Shooting Stars 02 Ice

by V. C. Andrews

  He looked away to hide the tears that had come into his eves. When he turned back, he put on a smile quickly.

  "It's all right. We've got a sort of fragile truce in the house now. At least he's happy about my grades. I guess he loves me. He's just one of those people who have a hard time revealing it. He thinks it's weak to show too much emotion. He came from a very poor family background and made a success of himself. He says no mature adult can blame failure on anyone but himself. There's always a way to get around an obstacle or solve a problem if you really, truly want to do it.

  "I guess he's right."

  He sipped some more tea and then shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blab like that."

  "It's okay," I said and smiled.

  "You're cool. Ice. Sounds funny to say that, I know. but I can't imagine you blabbing. I bet you would have been great in silent movies."

  I laughed.

  "No, really. You say more with your face, with your eyes, than most of the girls do talking all day. I like that. The fact is," he said looking down. "I've written a song about you. I hope you don't mind."

  "Me?"

  He nodded.

  "It's not that great."

  "Where is it?"

  "In here," he said pointing to his temple. "I haven't written it down yet. I'm still playing around with it."

  "I want to hear it," I said,

  He took a deep breath and looked almost as terrified as he had upstairs in front of his father.

  "Please," I begged.

  "If it sounds terrible, promise you'll tell me the truth. okay?" I nodded.

  He walked around the bar and went to his piano. I followed and stood by it, waiting. He glanced at me, looked up and then began his introduction. He sang:

  .

  There is music in the silence of her smile.

  There's a melody in her eyes.

  She glides unheard through the clamor that's around her,

  but it's in the harmony of her that beauty lies.

  Listen to the patter in my heart; listen to the drums within my soul,

  see how she can make the chorus sing and see how she can make the symphony start.

  Play, play this song of you.

  Play for the oId and play it for the new

  Play at the break of day and play in the twilight how-.

  Play away the sadness and the sorrow.

  Walk before the saddest eyes you see.

  Walk and bring the music back to me.

  .

  He stopped and stared down at the piano keys. "That's all I have so far."

  He looked up.

  It had been a long time, a very long time since anyone or anything had brought tears to my eyes, tears I couldn't hold back, tears with a mind of their own that surged forward and out, streaking down my cheeks: glorious tears, unashamed, proud to reveal that my heart was bursting and I had been moved.

  "Well?" he asked.

  I walked around the piano and answered him by kissing his cheek. He was so surprised, his eyes nearly popped. I had to laugh and flick away the tears from my cheeks.

  "Thank you. It was beautiful," I said. He beamed.

  "It's not finished, like I said."I'll work on it every day. I'll have it perfect.

  "How long is this rehearsal, as you call it, to go on?" we heard and looked at the stairway where his father stood midway down.

  How long had he been there? Had he seen and heard Balwin singing the song to me? Did he see me kiss him?

  "We're just finishing up. sir," Balwin said.

  "Good."

  He tamed and stomped back up and out, closing the door. "Sorry," Balwin said, "He gets that way sometimes." What's he afraid of? I wondered, looking after him.

  "I've got to get home anyway. My father is coming home late and I have to get his supper. My mother's out with friends." I said.

  "Okay. We'll meet again tomorrow night, if you want." Balwin saw my eves go to the upstairs doorway.

  "It'll be okay," he added.

  I nodded and started up the stairs. I was so quiet. Balwin's father didn't seem to mind silence. There was no sound of television, no music, just the heavy ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

  "Good night," I told him at the door. "Thanks."

  I stepped out quickly. The wind greeted me with a slap in the face and cold fingers in and under my unzipped jacket. I quickly did it up and hoisted my shoulders for the walk home. Just before I reached the corner. I heard a car slow down and turned to see two young men looking out at me, one with a ski cap and the driver with a cowboy hat. The one with the ski cap wore sunglasses even though it was night. I recognized them as former students at my school. I was surprised they knew me.

