Things were going to be okay after all, at least where I was concerned. And someday, sooner or later, the nagging feeling in the back of my brain would take up residence somewhere else. It just had to.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I Have Almost Forgot the Taste of Fears
IF YOU ASK ME, there’s something creepy about a talking doll, but my baby brother was officially enraptured with Tickle Me Elmo. He sat on our living room floor for the better part of Christmas morning, heaving uncontrollable belly laughs at the red Muppet’s giggling antics. I knew I was going to have to find a way to deactivate Elmo’s battery after a few more hours of this, but in the meantime, I, too, was cracking up watching Ollie shriek and bounce and clap his hands as if he had never in his short life seen anything so hilarious. Perhaps he hadn’t.
My mom padded from the kitchen back into the living room in her candy-cane covered flannel peejays, her ceramic “Trust me, I’m a med student” mug newly refilled with coffee. She handed the cup good-naturedly over to Dad, who was sitting on the sofa. Then she plopped down on the couch and nestled right up against him. What in the hell was going on with these two? This overt cuddling was not like them, at least, not in my recent memory. I turned my head from them, not wanting to make them feel self-conscious lest I ruin the moment.
They seemed atypically happy with each other in the last few days, out of nowhere rocking a Norman Rockwell vibe. Mom’s college classes were suspended until after the winter break, so she was home more, and she’d even baked a pecan pie, which came out a little soggy, but still. I couldn’t account for the sudden turnaround. I’d never spoken to her about the night I’d discovered her not working at the Regent, but now, maybe it was a moot point.
I would have investigated their newfound reconnection a little further were I not so distracted by the laptop I had unwrapped earlier this morning from “Santa.”
“Dad installed Photoshop on it for you,” Mom said, winking at me.
“Well, I know my young Skye-walker still uses film,” Dad said, “but I figured maybe it would come in handy for you at some point. We can look for a sale on a scanner/printer in the Sunday circulars and find a good deal.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love it.”
“It’s only a used one. But it’s not too old, and a buddy of mine from work loaded it up with software.”
“It’ll be great for you to take with you to school next year,” Mom said.
“Oh, hey, about that,” I said, perking up even more, “I’ve applied for a couple of scholarships that the guidance counselor at school thinks I’ve got a shot at. I mean, I’m not getting my hopes up or anything, but you never know.”
I’d officially completed all my college applications and submitted them well before the deadline, even managing to write what I thought was a pretty decent personal essay despite everything that was weighing on me these last few weeks. I was finally starting to feel like I could breathe again having gotten that off my plate. Now, the waiting game.
“Once the flood of acceptance letters start rolling in we can sit down and figure out the finances,” said Dad, who glanced at my mom and beamed. “If we can send one Kingston beauty to college, we can send two, right?”
Mom reached over and tousled his hair, which was only just beginning to gray around the temples.
“That reminds me, Knick-Knack-Patty-Whack,” he said, fiddling with a puzzle of interlocking chains that had been one of his stocking-stuffers. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Back to the grindstone — or should I say, ticket booth — for you.”
I looked up from checking out my different screensaver options and watched for Mom’s reaction. She bit her lower lip.
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you. Rodney had to cut my hours. I’m down to just Thursdays and Fridays now. With all the studying I’m having to do for school, it seemed like it was for the best. Besides,” she said with a grin, “I’m looking forward to spending some more evenings at home with my family!”
I glanced back down at my laptop, not sure what to think. Was she lying now, or telling the truth? Maybe this was the completely innocent explanation for why she wasn’t at the Regent the night I dropped in. But wouldn’t she have been at home if that were the case? It was also possible that I was right all along about her having an affair, and she’d only just decided to end it. Regardless, she appeared to be trying to turn over a new leaf with regard to Dad and us. In typical ignorance-is-bliss fashion, I decided it was no longer worth worrying about. Everything in my life was looking up, and that sort of good news deserved a fitting tribute.
“Who wants pancakes!?!” I said, closing my laptop and jumping to my feet.
“Kye! Pantake!” answered Ollie, adorably.
“Chocolate chips in mine, please!” Mom said, getting up to join me. As we shuffled through the detritus of giftwrap and entered the kitchen, I could still hear Elmo erupting into spasmodic fits of glee in the living room. Maybe I wasn’t quite so demonstrative, but in a weird way, I could kind of relate to the little guy.
