by Sarah Wathen
“You’re always listening, aren’t you, honey? So girls, Mrs. Ryan will be bringing you girls back here after your shopping trip, okay?” Meghan brought the car to an idle in the driveway. “Amanda, you’re spending the night with us, so I’ll take you to get your toothbrush and everything on the way to our place.”
“Only if that’s okay with you, ma’am.”
“Of course, it is. Right, mom?” Lindsay whined.
“Yeah, honey,” said her aunt, obviously straining for patience. Amanda narrowed her eyes at the back of her head as the two teenagers tumbled out of the car, in a continuous stream of gossip, grabbing purses and primping. Aunt Meghan already had the car in reverse before they reached the cobblestone pathway leading to the front door.
What is her problem? Amanda wondered where she had slipped up and resolved to pour on the sugar later that night to make up for it.
“Lindsay, make sure you get sensible shoes this time. And new panties, and a bra. I think you need the next size up, honey.”
“Mom,” Lindsay screeched, going almost purple. “I can handle it.”
“Well, it’s my money—don’t waste it,” her mom hollered from the street, then raised the window and drove off with a wave from inside.
“Yeah, Lindsay. I think you might be in store for a new bra.”
“Whatever, wishful thinking.” Lindsay, who was slight of frame and rather small chested, folded her arms over her chest and sulked. Amanda bounded up the stairs to the heavy oak door, coming to an abrupt stop at the summit that made her own large breasts bounce in her clinging blouse. Lindsay trudged up behind her, her mood considerably soured. Amanda looked back just in time to see her cousin eyeing her rear-end with a look of satisfaction; she knew she had been growing wider in that region over the last year. Lindsay brushed her hands over her own perky ass in her skinny jeans, and prepared her face for the opening of the door.
“Hi!” Gracie screamed, ripping the door open and scooping Amanda into a hug.
“Easy there, tiger.” Amanda readjusted her clothes as Gracie enveloped Lindsay next.
“I am so happy to see you guys.” Their friend had spent most of the summer away on a European vacation with her extended French family.
“We’ve missed you, so much. Tell us about Europe.” Lindsay had been eager for dish all summer, Shirley County fun having fizzled out early, after the Chad Matthews tryst.
How long do we need to wait here on the stoop? Rich people with absolutely no manners are disgusting. “Is Jessica here, yet? It’s so hot out here, Gracie.”
“Sorry—come in, of course. Yeah, she’s online, in my room.” The chilly air inside was a gift from heaven. Or from Mr. Ryan’s deep pockets. Whatever worked. “You guys thirsty or hungry? My mom won’t be ready for a few minutes. Mom, Lindsay and Amanda are here.”
Lindsay shook her head, “Thanks, we just ate at Big Joe’s.”
Is all you ever think about eating, Gracie? “I’m good, what are you guys doing online?”
The three trouped through the house, shoes clicking against the Mexican tiles. Their voices echoed through the cavernous front room and Amanda gazed through the panoramic windows at the manicured back yard. Even with all the expensive art and furniture from their travels, and the plants filling ceramic pots or hanging from artful baskets everywhere, the entryway seemed monstrous. The ceiling soared to almost thirty feet above their heads, with two higher stories jutting into the main room in lofts and alcoves, climaxing with a sunroof at the apex that filtered natural light.
Overcompensating. Mr. R probably has a tiny little peter.
“Hey, y’all.” Jessica peeked her head over the railing of an upstairs loft. “I was just telling Gracie about the Italian foreign exchange student—I found him online.”
“No way.”
“What’s he look like?”
The girls rushed up the carpeted steps, their bags and purses thudding against the walls, and their shoes suddenly muffled in the tight stairwell. They tumbled into Jessica sitting at the desk in front of a large flat-screen display.
“Is he cute?” asked Lindsay.
“What about Mark, Lindsay? Save some for the rest of us—you’ve been with the hottest guy on the football team since day one of freshman year.”
