by L. L. Akers
“Olivia, do you feel sick? I think I might have caught something from the doctor’s office,” Gabby said and then raised her head up to rest it on the arm of the couch.
“No, I’m fine, but maybe you did, Gabby. Just rest a while,” Olivia answered patiently as she picked up Gabby’s legs and pulled them onto the couch, laying her down.
Emma grabbed a blanket from the back of the recliner and tucked it in around Gabby. “Yeah, Gab, just kick back. We’ll help get supper ready. You look beat,” she said nervously.
“Tell Mom I’m sorry. I’ll try to eat anyway. Later,” Gabby said in a weak voice. She knew this was the highlight of her mom’s month, cooking for them and having them all eat together. Mom would be upset if Gabby didn’t eat. She was always pushing food on all of them, saying they were too thin; as if she had room to talk.
“No, Gabby. Really... it’s fine. You just close your eyes and rest, and if you feel like eating later, I’ll heat a plate up for you,” Nick answered. Gabby saw his eyes flick over to Olivia, then to Emma.
Gabby didn’t close her eyes but instead looked around at her mom’s place. She felt herself sinking into the couch as she began to relax, swaddled by the butter-colored, soft leather. Being here felt like coming home, even though none of them had ever lived here. Mom had put her mark on the house with her whimsical flair—much like Emma’s—and it was inviting and comfortable. The outside of the house had a wrap-around porch, where they’d spent hours hanging out beneath the sprawling hanging ferns Mom had a knack for growing, sitting in the white wicker rockers in the evenings, watching the fireflies and listening to the crickets. Sometimes on the hot summer weekends, the girls would all three curl up on Mom’s outdoor hanging bed with a book, pushing and poking each other for more room, only to find themselves eventually drawn back together in a tangle of elbows, knees and long hair. The overhead fan blowing air down would lull them to sleep and they’d end up napping there, in the shade—looking like a sleepy litter of kittens. On the inside, the walls were covered in quirky paintings with lots of color; all purchased from creative starving artists straight off the streets of Gatlinburg. Playful and beautiful statues of fairies—and dragonflies—were tucked into Mom’s shelves, surrounding dozens and dozens of books. Across the windows were mismatched scarves—layers of them—gauzy and sheer, allowing the sun to filter through with beautiful, warming light, all adding to the unpredictable yet calming atmosphere of the house.
She closed her eyes, drifting somewhere between sleep and wake. Snapshots of her mom slowly crowded her mind, or was she already dreaming? Visions of Mom out piddling with her chickens in her one of her favorite wacky outfits: orange Clemson Tigers T-shirt, burgundy USC boxer shorts, and yellow ducky rubber boots. No one could deny Mom had a wacky sense of style—her own style—and it fit her perfectly. Besides, the chickens didn’t care. They wore the same outfit every day. But...
“Mom... you shouldn’t wear that,” Gabby faintly mumbled in her sleep as they all hovered around her worriedly. “Which team will the chickens follow?”
Olivia and Emma both breathed a sigh of relief, and Nick stifled a nervous chuckle. If Gabby was agonizing over Mom’s outfits and the chickens, then that meant she wasn’t thinking about anything else that might push her over the edge.
Gabby slowly drifted farther away, unexpectedly too exhausted to stay awake. Just as she was about to reach a state of oblivion, she heard the faint echo of Nick’s voice.
“Tell her the Gamecocks, Olivia,” Nick whispered before quietly stepping backward toward the kitchen, followed by Emma smiling at Gabby talking in her sleep. The tension broken and relief settled in, having dodged what might have been a traumatic episode with Gabby.
Olivia knew they could all use some silliness after these past few months, but not at Gabby’s expense.
“Shoo!” Olivia said in barely more than a whisper as she waved Emma and Nick away with both her hands. “Quit being silly and get outta here before you wake her up.”
