Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set

by Stacy Juba

  "Tim, please." A lithe brunette with a thick puff of curls spoke up. She zipped the Covington High Track windbreaker enveloping her petite figure and riveted her green eyes on Tim.

  "You weren't there, Vicky. Neither were you, Magnuson." Tim regarded Ken with a little less hostility. "You guys didn't hear what she told Scott."

  "You don't have to call her names. You're not in first grade, unlike some people." Vicky shot a pointed look at Renee, whose moist lips curled into a pout.

  "Give me a break," Renee said. "You act like you're Ms. Perfect."

  Vicky gave Tim's arm a slight pull. "Let's go." She sent Dawn an apologetic glance over her shoulder and crossed the parking lot. Dawn wanted to leave too, but her stepbrother was glued to the spot, taking in everything.

  Renee muttered something and wheeled in the other direction.

  Scott shrugged at Dawn and Ken. "Sorry about that, guys. See you tomorrow." He hurried after Renee and made a comment she didn’t like, judging by her glare.

  Dawn's stepbrother nailed her with the intensity of his gaze.

  "Thanks for standing up for me," she said before he could ask questions. "Sorry I embarrassed you in front of Renee."

  "Don’t worry, it gave me a chance to prove I’m not a wimp. Want to tell me what just happened?"

  "Nothing."

  "Renee wouldn't act like that for no reason."

  "Oh please," Dawn burst out. She appreciated Ken helping her out, but could he really be that clueless? "Are looks all you and Scott care about? She’s obnoxious. Can’t you see that?"

  Flushing, Ken scuffed his sneakers against the pavement. "She’s had a lot happen to her. We just have to get to know what’s underneath."

  "I’ll bet you spend a lot of time thinking about Renee and 'what’s underneath.'" Dawn started toward the car.

  "Look, her mother killed herself last year," Ken said.

  That made Dawn turn her head. "You’re kidding. Really?"

  As they walked side-by-side, Ken glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot. "It happened at her house in New Hampshire. I didn’t know her then, but she visited her grandparents a lot in the summer and I’d seen her around the beach. I heard her parents went through a messy divorce and the mother poisoned herself. Renee transferred schools and moved in with her grandparents."

  Dawn halted before the Toyota. No wonder Ken wanted to reach out to Renee. He’d lost his mom, Kendra, to malignant melanoma, the deadliest form of skin cancer, when he was eight.

  "That’s awful, but she doesn’t have to be so mean. You and I both had bad things happen and we’re not like that."

  "Maybe it’s different if it’s suicide. So what's going on?" Ken dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked his side door.

  "I asked Scott a question about homework after English," Dawn said, rattling off the first story that jumped to mind. "Renee thought I was flirting and made up some lame story."

  "That's it? I guess I'm not surprised. Renee can be possessive."

  Dawn refrained from a sarcastic comment as she climbed into the front seat. "How well do you know Scott?"

  Ken clicked the key into the ignition, but didn’t start the car. "We were good friends when I first moved here. My dad was friends with Scott’s mother in high school, so they got us together."

  That’s right. Dawn had forgotten Ken was once the new kid, too. After his first wife’s death, Jeff moved into his childhood home with his parents so Ken wouldn’t be a latch key kid. When Ken was a teenager, the grandparents sold the beach house to Jeff and moved into senior housing. They spent most of their time in Portland with Jeff’s younger sister, who had two small children.

  "Are you guys still friends?" Dawn asked.

  Ken grinned. "Maybe Renee’s right. You sure you don’t have a crush on him?"

  "No! I was just curious."

  "He’s okay, but we don’t hang out anymore. Scott’s one of the basketball jocks. They look down on hockey, even though if they ever got on the ice, they’d break their necks."

  "I guess Tim and that Vicky girl are going out?"

  "Yeah, she’s too good for him. Vicky's cool. She worked with Dad this summer as an editorial assistant."

  Jeff was managing editor of a weekly newspaper, The Covington Gazette. Dawn vaguely recalled Jeff wanting her to meet a young girl in his office. Dawn told him she was busy and he stopped bringing it up. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to reject the offer. Vicky looked like friend material. But what was the point? Eventually, Vicky would have dumped her, too.

