“Yeah, that sounds like my dad,” I laughed. “Some things never change, I guess.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Miss Larson.” She flicked her brush in my direction, undaunted by the blue paint that spattered onto the wall behind me. Her left hand shifted absently to the dog tags she always wore around her neck. “Change is the only thing in this life that is ever guaranteed.”
Less than a month later, I was an orphan.
My world was in shambles. My little brother was MIA, presumably off living a new life with his fancy new family. I quickly became a walking cliché for teenage angst. I quit the track team, my grades were slipping, and my social life was basically non-existent. My old “friends” drifted away one by one, either ill-equipped or simply unmotivated to deal with my grief. I didn’t blame them. Well…not really. That kind of pain was a burden. I carried it with me everywhere, struggling against the weight. To be honest, some days I didn’t want to be around me either.
After a couple weeks watching me slump about on autopilot, Mrs. Proud reached out to me. She didn’t say a word, actually. She just smiled, pulled that stupid checklist from my hand, replaced it with a loaded painter’s pallet, and gave me a gentle push towards the blank wall.
I didn’t have a clear idea of what I was going to paint, but it felt good to be doing something—anything. The blue spatters from weeks ago beckoned as a starting point, so I kicked off my shoes and climbed onto the counter. Brushes felt too constricting and distanced me from my work. So, I left them lying at my feet. Instead, I used only the tips of my fingers, layering the colors haphazardly across the pebbled cement. It wasn’t until weeks later that my erratic strokes finally started to make sense to me. As soon as the image was clear in my head it was as if I could not get it out of my mind, and onto that wall fast enough.
At the center were two tigers, lounging in the sun on the banks of a stream. The small ribbon of water wound in a graceful curve through the long grasses, around a tree and against the rocky bank. Its bright surface reflected the cloudless amber sky above. The movement in the sky seemed thick and heavy. To the casual observer, it was a muted and tranquil scene, but as with many things, a little distance would completely alter your perception.
With a few steps back, the softer elements that had formed the serene landscape, would combine to create a massive, ferocious tiger, bearing its teeth. The painting reminded me of those magic eye posters—once your eyes digested the overall image, the smaller elements became harder to see; the larger harder to ignore.
I worked tirelessly on it, using my free periods whenever I could. If I didn’t have to work after school, Mrs. Proud would volunteer to stay late so I could continue. She insisted it was no trouble since she lived on the corner right across from the school, but I suspected she welcomed the company. We spent most of our time together in companionable silence. I painted. She tittered about, cleaning up messes or grading assignments.
Sometimes, the quiet would pull me into a dark place, and I would get lost in my own thoughts. Somehow, she always knew. On those days, she would fill the room with music and lively stories from her youth.
I was so engrossed in the finishing touches of my mural that I hardly noticed when the final bell rang. I crouched atop the counter, carefully adding the last few details to the stream while the rest of the class hurried out the door. The muscles in my legs protested angrily when I finally hopped down. I rubbed at the tightness in my thighs, and stared at the image in front of me. In my heart, I knew it was finished, but I dipped into the black and reached out to add something— another shadow, maybe?
“Don’t.” Mrs. Proud appeared out of nowhere and gently grabbed my wrist. “Just take a breath.”
My hand dropped limply to my side. The black paint streaked a path across my hip, but I didn’t care. Mrs. Proud untied her canvas apron and tossed it to the floor as if it belonged there. We stood side by side, staring at it in silence.
“It’s beautiful, Miss Larson. Truly magnificent,” she said, sliding a black sharpie into my hand. “It’s only missing one thing.”
My hands shook as I contemplated how I would sign. For an artist (even an amateur, like myself), signing a finished piece was a double-edged sword. It was a deathbed birth announcement. A hello, that means goodbye. I had spent months pouring my heart and soul onto that concrete. In the process, I had learned what truly mattered most to me. With sudden clarity, I uncapped the marker and pressed it to the concrete. I left the remnants of my promise on the wall and walked away.