“He’s leaving for Florida State in two weeks, Gracie. That’s so unfair. I need to get my mind off of him, don’t I?”
Jessica began, as if on cue, “Tristan’s the hottest anyway—”
“Gross!” Amanda hated that all her friends creamed their panties over her brother. It did give her some clout, but she hadn’t found a way to use it to her advantage yet.
“Gracie, what do you care, anyway?” Jessica went on. “Martin would never let his precious little sister date someone in his grade. Your parents would freak, too.”
“I know.” Gracie loved to defer to that excuse, rather than admit that no guy would date her anyway. “Well, what does Antonio look like? What’s his profile say?”
“It’s not really his profile, it’s his band’s page. Band looks cool, though. They have lots of fans,” Jessica said, scrolling down the page in illustration.
Amanda plopped down on the bed, no longer interested. “Band guys are so self-involved. He’ll probably be missing his boys and playing air guitar the whole time he’s here.”
“No, he’s the drummer.”
“Mmm, that’s a little better…”
“Drummers are so sexy,” Lindsay agreed. “So masculine and powerful.”
“Yeah, but that’s why you never get a good look at his face.” Jessica clicked through chaotic photos in dark bars; most of the clear shots were of the lead singer, who was not really handsome but definitely attractive. He was always clutching the microphone, his features frozen in a wailing grimace. “Antonio’s so far in the back, and like banging his head and thrashing his drum sticks all the time. He’s always a little blurry.”
Amanda pooh-poohed. “Banging his head?”
“Well, I mean, not in a head-banger kind of way, but just getting into it, you know? Looks like a glam band. They’re kind of cool.”
“Sounds cool to me,” said Gracie. Everything sounded cool to Gracie. “What’s the name of the band?”
“Il Vagabondo. I already Googled it—that’s Italian for ‘The Tramp’,” Jessica replied, raising her eyebrows mischievously.
“What’s that mean?”
“You need Dictionary.com, Gracie?” Amanda laughed.
“No, I mean, like a slut? I know what ‘tramp’ means.”
“Tramp,” Jessica read aloud, clicking over to the reference page she had already searched, ‘A firm, heavy, resounding tread. The sound made by such a tread. A long, steady walk; trudge. A hike.’ It doesn’t mean slut.”
Lindsay frowned. “Weird, that’s kind of ominous.”
“It means ‘slut’ in my book.”
“Oh, Gracie.” Amanda pinched her friend’s plump tummy. “What’s that book, the Bible? You’re such a prude. Don’t worry, Martin won’t ever find out Antonio’s your new shower nozzle masturbation material.”
“What? My gosh, Amanda.”
“Oh, come on, we all do it.”
“My brother probably thinks I don’t even have one,” Gracie stammered, going pink.
“Trust me, Martin knows about girl parts,” said Amanda. “Even though I doubt he’s ever seen one. In the flesh, if you will.”
“I don’t want to hear about it.” Gracie plugged her ears as the other girls howled. It was no secret that her brother wasn’t a lady’s man.
“I think it’s romantic,” Jessica said in her deep, husky, Southern drawl that Amanda would have killed for. “I mean, he’s in this band named after basically the need to roam, and here he is, traveling to Shirley County. What are we in for, girls?”
Their
laughter died, and the silence loomed, as Jessica clicked through snapshots. The girls closed in around the magnetic screen.
chapter fourteen
Candy looked at her watch again. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled to Sam’s last text: “if not there by 7 probably won’t get there today”. It was 7:30.
She slapped a mosquito on her shoulder. There wasn’t much going on in Buffalo Square on a Thursday night. Shoulda gone over to Ender’s Village to see if they’re doing anything there. But she really didn’t want company. Not from anyone but Sam.
The air was muggy in the courtyard in summertime, but she wandered in that direction all the same. She had been thinking about that painting of the Sendalee woman. Sam was so sure that Candy was somehow related to her.
Do my eyes really look like that? She was so exotic.
