Slip



  Slip

  by Leslie J. Portu

  Copyright 2013 Leslie J. Portu

  For Jacqueline, my firstborn, I have loved watching you grow.

  Special thanks to my family who put up with my mental absenteeism and the occasional horrible dinner. And thank you Yvette, your enduring enthusiasm was greatly appreciated.

  Prologue

  He lay prostrate, forehead pressed to the wood floor, relishing the discomfort. His breathing was nearly under control now, yet all sense of time was lost. How long since the girl left? Minutes? Hours? He held his breath and listened. The insistent drone of night insects drifted in through the screens. Hours.

  Closing his eyes, he offered up thanks; it seemed they had both managed to escape. By a sliver, a shiver, a hair of the chinny-chin-chin. Ominous…yet hopeful. Time remained. Time to prepare. The itch would come again, of this he was certain. Sticks and straw had proved inadequate. He must set to work and build himself a house of bricks.

  The carefree days of summer were drawing to a close. Nights turning crisp. He’d been in this town only three months. By morning he’d be gone. Once again in search of a place to slip in…undetected.

  One

  Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

  Teens are all too often quick to pass judgment. Stereotypes abound. One glance and suddenly you know what a person’s all about. But do you really? The truth is easy to miss when you can’t be bothered to look for it. I say what’s the rush? Slow down! Spare a minute and go beyond the designer labels, the letter jacket, or the shocking pink hair. As the saying goes, things aren’t always what they seem!

  “Vivien Allen. Could you please tell the class what this means?”

  It took half a minute before Vivien realized the teacher had called her name. Now she froze, eyes darting around the classroom. A sea of faces turned expectantly and a prickly heat fanned out from the back of her neck to her cheeks.

  Caught. It was unlike her to be unprepared. But it wasn’t her fault. She’d been distracted by the couple behind her, sucked in by the irony of their conversation. They’d been at it since the period began. Quite simply, the girl was being dumped. In the middle of health class. On the very day when Ms. Hove had written the words self-esteem on the board in capital letters, followed by several exclamation points. Not that these meant anything special, really. Like salt, she sprinkled them generously throughout each and every topic. “Do I have your attention?” they screamed. “This is important!” And Ms. Hove considered nearly everything she said to be important. In the first six weeks of class they’d covered HYGIENE BASICS!!, BODY PIERCINGS & TATOOS!!!, and (Vivien’s personal favorite) HELP! IS THIS MY BODY?!!!

  Now here Ms. Hove was, towering over her. Which was virtually impossible, as the teacher was scarcely taller than the tables and shaped like a wedge of cheese. Whether or not she was a true midget was a continual source of contention. Yet what she lacked in size she more than made up for in passion. She was a warrior in the heat of battle, fighting for the good of that perpetually at-risk population: the uninformed adolescent. Bright coral lips pursed like a fish, hands rested on shelf-like hips, a hopeful (and vaguely frightening) look penetrated the pink cat-eye glasses. The room was silent.

  “Self-image!” Ms. Hove belted, causing Vivien to jump, inadvertently knocking her binder to the floor. Taking advantage of the diversion, she spent an extra second or two under the table, hoping to escape further scrutiny.

  “Who can define this term?” Ms. Hove addressed the class, eyes narrowed, roaming the tables for a second victim. “Andrew. Andrew Miller.”

  Drew, as he’d been known since the first grade—a small detail Ms. Hove seemed to forget on a daily basis—glanced around the room as if he’d just been chosen to walk the plank. He made an admirable attempt of avoiding her by suddenly discovering something extremely compelling in his notebook. When this failed to discourage her, he looked up again and shrugged. “Um, it’s like…the image you have…of yourself?”

  Ms. Hove nodded, coaxing him to expand upon this profound revelation with a reeling-in motion of her hand. But Drew remained silent, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly, giving him the look of being what one might politely call slow.

  Ms. Hove sighed. “Yes, yes, thank you, Andrew. Self-image is a mental snapshot of yourself.” She paused and took several nibbles on the end of her pencil. “Now, for you young people, this snapshot is mainly influenced by your peers—the degree to which you feel liked and accepted. When problems arise in your relationships, self-esteem can take a severe nosedive.”

