by Dima Zales
Slowly, though, I got drawn into the conversation, drinking wine, sharing some laughs about Cottonwood High, until the band went on stage and it got a little too loud to talk. They were good, too, a crazy fusion of bluegrass and punk that somehow seemed to work. I finished my wine, and Perry offered to get me another one. Even though I knew I should be pacing myself, I told him sure, that sounded great. Anthony went along with him to get refills for himself and Sydney.
“Aren’t you glad you didn’t stay home and sulk?” she half-shouted at me.
I nodded, since I didn’t feel like having to scream my reply. But that seemed to satisfy her, since she nodded in return, smiling, a smile that only widened as the guys returned with the next round of drinks.
And that was how the night went, alcohol flowing, music pounding. It felt good to get lost in it, to get carried away by the false euphoria all that alcohol brought. I suppose that was why I didn’t question him when Perry suggested we step outside to get some fresh air, even as Sydney giggled at me from within the curve of Anthony’s arm as he nuzzled her neck.
It had been a mild day, but nights got cold fast in the high country, and I shivered as we went outside.
“It’ll be warmer in my truck,” Perry said, and I nodded. Sure, why not?
He had a big Ford F-250. I climbed up into the cab and shut the door behind me. The temperature in there was marginally warmer than outside, but I didn’t have much time to point out that fact. The second we were alone, Perry sort of launched himself at me, pulling me against him, pressing his mouth against mine. He tasted of beer, which I found I didn’t mind as much as I thought I would. And although I didn’t feel any of the roaring heat of a consort match in our touch of lip on lip, I still thought I liked him kissing me, his hands tangling in my hair.
I wondered if this was how my mother had managed it. Had she gotten herself numb with alcohol, gone out and met some halfway presentable guy and surrendered her V-card, as Sydney put it, so she wouldn’t have to be burdened with the weight of being the McAllisters’ prima? I had no way of knowing, of course, since she was gone before I could ask her a single question or even say my first word.
Maybe that was what I should do — let this Perry, whose last name I didn’t even know, push me down on the bench seat, pull down my jeans and take my virginity away, take the responsibility of being prima from me as well.
His eyes glittered in the lights along the side of the building that illuminated the parking lot. I saw that they were blue, pale blue, not deep green, and something in my stomach twisted then, telling me this was wrong, all wrong, and I pushed against him, trying to wriggle away from the hands that were gripping my arms. He was strong, fingers browned and callused. Maybe he worked in construction, or maybe at one of the ranches on the edge of town.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, voice coaxing. “You don’t want to do it here? That’s okay…my place isn’t far.”
“No — no, I can’t. I shouldn’t be here.” I struggled against him, and those rough hands only tightened on my biceps.
The pale eyes narrowed. “What kind of bullshit is this? You let me buy you drinks all night, and then you won’t even give me a little something in exchange?”
I wrenched an arm free. “You want me to pay you back? I’ve got money inside, in my purse.”
“That’s not what I want,” he growled, and began to haul me toward him by the one arm he still held.
Not thinking of anything except the need to get away from him, I cried, “Blessed Brigit, give me the strength to be free!”
White-hot light shot from my arm, striking Perry in the chest. He slumped backward against the driver-side door, eyes wide open, mouth slack. Half sobbing, half gasping, I hurled myself out of the truck and ran back inside, ignoring the curious stares of the small clumps of people who were standing out in the parking lot and smoking. The music had started up again, and the beat pounded against my eardrums as I pushed through the crowd and came back to the table, where Sydney and Anthony were busily sucking face.
“I have to go,” I gasped, and yanked my purse off the back of the chair where it had been hanging by its strap.
Sydney pushed herself away from Anthony and fixed a bleary gaze on me. “You what?” Her eyes tracked past me and seemed to notice I was alone. “Where’s Perry?”
“He’s, um, out in his truck.” Well, that was true enough.
That seemed to satisfy her. “Oh, okay.” Then she focused on me again. “You sure you’re all right to drive?”
I was pretty sure I wasn’t, but I also knew I couldn’t stay here. What if Perry was dead? No, I couldn’t believe that. I’d struck out in self-defense, but not with the sort of focused intent that actually killing someone would require. He was just unconscious. He’d wake up in a few hours and feel like crap. That’s all.
Or so I tried to convince myself, in my less than lucid state.
“Oh, sure, I can drive,” I told her. “Anyway, I know that road so well I could drive it asleep and blindfolded. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” she replied, sounding dubious, but since she was in even worse shape than I, obviously she wouldn’t offer up any more protests.
“Call you tomorrow,” I said. “’Bye, Anthony.”
“Mmm…’bye,” he replied absently, and returned to burying his face in Sydney’s neck as she giggled and reached for her wine.
That was my cue to leave. I went back outside and hurried over to the Jeep. Part of me wanted to stop at Perry’s truck and make sure he was okay, but I’d already attracted enough attention. I just wanted to go home and forget this evening ever happened.
Since he was parked in the space closest to the driveway, I did get close enough to see that the windows of his F-250 were starting to fog up. That had to be a good sign. At least it meant he was breathing.