  "How about a ride. Ice baby?" he asked. "It's warm enough in here to melt you."

  "Real warm," the driver shouted.

  I kept walking, but they continued to follow.

  "What's a pretty girl like you doing out here alone anyway?" the one with the sunglasses continued. "You and your boyfriend have a fight?"

  I walked a little faster, my heart thumping and echoing in my ears like a pipe being tapped with a wrench in my building. Suddenly, just as I was about to turn the corner, they pulled ahead of me and the door swung open. The one with the sunglasses stepped out and made a sweeping bow and gesture toward the car.

  "Your chariot awaits. m'lady." I stopped. terrified.

  "Ice!" I heard and turned to see Balwin running to catch up with me. He stopped, gasping for breath. "Sorry. I had to do something first," he said looking toward the car and the man with the sunglasses.

  "Who's this? Balwin Noble? Can't be your boyfriend. He'd crush you," the man with the sunglasses said and laughed. His friend laughed, too,

  "Forget it," the driver called to him.

  "You missed out, honey," he told me and got into the car. We watched them drive off.

  "I was watching out the front window and saw them slow down," Balwin said. "I'll walk you home."

  I started to shake my head.

  "I should have offered to anyway. My father gets me all wound up in knots sometimes. Sorry," he said and started. "C'mon," he urged.

  We walked on together. Balwin with his hands deep in his pockets. "I'm going to go on a diet tomorrow," he said. "Really."

  I smiled to myself and we walked on. Balwin doing all the talking, me doing all the listening, but feeling good, feeling warm and protected.

  We said good night in front of the apartment building and I thanked him.

  "I'll ask my father for the car tomorrow. When he hears I'm going on a diet, he'll be nicer to me."

  "Okay," I said. "But don't make any trouble on my account." Balwin smiled.

  "Can't think of a better reason for it," he said, leaned forward to give me a quick peck on the cheek and then turned and hurried away as if he had truly stolen a kiss.

  Daddy got home earlier than I had expected. He was already in the kitchen, sitting at the table, eating what he had warmed for himself. My look of surprise appeared to him to be a look of guilt and worry. I guess.

  His eyebrows lifted and he peered suspiciously at me. "Where were you. Ice? You didn't go and meet that Shawn again, did you? Your Mama didn't go and make another one of her special arrangements, I hop."

  I shook my head.

  "So, where were you?"

  "Rehearsing," I said and entered the kitchen.

  "Sorry I wasn't home to fix your dinner. Daddy." "That's no bother. What do you mean.

  rehearsing? Rehearsing for what?"

  I shrugged.

  "C'mon, out with it," he said.

  "I know I'm just wasting my time," I said. "Ice, what is this? What are you talking about?"

  he asked slowly. I lifted my gaze from the floor and

  looked at him.

  "My audition piece for the New York school," I

  said quickly.

  "Really?" He sat back nodding. "That's good.

  Ice. That's good. Wh
ere were you rehearsing?" I told him about Balwin and how he was

  helping me.

  "Very nice of him. I'm glad about this." He turned to me quickly. "And don't go saving you're wasting your time. I don't want to hear that defeatist

  stuff from you. hear?"

  "But it will be too much money, won't it.

  Daddy?"

  "You just let me worm about that when the time

  comes to worry about it, honey." He nodded. "We'll

  manage it somehow. I'm not going to let you miss

  such an opportunity, no sir, no ma'am."

  I smiled to myself and started to clean the pot

  and the stove while he finished eating.

  "Your mother say where she was going

  tonight?" "Movies."

  "Movies, huh? If she went to all the movies she

  says she went to, she'd be seeing stars and I don't

  mean the movie stars," he quipped.

  He was trying to be funny, but I could see the

  concern in his face. It put a cold shiver in me. "Can't make that woman happy anymore," he

  muttered, mostly to himself.