  Self-esteem, Vivien scribbled, nosedive, adding a few exclamation points as a form of repentance for her earlier inattentiveness. But once again there was commotion from behind. The happy couple was not entirely visible, but the slight angle of her chair allowed a sufficient view. The drama had begun with a series of notes exchanged. Then, as the hour progressed, the pace became more and more frantic until this tedious method of communication was abandoned altogether to be replaced by terse whisper-shouts.

  “The good news,” Ms. Hove went on, “is that self-esteem is not a fixed value. Your job is to figure out who you are and how you fit in in this crazy world. The steady evolution of the self means self-image changes over time.”

  Ugh! She couldn’t concentrate. Why the couple had chosen to have such an obviously private conversation in public, she had no idea. But she knew the type: PDA-obsessed, groping in the stairwells, exchanging tongues at the lockers. The traffic jams they caused by holding hands at change of classes had made Vivien late on several occasions; evidently, separating for more than a few seconds was physically impossible.

  No, scratch that. She couldn’t say she was shocked they were having a major fight a mere foot or two away. Just appalled. She would never.

  It wasn’t as though she was against couples. On the whole, she watched them drift through the hallways with a combination of suspicion and envy. Having never had a serious boyfriend—or, to be honest, any degree of boyfriend whatsoever—it had its appeal. And yet seeking out and finding that someone special seemed a monumental task, one that involved significant risk. Putting yourself out there was dangerous. Chances were you’d end up getting your heart trampled on and handed back to you in a state beyond repair. The safest bet was to avoid relationships altogether.

  The sound of metal scraping against tile pierced the air like a bullhorn. A chair crashed to the floor and Vivien heard a single sob escape as the girl rushed past her table and out the door.

  Ms. Hove shook her head and gave the room a solemn look, as if each and every student was somehow complicit in the girl’s misery. But then it was back to business as usual. “OK, people, listen up! Tomorrow there will be a pop quiz.”

  Vivien smiled to herself. Unable to grasp the true meaning of “pop,” Ms. Hove was constantly giving the students advance warning.

  “Please be familiar with the seven steps to improving self-esteem. And be prepared to list concrete examples for each one.”

  With another sigh, Vivien snapped her textbook closed. Two tests and a creative writing assignment loomed over her head and the day was only half over.

  “Sucks.”

  She jerked her head to look at the boy next to her. He sat slumped in his chair texting, his phone held clandestinely beneath the desk.

  “This class sucks,” he repeated, without looking up from the tiny buttons over which his thumbs hovered.

  The bell rang for lunch. Instantly the decibel level kicked up several notches as the students pressed out of the room. At the door, Vivien glanced back, a wave of empathy washing over her as she noted the girl’s books still stacked neatly on the table. The boy was nowhere to be seen, his day miraculously unaffected.

  A solid
rain poured down during the lunch hour, forcing all students to forgo the courtyard and cram into the overheated cafeteria. The smell of damp bodies mingled with the food service’s version of spicy burritos. Vivien and her friends were forced to share a table with several foreign exchange students whose broken English made it difficult to keep a straight face. It was obvious they were Asian, but beyond that she couldn’t be specific. Her lack of knowledge made her ashamed and served to limit their conversational topics ever further.

  “What’s the deal?” Miranda hissed. “These people actually attend classes at our school?”

  “The one in the purple shirt’s in my algebra II class” Lauren said, tossing her long, expertly highlighted blonde hair over her shoulder. “She’s a freak-of-nature genius. But aren’t they all like that in math?”

  Vivien shushed them, horrified by such blatant stereotyping. She tried to keep the conversation going through the long pauses and nervous giggles, but her friends eventually tired of this, twisting away.

  “Nathan Dorsette’s having a party Friday,” Miranda announced, removing her glasses and wiping them on her shirt. She replaced them with care and gave her friends a commanding look. “His parents went to Cancun—no, wait! Cozumel.” She frowned, then shrugged. “Definitely someplace that begins with a C. Anyway, I think we should go.”

  “Oh my God, yesss!” Charlie said, dreamily.

  Charlie reminded Vivien of a puppy dog: cinnamon hair cropped short, brown eyes glassy and expectant. “You guys should go,” she told them.

