Ripple Effects

by Greene, L. J.

  Other Titles by L.J. Greene

  Sound Effects

  Check out a preview of Sound Effects at the conclusion of this novel.

  Copyright 2015 L.J. Greene

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 0692474609

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-47460-0

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.

  To Bug and Bean, the reasons I do everything. And to Mr. Greene, I couldn’t do any of it without you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1: Sound Effects

  Chapter 1

  Sarah

  LIKE GROUND ZERO FOR NERD chic, Charlie’s Bar & Grill on University Avenue stands as a mecca. It’s a funky kind of place, equally favored by the hoodie-clad Silicon Valley professionals, as by their similarly dressed student counterparts. It’s Friday night happy hour on the last day of Stanford’s spring semester finals, and the place is packed.

  “Here, take this,” Selene says, tossing back her long, dark hair, and handing me a very pink, very sweet cranberry cosmopolitan. “For the next three months, we have nothing to do but relax. And we’re going to start that tonight.” She raises her drink in a toast, takes a large sip, and melts into cranberry bliss.

  In truth, neither of us is without responsibility for the next three months, but I do understand the underlying sentiment. Selene Georgiou and I have been roommates for the past four years, and are heading into our final semesters of undergraduate study this fall. After that, we’ll be going our separate ways–she likely moving to San Francisco for a graphic design job and, me, likely continuing on at Stanford for my master’s degree in education. This is our last summer together, and neither of us is ready to face up to that reality just yet.

  So despite the onset of a ham-like state of post-finals exhaustion, I agreed to come out for a drink, and even acquiesced to letting her dress me up in an outfit that she insisted was very flattering to my figure.

  Selene is tall like I am; but she’s more lithe to my curvy athleticism, which explains why her floral print, button-front blouse feels a little sexier than I had intended. I pull at the front of it for the millionth time, deeply regretting my earlier apathy in the selection process.

  “Wow, that is strong,” I wince, taking a sip of the lethal concoction she’s handed me. Even the sugared rim can’t disguise the heavy alcohol content. “Who did you have to flash to get this?”

  Selene rolls her eyes–not exactly a denial, though. “I’m going to use the restroom,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

  I take another small sip of my drink and glance around the bar. I grew up in the Silicon Valley, but in truth, I’m still in awe of it. Nowhere else in the world is quite like here. With its frenetic pace of life and vibrant cultural diversity, you can’t help but feel like people are always inventing, always trying to solve problems in an out-of-the-box, disruptive kind of way. And it’s true that many of the companies founded here have literally changed the world–Fairchild Semiconductor, Cisco Systems, Genentech, Google, Facebook. As a result, the collective wealth in the Bay Area is absolutely staggering.

  Of course, that makes me a bit of an outlier. Though my childhood home is only miles from the Stanford campus, it’s a great distance in terms of economics. But growing up, I was never discouraged by that. The Silicon Valley is rich with lore of seemingly crazy ideas that took shape in a garage, and went on to become Apple or Hewlett-Packard. It’s always given me the feeling that if you worked hard enough, you could do anything–even get into Stanford on a full academic scholarship.

  I take another sip of my cosmo, and count my blessings for that one.

  One of the coolest things about Charlie’s is that the used brick interior and cement flooring give it a warehouse feel that deftly showcases Charlie’s apparent passion for the eclectic work of local artists–everything from paintings to sculptures to scrap metal creations.

  Today’s artist is a photographer, and the restaurant’s pin lighting accentuates many sweeping landscapes of the Bay Area, as well as interesting close-ups of local flora and fauna. They’re beautiful, and in my appreciation of them, it’s a full minute before I realize that I recognize some of the photographs–one in particular. It’s an image of the Golden Gate Bridge, with the bridge sitting almost eerily behind a ghostlike band of fog, and the rich, brown sand and rolling waves of Baker Beach in the foreground. The original focal point, whatever it was, appears to have been cropped out, giving the image a soft, dreamy quality.

  It’s so distinctive that I’m nearly certain it’s the one I remember from many years ago, but I squint to see the name of the photographer on the card beside it, anyway.

  As it happens, the effort is unnecessary; the photographer in question is standing just a foot away, scrolling through messages on his phone.

  “Mr. Moore?”

  Penetrating green eyes lift to absorb me blankly. But I can see that he’s fighting to place me in his memory. After a long, awkward beat, we both say my name in chorus. Though for him, it’s definitely more of a question.

  Daniel R. Moore was one of three biology teachers at McKinley High School. He couldn’t have been more than a handful of years into his career when I knew him, and always strictly reserved with students. But he was definitely passionate about teaching. His lectures famously prompted some pretty memorable discussions on scientific advancements, and ethics, and conservation. When he was in full flow, he was absolutely captivating.