  "Come on," Ken said. "Let's go home."

  As the engine started, Dawn looked down at her hands tightly wound in her lap. Home. She would never belong there, either.

  Chapter Three

  Dawn paused at the open sliding glass door, the cool ocean breeze brushing against her face. Jeff had a private beach in his backyard, with wooden steps descending down to a stretch of sand. Dawn had always liked the ocean, until moving to Maine. Shivering, she eyed the choppy waves.

  Buoys dotted the water and a lone duck dipped its bill beneath the ripples. Mist shrouded the beachfront cottages jutting across the bay and veiled the marina. Dawn slid the door shut, suffocating the breeze, but the ocean’s whisper murmured in the background. Even the noise from Ken’s video game couldn’t stifle it.

  She stepped around Ken, who was immersed in a dizzying game of ice hockey, and made her way to the couch. Dawn flinched as she touched an embroidered lighthouse toss pillow. She couldn’t escape the ocean, not in this house.

  The image of Scott and the black truck snapped into Dawn’s head. To distract herself, she searched for signs of disarray. Three rolled-up issues of TV Guide stuck out of the remote control holder. Dawn separated the outdated ones, the task soothing her psyche. She hung up Ken’s letter jacket and picked a fleck of paper off the carpet.

  "What are you, the maid? Want a feather duster?" Ken watched her with raised eyebrows, his game on pause.

  "I’m used to putting everything in its place." Dawn blushed.

  "Does it really screw up the universe if a jacket isn’t hung up?"

  "I can’t think straight when there’s a mess. I guess that sounds weird."

  "Yeah, but if you want to do my chores, I can live with it. My dad’s always after me not to leave my stuff around. Just don’t clean my room, because then I might have to kill you." Ken grinned, and she realized to her relief that he was teasing, not criticizing.

  Jeff stepped through the beaded shell curtain which divided kitchen from living room. "Hey guys, time to eat. I’ve been slaving over chicken parmesan."

  Lucky for her mother, Jeff was a decent cook and they took turns making dinner. In Boston, one night’s cooking lasted Dawn and her mother half the week. Here, food disappeared fast. Dawn trailed Jeff and Ken into the kitchen and dumped the old magazines in the recycling bin. She joined the others at the table.

  Her mother buttered a slice of Italian bread. "Ken, would you like me to pack your school lunch for you? I usually make Dawn something. It’s no trouble."

  "No thanks. I buy my lunch."

  "Bringing a lunch would be a lot healthier than buying greasy pizza and Tater Tots every day," Jeff said. "Cheaper, too."

  Ken slammed down his glass of Pepsi. "I don’t like sandwiches. Can’t a guy eat what he wants?"

  "Apologize to Anne right now," Jeff said, glaring at his son.

  Dawn's mother sprinkled croutons over her salad, a plastic Barbie doll smile on her lips. Her eyes met her daughter’s, and Dawn tilted her head to show her sympathy. It must be hard being a stepmother and Ken was a bit of a pain. "It's all right, Jeff, really."

  "It's not all right. It's–"

  "Dawn, how was school?" her mother interrupted.

  "It was okay," Dawn said.

  "Just okay?"

  "There was a misunderstanding and some kids gave her a hard time," Ken said.

  Dawn’s mother froze with her fork in midair. "A hard time
about what? What did you do?"

  Dawn pushed back her plate and stood, her annoyance from that morning gushing back. "Why do you automatically think I did something? Why is everything always my fault?"

  "I don’t think that, honey. It just slipped out." Her mother’s gaze swiveled from Jeff to Dawn. "Let’s talk about this later. You’re obviously upset."

  Oh please. That wasn’t the real reason her mother wanted to put off this conversation. She had just realized it might be too "woo woo" for her new family.

  "Never mind, it was nothing. Some girl thought I was hitting on her boyfriend. I wasn’t. End of story." Dawn started out of the room. At the beaded curtain, she turned back.

  "Hey Jeff, you might want to get the phone," she said loudly. "It’s your mom and dad."

  Dawn strode into the living room, and a second later, the phone rang. She smirked. She’d had a mental image of Jeff’s plump grey-haired mother dialing the cordless phone while watching the six o’clock news with Jeff’s father. Maybe it was immature, but Dawn wished she could hear her mother explain that. She stumbled over Ken's sneakers at the foot of the stairs, gave them a good kick into the wall and retreated to the comfort of her bedroom.

