It’s the first day back at school after the summer break, and it’s already the period before lunch. The day has gone by without me really being a part of it. Mr. Hidlebaugh, tall, bald and enthusiastic, stands at the front of the class emphatically talking about The Road by Cormac McCarthy. His hands make huge gestures, and then he writes the line “I don’t know, who is anybody?” on the smartboard.
But I hardly pay attention. The world has tilted on its axis. My mind clutters with images of Annabelle in the water. She was dusky blue. My heart pounds. I have to get out of here. Suzanne’s shriek echoes in my head. Alec’s thumb tracks another slow circle, and I take a breath. Cool it. I hear my cell, but no message appears. I silence it.
“The boy is asking who the footprints belong to,” Hidlebaugh cries. He raises his right arm and brings it down in a chopping motion. “Who? I ask you.”
We’re sitting at desks in a U-shape. Alec is on one side of me, Lucy the other. I lean my shoulder against hers. She smells of the horrible clove cigarettes she always smokes, and of incense. The incense gets in her strawberry blond hair at her mom’s store—Witches’ Brew. Her mom, Dolphin—her actual name—was my mom’s best friend. Lucy pushes her shoulder against mine.
Finally, finally the bell rings. We only have a half day, so school is over.
Alec is still holding my hand as we file out into the crowded hallway of Edenville High. Lucy asks if we want to go for lunch.
I glance at Alec, who is staring into space, not really listening. “You know what, Luce,” I say, “why don’t I call you later?”
She flashes me a quick smile. “Sure.” We’ve known each other since we were babies, so I know she means, Go for it, Lark. Have fun with the new guy. “See ya later, lovebirds.”
Alec slips his hand from mine and rests it around my waist. My whole body feels his heat.
We walk across the parking lot away from the school. The day is so soft, so luminously agreeable, that my skin becomes part of the weather. My mood suddenly brightens, my thoughts float across my mind as lightly as the shining white clouds above. Alec tightens his grip around my waist, pulling me slightly toward him. I stumble. He catches hold of me, and we end up facing each other.
“You trying to make me fall?” I say. It’s corny, but I don’t care.
“Mebbe.”
I glance at his mouth, the piercing there. If he kissed me, would I feel the metal in his lip? Electricity sparks between us. “You hungry?” he says.
“Sure. What do you want?” I ask and blush at my accidental innuendo. “I mean . . . to eat. How about a burger?”
“Burger! Lark—the chicken shack is the way to go. I’ll convert you.”
“To greasy, triple-fried wings? I don’t think so.”
“I’m pretty persuasive. But first, sing me something.” He tugs my hand and steps back from me.
“Sing?” I glance around the parking lot. “You don’t mean here?”
“Why not?”
“I—I haven’t really got anything new right now.”
“An old song, then.”
“I don’t have my guitar.”
“Guitar? Do you need it with you to sing?”
“Honestly? No.” I watch other kids get into their cars or wander to the usual lunch places. “Anyway, I don’t use that guitar anymore.”
“Why?”
“Uh . . . next question, please . . .”
“Interesting.” He taps his chin like he’s pretending to be working something out. “Ms. Lark has a secret. I’ll get it out of her. But not before I’ve heard her sing.”
“I won’t! You can’t make me!” I say, dramatically stepping back.
He narrows his eyes. “Soooo, what type of guitar is it? This one you don’t use?”
“You won’t get my secrets from me.” I smile at him coyly. “But I will answer you that. The one I actually use belonged to Iona, but I also have a Takamine guitar—a Tak—that’s what it’s called in the business. It’s an electric acoustic.” I remember the feel of it. “It has a pickup built into it for amplification.”
“What’s that?”
“A pickup? It’s a small electronic device, set right into the body of the guitar, that picks up the sound.”
“But you don’t use it. And you don’t have Iona’s guitar here. So . . . there’s just you, me and your voice.” He produces a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket. “You can pretend I’m not looking. Sing!”
