by Ariella Moon
"Hey, beautiful," Dad called up from the kitchen. "Ready to load those presents into the sleigh?"
"Are you my designated driver?"
"Yep." Dad jogged up the grand staircase and leaned against my doorframe. His eyes twinkled. "No eggnog until after we're safely home. Promise."
"Eggnog." I snorted. "As if you would ever drink alcohol out of a carton."
"Don't underestimate him." Mom joined Dad in the doorway. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. It would have been a good sign if she hadn't tensed.
"Good session?" I asked.
Their heads nodded up and down and then teetered side to side like tops about to crash. I took it to mean there had been no definite progress. They exchanged a quick look.
Mom said, "Lots to think about."
"Good." I hope.
"Let's do this." Dad picked up a stack of presents and carried them down the stairs.
"Be careful. Don't let the tags come off." I bundled into my warmest raincoat and pulled on my striped rubber boots. "Are you coming?" I asked Mom.
"Sure. Let me put down the mail first." She placed a handful of envelopes and gift catalogues on the high, narrow table in the hall outside my door. "Okay. Ready."
I loaded up her arms with presents. She was halfway down the stairs when she met Dad coming back up. They passed each other without a word or smile.
For my second trip down, I shouldered my backpack before picking up the last of the presents and handing them to Dad. He pressed in behind me on the stairs, pressuring me to hurry. Right, left, right, left, right, landing. "Shoot." I pulled off to the side as if I were headed to the music room instead of down to the front door.
Dad halted on the landing. "What?"
"I forgot something," I lied. "Go ahead. I'll meet you in the car."
"No. I'll come back and set the alarm and lock up."
"Okay." I whirled, faced the stairs, and recalibrated. Left, right, left, right, left, second floor. I lifted my right shoulder, then my left, to realign myself. A square yellow envelope atop the catalogues, bills, and Christmas cards fanned across the table caught my eye. After a quick glance over the banister, I checked the return address on the card. Palm Springs. I recognized my Aunt Terra's expansive handwriting from the birthday cards she had sent me over the years. The envelope was addressed to Mom.
"Ainslie?" Dad sounded annoyed and anxious to be on the road.
I did a one-eighty and rushed to the stairs. Left, right, left, right, left, landing. Whew. Left, right, left, floor.
"Have everything?" Dad asked.
"I think so. Maybe I should check again."
"No. I'll check."
"But—"
"It will be faster if I do it. Wait for me in the car." His expression — arched brows, tight lips — warned me he could see the OCD leapfrogging my nerves, and he refused to wait while I made endless trips up and down the stairs.
I capitulated. "Fine. But can you grab me a handful of protein bars on your way out?"
"In the pantry?"
"Yes."
"Will do." As soon as he closed the door behind me, I whirled and peered through the stained glass until he disappeared up the stairs. Still anxious, I dashed to the car. I had just clicked my seat belt when he strode out of the house.
"Do you remember how to get there?" I asked after Dad had settled behind the wheel and handed me the carton of protein bars.
"It's been a year." Dad started the ignition. "Remind me of the final turns once we're off the freeway."
"No problem." I unzipped my backpack, black with silver stars, and pulled out printouts from two map sites. If I still had a smartphone, I could plug the address into its GPS.
"Santa Baby" blared from the Audi's speakers. Mom raised the volume and sang along, charmingly, pathetically off-key. Dad and I joined in. When "White Christmas" came on, we went major karaoke with dramatic hand gestures and, in Mom's case, torturous singing.
"Keep at least one hand on the wheel," I begged Dad.
Forty happy minutes later, we pulled into a church parking lot. Smiling volunteers, mostly kind-faced seniors wearing Santa hats, braved the rain to help us offload the presents. Inside, rows of long, numbered folding tables were piled high with gifts. I located the check-in table while my parents watched the network of Santa volunteers unload, stack, and check presents against lists on clipboards.
"Good to see you again!" the check-in volunteer said. My parents gathered beside me. The volunteer said, "We so appreciate the work your daughter does."