Thus reassured, I turned left on Mingus Avenue and headed back up to the highway. The speed limits around here were low enough that I didn’t feel too challenged, even though I had to keep blinking to keep the streetlights from blurring around me, obscuring the road ahead. That wasn’t the alcohol, though.
Those were tears.
Biting my lip, I maneuvered the Jeep around the last traffic circle before 89A headed up into the hills. Off to my right I could see the glaring white lights of the Clarkdale cement plant, but then they were obscured by the black bulk of the mountain as the road began to twist its way up toward Jerome.
I slowed down; there wasn’t anyone behind me to care that I was going at least five miles an hour below the speed limit. These roads didn’t get patrolled that often, except during the holidays or when Jerome hosted a big event such as the Halloween dance. I figured I could make it home safely as long as I maintained my death grip on the steering wheel and kept every ounce of focus on the road.
The curve for the final approach up into town appeared a few yards ahead. Standing in the middle of the road was a dark figure — a man in an overcoat, as far as I could tell. Adrenaline surged through me, and I jammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop as the acrid scent of burning rubber hit my nostrils. I blinked, and he was gone.
Oh, Jesus. Had I hit him? Hands shaking, I put the Jeep in park and got out, tottering over the uneven asphalt to the spot where I had seen the man standing, sure I would find a crumpled body in the roadway, blood…something.
But there was no one. A cold wind blew from the northeast, pulling at my hair, biting through the utterly inadequate pashmina shawl that had been a Yule gift from my Great-Aunt Ruby. I stumbled over to the side of the road, wondering if maybe the man had jumped out of the way and was lying in the brush there, but again nothing. The road was utterly deserted, lifeless and without movement, except for the tire smoke swirling in front of the Jeep’s headlights.
I knew I couldn’t keep standing there. Even though by then it was almost two in the morning, someone might still come up the road to Jerome, whether that was their destination, or whether they’d be heading up a
nd over Mingus Mountain on their way to Prescott.
So I got back in the truck and drove off, still shivering, wondering who I had actually seen…or what.
3
“You were out very late last night,” Aunt Rachel said the next morning over breakfast.
I pushed my eggs around on my plate. “The band didn’t start until almost ten.”
She lifted an eyebrow but said nothing, and instead sipped at her green tea.
Strange that I didn’t feel more hung over, considering how many glasses of wine I’d consumed the night before, but maybe that jolt of adrenaline as I was driving home had shocked the alcohol right out of my system. Nothing strange had happened after that, though; I’d maneuvered the Jeep up the final curves of the road before coming into Jerome proper, then turning down the side street that allowed access to the carport behind our building. All had been quiet and dark as I crept inside, as I had expected it to be. My aunt often stayed up until midnight, since the store didn’t open until ten, but two o’clock was kind of extreme even for her.
My brain also kept picking at the little problem of Anthony’s friend Perry, slumped over in his truck. I thought he was probably all right, but I didn’t know for sure. And even though I kept checking my phone, I hadn’t heard anything yet from Sydney. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered me too much, since she tended to be a late sleeper even when she wasn’t up until all hours the night before. Now, though, I kept wondering why she hadn’t called…and being halfway glad. If something catastrophic had happened, surely she would have texted or called or emailed. Something.
“You’re very quiet,” my aunt said.
“Just tired, I guess. I’m not used to staying up that late.”
Her hazel eyes regarded me carefully. I hated it when she looked at me like that, as if she were trying to unearth whatever secrets I might have buried in my soul. But she was a witch, not a clairvoyant, and so she couldn’t really do that. I hoped.
She seemed as if she were about to reply, but just then we heard the buzzing of the door chime, the one at the back entrance, not the main shop. Her gaze flickered up to the clock above the doorway. Nine-thirty. A little early for visitors, but maybe Tobias was stopping by for something. No, that wasn’t right. Aunt Rachel had given him a key more than a year ago. He always gave a quick knock to let us know he was there, and then opened the door with the key.
Not that we witches generally needed keys, but it felt more polite to do it that way than just come barging in.
“I’ll get the door,” she said. “You go ahead and finish your breakfast.”
After setting her napkin down on the kitchen table, she got up from her chair and headed down the short flight of stairs that led to our apartment’s private entrance. I heard her open the door and greet someone, followed by the rumble of an unknown man’s voice. Then she said, “This way,” and mounted the steps, someone larger and heavier obviously behind her.
She came into the kitchen, a man in the dark blue uniform of the Cottonwood police department a few steps behind her. I swallowed. This couldn’t be good.
I’d never had a run-in with the Cottonwood police before, not even a parking ticket. I knew Deputies Sandoval and Murphy with the Yavapai County sheriff’s office, since Jerome was in their patrol area, but the grim-faced man staring down at me was someone I’d never seen before.
Pushing away my plate, I got to my feet. “Officer?”
He took a small pad of paper out of his pocket, along with a ballpoint pen. “You are Angela Diane McAllister, currently residing at 129B Main Street, Jerome, Arizona?”