“It’s not that I’m worried about you looking.” I’m not sure how such an innocent statement comes out sounding so dirty. “Okay.” I hold up my hands. “Okay. I’ll do it.” I glance once more round the emptying parking lot and start to sing.
“We were this close to the water
My hair in my eyes
And the sun
High above us
When you told me it was done
Since then I’ve been running
Oh, you make me run
To get back to the moment
When you told me I’m the one.”
A couple of kids stop walking and clap. I shut up. What am I doing? I just sang in the parking lot. “So yeah. It’s been on my mind. I wrote it long before . . . before. But it changes the whole meaning.”
Alec takes two steps to be next to me again and pulls me close. He lifts his sunglasses, and the electricity between us surges again. He drops his mouth to mine. It’s quick and gentle, and his lips taste of sunshine and honey. My whole body turns molten. He pulls his mouth away to look at me, and in his dark eyes I see a glint of light. My mouth follows his, and we kiss again. He slides his hand into my hair, and hot sparks run down my neck and spine.
I hear Lucy yell, “Classy, Lark.” I give her the finger while we keep kissing.
Alec surfaces first and tugs me toward the chicken shack, where we order a huge tub of wings. It smells greasy and delicious, and it is. We sit on bar stools in the window, time passing like there is no such thing as time at all. We listen to a singer I’ve just discovered, Tel Shi. One earbud each. We talk about music, about hiking, about a band I want to go and see, about climbing, about everything and nothing. He looks at me while I wipe chicken grease off my mouth. Sure, not the most romantic moment in history, but as his eyes meet mine, I have the feeling that I know Alec. I shudder in a good way. He feels familiar, like we’ve met before, like we’re connected, like . . . like he’s my soulmate. Who knew I even believed in soulmates? But suddenly it seems blazingly obvious that, of course, we each have a soulmate, and there, with fried chicken on my lips, I find the person who might be mine.
Alec has to run an errand, so he can’t drop me home. After we kiss goodbye, I float onto the bus, drift into my seat, yawn and check my cell. Alec has sent a photo of the climbing wall downtown.
Alec:
Wanna join me there Saturday?
Lark:
Am working—
how about Sunday?
Alec:
Blow off work.
Lark:
Can’t!
Alec:
Sunday then.
See you tomorrow.
Lark:
After band practice.
We always practise on Sunday.
Alec:
You playing hard to get? xxx
My heart quickens at the xxx sign-off. What is with me? Even super-hot-and-heavy Jared didn’t turn me to jelly like this. I daydream against the seat, watching as we cross over the main bridge but averting my eyes from the swift river below. It burns in my mind, and as I close my eyes, I see the lake, the water, Annabelle. I get out at the bus stop a few blocks from my house, deciding to walk in the sunshine to clear the images. Quickly the warmth of the day improves my mood, and I arrive home, humming the song I sang to Alec, to find my dad tending his flower garden. We live in a small clapboard house built in 1912, the year Edenville became a city.
“Someone’s happier,” Dad says, brushing his hands against his shirt.
“Y
eah. Things with Alec are . . . they’re maybe . . . good.”
Dad plucks a dead flower head from the bush.
Suzanne:
Thanks for your message, Lark.
No change here.
I’ll let you know when you can visit.
In a heartbeat, the bright day dissipates. I can’t believe I’ve been smiling while Annabelle is in the hospital. I remember her slack face, damp lashes, the shrill of the ambulance siren.
“At least no change means she’s not worse,” I say to Dad.
“Lark, you know you did everything you could, right?”
“If only I’d . . . I took too long . . .” Tears spring to my eyes, and though Dad tries to comfort me, I just want to forget about it, so I head into the house to start supper.
I cut onions and fry them in butter, then add a little flour, stock and milk to make gravy, which is how Mom used to do it. I put four sausages into a pan with a bit of maple syrup and water, cover the whole thing with foil and put it in the oven to bake. I watch some reality crap on TV and then boil water to make pasta. Then I prep a simple salad and put two plates and cutlery on the table.