…Even if the sky is falling. -Olivia Larson
Chapter 5
Sidetracked in the Sun
I pulled down one of Riley’s hot pink fliers as I headed to my locker, after homeroom. Someone had taken it upon himself to turn her cute little sun drawing into a lewd rendering of a girl with a rocket in her mouth.
Classy.
I crumpled the paper and tossed it into my locker. No one needed to see that trash, least of all Riley. I grabbed my backpack, shoved dad’s hoodie inside, and threw it over my shoulder. I still had a half hour before my shift began at The Windmill, so I decided to take my time. The sense of accomplishment that had come with finishing my mural had me feeling lighter than I had in months. I even smiled as I bounced down the concrete steps and out into the afternoon sun.
A warm breeze tickled across my bare arms and blew a loose strand of hair into my face. I turned into the wind, breathing the scent of spring deep into my chest. The familiar sound of the flag as it flapped in the wind above me, drew my eyes to the strangely cloudless sky. I shrugged, then skirted around the pole and across the patchy lawn. I would take my usual route past Mrs. Proud’s lot on the corner, but for once I would take the time to appreciate the beautiful day.
Mrs. Proud’s adorable little cottage home had become somewhat of a local landmark over the years. Even when I got older, driving past it had always made me smile. The house may have been small in stature, but it was oh so grand in personality.
She was always changing things up, from the color of the house itself, to the silly scenes she created with her kooky lawn ornaments. My dad and I, and eventually Beans, used to drive past it every Sunday to see what colorful new things she had added. At the moment, her front door was bright red and painted to look like an old phone booth.
Every window shutter and piece of trim was a different color. Free-form sculptures danced with garden gnomes and brightly painted stones formed a perimeter around her property. I could only imagine how her cookie-cutter neighbors felt about the aesthetic chaos.
Mrs. Proud was standing in front of her open garage door, staring up at the sky. Her gaze remained fixed on the clouds, even as I crossed the street and sauntered up the slight incline of her drive. I cleared my throat to get her attention.
“Oh, goodness.” She clutched her dog tags, sounding out of breath. “I didn’t see you there. Hello, Miss Larson.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I wanted to thank you. You know, for the wall, and…”
“Nonsense, I won’t hear it.” She said, swatting away my attempted thank you. “I am glad you are here, though. I could use your help with something. That is, if you have a moment?”
“Sure.” I followed her as she moved slowly up the drive and stepped into the dark garage.
I could just make out the outline of the large metal shelves that lined each of the walls. Each was stacked high with boxes, cans, and jars, the contents of which I could not discern in the dimness. In the center of the garage was a wooden table stacked precariously with paints, brushes, and various hand tools. She gestured for me to follow her as she headed to the back corner.
“That trinket box, just there,” she said, pointing to a wooden box resting on the top shelf. “I can’t quite seem to reach it.”
“I can imagine,” I laughed. Mrs. Proud was easily a foot shorter than me and the shelf in question had to be at least eight feet
high.
“What is all this stuff, Mrs. P?” I asked, gesturing around the garage.
“Wishful thinking, I suppose,” she said, as we both stared up at the box. She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t feel right asking her to.
A big gray trunk leaned against the end of the shelf, so I laid it flat and climbed onto it. My boot scraped a small track through the layer of dust revealing two letters, R and X. I raked away the throng of cobwebs, pulled down the wooden jewelry box and placed it carefully in her hands. She smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. I pushed the trunk back against the shelf and followed her.
“Jeremiah made this for me, right before he left for Vietnam.” She turned towards her art table and switched on a lamp. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I nodded silently, as she traced the delicate scrollwork of leaves and vines that were carved into the top, and flipped open the metal clasp. She opened the lid and started digging through the boxes contents, setting aside a stack of faded military patches, a worn leather holster, and a mildew-stained handkerchief embroidered J.P. She shuffled aside a few papers and photos, and then sighed softly as she pulled out a small gold band.
“Thank you, Miss Larson,” she said, sliding the ring onto her finger. “Thank you so much.”
