Inside was a whole rack of newspapers, both local and not so local. Maybe one of them had some more information. I went in to see what there was.
If I started paging through the papers somebody would squawk, but I could look at the headlines. The main story had already been around and any emerging details would be on the inside. I was ready to give it up when a sound caught my attention.
A voice. I knew it well, but hadn’t heard it in months.
It was Stacie Marr, the girl who used to be my neighbor and best friend. The girl who stole my boyfriend seven months ago, just in time for the Harvest Moon Dance so I never got to go. That was his doing as much as hers. Almost immediately she got her comeuppance. Her father was hauled in for molesting her and everyone knew about it.
She wore her hair short, blond, and fluffy, like a dandelion gone to seed. She had on jeans so super tight I didn’t see how she got into them or how she could sit down.
She must have felt my eyes on her. It made her turn around. Her mouth opened then closed. I wasn’t sure how she would react, knowing I knew all about her dad. She hadn’t been in school since it happened.
If it were me, I’d have turned and run. All Stacie did was stand there looking confused. I said, “Hi.”
Then I said, “How’ve you been?” She didn’t turn and run.
She paid for the magazine she was holding and came toward me. “Cree Penny! You haven’t changed.”
How did she expect me to change? Cut my hair, the way she did? Go into mourning for the loss of Troy Zoller? Anyone who could dump me just before the Harvest Moon Dance wasn’t worth mourning.
“It hasn’t been that long,” I said. Not even a year. “What are you doing these days? Where did you disappear to?”
She mumbled, “Here and there. This and that.”
“Sounds fascinating.” I didn’t mean to be sarcastic but I couldn’t think of anything else. I wasn’t about to ask after her dad. Or Troy. I’d seen Troy around, but didn’t talk to him. I knew they weren’t still together.
I asked, “Are you coming back to school?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
That was a lie, I could tell. I’m not too bad at reading people. She wouldn’t come back, but didn’t want to say so. Everyone was still too aware of her family situation.
Finally she asked, “What have you been up to?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m trying to find a job. Everybody else has something. My friend Maddie does typing for her dad.”
I choked on the word “dad,” because of Stacie’s, but went on babbling. “Her brother Ben found a job at Frosty Dan. It’s menial, but he can do it after school and on weekends, and it will last him through the summer.”
Now why on earth did I tell her that? She didn’t know Ben, but she’d seen him a few times with Maddie and me. At the very mention of him, she got a greedy look.
Stacie and I grew up together on Riverview, until her family moved away. She was a blue-eyed blond and guys went for her. She used to wear her hair long, coiled on her head, when we studied ballet together. After the studio closed, she cut it short and told me I should, too. No way would I do that. My hair was me.
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said as we left the store.
“Mm—maybe.” I couldn’t miss those eyes sliding toward Frosty Dan.
Quickly they came back. She had a new idea. “Why don’t we get together sometime?”
“Us? You and me?” How could she think that, considering our recent history with Troy Zoller?
“You know, to talk. Like we used to.”
When we were kids. That was centuries ago.
“About what?” I asked.
“You know. Stuff. Where’s your car?”
“Stacie, you know I don’t have a car. Or a bike, either, anymore. I got here on my two little feet.”
“All the way from Riverview?”
“It’s not that far. Walking’s good for people. It tones your muscles and sharpens your brain. You should give it a try.”
She made a resigned sort of noise, like a moan. “I suppose we could talk in my car.”
The silver submarine. She still had it, even though Troy Zoller had managed to crash it into a chain link fence when she first got it.
I’d never been in that car and didn’t want to. “How long has it been sitting there in the sun, all closed up?” I asked.
“We could go somewhere shady.” She contemplated the car. I didn’t see a dent or a scratch on it. She must have had it body-shopped after Troy’s mishandling. Or else her dad got her a new one.
She opened a door and swung it back and forth, fanning the inside. “Hop in. I’ll turn on the air conditioner.”
I entered a wall of heat. She revved it up and drove us to the high school. I asked, “Do you miss this place?”
She parked facing the athletic field and didn’t answer. She lowered the air conditioner, but kept it on and finally was ready to talk. “What did you hear?”
That was blunt. I said, “Huh?” even though I knew what she meant.
“About me. You must have heard something.”
“Who would I hear it from?”
She saw through my stupid question. “Around school. You know how people gossip.”
“Come to think of it . . .” This much was true, “I did hear something in the girls’ room.”
She got a sullen look and stared out at the field. “What did you hear?”
“I don’t remember every word.” That, too, was true. I felt awkward discussing it with her. “Something about, um—your father, um—” What’s a polite term for what happened? Maybe just blurt it out. “Your dad got in some sort of trouble for, um—fooling around.”
“That’s what they said? Are you sure you heard it right?”
“I told you I don’t remember the exact wording. They said that’s why he gave you all those presents. The jewelry and things. And the car.”
I couldn’t look at her. She’d always bragged about those gifts, as if her dad was such a great guy.
She sniffed. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
“Oh?”