  Miranda gave her a suspicious look. “What about you, Vivs?”

  “It’s just…Friday I—”

  “You never come out with us anymore.”

  Typical Miranda, speaking in extremes. Just because Vivien had backed out the last few times, she was suddenly being accused of never going out. She took a deep breath and tried to explain. “Look, if Nathan’s parents are out of town, the entire school’s going to show up at his house. It sounds like a really bad idea.” She looked at each in turn, trying to gauge their reaction. Her face fell. “You’re not seriously interested in those guys, are you?” Those guys meant the varsity lacrosse team, the most sought after boys in school. Virtually untouchable unless your name claimed an equally distinguished spot on the “hot” list. “I thought—”

  “Nathan’s not that bad,” Lauren said, casting a look of longing toward the senior table. “The other day he actually smiled at me.”

  “And this year was going to be different. Remember?” Miranda said, determined to quash Vivien’s argument.

  Vivien’s mouth hung open as she searched for a rebuttal. “I know. I mean…yeah, I remember. It’s just...come on, Nathan? Really?” She tried to warm them up with a smile. “Hey, we’ve done plenty of fun stuff so far.” She hoped they’d let this slide, as at the moment she was hard pressed to come up with any specifics.

  Miranda leaned forward. “No. This year we have to do more. Like, be way more adventurous. We’re not babies anymore. We’re juniors—we’re upperclassmen. It’s like…our obligation to have fun.”

  Lauren and Charlie nodded excitedly. Vivien bit her lip. As much as she wanted to agree, the sort of fun they were looking for made her nervous. Things were suddenly moving at an accelerated pace and she seemed to be the only one left standing in the dust. Yes, a sense of urgency had arrived with the start of the school year. Nights hanging out in Charlie’s basement, eating popcorn, watching The Proposal and drooling over Ryan Reynolds’ scrumptious abs were over. Friday and Saturday nights now meant going out. For real. The allure of the forbidden had come calling.

  Why the good old days must be so callously cast aside confused her. Had they not been having a good time? There was a level of comfort and safety she felt staying within their tight circle of friends. Everything was balanced. Each fulfilled a predictable role: Miranda, smart and bossy; Lauren, pretty and boy-crazy; Charlie, honest and devoted. These were friends she respected. Friends who shared her values. Who took school seriously. Who pursued interesting hobbies like orchestra and the school newspaper. She didn’t need anything else.

  A low-pitched roar suddenly erupted from across the room. The four girls looked up to see the members of the Eastbrook lacrosse team on their feet, chanting something unintelligible as they locked arms and swayed back and forth.

  “Must be some kind of inside joke,” Miranda said after a moment.

  “Or a primal mating ritual,” Vivien said with a smirk. It was easy to picture the lot of them gathered round a roaring fire, sporting the appropriate caveman attire. Her friends ignored this remark and continued to stare.

  “It’s like there’s a minimum hotness requirement to even be considered for the team,” Lauren said.

  “They’ll all be at the party for sure,” Charlie whimpered.

  What was going on here? Had her friends completely lost their minds? She needed to knock some sense into them. “You can’t seriously be into them. They just want to hook up, you know. The only people they care about are themselves.”

  Miranda shot her an irritated look. “What’s your deal? When exactly did you swallow the extra-strength bitter pill?”

  “Bitter?” She looked down, smoothing her granola bar wrapper with the flat of her hand. Miranda’s accusation hit her like a physical blow, and she needed a moment to recover. “I’m not bitter,” she replied, “just a realist. That’s all. Since when is it a crime to have standards? Those guys”— she flicked her eyes in their direction—“it’s like they know they’re good looking, so they treat girls like crap. I think Nathan’s gone through every pretty girl in the senior class.” Which must be why he was suddenly giving Lauren the eye; he needed fresh meat.

  Her friends stared back at her, unmoved. She tried again. “Have you guys forgotten last year when what’s-his-name broke up with Becca? Two days before prom? And she’d already spent a fortune on her dress. And booked an appointment at Hair 21—with Todd—like a year ahead!” She began to fold the wrapper meticulously into smaller and smaller squares. “He gave her some kind of lame excuse, like she was smothering him, or he was just too young to be tied down. Blah, blah blah. After that, Becca came to school dressed in pajama pants and gained, like, ten pounds!”