My parents beamed. Dad said, "We're enormously proud of her."
"Everyone wants to buy presents for the younger children," the volunteer added. "But the older ones are often overlooked."
"Ainslie is quite committed to helping foster teens." Mom slid her arm around my shoulders. Maybe the stiffness in my body warned her off, because she quickly removed her arm. I flashed my patented Junior Cotillion smile and tried unsuccessfully to glimpse the names on the other lists. A few minutes later we left, my signed community service form and a shrink-wrapped candy cane in hand.
"The rain has stopped," Mom said as we climbed into Dad's car. This was shaping up to be a stellar Saturday.
"Next stop?" Dad asked.
"Athenian. Performing Arts building, please."
"How are rehearsals going?"
"Don't ask," Mom and I said in unison.
I checked the time on my cell phone. "Can we get there in twenty minutes? Tanaka goes ballistic if we're late."
"Piece of cake." Dad eased the car out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway.
Relieved, I extracted my French book and notepad. Mom lowered the volume on the Christmas songs. Content we were all getting along well, I relaxed and immersed myself in conjugating French verbs.
I had filled three binder pages with handwritten notes when I realized we were crawling instead of Dad's usual push-the-envelope, speed demon driving. Glancing up, I spied four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic.
"There must be an accident up ahead," Mom said.
Panic hit my system like a meteor crash. I flipped open my phone. Five minutes until rehearsal. I clutched the side of Dad's seat. "We have to bail. I'm going to be late."
"We're between exits." Dad clicked on his blinker and glanced over his shoulder. The red truck alongside us lurched forward, closing the gap between it and a SUV.
This will not end well. Suddenly, the satellite stereo with its nonstop Christmas carols chafed at my nerves. Mom must have felt it too, because she shut off the music. Tension pumped through the Audi as Dad inched the car to the right. I clutched my French book, certain Dad would shear off the truck's side mirror. Mom scooted as far from her window as she could.
Dad punched the control panel and lowered her window. I opened my book and hid my face. What will Dad do this time? Just yell? What if the truck driver exits? Will Dad follow him, cut off the guy and make rude gestures?
Dad honked. Not a polite, mind-if-I-cut-in honk, but a get-out-of-my-way blast. The truck driver gripped his steering wheel and threw Dad an are-you-crazy look. The man had nowhere to go. Any reasonable person (not Dad) would have realized this. Trapped, I worried the surrounding drivers would think I was as crazy as Dad.
A highway patrol officer had been gunned downed on this same stretch of highway last year. What if the truck driver or the guy behind him pulled a gun, instead of shrugging Dad off? A sick feeling churned my stomach, and I slumped as low in the seat as possible.
The truck driver stared straight ahead. Mom raised her window. Dad punched the electronic controls, lowered it, and leaned toward her. I could imagine the obscenities waiting to explode from his mouth the second the truck driver glanced our way.
I leaned forward. "Forget what I said, okay? We don't need to rush."
Dad ignored me and pulled so close I could see the hair on the truck driver's knuckles.
"The guy behind him will let you in," Mom said.
I released the breath I had been holding and called out, "Thanks!"
Dad glared at me from the rearview mirror. The sick feeling in my stomach worsened. Mom twisted the hem of her jacket.
I texted Rayne and Jazmin, even though Jazmin was probably already rehearsing. Freeway snarl. Cars aren't moving. My dad is going to get us killed.
Rayne texted back: Get here ASAP!
I replied: Trying!
Ten more minutes passed before we reached the crowded off-ramp. I envisioned my A in Drama circling down the toilet. Since the rain had stopped, I pulled off my clunky rubber rain boots and changed into the low leather boots I had stuffed into my backpack.
Silence permeated the car. Dad's white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and his acid glances at Mom warned his road rage hadn't dissipated. Mom kept her head angled away from him and her gaze locked on the view out the passenger door window.