• • •
Early the next evening, we packed up the plethora of baby gear associated with taking Ollie out of the house. Stroller? Check. Diaper bag? Check. Plastic baggies full of Cheerios? Moist towlettes? Enough small toys for his baby-sized attention span? Check, check, and check. It felt like gearing up for a military invasion, but in reality, we were only headed downtown to see the Crystal Gallery of Ice. Every year, international teams using chainsaws and pick-axes spent forty-eight hours creating some of the most brilliant sculptures imaginable in the town square. The event always drew large crowds, and it was coolest to see after dark when the sculptures, backlit by lights, had a beautiful incandescence.
&nbs
p; Mom and Dad were still in an exceptionally good mood as we pulled into a public parking lot and began to extricate my brother and his gear from the car. While waiting for them to get the stroller set up, I checked out my reflection in the car window. I couldn’t decide if my green hunter’s cap with its earflaps and lamb’s wool lining was funky-cool or just plain dorky. Still, the color contrasted nicely with my flame-red tresses, which for once hung in a nice subtle wave without too much unruly kink or frizz. All in all, I thought I was looking damn cute.
“Hey, I’m gonna wander,” I said. I had my camera and couldn’t wait to start getting shots of the ice sculptures and the crowd, both of which were sure to fascinate.
“Skye, honey … we just got here!”
“Aw, let her go, Patty,” said my dad. “If we don’t bump into you in forty-five minutes, call us on Mom’s cell so we can meet up.”
“Okay, I will,” I said, simultaneously snapping a picture of them. “Have fun you kids!”
“Right back atchya.”
I padded across the packed snow to check out the sculptures. From where I stood, I could see replicas of the Sphinx, a giant ice castle, a stegosaurus the size of a VW bus, and a true-to-life ice rendering of all four Beatles. The detail on each sculpture was worth marveling at, but I was more in awe of the slick, glassy surfaces and the way they refracted the light so beautifully. Viewed in this sparkling wonderland, ice seemed incredibly regal, on par with gold or precious gems. And yet it was only water, which drop by drop was melting away. In a matter of days, at most, these astonishing works of art would vanish. Why did things always have to feel so fleeting? Sometimes I wished I could go through life carrying a remote control, one that would let me pause on the good times, like yesterday morning, for example, or let me fast-forward through all the crappy business in between. They say time flies when you’re having fun, but boy does it move at a snail’s pace when you’re worried or depressed or anxious.
Wandering around the festival, I experimented with taking some pictures out of focus, thinking the array of colored lights mixed with the movement of the crowd might result in something impressionistically abstract. The chipper sound of Christmas carols mingled with the harsh buzzing of chainsaws that some of the sculptors still wielded. That, along with the smell of fried dough and popcorn, resulted in an environment of sensory overload. I had to keep reminding myself to look up from my camera’s viewfinder at intervals so I didn’t get dizzy. As tall as I was, I couldn’t help but wish for a stepladder or high perch from which to take a more panoramic shot of the white-and-silver wonderland.
I instantly recognized the next sculpture I came across. It was a perfect replica of Auguste Rodin’s The Kiss. This was passion personified: two lovers locked in a fervent embrace. I peered through my camera’s viewfinder and adjusted the lens. The man’s right hand was tenderly placed on the woman’s left thigh. Her arm was flung desperately around his neck, and their faces pressed close to one another. They weren’t wearing a stitch of clothing, and yet, this sculpture didn’t say “lust” — not to me, at least. There was something so pure, idealistic, and uncalculated about the image. You didn’t have to be in love to understand the magnitude of love when you looked at it.
“If I ever had a kiss like that one, I don’t think I’d mind being frozen in that position for all eternity,” I heard someone to my right say. As I lowered my camera, my stomach went topsy-turvy. I knew the voice. Turning to see him standing inches away from me, looking too hot for words, only made my stomach queasier for some reason.
“I thought we were avoiding each other these days, to prevent me from making any further claims on your popularity.”
“You know that’s not what I meant. I’ll admit I was out of line, but just know that I was going through some stuff.”
“Stuff, meaning being hauled in to talk to the chief of police again?”
He paused for a moment before replying, as if weighing his words carefully. “Stuff at home. You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’d be surprised.” With my head lowered, I dug the toe of my boot into the snow, making a divot.