  “You’re totally exaggerating,” Miranda said. “It was more like five. And she recovered.” She waved her hand as if it was no big deal. “She joined track and got skinny again. Now she’s going out with Sam Witherspoon—you know, he’s in my AP gov class. He’s got that hot geek thing going on.”

  Vivien abandoned her granola wrapper project, crumpling the foil in her hand. “I think you’re missing the point.”

  The conversation was suddenly interrupted as a comical-looking man waddled over to their table, appearing out of breath from the exertion. Frayed red suspenders stretched to breaking point over an impossibly round belly. Unfortunately, this antiquated contraption failed to keep his polyester slacks from exposing the dark, fuzz-filled crest of his butt crack, a thing no human being should be forced to see—especially while eating.

  “Girls. Girls!” he said. The four waited expectantly.“You’s all gotta do a better job cleanin’ up,” he said between puffs. “I seen the other day this here table full of trash.” He wagged his stubby finger back and forth in admonishment.

  “That wasn’t us, Mr. B,” Charlie said. “It’s the boys who never clean up.”

  “You know we’d never do that to you,” Lauren told him, flashing a blindingly white set of teeth.

  Mr. B twisted his lips, causing his chin to fold into various shapes. Beads of sweat glistened above his upper lip. Dark stains crept out beneath his arms. It was common knowledge amongst the Eastbrook student body that any girl could sweet talk him. Beautiful blondes especially. Mr. B broke into a sheepish smile. “All right. I ain’t fond of writin’ people up. Just mind you put your refuse into the proper receptacle.”

  The girls exchanged smiles upon hearing these new and unexpected vocabul
ary words. Miranda opened her mouth, a flippant remark at the ready.

  Vivien jumped in first. “We will, Mr. B. We promise.” She felt sorry for the guy. What a nasty job he had, picking up everybody’s half-eaten lunches. All the students mocked him behind his back—not even behind his back. She narrowed her eyes, studying him closely, trying to decipher who he really was. How had life unfolded to lead him to such a dull and thankless position? Had there been one fateful wrong decision? Maybe one day he’d decided to hang out with the wrong crowd, just for kicks. Then he started skipping school. Soon enough, he was eighteen and without a high school diploma. He couldn’t find a job, his girlfriend dumped him, he was homeless, his family gone. He had no one. Nobody loved him.

  A cold shiver passed through her. It seemed so easy to slip, to lose your place. At sixteen, life had already taught her you never knew what might be coming around the corner. And sometimes it turned out to be the most horrible thing imaginable. But she had learned a few tricks. If you kept your guard up, you could minimize further damage. True, walking around in an emotional suit of armor was exhausting. Yet she’d long ago convinced herself it was worth the price.

  “Hello? Vivs! Time to go,” Miranda said.

  Snapping to attention, she saw that Lauren had already left for class and the other two stood waiting impatiently. She stuffed the last two baby carrots in her mouth, quickly stuffed all wrappers and plastic baggies inside her brown paper bag, and rose to join them.

  “What’d you get on the algebra II test?” Charlie asked as they headed out of the cafeteria.

  “I’m not sure,” she mumbled, still chewing. She didn’t want to tell Charlie she’d gotten an A. Charlie struggled hopelessly in that class.

  “Goldberg gave me a C-minus,” Charlie said. “A C-minus! My parents are gonna kill me!”

  “The corrections will raise it up,” she told her. “And I can help you.”

  Charlie smiled but shook her head. “Nah. I’m going to the student center seventh hour today. I saw this really hot guy in there. Do you think I can request him? How can I when I have no idea what his name is?”

  Vivien tried to think of a way but then stopped short. “Wait. I thought you liked that guy with all the freckles. Kurt, right?”

  “That was so last week,” Miranda said. “Try to keep up, Vivs.”

  Charlie frowned, turning her back on Miranda. “Yeah, Kurt. I kind of liked him ’til I found out how into himself he is. He thinks he’s some genius reporter and only his articles are good enough to be in the school paper. Every time he talks to me it’s like he’s doing me this big favor. Ugh!” She shuddered.