Twelve tense minutes later, Dad pulled into the minuscule parking lot above the Performing Arts building. Only teachers and the disabled were allowed to park there. Guess Dad wanted to save me the ten-minute walk from the main parking lot.
"Text me with a half-hour warning." Mom's voice sounded thick, like she was holding back tears.
"I'll try. But it's hard to gauge when Tanaka will release us." I kept my chin down, avoiding the unspent fury emanating from Dad, and escaped. I sprinted down the slippery slope to the PA building. Jazmin's guitar solo blasted through the side door as I slipped inside. I jogged past the loud dressing room and flung open the auditorium door as Jazmin ended with a rock star leap. The curtain should have descended, but it didn't. Rayne's voice carried from backstage, "Where are the dancers? Someone find them!"
"Lower the curtain!" Mister Tanaka yelled from the darkened auditorium. "And find Ainslie!"
"Here, sir! Accident on the freeway, sorry I'm late."
Jazmin threw me a quizzical look as she and the rest of the band carried their instruments offstage. None of my crew arrived to break down the drums. Maybe they were off locating the dancers.
"It's about time, Miss Avalon-Bennett."
I ignored Mister Tanaka and raced up the stairs — left, right, left, stage — and located Rayne in the wings.
"Finally!" Rayne handed me a walkie-talkie. "The stage hands, most of the actors, and several of the dancers are stuck on the freeway. We're already a half-hour behind schedule."
"Are the soloists here?"
"Yes." Rayne blinked at me. "Right. They can rehearse."
"Get them. I'll set up the microphone." I pressed the talk button on my walkie-talkie. "Mission Control, I need a spotlight. We're going with the soloists."
"Yes, ma'am," said Trina, the Light Board Commander.
"Let's get this shuttle back on course." With a yank on the pull cord, I sent the curtain unfurling to the stage.
Chapter Three
Jazmin led the revolt. "I can't be here on Sunday." She gave Mister Tanaka her patented head wag. Rehearsal had crept past eight o'clock. Three hours had evaporated since she had consumed my last protein bar, and I could tell her hypoglycemia threatened like a fast-moving storm. "I know my part." Jazmin flipped her hair extensions over her shoulder and glared at the actors and dancers.
"I'm busy tomorrow," a girl in a grey leotard and pink wrap skirt said.
"All day?" Mister Tanaka asked.
The dancer nodded. "Religious reasons." Several other students proclaimed pressing church and family obligations.
Mister Tanaka crossed his arms over his stocky chest. "Fine. We'll resume after school on Monday. Meanwhile, everyone learn your lines and choreography!"
My cell phone beeped, signaling an incoming text from Mom. I'm in the main parking lot.
I texted back: Be there soon.
I waited while Jazmin stowed her guitar in its case and zipped up her black leather jacket. The only spot of color in her ebony Bad Girl Rocker outfit was the aqua infinity scarf she had looped around her neck and the silver sparkles on her pants. It was a calculated risk, walking with her when she was hungry, but I was more afraid of the dark path than I was of Jazmin's hypoglycemic rage.
Outside, I drew in a lung-freezing draught of night air and wound my cashmere scarf more tightly around my throat. Thick mist wrapped around us. So far autumn had been an endless chain of rain and fog. I missed clear nights when I could study the moon and stars, and my anxiety and OCD would slip away.
"Holy moly." I shivered. "I can feel my hair frizz."
"You are such a California girl." A sneer edged Jazmin's voice. I brushed it off, knowing it was the low blood sugar talking. "In New York, we'd have several feet of snow by now." Jazmin exhaled tiny white clouds while she sang, "It's beginning to look a lot like Kwanzaa."
"And Christmas and Hanukkah…" I added. We clomped across the dewy wooden bridge, then stepped onto the concrete path. I pulled my oversized leather purse in front of me like a shield. "You'd think with all the money our parents pay in private tuition—"
"The school could install more lights."
Stung, I lowered my chin, hunkering into my scarf.