When everything’s ready, I go outside to find Dad talking to Cayson Nifteneger, who everyone calls Nifty. Nifty is tall and insanely skinny. He and Iona used to compete to see who was going to be the tallest, but Nifty won by three inches. He’s into clothes and music, and right now, he’s dressed like we’re living in New York, with his hair spiked and a fashionably cut tee that falls loosely around his shoulders.
“Hey, wildcat,” Nifty says, slipping his e-cig into his shirt pocket. “You coming to band practice?”
“Course.”
Dad nods at us before disappearing inside.
“How was your day?” I ask Nifty.
“Same old.” He works at a music store full-time since he dropped out of high school last year. “Got anything new for us?”
I think about the song I sang to Alec. It’s one the band’s never heard. My stomach twists at the thought of sharing it or the other song I started on my birthday, so I reply, “Not today.”
“Okay, soon though. We gotta get ready for the show.”
“Show?”
“Hell, yes. We’re on at Lydia’s. I’m pretty sure we are, anyway. Hey, I hear you’re dating that sexy-hot ninja hunk,” he says.
“Ninja?”
“The parkour guy—right? Alec Sandcross. Wild and crazy stuntman.”
“I don’t know that we’re dating.”
“Hmm-hmmm.” He swivels his hips. “That’s my Lark, baby.” He pauses. “How’s the little girl?”
“Same.” I flash back to Annabelle being lifted limply from the water.
“You okay?”
“I’m okay if I don’t think about it. Wanna join us for supper?”
Nifty shakes his head and gets on his bike. “Nah, I’m going for a ride. But I do need a little advice about something.”
Alec:
Just thinking about you.
Lark:
Good.
“Bye then, La-aa-aark,” Nifty sings.
I glance up from my phone and smile. I can’t stop smiling. “Sorry, you wanted some advice?”
“I gotta go now.”
“See you later, at practice,” I call.
He pretends to tip an imaginary cap before he pedals away.
Day 7: Sunday afternoon
Iona’s parents are über rich. Their garage alone is bigger than the main floor of my house. Every Wednesday and Sunday, our band meets here. Her parents have cleared out the back half of the garage, and Iona has her drum kit here and a bunch of equipment. My favourite spot is the old, blue, three-person couch, where I’m sitting this Sunday morning, playing with the jewel on my belly chain, which dangles out over my jeans. When Iona has parties in this garage, I people-watch from this spot. It’s a great way to get ideas for songs. Suddenly I have an overpowering feeling of déjà vu. It makes me so dizzy, I lean my head over my knees. The weird feeling quickly passes. I probably need something to eat.
Alec:
Not long now.
Lark:
Too long.
I look over at the rest of the band—Iona, Nifty, Reid. We’ve been playing together since we were fourteen—after my mom died—but we haven’t got a name right now. We were The Specials Board for a while, and for at least five months before that, Nifty persuaded us that Glass Returns was a good name, and before that, I think we were Goodly Animals. On Wednesday after school, we talked it over again, but Nifty, Iona and Reid all vetoed the name I suggested: Exploding Night of the Zesty Solitude. I told them I got it off an Internet band-name generator. It was ironic cool. They weren’t convinced.
Nifty is noodling on his guitar and chatting to Reid, who is sitting at his keyboard and trying out a melody that Nifty wants him to work on. Iona is tapping her bass drum with one foot and messaging on her cell. I remember fighting with Iona for the dress-up clothes at preschool and throwing sand at Nifty. Iona was a total princess as a little kid. Now she’s just under six feet tall, with huge dark bangs, crazy wild makeup all the time. Today she’s drawn a blue and yellow star over one eye, Roller Derby style. She’s been getting more into Roller Derby recently and often heads out after practice on Sundays for a couple of hours at the rink. She’s wearing a black leather jacket with US flags sewn all over it and a corset underneath that shows off her super curves. She volunteers at the crisis nursery, and the little kids think she’s the coolest girl in the world.