CHAPTER 16
Emma bounced into class with a rare smile. She had received a notice from her court-appointed attorney, and apparently, since she was underage and this was her first offense, she could possibly qualify for a pre-trial intervention. She just needed three character recommendations and then would make an appearance before the judge. If all went well, it was possible she may just be assigned community service and a fine, which she’d gladly accept. If that all happened, it would be expunged off her record before she turned twenty-one—very good news for her.
Dusty was already seated at the back of the class, leaving a desk open directly in front of him. She didn’t need to avoid him anymore. She’d already given him the letdown, so he knew she wasn’t interested in anything personal—and she had made it clear she didn’t want to discuss her arrest, so there was no need to talk business either. Maybe they could just be friends.
She was still smiling as she slid into her seat.
“Did you eat it?” Dusty asked in a whisper, over her shoulder.
“Eat what?” she whispered back.
“The canary.”
Emma giggled at his joke and shook her head. “Shh.”
Dusty poked her gently in the shoulder. “Seriously, what are you smiling about?”
Emma turned around, trying to look fierce. “What’s with you and the poking? Isn’t that police brutality?”
“I’m just a guy here, Emma. Tell me... what’s up?”
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you before we both get in trouble, big mouth.” She flipped her hair over one shoulder before turning sideways in her desk so she could stop whispering so loud.
“I received a PTI notice. Do you know anything about that?”
“Yep. Stands for pre-trial intervention. You’re a good candidate for that—I think.”
“What do you mean, I think?” Emma grumbled. “Of course I’m a good candidate for it. I’ve never been in trouble with the law before, and I was just barely over the legal limit when I blew.”
“True. But I still don’t know you well. So... good luck.”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied Dusty, who was doing his best to look nonchalant. “Why do I need luck? How hard could it be to get three character recommendations and get in front of the judge? Seems like a done deal to me.”
“Hmm... you got three people to stand up for you—in writing—to a court of law?”
“Dusty, I do know at least three people.”
“Can’t be just anybody recommending you for the program, or everybody would be doing it. It has to be three contributing members of society, who know you very well, preferably employer or previous employers, clergy, or... law enforcement.”
Emma quickly turned around in her seat in a huff. I know three people like that, don’t I? Okay, there’s my boss. That’s one. He’ll gladly write me a recommendation. But I don’t go to church, although I am a Christian... so that knocks out clergy, and I don’t know anyone in law enforcement... except...Dusty!
Emma spun back around to look at Dusty.
“Dust?” she breathed out sweetly.
“What?”
“Would you write a character reference for me? Please?” Emma whined and then chewed her lower lip, awaiting his response nervously.
Dusty smiled, his face transforming into a mess of dimples and white teeth. That’s a yes! Has to be! Emma smiled back. That’s two. Now I just need one more.
“Nope.”
“Thank you!” Emma loudly whispered before the answer registered. “Wait—what?”
“I can’t do it, Emma. I don’t know you well enough,” Dusty humbly answered.
Emma turned back to face the front, fuming. She needed this. Why did he have to be such a jerk about it? She’d have to talk to her lawyer, see what other options she had. Maybe Dusty didn’t know everything.
She felt a soft poke on her shoulder again.
“What?” she snapped as she whipped her head around to glare at Dusty.
Dammit, Emma thought. He knew he had her. She needed that recommendation and needed it badly. Even with his, she was one short. This was definitely not playing fair.
She wouldn’t give in to his blackmail.
As the professor started his lecture, Emma stubbornly focused on her work, taking notes, and when her mind wandered back to Dusty, she wrote the notes over again and again... until she ripped through to the other side.
She’d learned her lesson in sitting near him. It was bad enough knowing he was watching her from behind, and she was working hard to mask her nervousness with anger, but his smell—the sandalwood was the front runner today in his spicy scented medley—almost intoxicating in itself. She peeked up at the clock, willing the minute hand to move faster.
The moment the class was over, she was on her feet and headed out the door, putting a crowd of people between her and Dusty. As she made it into the hallway, she turned to see why he wasn’t pursuing her and saw him speaking with the professor. Oh well... screw him. She took the opportunity to hurry even faster out of the building toward her car.