She left the box and its contents laying open on the table and walked out of the garage without so much as a backward glance. My phone buzzed in my pocket, startling me out of my confusion. I pulled up the text and stepped out into the sun, shielding my screen so I could read the message.
Gave Zander your number. ;0) Don’t be mad. <3 Ry
“Jesus, Riley.” I cursed at my phone. The girl was persistent, I would give her that.
“Everything okay?” Mrs. Proud said. She shot a look over her shoulder at the phone in my hand and pulled the garage door closed behind her. It slammed into place with the resounding thud of metal against concrete.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. ” I rolled my eyes and slid my phone back into my pocket. “Just trying, unsuccessfully, to evade another Riley Baxter fix-up.”
Mrs. Proud pulled a set of brass keys out of her pocket and locked the door. She twirled the key ring around her finger and cocked her head to the side, then tossed them into the air and caught them.
“You know, Miss Larson, a true friend gives us what we need, not what we ask for.” She winked at me over her shoulder, as she bent to place the keys beneath a big rock in her multi-colored birdbath. “Now, if I am not mistaken, there was somewhere you were headed before I wrangled you, correct?”
“Shit. I mean, shoot…sorry. Yes, I have to get to work,” I stuttered, digging my phone out of my pocket again, to check the time. Eight minutes. I had eight minutes to travel the ten blocks to work, get cleaned up, and clock in for my shift.
“Well, why are you still standing around here, gabbing with an old lady?” She laughed, shooing me away. “Go on now, scoot!”
“Bye,” I shouted as I took off running.
I ran the entire way to the Windmill, pausing only briefly to check for traffic. A warm breeze sliced through my hair and rushed past my ears. The sun warmed my face and the bare skin on my arms. I slowed my breathing and focused on muffled the sound of my boots against the pavement. I smiled to myself as I watched the road shooting by beneath my feet. I dropped my chin and pumped my arms at my sides, pouring on the speed for the last few blocks. Three minutes later, my palms slammed hard into the back door of the restaurant. I was breathing hard, but I was smiling harder. I had forgotten how good this felt.
I swung open the door and headed down the hall towards the break room where I threw down my bag down on the wobbly table in the corner. I dug out my apron, tied it around my hips, and headed across the hall to the ladies room to freshen up. I looked terrible, but I couldn't seem to wipe the smile from my face. My cheeks were red and splotchy, my hair was an absolute mess, and I was sweating. In that moment, I felt more like myself than I had in months.
I wiped my face with a damp paper towel, then washed my hands and wrestled my hair back into a lazy bun. I took one last glance in the mirror and I promised myself I would start running again, soon.
Fridays at the Windmill were generally our busiest day of the week, but not tonight. All of the major news outlets were talking about Icarus— solar flare this, midnight viewing that. Most people were either gathering somewhere to watch the show or hiding indoors like it was a rerun of Y2K.
The power was on the fritz again (which happened at least a couple days a week, thanks to the place’s old wiring), so my boss, Sheki, was extra cranky. He had sent home the rest of the wait staff, as well as the cooks. I spent the majority of my shift trying to avoid him, and the heat. By eight o’clock, I had made a whopping seven dollars in tips. Sadly, five of those had come from the creeper in booth two, who had basically stared at me for two hours, while he nursed a cup of decaf.
I had already finished all of my closing work, my third frustrating level on Angry Birds, when my phone almost vibrated right out of my hand.
Hello. This is Zander, I hope this is Liv? -z
Shit. My heart jumped into my throat, and I almost dropped my phone. My eyes darted around like a shoplifter with a candy bar half way in my pocket, but there was no one here. Sheki was cursing at the fuse box in the back, and the last customer (Coffee Creeper, I had named him) had left almost twenty minutes ago. Mrs. Proud’s words echoed in the back of my mind, so I bit my lip, and texted him back.
Yep. It’s me.
Smooth. Poetic even.
Awesome. I just wanted to say sorry. -z
For?
Hmmm.