  I saw how quickly his elated mood turned sour

  and dark. He stopped eating, stared blankly ahead for

  a moment and then rose and went into the living room

  to play one of his Billie Holiday albums while he

  waited for Mama to come home. After I finished in

  the kitchen. I went in to sit with him.

  "You look tired, honey." he told me nearly an

  hour later. 'Go on to bed. I'm all right by myself. Go

  on. Get some rest," he ordered. "You got school

  tomorrow."

  I rose, kissed him on the cheek and went to bed.

  I couldn't fall asleep. I kept hoping I'd hear Mama's

  footsteps in the corridor and then the front door

  opening, but an hour passed and then another and,

  still, she wasn't home. This was going to be a very bad

  night, I told myself. My stomach churned like a car

  without fuel, grinding and dying repeatedly. I tossed

  and turned and tried desperately to think of something

  else, to sing myself to sleep. anything. Nothing

  worked.

  When the front door finally opened, it was

  close to three in the morning. Mama didn't just come

  in. either. It sounded like she fell in.

  I sat up to listen and heard her muffled laugh.

  She was very drunk. "What are you doing on the

  floor. Lena?" I heard Daddy ask her.

  She laughed and then she told him the heel

  broke on her shoe. I could hear her struggle to her

  feet, still giggling to herself.

  "Where were you all this time. Lena?-"Out," she said. "Having a good time. Ever hear

  of such a thing? Know what that is anymore? I doubt

  it," she told him.

  "Where were you?" he repeated.

  "I said out," she snapped back at him. I heard him step forward and then I heard her

  short scream.

  I rose from bed and opened my door just

  enough to see the two of them.

  Daddy had his hands on her upper arms and he

  was holding her up like a rag doll, her feet a good foot

  off the ground. He shook her once.

  "Where were you. Lena?' he demanded. "Put me down, damn you! Put me down." "Where were you?"

  "I'm not one of your suspects, Cameron. Put me

  down."

  "I'll put you down," he threatened, "like they

  put down dogs if you don't tell me where you were." "I was with Louella and Dedra. We went to eat

  and then we went to a movie and then we went to

  Frank and Bob's just like we always do."

  Daddy lowered her slowly.

  "I'm tired of you coming home drunk," he said. "People drink because they're unhappy," she

  spit back at him.

  "Why are you so unhappy? If you got yourself a

  job, maybe or..."

  "Oh, a job. What kind of a job could I get. huh?

  You want me working in some department store or at

  a fast-food place?"

  Her face crumpled as she started to sob. "I wasted myself. I should be on a magazine

  cover or doing advertisements. I should be somebody

  instead of... of what I am," she moaned. -.But do you

  care?" she asked, pulling herself up and tightening her

  lips. "No. You and your music and your stupid work

  hours."

  "I'm doing my best for us and..."

  "Best," she muttered. "You don't care about

  what's happening here. We got a daughter who's like

  some deaf-and-dumb person, who should be making

  me proud, and I blame that all on you, you!" "She's a beautiful girl, a talented girl. She's

  going to make us proud. Lena."

  "Right. I go and work on her and get her a date

  and it all falls apart." "You know that wasn't her

  fault."

  "I know, It was mine," she screamed at him.

  "Who else would you blame?"

  "Nobody's blaming anybody, Lena."

  "Leave me alone," she said. "I'm sick. I'm not

  feeling good."

  "Why should you after what you did to

  yourself'?""

  "You did it to me," she accused.

  "Me?"

  "You made me pregnant when I was young and

  beautiful and had a chance. Cameron. And then you

  promised to do things for me, but look at what you've

  done... nothing. Nothing but tie a lead weight around

  my neck.

  "I'm drowning!" she screamed at him. Then she

  seized her stomach, doubled over and hurried to the

  bathroom.

  He stood there looking after her, his face as

  broken and sad as I had ever seen it. He felt my eves

  and turned to my doorway.

  We looked at each other.

  Was I the weight Mama said was around her

  neck? Did he hate for me to have heard such a thing? The pain in his eves was too great for me to

  take.