"Sorry," Jazmin said. "But you say the same thing every night."
Funny. She didn't sound sorry.
"Because it's true." Fear bumps prickled my forearms beneath my three layers of clothing. I glanced to the open land on my left, almost indiscernible in the dark. Anything could be lurking out there. A rabid coyote could slink out of the oak-studded hills and bite us. A rapist or mugger could leap out and—
"You're doing it again, aren't you?"
"What?" I asked.
Jazmin switched her guitar case from her right hand to her left. "You're imagining worst-case scenarios."
"I am not." We reached the point where the path tilted at a dangerous angle. Someday, someone's wheelchair would tip over. Mark my words.
Jazmin halted beneath the second of three walkway lights spread over the half-mile trek and bugged her eyes at me.
"Okay. Maybe sometimes. How did you guess?"
"Easy." Jazmin hefted her guitar case. "Whenever you aren't talking, you are worrying. How are you going to make it through W.S.C.?"
I hugged my torso. "Crap, Jaz, don't hold back." I didn't know how I'd survive the wilderness survival challenge next year. I couldn't graduate without completing the three-week course. I had zero camping experience, and given my anxiety and OCD, I was pretty sure I would suck at either of the location choices — the Mojave Desert or the Sierra Nevada foothills. Maybe the administration would buck seventy-five years of school tradition and change the rule. Or maybe I'd be mentally sound by then.
"I'm not knocking you." Jazmin linked her arm through mine. "I just want you to stop tormenting yourself."
"You sound like my parents." We were almost to the parking lot. I spotted Mom's car beneath a streetlight.
"How are your parents?"
I shook my head. "Still at it. The suspense is killing me."
"Do you think they'll divorce?"
"It's a distinct possibility. I wish I could see into the future."
"You couldn't control it, so what would be the point?" Jazmin asked.
Mom's impatient stare tunneled through the Mercedes's windshield. I wondered how the ride home with Dad had gone. "But at least I could prepare myself."
"Will they still be able to afford to send you here?"
I halted. "Great. The one repercussion I hadn't thought of."
"I'm sorry!" Jazmin set down her guitar and gave me a bone-breaking hug. "Everything will work out. You'll see."
"Liar."
"At least you don't have to push your dad around in a wheelchair."
"True. How long will he be in a cast this time?"
"Not sure. He has to have surgery."
>
"Maybe he should give up skiing."
"Word." Jazmin's mom pulled up to the curb in the family's van. Jazmin opened the sliding door and stashed her guitar in the back. "See you Monday."
"Later."
Mom backed out of her parking space and pulled up to the curb as the van drove off. I exhaled a vapor cloud, then climbed in. Welcome warmth and safety enveloped me. As I buckled my seat belt, I noticed Aunt Terra's envelope sticking out of the side pocket of Mom's purse.
"What's new with Aunt Terra?"
"She and Esmun want us to come for a visit." Mom followed the Jacksons' van out of the parking lot.
"Props to your sister for trying. You'd think she'd be discouraged by all the times Dad made you refuse."
"Your father's clients are super conservative. He's afraid they'd get the wrong idea if we—" she released the steering wheel and made quotation marks in the air, "—'consorted with shamans and fortune tellers.'"
"Well, he is a financial planner. I can see his point."
Mom glared at me for so long, the car drifted across the lane divider bumps.
"Mom!" Kill me for telling the truth.
Mouth tight, she guided the car back onto the proper side of the road. For the next forty minutes, she stared straight ahead, except during lane changes. Oppressive silence became a third entity in the car, proving Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun weren't the only conjurers in the family.
* * * *
After church on Sunday, my parents kept to their separate wings on the third floor while I caught up on homework in my suite on the second floor. Jazmin and I had read that you learn better if you take a break every forty-five minutes and do something else, like move around. So at quarter to each hour, we texted each other. At two forty-five my cell phone beeped, right on schedule. Signing out. Mom time. Nana Jackson is coming to "help" care for Dad post-op.