“Speaking of the chief of police, I hope you weren’t too freaked out,” he finally said. “Was it awful?”
“You ask that now?” I shook my head in disbelief. “You saw that I was going to be fed to the lions in Schaeffer’s office, and you only think to ask me about it two weeks later? Gee, thanks for the belated concern, but you know what? You were right to end our sham of a friendship that day. Your troubles aren’t mine anymore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, searching my face for an answer. His eyes looked weary. When I didn’t respond, Craig ran the palm of his hand across his face, as if in physical pain, and walked away.
I meant what I had said to him. I was relieved not to have to worry about whether he’d be doing the perp walk while the rest of us walked the stage at graduation. I was sick of analyzing his dysfunctional relationship with Beth and holding my breath every time he got slammed against the boards in a hockey game. I was here-and-now officially declaring my brain to be a Craig-free zone. Still, I wondered what he was getting at when he said he had some problems at home. Having recently been through “stuff at home” myself, I could relate. Problems with his dad, no doubt. The guy was always ragging on Craig for the smallest things. I remembered on one particular occasion when I’d first met Craig, Mr. MacKenzie had blasted him about needing a haircut. “My only son, walking around looking like a woman,” he ranted for the entire week, even after Craig had gotten it trimmed shorter.
“This from a man who parades around in a plaid kilt and knee socks every St. Andrew’s Day,” Craig had laughingly confided to me at the time. I don’t think he was afraid of his dad so much as he was desperate to please the man. I gathered that the more dutifully he obliged the old man’s wishes, the more his dad tried to control him and dictate his future. Come to think of it, Mr. MacKenzie and Beth Morgan had more than a few things in common.
So whatever. If he was having more problems with his dad, that was too bad, but in my new Craig-free zone, this was not my concern. You heard me right. Skye Kingston was taking the imaginary remote control of life and hitting the “delete” button on one Craig MacKenzie. And what did he mean by that “I-wouldn’t-mind-kissing-like-that-for-all-eternity” business, anyway?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Out, Damned Spot!
VALENTINE’S DAY. The most ridiculous Hallmark excuse for a holiday ever. End of story. You’re either totally guilted into buying crappy gifts and schmaltzy cards for someone, or, in my case, being made to feel like a pathetic loser who will go to her grave alone and unwanted. Isn’t being in love reward enough without needing a special day as a bonus? Why isn’t there a holiday for all the sad sacks of the world who might actually need a crappy gift or schmaltzy card to cheer them up? I’m waiting for the “Let’s All Mope!” day or a “Life Sucks” three-day weekend. Aren’t we the ones who really need that box of chocolate?
I scanned the classroom noting the giddy excitement of several of my female classmates. Their eyes were locked feverishly on the sophomore girl who, clad in a pink velour track suit, inched between the rows of desks, delivering long-stemmed roses one at a time. Wavering between fear, anticipation, and abject longing, each girl clearly hoped a boyfriend or secret admirer had ponied up the two dollars necessary to send a rose to his beloved. Some girls would receive multiple roses, others none at all. Oh, the humanity.
Surprisingly, the only person who looked like she cared even less than I did was Beth. She was staring out the window, semi-catatonic, her face an unreadable canvas. Probably imagining her and Craig’s future coronation as Prom King and Queen, I thought dismissively. Not that it mattered to me … Craig MacKenzie, after all, was the furthest thing from my mind.
Rolling my eyes, I looked back down at my battered copy of the Oxford Anthology, rereading the Shakespearean sonnet we’d been discussing before the rude inter
ruption of Cupid’s Pepto Bismol–tinged messenger. I doubted that we’d get back to it since everyone was chattering and distracted, and there were only a few minutes left before class was dismissed.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wired, black wires grow on her head….
Based on that description, his mistress would never have managed a prom date at this school. The concept of inner beauty doesn’t exactly fly here. Lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed right away that Beth was standing over me. I looked up to see her practically boring holes in my skull with her glowering eyes, a look of unmistakable hatred on her face.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” she said in an angry voice as she brandished a rose, waving it in front of my face.
“What are you talking about?”
“This!” She yanked off a cardboard tag tied to the stem by a red ribbon and shoved it under my face. Trying to remain calm, I opened the tiny, folded card and read the typed note on the inside: You never really know your friends from your enemies until the ice breaks.