  “Yes, of course, Sarah. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head apologetically and slides his phone into his pocket. “And, please, call me Dan.”

  His expression unexpectedly develops into a large, good-natured grin. And I’m so taken aback by his warmth, which is far from my recollection of him, that I stare for a moment like a deer in headlights, groping desperately for a coherent thought.

  “I was just admiring your photographs.”

  “Ah. Just a hobby.” He looks around at the display as his smile becomes more self-deprecating. “Charlie’s a friend of mine, so I blame him for all of this.”

  I laugh. But truthfully, the whole situation is a little awkward. What do you say to someone you haven’t seen in more than five years and didn’t know to begin with? Plus, I’m now highly conscious of the fact that my blouse feels far too small, which is not ideal for this kind of reunion, and I find myself discreetly tugging at it, again. To Moore’s credit, his eyes remain on my face–a bit of professionalism that does ring true to what I knew of him.

 
“Are you still teaching?”

  “Yes. But not at McKinley. I left the high school to teach seventh grade life science at Taft.”

  He watches me so intently as we talk that my natural instinct is to look away. But somehow, I can’t break his gaze; I’m pinned there, his eyes holding mine ruthlessly hostage. Then he glances down at my drink, and I realize what he’s probably thinking.

  “Don’t worry, I’m 22,” I blurt out, gesturing with the glass.

  Jesus, did I really just…?

  “Oh, I…”

  He looks momentarily confused. Maybe he doesn’t believe me? Do I look underage? I can’t explain the impulse behind it, but I push my hand into the pocket of my jeans, and pull out my driver’s license and student ID, thrusting them in his direction. The sound of a soft, metallic clink registers nearby, though I don’t immediately give it any real thought.

  Dan takes the license and ID card from my hand, and laughs a little uncomfortably, as though he’s not quite sure what to do with them.

  “Well, I…okay. I wasn’t…Here, you can keep these,” he says, handing the cards back to me. “So, you should be graduating soon?”

  “Umm,” I start, swallowing a sip of my drink. “Actually, I’ve still got one more year to go on my bachelor’s. I have an internship at Stanford Medical Center so I haven’t been able to take a full load each semester. Thus, the five-year plan.”

  “The medical center?” he says curiously.

  “I’m working with kids with autism.”

  He narrows his eyes as if digging deep to recall something. “Your brother.”

  “Yes. He’s autistic–Asperger Syndrome, actually–but that’s where the interest comes from.”

  “That’s really great.”

  He eyes me closely, tilting his head slightly as if this is a revelation–like he’s seeing me for the very first time. Evidently, I’ve managed to progress in his mind from underage drinker to semi-respectable societal contributor. I smile as I put my IDs back in my pocket.

  That’s when I realize that nothing else is in my pocket. I look down to find that my neatly folded cash and house key are on the ground next to my foot, apparently dislodged when I took out the cards. And to my unmitigated horror, the tampon from my pocket is also on the ground, lying conspicuously next to his shoe.

  He shifts his stance, and steps on it accidentally, looking down with a surprised, “Oh!” And, then, an even more distressing, “Did I…ah…disable it?”

  Disable it? Like a tampon bomb?

  Gasping, I sink to my knees, and scramble around to retrieve the items. He seems to be of the opinion that keeping the conversation going while I do this is the best way for us to pretend that he didn’t just step on my tampon. I appreciate the tactic, but admittedly, I’m not really listening to what he’s saying. There’s something about his completing a Ph.D. in education at Stanford, which I wouldn’t think is necessary for a middle school teaching position.

  I stuff the tampon back into my pocket with enough force that my cosmo sloshes out of its delicate glass and all over his pristine leather loafer.

  Jesus! Really, universe?

  “I am so sorry!” Brushing at it vigorously with my hand has little effect. The leather is soaked, and the sticky sweet liquid is running over the top of his foot and into his shoe.

  “Uh…it’s fine, really.”

  Bending to gently grasp my arm with his large hand, he begins to pull me back up before I humiliate the both of us any further. But it’s inevitable–another wave of liquid shoots from the mouth of the glass as I rise, this time soaking the leg of his pants, mid-thigh. He lets out a little grunt in response, and releases me.

  Oh, God. I don’t even know how to recover from this. I don’t think it’s possible.

  I gape at the wet spot. But, since we both know that my pockets don’t hold anything of value for this situation, my hand drops helplessly away. Instead, I look up to his face, on the verge of tears. Real tears. The big ugly kind that require a nose blow and usually end up in hiccups. I’m fully expecting the worst; instead, I find him looking kind of sweet, and maybe even a little amused.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says kindly. “It’s not the first time I’ve been doused in a cosmopolitan.”

  I laugh a little, in spite of the horror, and he makes a playful show of squishing the liquid in his shoe. I wonder if it’s always this way for attractive men–women doing bat-shit crazy things in their presence. He seems to know just how to handle it gallantly.