“Emma!” Dusty yelled breathlessly. He was running through the parking lot, trying to catch up to her before she shut her car door and pulled away.
“What?” Emma demanded.
“Emma, I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I really would like to take you out and get to know you,” Dusty huffed out as he tried to catch his breath, having just barely caught her door with his hand as she was pulling it shut to leave.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Seriously? I’m not trading you a date for a recommendation, Dusty,” she said. “Isn’t that blackmail, law enforcement guy?”
“No. It’s me, Dusty, asking you, Emma, out on a date. To hell with the recommendation, I really do want to go out with you.”
Emma stared hard at him. She’d learned her lesson a few years ago—several times over—when she’d let her guard down and the ghosts of her past were quick to punish her, forcing her to choose to remain alone. But she really did want to be able to go out with guys. She was lonely for a regular guy. She’d already let so many good ones pass her by, in fear of her past catching up with her. Maybe she could try one more time—but just as friends.
Dusty looked pitiful waiting for her answer, leaned against her door.
“Okay. Here’s the deal, Dusty. If we go out, it’s strictly platonic. Right?”
“Sure.” He agreed happily.
“And I can’t go until after seven o’clock. I have to work. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“And we each pay our own way... right?”
“Sure. I’ll even let you pay my way if you want.” Dusty joked.
“Pick me up at my job at seven tonight. I want someone to see me leave with you, in case you are really a crazed lunatic when you’re out of uniform,” Emma said seriously.
“Cool. I’m okay with that. Where do you work?”
“Dragoon Cartoon Studios. 138 Main Street.”
“I’ll be there. See you at seven,” Dusty said, backing away with a smile.
“Yeah, see ya then,” Emma answered, then yanked the door shut.
CHAPTER 17
Dusty arrived at the studio early. He couldn’t help it. He was always too early in his fear of being late; it was a habit he couldn’t break, even in his personal life. Punctual, dependable... a blessing yet sometimes a curse. Now he’d probably look too excited to Emma, or desperate. Oh well, better to go in and feign surprise at being too early than for her to look out and see me desperately casing the joint.
As he entered the glass storefront that he’d probably passed hundreds of times on patrol but never really paid attention to, he staggered at the completely unexpected interior—a cartoon wonderland, floor to ceiling.
The walls were painted with colorful murals of toons dating back to before his time, chronologically progressing to mark the years of his star-struck childhood favorites of Bugs Bunny, Tom & Jerry, The Smurfs, and onward through his adored adolescence characters of SpongeBob and Patrick, all the way to today’s cartoons—unknown to him—characters who looked much more grownup than an imagined creature from a children’s cartoon should have a right to look: bee-stung lips and very curvy bodies on the girls, six-pack ab muscles and cool hairstyles on the boys. These last characters he’d seen flash by on commercials and in the toy section at his local department store, but he wasn’t familiar enough to know their names.
If he had kids, he’d personally prefer they watch the innocent squareness of SpongeBob, shapeless human caricatures, and real-shaped animal characters.
He shrugged his shoulders; he didn’t have to worry about that. A family was so far off his radar it didn’t deserve a blip. His eyes continued to follow the nonstop scene painted on every square inch, the never-ending mural of animations reaching across both side walls and wrapping down the hallway for as far as he could see.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked, startling him out of his “this is your life” stroll down memory lane.
“Um, yes. I’m here to see Emma,” Dusty nervously answered.
“She’s on the second floor. Elevator is at the end of that hall on the right,” the receptionist answered, then looked back to her work, the screen of her computer covering all but the top of her head.
Dusty made his way down the hall to the elevator, his head tilted way back as he walked, the mural capturing his attention again—
Oomph! Dusty was knocked back a step. He caught his balance and looked up to see a young guy, probably about his same age, glaring at him, holding an empty mug with one hand and pulling his shirt away from him with the other. Oh shit! He’d knocked the guy’s drink all over him.