  Miranda gave both a gentle shove in an effort to move them along. “OK. New topic. I’ll call you guys after my cello lesson tonight so we can figure out who’s driving to Nathan’s.”

  Clearly Miranda wasn’t going to give up. “Fine. Whatever. Catch you guys later,” Vivien called over her shoulder as she hurried off to class.

  Arriving at French class only seconds before the bell, Vivien hustled to her desk. She unloaded her backpack, speedily arranged her textbook, binder, and pencil in a neat row, and looked up at Madame Osborne, ready to dive into interrogative and relative pronouns.

  A brief spell of confusion threw her as she frowned at the stranger. This was not the hook-nosed, shrill-voiced Madame Osborne. Quite the opposite. Before her stood a very attractive man. Straight dark hair—nearly shoulder length—swept loosely to the side, camouflaging an eye now and again until a quick toss of the head sent it back into place. Hollowed cheekbones paired nicely with a square jaw, sporting just a hint of five-o’-clock shadow. Clothing suggested a European origin: snug-fitting dark jeans, gray vest, pinstriped button-down shirt.

  She couldn’t help but gape and was so completely engrossed in the novelty of a young, hot teacher at Eastbrook that she nearly failed to notice the metal crutch cuffed just above the man’s left elbow. Her gaze descended rapidly to examine his lower extremities, but nothing jumped out at her. Perhaps his left foot angled in a bit unnaturally, but she couldn’t be sure.

  A sudden hush fell over the room as one by one the students took notice. The girls especially seemed to give him their full attention. The man said nothing, just slowly and methodically let his gaze sweep up and down the rows.

  “Good afternoon,” he said at length. Heavy French accent. “My name is Monsieur Laval and I am going to be your French teacher for the remainder of the year.”

  This announcement caused a bit of a stir and he waited for the commotion to die down before he resumed speaking. “I am certain you are all wondering what happened to Madame Osborne, yes? Well, I have been told by the administration that she has taken an indefinite leave of absence due to personal matters.” He held up a hand before the students could respond. “Please, do not ask me the details, as I have not spoken to her directly. I am just following orders.” He added a shrug to show that, plainly, it was all out of his hands.

  “Now, I will do my best to pick up where Madame left off. However, she left rather unexpectedly, and therefore I am not in possession of her lesson plans. If you could make the effort to be patient with me, I am certain I will have everything firmly under control by the end of the week.” M. Laval scanned the students’ faces again. “Shall I count on your cooperation, then?”

  There was the murmur of consent, the students seeming a bit awed by their new teacher.

  “Excellent. I can tell already you are an extremely bright group of students.” He dazzled them with a full-on fashion-model smile.

  Vivien glanced around her and noted that most of the class was smiling back, pleased to be held in such high esteem by the handsome Frenchman. Then she watched with curiosity as M. Laval propelled himself forward on the crutch, crossing the room to take a seat at Madame Osborne’s desk.

  She found herself wondering what had happened to him. He seemed young, midtwenties at the most. Was it an accident or some sort of birth defect? Suddenly, one of those painfully long commercials popped into her head, the one where forlorn-looking children crouched in the streets, suffering the curse of poverty: cleft palates, club feet, malaria, starvation. So miserable they didn’t bother swatting away the flies that crawled across their faces. Seeing such incredible suffering always made her want to leap from the sofa to dial that one-eight-hundred number right away. But then the show would resume, all misery instantly forgotten.

  Back to reality. Obviously, this M. Laval was not wanting for anything. Way more likely, he’d had some kind of freak accident playing polo at the country club. Yes, she was almost positive she’d seen his face smack dab on the pages of a Ralph Lauren fashion spread, majestic horse at a gallop, leaning recklessly off the saddle.

  “So…” The deep, faintly musical voice broke into her thoughts. She glanced up to see a look of consternation on his face as he leafed through the class textbook. “I believe you are working on chapter…two? Is that correct?” The class mumbled an incoherent reply. “Very well. Read through examples one and two, then complete exercises A, B, and C. We will review your responses as a group once you have finished. Oh, and from this point forward,” he added, “we will speak in French only. Naturally, as this is French IV, you are all quite competent French speakers.” Again the smile.