  I take in a deep breath and let it out, closing my eyes momentarily.

  “I’m sorry–did you say your Ph.D. is on education reform?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “That’s funny–I’ve been struggling to write my grad school scholarship essay on that same topic.” Understatement of the century, right there.

  Despite the fact that I am radiating heat from my scalp to my toes, the skin between my breasts feels cool. And something about that sends off a tiny alarm in my brain. I turn, absentmindedly, to see if the breeze may be coming from an open door.

  “I should just copy yours.”

  Feeling a little distracted, I don’t immediately realize that I have just proposed plagiarism to a teacher. My former teacher. And then it dawns.

  My attention snaps back to the tall, athletic man standing in front of me, and he has the queerest expression on his face. He seems to be searching politely for some appropriate thing to say–which, God knows what in the world that might be.

  So I rush out quickly with a disclaimer, my eyebrows planted firmly in my hairline.

  “No, I didn’t mean I would actually want to plagiarize your Ph.D. I never do that sort of thing. Ever.”

  He laughs uncomfortably. “I didn’t think…”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he looks away briefly. Then, he turns again in my direction. But he’s not really looking at me; he’s looking pointedly at my forehead. Something isn’t right here. His eyes dart around the room again, as if searching the place for help that isn’t coming. At last, he refocuses his attention precisely on my face. More alarm bells.

  Clearing his throat, he continues in a businesslike manner, “What I was going to say was, it’s definitely an ambitious topic for a short essay. You’ll have to narrow your focus considerably, or your paper will come off as superficial.” The intensity returns to those devastating green eyes. “If you want, I’d be glad to review your outline and give you a few ideas.”

  I’m flooded with relief that we seem to have returned to more stable ground. Okay, see, this is how a normal conversation is conducted. He’s just a regular person, after all–no more or less than I am.

  “You forget that I have rather intimidating experience with your infamous red pen,” I tease, watching his reaction.

  Mr. Moore was not known for his sense of humor, and in light of his surprisingly genial manner tonight, I’m suddenly curious to know how he’d respond to mine.

  Before my eyes, his gaze turns from intense to almost sparkling.

  He’s still oddly rigid, but he cocks his head to the side, and adjusts his body in a graceful way.

  “What are you implying about my red pen?” That disorienting smile is back. And, oddly, something about his demeanor eases my concern.

  “I’m not implying anything.” I say, relieved to feel like myself again for the first time since he uttered my name. “Our papers always looked like they’d been victims of a violent crime.”

  He blinks at me for a moment. And, then, he throws his head back and laughs at my assessment. It’s a masculine sound with a bit of a rasp around the edges, and it washes over me with unexpected warmth.

  “Some of them definitely were a crime. A crime against science–and against my intelligence, for that matter.”

  I’ve never heard him laugh. Years ago, I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of it. The whole exchange shows a side of him that I could not have imagined back then. He has an actual sense of h
umor.

  And an incredibly sexy laugh.

  It would be an altogether pleasurable discovery, except that it’s followed by a rather cataclysmic one: The three middle buttons on my blouse have come open–wide open. And it’s likely been this way for many minutes.

  I glance back up, grasping at my blouse with my free hand, to see if Dan has noticed the malfunction. Well, of course he has; his ears are now the same shade of pink as my cosmopolitan. He quickly looks away, avoiding my conspicuous attempts to button the blouse back up with my one free hand. But, surely he can’t mistake the fact that I’m fumbling miserably. Finally, he reaches back across his shoulder and tugs his light grey sweatshirt over his head. His thick, wavy strawberry-blond hair is sent into joyous, wild abandon, which he mostly rights with a quick shake of his head.

  “Here–in case you’re…cold.”

  He hands me the sweatshirt with one hand, and takes the sticky drink from my shaking fist with the other, stepping away to set it down on the bar. I’ve never been so grateful for a moment to compose myself.

  “Run!” my brain shouts, helpfully. “Or cry.” That’s somewhat less helpful. He already thinks I’m a barely legal flasher–crying would just make him think I’m an unstable barely legal flasher. So fortitude prevails, and I stand my ground, pulling the sweatshirt over my head for modesty. It’s warm from his body heat and roomy enough to accommodate his size. I roll the sleeves up several times, and get myself back to rightness. Or some version of it.

  “I can send this back to you,” I offer upon his return. But he waves his hand dismissively, and then scribbles something on a napkin.

  “Here’s my email. Send me your outline. I’d like to help.” He looks at me earnestly, seemingly searching my face for some hesitation on my part to take him up on his offer.

  I nod slightly, looking down at the napkin.

  “I mean it,” he adds.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  I study him for a moment, and just try to reconcile my memories with the man standing before me. I can’t. But just at that moment, Selene walks up to my left.