I wonder if we’d all have ended up friends if we hadn’t all been at preschool together. We’re into different crowds now at school. Reid’s a techie, loves reading html, and is hell-bent on being some geek superstar. He has square glasses, green eyes—his eyes are vivid, a contrast against his dark hair and sideburns. His parents fled the Iraq War and came here to Edenville. He’s never talked about it in all the years we’ve known each other. Iona’s a third-wave girl, furiously fighting for women’s rights. Nifty, who was the year above us, hung with the hipsters—although he hates the term—before he dropped out of school. He’s regretted dropping out since meeting Cole.
I cozy back up on the couch and read over the messages Alec has already sent me today. This whole week at school, things have been building up between us. Kisses against the gym wall. Hand-holding at lunch. Long conversations in his pickup when he drives me home, then sitting in the truck for ages outside my house. As I read, he messages again:
Alec:
You ready?
Finished work early.
Our Sunday practice has been kinda flat. I haven’t really got off the couch or warmed up my voice, and it doesn’t help that Nifty’s in the worst mood.
Lucy:
Climbing?!
He’s totally going to check out your butt.
Lark:
I know. Urgh.
Am wearing skinny jeans.
Right choice?
Lucy:
Bahahaha!
Nifty interrupts. “Lark, he-ll-oooo. I told you there’s a chance of a show at Lydia’s in October. We need to focus.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “You worry too much. And the show’s not even a sure thing, right? Maybe we should just quit today. You’re not in the mood.”
“You’re the one who’s not in the mood.” Nifty scowls at me, pulls his e-cig from his pocket and then puts it back again.
Alec:
We on?
Lark:
Definitely on—coming now.
We’re done here.
“How do you call your loverboy?” Iona sings, distracting me. “Ooooooh, loverboy . . .”
I throw a balled-up paper bag from the brownie I bought at D’Lish and read Alec’s next message.
Alec:
Am here. Came to watch.
But even better.
My heart jumps as Alec arrives at the garage door, ignoring my bandmates’ eye rolling. I go to him, and he puts his arms around me, b
ending to kiss me, briefly. I feel the metal of his stud hard inside his lip. Just having him close makes me feel safe, comforted, like I can do anything. Iona wolf-whistles.
Alec pulls away and says to the others, “Thought I’d get my girl.”
As I grab my longboard and the rest of my stuff, tingling from being called his girl, even though it’s sappy, I catch Reid’s eye. They cloud with an unreadable emotion before he pulls his cell from his pocket and stares at it.
I swing Alec’s hand. “You know everyone, right?”
Alec nods. He’s never hung out with any of the band, but everyone knows everyone at Edenville High. He takes my board as we walk out into the cool fall afternoon. “Wanna try free climbing instead of the wall?” he asks.
“I heard you were into that.” The wind blows, and I nestle into my jacket. I found it at a thrift store, and it’s silver-grey, down to my thighs.
“Who from?”
“Nifty says you’re into wild and crazy stunts.”
“Yeah, like what?”
“Apparently you’re an urban ninja.”
“Oooh,” he says, dropping down my board and jumping on. “I like that.” He directs the board toward the curb and flips it fully before landing back on it. “I can be an urban ninja.”
“How did you get into it?”
“Parkour is used a lot in video games. They motion-capture people for them by filming parkour. The way that heroes move, well, I played it enough. I thought I’d want to try it. I loved it. It makes me feel . . . free.” His expression momentarily darkens.
A loud motorbike roars by as Alec nimbly leaps onto a wall, leaving my board on the ground. He somersaults to one side and lands on a small squat brick structure I hadn’t even noticed.
“Sweet.” A few leaves fall in swirling patterns, and new lyrics come to me. It makes me feel . . . free.
“That’s called a precision drop, when you have a long surface that isn’t wide.” He jumps lightly to the ground next to me. “You don’t move when you land.”
“You make it look easy!”
“It gets easier the more you do it. Try it.” He spins around, his arms out wide, and tilts back to look at the sky. “Here I am, free as a bird, trying to convince my girl to give it a whirl.” He stops to look at me. “Maybe I should leave the songwriting to you.”
Me and Me Page 2