Not the hair, obviously. She ran her fingers through her own. Candy’s thick red shag was still damp from her shower, even after the ride into town on her bike. And she was so fair. She looked down at her arms, pale as milk, in the gloaming.
But my eyes? He called them fathomless. That was exactly how she felt staring into Sam’s eyes. Though she tried not to stare (difficult as that was), she often felt lost in them. Fathomless…
Without warning, the front door to the Buffalo Lodge opened.
Crap!
She was jolted out her reverie and she cast about to find something that would explain her loitering in front of the lodge. She couldn’t run away. Too obvious and childish. There was nothing close-by but the bronze buffalo, so she busied herself looking at its plaque.
Ms. Collins closed the door behind her. The tinkling of a grand piano and throaty masculine dialogue bellowing over some televised sports game tumbled outside, an echo of the hubbub within filtering through the stained glass paneling of the front entrance. She picked her way down the old stone steps, watching her feet while Candy’s color skyrocketed in embarrassment.
“Why, Candace Vale. Hello there.”
“Er. Hello, ma’am.”
“Can I help you with something?”
The entrance to the lodge was far enough away from anything else in Buffalo Square that Candy’s presence there would obviously seem strange. “Oh, just…you know. Doing some research.” She studied the plaque harder hoping for the look of taking mental notes.
“Research? That’s nice to hear.”
“Well, my hometown and all.”
“You won’t find much history there, I’m afraid. The buffalo is simply an icon borrowed from the organization. No buffalos ever roamed here.”
“Yeah, of course,” Candy guffawed, feeling examined under the woman’s searching gaze, even though classes hadn’t even started yet.
“What were you looking for, exactly, dear?”
Oh, no. How could she have been so stupid as to talk about research with the resident history teacher? Now she’d have to come up with something that made sense. After all, she’d have to see Ms. Collins every day for the rest of the school year. Such a champion for education was sure to follow up. “I guess, just the early stuff. Like the Native American history.”
“How wonderful. You’ll hear plenty about that in History III, I assure you.”
“Oh? Cool.”
“Not much in the library over there,” she motioned to the used bookstore. The top floor of the converted Victorian house was a tiny library. “But, my own library is quite extensive.”
A birdcall sounded from Candy’s pocket. New text. “Excuse me,” she said as she fumbled for her phone.
“meet me there” was the message, from Sam.
Her heart skipped a beat and she punched in, “ok”. Send.
“A summons?”
“Oh.” Candy looked up to see a knowing smile. “I’m sorry. I forgot I promised to be somewhere.”
“I understand. Until next Monday, Candace.”
“Sure. Bye, Ms. Collins,” she called over her shoulder as she raced towards her bike.
chapter fifteen
Steph balanced the stacked Pyrex containers against her hip with one hand, hauling grocery bags onto her shoulder with the other, then slammed the trunk shut with all the force she could muster. She had already hooked her key fob into a belt loop, and she fumbled blindly to find the lock button. “Beep, beep,” said her shiny silver Honda and flashed its headlights.
“Oh—thank you, Henry.” She turned around to see the kindly old janitor walking up to her with a rolling dolly. Steph had called ahead, like she always did, to confirm that she would be arriving early to set up for the PTA meeting that evening, and Henry had agreed to meet her there to unlock the school library doors. She squinted into the persistent summer sun, still blazing hot doggonit, but with shadows lengthening faster into twilight than they did the week before. The meeting started at seven but, she knew from experience, everyone would arrive early with new-school-year-fever. “You are so sweet to help me get everything inside.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.” Henry plucked the Pyrex stack out from under her arm, and set it on the dolly in one fluid motion, then deftly lifted the grocery bags without touching her person. Steph sighed at the sudden lightness in her shoulders.
“You have a nice summer?” she asked, her hands now free to fluff up her hair and straighten her shirt to flatter her considerable bosom.