“Yes,” I replied past the lump in my throat. Part of me wanted to point out that it was sort of obvious that was my residence, since we were all currently standing in it, but I resisted the impulse. There were still a lot of things I didn’t know about how the world worked, but even I knew that smart-mouthing a police officer was generally not a good idea.
“And were you at Main Stage in Cottonwood last night between the hours of 10 p.m. and 1:30 a.m.?”
I nodded miserably.
My aunt spoke up then. “What is this about, Officer?”
His gaze barely flickered away from me as he replied, “Ma’am, we have a report that this young lady assaulted a young man in his vehicle. Bruised him up pretty bad, although the hospital says none of his ribs were cracked.” The policeman’s dark eyes narrowed. “You want to tell me about that?”
“Yes, Angela, tell us about that,” Aunt Rachel said, her voice sharper than I had ever heard it.
I took in a breath, expelled it, then said, “Look, I know it was stupid to go with Perry to his truck, but he got totally out of control. I had to defend myself.”
“And do you have any evidence that your assault on Perry Haynes was in fact self-defense?”
Actually, I did, although I’d tried to cover it up by wearing a long-sleeved shirt, an embroidered tunic from India that I’d picked up in Sedona a few years ago. I pushed up the bell-shaped sleeve hiding my left arm, revealing an angry ring of bruises, purple and dark red, on my bicep.
I heard my aunt gasp, even as the officer said calmly, “Both arms?”
In grim silence I let the one sleeve drop and pushed up the other so he could see that the marks were in fact on both arms, although the bruises on my right arm were placed a little lower.
Without saying anything, he put the pad of paper back in his pocket. After a slight pause, he asked, “Do you want to press charges?”
I blinked. “Do I — ?” Then I shook my head. “No. It was just a stupid misunderstanding. He got rough because he’d had one too many beers, and I guess I pushed back on him harder than I thought I did. No harm, no foul, right?”
For a few seconds he was silent. “You are within your rights to press charges, Miss McAllister.”
“No, really, that’s all right. I’d rather just forget it happened.”
“That’s your prerogative. In the future, you might want to consider how much you have to drink…and who you’re drinking with.” He inclined his head toward my aunt. “Ma’am. Sorry for disturbing you. I’ll let myself out.”
His heavy tread moved down the stairs. Less than a minute later, I heard the sound of the door closing, not slammed, but with a solid thunk.
Aunt Rachel stared at me, arms crossed over her chest. Normally I would have described her looks as softly rounded, still very pretty, with her lively hazel eyes and full mouth that always seemed on the verge of smiling. No hint of a smile there now; her lips were pressed together in a thin line.
I didn’t want to meet her angry gaze, but I wasn’t a child she could punish.
I was the next prima.
“It was just a misunderstanding,” I said at last, my voice quiet. “Perry had too much to drink, and I guess he got the wrong impression from me. He — ”
“And just how did he get that impression? Because you spent the night drinking with him, went with him to his truck? What did you think was going to happen?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, a sulky note slipping into my tone despite my best efforts to keep it away. “I guess I didn’t think it would go that far. I thought — ”
“I think it’s pretty clear that you didn’t think at all. Angela, you cannot put yourself in such situations. Think of what could have happened — ”
“What, that I might’ve lost that precious virginity you all’ve been hiding and hoarding like it’s gold bars at Fort Knox?”
She went still then, hand reaching down to grasp a fold of the lively broomstick skirt she wore, as if by doing so she could prevent herself from letting go an outburst she might regret later. After a visible pause, she said calmly, “We only want what’s best for you. We want you to be safe.”
“Maybe so, but you have to stop treating me like a child! I’m not a child — I can vote and drink and do everything an adult is supposed to do…except make my own decisions about my future.” My voice was rising, and I knew I should try to
control it, but I was tired and my head ached, and I just wanted to say what I felt for once. “I couldn’t even go to the college I wanted to, because oh, no, that’s in Wilcox territory. Everything I do is managed and bounded in this little box here in Jerome. I can’t go shopping by myself…to the movies by myself. Goddess, I’m surprised you even let me go to the bathroom by myself!”
With that parting shot I turned and stomped up the stairs, then marched into my room and slammed the door. An empty act, really, since we had to open the shop in less than ten minutes, and as angry as I might have been, I wasn’t going to make my aunt try to manage the store on her own. Not on a busy Saturday on the sort of mild October weekend that brought up all the day-trippers from Phoenix and beyond.
And isn’t that you, I thought then with some spite. You can’t even make a grand gesture without worrying about how it’s going to affect someone else.
It was going to be a very long day.
We maintained a frosty silence for most of the morning. Then I saw a flash of bright blue as someone snagged the prime parking space in front of the store, and realized it was Sydney in the Ford Focus her parents had bought her as her high school graduation present.
Uh-oh, I thought, and risked a quick glance at Aunt Rachel just as Sydney came inside, string of temple bells jingling from the front door as it closed behind her.
Once again I saw that thinning of my aunt’s mouth, but she said pleasantly enough, “Hi, Sydney. What brings you up here today?”
Sydney shot an anxious glance in my direction. “Um, I was wondering if I could borrow Angela for lunch? I know she usually only gets a half-hour, but — ”