I could see the wheels turning as she tried to come up with a good one. I’d done it often enough myself, and knew the symptoms.
She took a breath. “See, what happened was… You know my dad’s an executive with a sportswear firm in the city.”
I knew that, but what did it have to do with what happened at home?
“You know they use live models,” she went on. “They design the clothes right on them. They still do it.”
“Yes,” I said. “You told me all about it a few times. You said you were going to get a job doing that.”
She ignored me, and continued. “So, anyway, one of their models got the real hots for my dad. He’s a good-looking guy, you know?”
Not that good-looking. He had too much forehead, not enough chin, and a drooping belly.
Again she wouldn’t look at me. I said, “Uh huh?” and tried to sound encouraging.
“But he couldn’t have been less interested.” She said it with a note of triumph. All lies, I knew. But there might have been a tiny bit of truth to it. Where would Stacie even begin to get an idea like that?
“And?” I prompted.
“It really bothered that woman, him ignoring her. So she started spreading rumors. Somehow it got to the police.”
Now, that was a stretch.
“The Southbridge police?” I said. “All the way from New York City?”
It stopped her for just an instant. Then she collected herself and tossed her short, blond head. “You must know, police departments communicate with each other all the time.”
Sure I knew. But it was mostly about wanted fugitives and other important matters. I pretended to take her seriously.
“Wouldn’t they have to have some kind of proof before they could take any action?” I said. “I would think they’d have a hard time proving some rejected woman’s r
umor.”
“I’m sure she had her ways.” Stacie looked out at the athletic field. “She probably slept with them.”
“That’s proof?”
“I didn’t say it was proof. It just says a lot about her.”
Bitchy me, I kept trying to trip her up. “Somebody must have taken it seriously if it got all the way to Southbridge.”
I didn’t know why I felt so mean. Or rather, I did, and his name was Troy Zoller. I didn’t give a hoot about Troy anymore, but the betrayal still hurt.
She pretended surprise at herself. “Did I say it was the city police? That’s where the firm is, but that crazy woman took it all the way to Southbridge just to make trouble.”
“She must have been desperate,” I said. “Where’s your dad now?”
“He has an apartment in the city. It’s more convenient for work.”
And more convenient for obeying what was probably an order to keep away from Stacie.
“So, is he—” I tried to think of the word, “in the clear?”
She made a face and didn’t answer. I took it to mean he wasn’t. None of her story was true.
But I couldn’t leave it alone. “Did they fire the model?”
She gave a startled twitch. Because the whole thing wasn’t real, so she hadn’t thought of any follow-through.
She examined the leather cover on her steering wheel. “Sure they did. What do you think?”
“I think I’d better be getting home.” I reached for the door handle.
Chapter Eight
Stacie drove me home.
As I walked in the door, Grandma turned off her vacuum cleaner. “Where did you go off to?”
Still keeping track of me. It was a lifelong habit.
She didn’t need my whole itinerary. “I ran into Stacie Marr,” I said.
“Yeah? How’s she doing?”
Grandma knew all about the thing with Stacie’s dad. I said, “She tried to make me think it was a big rumor some woman made up. A model who worked for him.”
“In New York? How’d it get all the way to Southbridge PD?”
“I asked her that. She did a quick reshuffle and said the model went straight to them. Either she didn’t plan the story very well, or she thinks I’m a total idiot.”
“Hmpf,” said Grandma. “I’m sure our Southbridge guys would look for something to back it up before they’d run him in. They did run him in, didn’t they?”
“I think so. Maybe they’re still investigating. I could ask Maddie’s boyfriend.”
“If he’ll talk. Cops like to keep their secrets.”
“I pretended to go along with her,” I said, “but now I wish I hadn’t. It’d be fun to see what she comes up with.”
“She still living at home?”
“She didn’t say, but he isn’t. He has a place in the city.”
“Just as well, keep him away from her. Horny old guy.” Grandma wound up the vacuum cord.
“She thinks he’s good-looking,” I said.
“Phooey. I never thought so. She must be on the defensive, or something.” Grandma had known the Marrs when they lived on Riverview.
The afternoon had left me exhausted, mostly from frustration. I couldn’t face a whole summer not earning any money, and with Ben going away at the end of it. What was my life coming to?
Maybe it wouldn’t make a lot difference about Ben going away. Not if I was losing him, which was how it seemed, with Miss Brown Shorts, and all. There were too many other chicks out there for him to bother with me.
I plodded through the week hardly seeing Ben at all, even at school. He was busy boning up for exams. I could understand that. What I couldn’t understand was why he took that stupid job when it was almost the end of his senior year and he had finals coming. Was it to get away from me? Or was I being ridiculously self-centered and it had nothing to do with me?
Let’s face it; I didn’t understand Ben at all. Maybe I wasn’t as good with Asperger’s as I thought.