“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going. I didn’t see you. You’re not burned, are ya?” Dusty asked while holding his hands up in a surrender gesture. He didn’t know what to do with them; he sure couldn’t help. It was a dude! A very wet, mad dude. Dusty felt like a hulking, clumsy giant standing over the guy. He backed up a few steps. He had a good three inches over this guy’s five-foot-ten-ish frame, and at least twenty pounds on him. Way to look like a bully, Dusty.
“Obviously. Geesh, yeah... er, no. It didn’t burn me. But you’ve ruined my best chartreuse designer shirt, man,” the stranger whined furiously, sounding as though he had a cold. “What kind of idiot doesn’t watch where he’s walking?”
“Look, I said I was sorry. I’ve never been in this place. I wasn’t expecting... Well, the cool paint job caught my attention. I’ll pay for your shirt,” Dusty offered while wondering what the hell chartreuse was. “Like I said, I’m sorry. Really, man.”
“Yeah, you said that... twice. Forget about it,” he snapped, then turned toward the elevator and poked the button—hard—rudely dismissing Dusty, who curled his lip behind him at his perfectly pressed khaki pants and shiny Sperry loafers. This guy’s a shirt. That’s what Dad always called them, rich nerds who dressed too nice, never got dirty—get upset about getting dirty. What a jerk, snobbish, rude, and probably what most girls would consider good-looking, with his aristocratic nose and chiseled good looks. But still a jerk, Dusty thought. If I wasn’t such a nice guy, I’d punch him in the throat.
The doors opened and Dusty followed him in. “Two please,” Dusty quietly said, not wanting to speak again, but he couldn’t reach the buttons, and didn’t want to risk touching this guy again by reaching around him.
“Duh. There’s only two floors in this building and you’re already on one,” the dude snarked back in a bored voice, sounding even more like his nose was plugged.
Dusty’s face reddened. Now I really look stupid. He stepped back, trying to keep the guy from seeing his embarrassment. If he’d only arrived on time, not early, he could’ve avoided this entire situation. He ho
ped the guy was going the opposite way when the doors opened.
Ding! The elevators opened up to a flurry of activity. Dusty could see dozens of cubicles, most containing people working. The walls were short, and with Dusty’s height he could easily see over, allowing him a view of most of the room, a spectacle that from the top looked like an oversized scrabble board from where he stood. How can people work like that? he thought. Looks claustrophobic.
He waited until the whiney asswipe had stepped completely out of the elevator until he walked out, almost getting squeezed between the closing doors, or so it seemed, before they registered the resistance of both his hands slapping them in reflex, and reversed their direction. Asswipe, hearing the sound of Dusty’s hands smacking the doors, turned around. He rolled his eyes at Dusty and sighed.
“Who are you looking for?” he asked impatiently, tilting his head while waiting for an answer, his lips pressed together in a thin line of disapproval and disdain.
“Emma,” Dusty answered, tipping his head down again in embarrassment.
“That’s where I was headed,” he said. He looked Dusty up and down and then sighed again, a long exaggerated sigh. “Follow me. She’s all the way in the back of the building. I’ll take you there.”
Shit, thought Dusty as he hurried to catch up to the guy already quickly walking away. Can this date possibly start out any worse? I hope this jerk doesn’t tell Emma I’m responsible for the drenched “chartreuse” shirt, or any of the other goofs he’s witnessed. Emma will probably think I’m a dumb, clumsy ogre.
This time, keeping his eyes closer to where he was going, Dusty looked into the cubicles as they were passing. He passed four or five people, each in their own little square, bent over sketches. Others he saw were staring at computer screens, typing, and some on computers in the process of coloring in drawings, using a mouse. Pretty amazing stuff, he thought. I’m actually seeing cartoons before they become... cartoons. He realized he’d never asked Emma what her job was. Was she an artist? That would be cool. He had just assumed she worked a desk in some type of clerical position, maybe even receptionist, but an artist would be cool—he could see that... Emma could be an artist.