“Aw, you know Martha always loves to have the grandkids runnin’ around to tickle and fuss over.”
Steph smiled up at him; she liked to encourage the storyteller inside every old gentleman. “That’s so nice they can come stay with y’all in the summers.”
“I tell you, that Sammy…” he began, launching into a tale as he pushed her refreshments up the sidewalk to the open library doors. He eased the wheels over the threshold, and Steph nodded and murmured appropriate exclamations at his grandfatherly revelations about mischievous little boys. She appraised the library, unused for months, for signs of dust or stale trash leftover from the previous school year, and she realized that Henry had arrived much earlier. He had already cleaned the floors, wiped down the tables, opened the windows to let some fresh air in, and probably even vacuumed the upholstery.
My mama was right; sugar really does attract more flies than vinegar. Steph laughed at Henry’s finishing joke and he returned a deep chuckle. “You have made this place sparkle like new, and you’ve done half my work for me, Henry.”
“Y’all have a good meetin’, you hear?” Henry placed her supplies carefully on a table and took his leave. Steph approved. He was accommodating, but it was best not to socialize too much with the help. She noticed that Henry had placed fresh garbage bags in all of the trash cans throughout the room and also left a pointed box of new bags on the counter for replacing. The message was clear: I did my share, now you grown adults do yours. “We’ll clean up after ourselves, don’t worry,” she called through the door.
“I thank you, kindly,” Henry answered, his voice already receding into the parking lot.
Humming a random tune, Steph peeled the tops off of her containers and placed paper doilies on serving plates. She breathed in deeply, smelling the homemade cookies and muffins she had spent the past few days preparing. She thought fondly of her youngest son, Tristan, as she arranged the food. He loved everything she baked and never forgot to tell her so.
“Mom, your cookies are almost as sweet as you are,” he always said.
If you can’t find a perfect man, make one of your own. She chuckled as she sorted through the deserts, inspecting for perfection as she pulled them out. Each of the four platters got a little of everything—chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies, cinnamon apple and blueberry muffins, and of course, brownies.
As she distributed the platters through the room, she thought again of her mother, and as her role as a mother to her own children. Steph could feel her youngest daughter be
coming distant. “Mandy—Amanda,” she corrected herself with a little stomp of her foot, “…that girl is so easily annoyed lately.”
A lot of love went a little way sometimes. She supposed she had been the same with her own mother when she was a teenager, but things had certainly turned around when Brandon was born. At only twenty, with one unruly toddler running rampant, a tiny newborn to care for (and that had been only the first two), and her husband always out working, Steph sure appreciated her mother then. Friends hadn’t been so easy to come by, suddenly, but the real ones had stuck with her. And she with them.
Vanessa and Meghan. Kerry, too. Reminiscing on group picnics turned awry and buckets of dirty diapers at afternoon house parties, she looked towards the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of them, bouncing up to the door, their familiar voices asking how to help.
“Whatever happens tonight, I will have my friends with me,” she soothed herself, her stomach turning over in anticipation. The foreign exchange debacle would be brought up that night, she was sure of it. “Bestfriends.”
She pinched her cheeks to make them rosy, knowing one of them would show up soon. Feeling buoyed, Steph divided the plastic cups into four neat towers and positioned them in a semicircle around her Tupperware pitchers—one of iced tea, one of lemonade, and both of them fresh. “Everyone is more pleasant with a full belly and a wet whistle.” She fluffed armchair pillows and pushed chairs under tables. “I’m ready for anything.”
Footsteps echoed behind the adjoining door leading into the main corridor of the school. She paused to listen and heard the unmistakable sound of someone fiddling with the locked doorknob. Wondering why in the world someone would try to enter the library that way, she walked over to investigate. The only person with keys to the school was the headmaster, who was still out of town. Tracing the stranger’s obvious path to that particular door, she realized that someone would have had to break in through a side door to get there.
She heard a muffled exclamation, then a woman’s voice behind the door, “Why is this door locked?”