  Dawn picked up a gold-framed photograph from the nightstand, of her father wearing a baseball cap, and climbed into bed with Buddy. She lay back on her pillows and traced her father’s brown hair and green eyes in the photo, so like her own. She recognized glimmerings of his angular face in the mirror. He had been killed in a car accident when she was seven, before her premonitions began. He'd died instantly while the other driver walked away with a broken arm.

  Her mother told her Dad swerved to avoid a van, but when they were packing for Maine, Dawn found a newspaper article in a box of important papers. The story said her father was going 70 in a 40 mph zone and crossed the center line. She confronted her mom with the truth, but her mother blew it off by saying she hadn’t wanted to upset Dawn with the details. Dawn gritted her teeth. That was just like her mother, ignoring the truth.

  Dawn understood the decision to spare a 7-year-old, but she wasn’t a little kid anymore. The topic should have come up before this summer.

  She reached into her nightstand, dug the article out of an envelope and sprawled back on the bed. As she’d done a hundred times already, Dawn closed her eyes and focused on the accident. No visions appeared, just the same old prickly sensation of worry. She didn’t know whether it was her own worry, or if she was tuning into anxiety her father had felt right before death.

  Dawn set the picture and article on her nightstand. Her mind went back to that special day when her father kept her out of school and took her to the zoo. He bought her Buddy as she’d loved watching the monkeys scurry inside their cages. She wished they’d had a day like that again.

  Her father had been the one to name her Dawn. He told her how dawn would break every morning, the one constant in life, turning dark into light. She’d thought mommies and daddies were constants, too, and would always be there. Her father’s death proved she couldn’t take anything for granted.

  Dawn pressed Buddy close to her neck. If only her father were here to hug. Dawn didn’t remember the tone of his voice or how he smelled. She couldn’t recall his expressions or his touch. Her mother rarely brought up his name.

  Even though his voice and face were hazy, Dawn knew one thing with certainty. Her father had made her feel secure. He would have been open to her intuition. Not for the first time, Dawn wondered what life would have been like if her mother had been the one to die.

  ***

  Ken drove out of the school parking lot and bore a sharp right into Phil's Fill-Up and Food Mart. Dawn eyed the dozen students congregating outside, downing sodas behind the gas pumps. You’d think in a beach town, they would find a better after-school hangout than the gas station.

  He shut off the ignition. "You coming or staying?"

  "Coming, I guess." On impulse, she added, "Thanks again for the ride."

  Ken jangled change in his pocket. "No problem. Let’s go."

  Dawn followed him into the brightly lit interior, half-convenience store and half-tourist trap. Racks up front boasted clearance tee-shirts silkscreened with the state’s pine tree emblem and map logo, the kind of cheap design that peeled after a few spins in the wash. Near the register, a revolving stand showcased Maine postcards, bumper stickers and road maps.

  Ken waved to a group of friends loitering near the magazines. Dawn stayed back, inspecting a display of moose beanbag animals, stuffed lobsters and shot glasses. Hurry up, Ken. She looked like a tourist.

  Yet Dawn wasn’t anxious to get home. Her mother had visited her room last night, frazzled. "I can’t believe you told Jeff his parents were on the phone," her mother said. "Couldn’t you have at least waited until after it rang?" "You mean, it didn’t ring?" Dawn asked, all innocence.

  Dawn glanced out the front picture window of the store and her face heated. Scott and Tim crossed the street in their letter jackets, heading to the gas station. Oh, God. Dawn hastened to the back of the shop and hid near the case of bottled drinks. She hadn’t had gym today, and had avoided Scott in English, but now he might walk right past her.

  A few seconds later, the glass door swung open and a bell chimed. Dawn peeked around the cookie shelf. Her stepbrother unwrapped a Snickers bar, bragging about how the Covington hockey team would "rock" this season. Scott caught her eye and started in her direction. Dawn examined the selection of drinks, a twitching in her stomach.

  Scott stopped a couple inches from her and drew a raspberry iced tea out of the glass case. "Hey, how ya doing? I didn’t know you were Ken’s stepsister. He’s a good guy."