I especially wasn’t prepared for the way he kept ignoring me. Or not so much ignoring me as treating me like one of the public instead of someone who should have been special to him. I wasn’t just any old customer at Frosty Dan, I was me, Cree Penny. You would never know it from the way he acted. I might have to go back to my dream of Broadway just to stay alive. A girl needs something to live for. But I wanted to live for Ben.
Thoughts of Broadway got me job-hunting again. Friday afternoon I tried calling Phil Reimer to ask if there was anything at The Chronicle that I could do, like answering phones or making coffee. Phil wasn’t there and the person who took my call said there was nothing at the moment.
Or any moment, most likely. The story of my life.
I went down to the basement where Grandma stacked all the old newspapers in a recycle bin. I dug out the want ads and took them upstairs to my room.
There wasn’t much. Not even enough to keep me awake. I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep until I heard a car outside. It couldn’t be Mom. She never came that early.
It was Ben’s truck in the driveway.
Grandma shouted from downstairs, “Hunk’s here!” I heard her going outside.
I ran a comb through my hair and tried to remember what day this was. Friday? Late afternoon or early evening. Ben should have been at work. Was this some kind of emergency? I hurried downstairs.
I almost melted at the sight of his smile. Grandma had been flirting with him, as she always did, but the smile was for me.
“Feel like eating?” he said.
“Eating?”
“Like when you put food in your mouth, and chew it, and swallow.”
It sounded gross the way he said it, but that was Ben.
I said, “Can I do a quick change first? I feel grubby.”
I took a fast shower. Very fast, so as not to keep him waiting. He looked so crisp in his clean white shirt. I put on a clean white shirt of my own and my designer jeans with embroidery on the rear.
I assumed he meant something like Burger King. Instead he drove to the village marina on the Hudson shore.
Next to it was a restaurant called Waterside. It had arching windows and a wraparound deck. Half of it stood on pilings above the water. It was the most elegant restaurant in town. Mom and Grandma took me there for my twelfth birthday.
Since it was early still, the parking lot was nowhere near full. Ben came around and opened my door. That was a first. I began to wish I had worn a dress, but maybe designer jeans were good enough.
“Ben, did you get a raise or something?”
“Dream on,” he said. “You think a raise from Frosty Dan would cover this place?”
“Then what’s the occasion?”
He pulled open a carved wooden door and ushered me inside. The restaurant was as uncrowded as the parking lot. We got a table next to a window that looked straight down on the water. The whole place had a hushed coolness about it, and genuine linen on the tables. What had gotten into Ben? He was supposed to be saving his money.
The waitress set a basket of rolls on the table along with a plate of raw munchies. She gave us each a menu. Ben scarcely looked at his.
“Fried clams,” he said.
I hadn’t even begun to make up my mind. The waitress waited, while Ben studied the plate of veggies. Crudités, Mom would have called them. There was cut celery, baby carrots, pickled beets, and both green and black olives. Ben took an olive and asked the waitress, “Do you have any peanut butter?”
“Peanut butter?” She must have thought she heard him wrong.
“Yeah, the chunky kind, if you have it.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” She sounded doubtful.
I cringed with embarrassment. “Ben, places like this don’t serve peanut butter.”
“I always eat celery with peanut butter.”
“It’s possible Waterside didn’t know that.”
He gave me a puzzled frown.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
<
br /> I should’ve remembered. Sarcasm wasn’t part of Ben’s thinking. He didn’t always know when people were using it.
The waitress came back with a tiny jar of creamy, not chunky. “I’m sorry; this was all I could find.”
Ben gave her a big smile. “Gee, thanks!”
She returned the smile, happy to be of service. Ben was adorable, but most people wouldn’t give him a chance, just because he was different.
I followed his seafood example and ordered shrimp scampi. Ben slathered peanut butter onto a piece of celery and offered it to me.
“That’s so weird,” I said as I took it.
“Didn’t you ever try it?” He fixed another piece for himself.
“Not that. I mean asking for peanut butter in a fancy restaurant.”
“I got it, didn’t I?”
“It must be an Aspie thing. No, I don’t mean that.” Oh, how I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. “I mean it’s cute. It really is.”
“Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes, and then got busy filling another slice of celery.
I bit the end off of mine. “It’s really good this way.”
“I know.”
“And don’t get me wrong, I like Aspies. I like you. Even more than all the others put together.”
Why couldn’t I just shut up?
“I called Frosty Dan,” I said. “They still don’t have anything.”
“I told you that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. Thanks for trying. I appreciate it.”
The waitress brought our salads. They were almost a whole meal in themselves.
“I wonder why restaurants do this,” I said. “They stuff you so full of salad you have to take the rest of your dinner home in a Styrofoam box.”
“Styrofoam,” said Ben, “doesn’t biodegrade.”
“Then they shouldn’t do it.”
Our seafood arrived next. My shrimp scampi nested on pasta and swam in some kind of butter sauce.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “If Mom could see all that butter.”
“She doesn’t like butter?”
“She wouldn’t approve. It’s way too much. The Mediterranean diet is supposed to be healthy and Italy is on the Mediterranean, so in my opinion it’s okay.”
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