  I closed the door softly and returned to bed, to

  the darkness and to the pursuit of fugitive sleep.

  6 Out of Tune

  There were many times when the mood and atmosphere in our house resembled an undertaker's parlor. I call it morgue silence because to me everyone who is infected with it seems to be imitating the dead. I've been to funerals where people sit in the presence of the corpse and keep their eyes so still and empty, I imagined they have just deposited the shell of their bodies in the funeral hall for a while and then have one off to kill some time at some livelier place.

  However, when the singing started, it was always like everyone had turned into Lazarus and risen from the grave. As a little girl. I was so impressed with the energy and the emotion some people exhibited at these wakes that I often wondered if they wouldn't revive the dead man or woman whose eyes would suddenly snap open and then sit up in the coffin and begin to join in the singing, Once, I imagined it so vividly. I thought it actually had happened. Mama saw me sitting there with my eyes so wide and full of amazement, it made her nervous. She insisted on taking me home because she thought the funeral was making me crazy.

  "And she's crazy enough with her elective mutism," she told Daddy. She loved using that term ever since she had first heard Mrs. Waite use it at the parent-teacher conference.

  Everyone was an elective mute in my home the morning after Mama's late night out. We had morgue silence. Mama didn't rise from her bed, but she wasn't asleep. I looked in and saw her staring up at the ceiling, her lips tightly drawn like a slash across her face. Daddy sipped his coffee a
nd stared at the wall. I felt as if I had to tiptoe about the apartment, getting ready for school. He didn't say anything until I was ready to leave.

  "I've got a double shift today," he told me. "Training two new men. I won't be back until late, but don't fix me any dinner. I'll have enough to eat this time," he said, his voice trembling with anger and disgust. "She might put poison in my food anyway." he muttered glaring in Mama's direction. "Blaming everyone but herself for her unhappiness."

  "I can make you something. Daddy."

  "No, it's all right," he said. "I might be later than usual. Don't worry about me," he ordered. He was wound so tight this morning, I was already feeling sorry for anyone who crossed him at work.

  I nodded and finished my breakfast without another word and left for school.

  The moment I arrived. I sensed something different. I knew from the way other students (especially some of the girls in my class) looked at me: hid smiles behind their fmgers, spread like Japanese geisha-girl fans: or deposited whispers into each other's ears that I was once again the object of some ugly joke. Usually, having a thick skin came naturally to me. Whatever darts of ridicule they shot from their condescending eyes or spewed from their twisted, vicious lips bounced off the back of my neck and fell at their own feet like broken arrows. Most of the time, ignoring them as well as I did brought an end to their little games. They grew bored trying to get any sort of reaction from me, and when I looked at them with a blank stare, a face that could easily be lifted and used as a mask of in' difference at a Stoic's convention, they retreated and searched for a more satisfying target.

  Today was different because I could feel their determination and their satisfaction, knowing with every passing minute-- from homeroom to my first class of the day-- despite my apparent disinterest. I was confused by it and couldn't help being curious. Was it something my mother had done? Or had said? Were they all just learning about my blind date and laughing at the results? What could possibly be the reason for all this whispering and laughing behind my back? It followed me from room to room like a string of empty cans tied to some poor dog's tail. The faster I walked, the louder the whispering and laughter became. When I sat in my classes. I merely had to turn slightly to the right or the left to see all eyes were on me, girls and boys mumbling over desks, making such a thick underlying flow of chatter that our teachers had to reprimand them a number of times and threaten to keep the whole class after school.

  Their persistence began to make me nervous. but I was able to keep the lid on my emotions, walk with my eyes focused straight ahead, behaving as if there was no one else in the world. Finally, just before lunch. Thelma Williams and Carla Thompson stepped in front of me as I walked to the cafeteria. They wore identical wry smiles and with their books in their arms, their shoulders touching, presented themselves like a wall thrown up to block my way.