  "Yeah." Dawn couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  "Good news. I haven't gotten run over yet."

  "I'm glad," Dawn said. I’m glad? What kind of dumb response was that?

  "Listen, sorry about my friends. They can be jerks."

  "It's not your fault. So ... have you been extra careful?" Dawn uneasily registered his jeans and battered Nikes. It hadn’t clicked at school, but these were the same jeans and sneakers from her vision. He probably wore those all the time; it didn’t mean anything would happen today. His wardrobe nagged at her anyway.

  Scott laughed. "Come on, I’m not in kindergarten. I know how to take care of myself."

  "It doesn’t hurt to watch your back."

  "What’s up with you, anyway? If you keep talking about this stuff, you’re gonna get ragged on even more. Where’d you get the thing about the black truck?"

  Dawn fumbled with a box of Oreos. If she shared too much, he might tell his friends and then they’d treat her even more like a freak. "I don’t know, it just came to me and it shook me up. I would’ve felt guilty if I didn’t tell you."

  He grabbed a mini package of Hostess cupcakes off the shelf. "Do me a favor, keep quiet about it. I don’t want to see you get ranked on. I’m not getting run over by a truck. Trust me."

  "Hey, whatcha doin’, getting your fortune told?" Tim called from the counter.

  "I'll get him to shut up," Scott said with a grimace. "Where you from, anyway?"

  "Boston," Dawn said.

  "My parents took me to the Freedom Trail when I was a kid. Maybe sometime you can tell me what it's like to live there."

  "Sure."

  "Cool. See you Monday."

  Scott loped toward the cash register. Dawn prayed he hadn't noticed her blushing. Was he serious about wanting to get to know her? If Scott liked her, (could he really like her?) she might have a genuine chance here.

  That is, if he didn’t die first.

  Dawn joined her stepbrother up front, wishing Scott had worn different clothes. Ken said goodbye to his friends and the group dispersed in the parking lot. Dawn recognized Candace Caldwell pumping gas into a rusty blue Chevy that must need a lot more than fuel to keep it running. Like Scotch Tape.

  Scott and Tim waited on the sidewalk for traffic to clear. Dawn
slid into the front seat of Ken's car, heaviness pressing down on her chest. A black pick-up truck drove down the road at steady speed.

  Now! It’s happening now! A voice exploded in her mind.

  Dawn jumped out of the car and ran toward the street. "No!"

  Scott darted into the roadway. He had to have seen the truck; he had to have heard the engine. It whipped through Dawn's mind that he was like a squirrel that didn't know better. She stared as if through a veil of Jell-O, everything happening in slow motion.

  Tim yelled from the sidewalk, and Scott stopped short in the middle of the road. He looked back at them, eyes glassy. Brakes screeched as tires skidded against the pavement.

  "No," Dawn whispered. "Don't let it come true."

  The truck hurled Scott fifteen feet into the air. His body smashed to the ground.

  Chapter Four

  Ken raced over to Dawn. "Somebody call an ambulance!"

  Scott lay contorted in the parking lot, his leg twisted into an impossible angle and gashes crisscrossing his face. Tim crouched beside him, groping for a pulse.

  "I can't tell if he's breathing!" Tim yelled. "Help!"

  Dawn's heart pumped spastically and nausea crawled the walls of her stomach as if she were being Tilt-a-Whirled. Five minutes ago, Scott had been talking to her. Now, he might never wake up.

  It was her fault. Dawn had recognized the clothes. She’d had an uneasy feeling. She should have prevented it.

  Ken pushed Tim aside, tilted Scott’s head back and breathed into his mouth.

  "Is he dead?" a girl asked as a crowd gathered from the high school.

  "Is he alive?"

  "How did it happen?"

  The questions blurred in Dawn's mind. Please, let him be okay. Please, please, please. She lurched over to the store, hung behind the other onlookers. The stench of burning rubber and stale cigarette smoke crept up her nostrils and she swallowed back the bitter taste of bile.

  Sirens howled in the distance. Someone seized Dawn’s hand, a young redhead in her mid-twenties who looked equally off-balance. Tears leaked out of the woman’s eyes and a red cut grazed her lip.