For the big bucket of awkward my cousin and his GF decided to dump on us 2nite. Lol -z
My laughter echoed off the walls of the empty diner. I relaxed a little, knowing he felt as weird about this whole blind date thing as I did. I texted him back, then slipped my phone into my pocket and re-cleaned the empty coffee pots I had washed earlier.
No worries. Hazard of being friends with Riley.
His response was almost immediate, and I found myself smiling again.
…or being related to Micah, apparently. -z
Right, I will do my best not to hold that against you. : )
I tried to keep myself busy, but I found myself anxiously awaiting his messages. Maybe I was just bored. Yeah, that had to be it.
Good thing. I’m not sure I could beat those odds lol. U still ok with me pickin u up later? -z
Sure, see you at ten?
Can’t wait. See you soon Liv -z
The lights flickered again, but this time they went out completely, drawing my attention away from my phone. It was pitch black, except for the strange orange glow that shone through the front doors. I hadn’t noticed it before, but then, I had been distracted.
“Damn it,” Sheki yelled from the darkest depths the kitchen. The tinkle and clang of silverware scattering across the hard floor split the silence of the empty restaurant. A second later, the lights came back on.
“Everything okay?” I yelled through the pick-up window, trying to stifle a laugh.
“No, is not everything okay,” he snapped. Sheki’s English was pretty great, but it was always more broken when he was angry. “Is pissing me off. That was fifth fuses I am changing today, is hotter than Macedonia. I am having so much fish and tonight is no customers.”
“I know, it’s crazy,” I said, shrugging.
“Tonight, we close early, I am thinking.” He was standing on the other side of the pickup window, scowling at me.
“Right. No problem, I completely agree. Is there any chance I could get one of your amazing cheeseburgers, first? I forgot my lunch today and I am starving. Plus, I already did all of my closing work and cleaned the bathrooms.” I gave him my best puppy dog eyes, stuck out my bottom lip, and clasped my hands in front of me in the window.
“Fine,” he said. He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth quirked up. “You are brat, Liv.”
“Yessss!” I said, pumping my fist. “You are my hero, Sheki!”
I tried to busy myself with extra cleaning, but it was really difficult to focus when I could smell the burger sizzling on the grill. My stomach grumbled impatiently at me as I buzzed about. I smiled in anticipation of the warm meaty goodness headed my way. Burgers were my ultimate comfort food, and Sheki was a savant behind the grill. When the little bell rang, I nearly tripped over my own feet in my haste to retrieve my dinner.
A predatory growl rumbled from deep in my chest, as I shamelessly crammed the burger into my mouth. I savored each bite, humming happily to myself as the flavors danced over my tongue. I chased each juicy mouthful with a small bouquet of golden crinkle-cut fries, dripping with homemade ranch dressing.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, until that plate of greasy happiness was sitting in front of me. I greedily fed the beast within, to the point I was oblivious to the world around me. A dribble of ketchup escaped down my chin. I couldn’t help but laugh as I hovered over my plate and reached blindly for a napkin. I grabbed something warm instead— a hand.
A hand that was attached to a very tall, very cute guy.
“Gah,” I blurted, almost choking. I jerked my hand back in shock and covered my mouth with it.
“Gotta love a girl with an appetite,” he laughed, handing me a napkin. “Liv, I presume?”
“Zam-ber?” I blubbered around a mouthful of food. Jesus Liv, real Smooth.
“In the flesh.” He arched a brow at me and shot me a crooked smile. “What’s wrong, not what you were expecting?”
“No.” Definitely not. I swallowed the massive wad of food, desperate to recover a shred of my dignity before I opened my mouth again. “It’s just, I mean, I wasn’t—Um, You’re early.”
“Oh, right. Well, I guess maybe I got a little ahead of myself.” His eyes drifted away from mine as he ran his hand over the back of his neck. He pulled off his long sleeved, military-cut, button down and slid into the chair next to me while eyes drank in the sight of him. “I was just anxious to go for a ride.”
Killshot (Icarus Series Book 1) Page 3