  Dutifully the students opened their books and began working on the exercises. There was some whispering in the corner of the room between two senior girls who kept stealing glances at M. Laval and giggling.

  Vivien too found herself looking up every few minutes. But their new teacher’s head remained bowed as he skimmed through a large stack of papers.

  Toward the end of the hour they reviewed the exercises. Nervous about speaking French in front of a native speaker, there was an overall reluctance to volunteer any answers. M. Laval put them at ease by constantly praising their efforts. When someone made an error, he glossed over it and quickly got them back on track.

  When it came time to turn in the assignment, he
instructed the class to approach his desk individually. They were to tell him one thing they enjoyed about French class. He explained that this would help him connect names and faces, admitting that recalling names was his Achilles heel.

  As it turned out, Vivien’s row was the last to go. She fidgeted in her seat as she watched the procession of students stand awkwardly and mutter some grammatically incorrect lie about how awesome French class was. The boys did their best to appear disinterested, while the girls played with their hair, punctuating phrases with nervous giggles.

  Anxious to appear competent, she rehearsed her lines over and over again in her head. At her turn she walked purposefully to the front of the room with full intention of maintaining direct eye contact in a businesslike manner. But as she neared the desk she faltered, fleeing his steady gaze to study the various scuff marks on the floor instead. To make matters worse, she felt the telltale signs of betrayal as a rush of heat spread across her cheeks.

  “Bonjour,” he greeted her. “Tu t’appelles Vivien?”

  “Oui,” she responded, plunging recklessly into her now-forgotten phrase. “French is…one of my favorite classes because…it is never…boring. And one day I…would like to travel…to France…especially Paris.” She paused and held her breath. Had she said that correctly? Conquering an atrocious American accent had always been her goal. She dared to search his face for approval.

  “Never boring?” he replied. “Well, now you have made me nervous. I hope I will not disappoint you.” He smiled. “I am certain that if you set your mind to it, you shall see Paris one day soon. It is a beautiful city.”

  She sighed with relief. At least he’d understood her. She smiled back and extended her hand with the day’s assignment. M. Laval glanced down to accept. As he did so, his body tensed and his gaze appeared to rest an extra beat on her outstretched hand. But perhaps this was only her imagination, for in an instant his eyes were locked on hers and he said her name: “Mademoiselle Allen.”

  She waited for him to continue. The room was uncharacteristically silent, emptied of all students except for the two of them. She was acutely aware of her breathing, which seemed to make an embarrassing amount of noise.

  “It was a pleasure to have made your acquaintance today,” he said at last.

  Foolish as it was, she felt uniquely touched, somehow certain that he had not said these words to anyone else.

 

  There was standing room only on the city bus after school. Normally she walked the short distance to her apartment building, but today she was heading across town to Lakewood Elementary. It was her first day volunteering for the Kids’ Klub Afterschool Program.

  Oversized windshield wipers swept back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm as she clung to the overhead bar. It was taking all her strength not to tumble onto an anonymous passenger’s lap each time the bus made a turn. The air inside was warm and moist, fogging the windows to such an extent that she nearly missed her stop. Catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror as she exited, she winced. Her long chestnut hair had gone flat, plastered to her neck save several rebellious wisps of frizz that framed her face. Any trace of blush she’d so carefully applied that morning had been washed away with the humidity, leaving her skin slick and colorless. At least she’d had the good sense to choose waterproof mascara.

  Lakewood Elementary School was nestled deep within a maze of dubious-looking low-income housing units. Most parents (if there were two) worked full-time, leaving Kids’ Klub overflowing with kids. Eastbrook High provided a continuous supply of volunteers as college-bound students sought out various volunteer activities to enrich their applications.

  Her first stop was the front office. Trudy Speckleburger, as read the nameplate prominently displayed on her desk, informed her she must sign in, then take a left down the hallway to the double doors. Due to the weather, the kids would be staying in the gym today.

  Vivien nodded, spinning full circle in search of the sign-up sheet.

  “Over there, hon.” Trudy pointed to a kid-sized table in the corner. “I’m so impressed with the neat group of kids we have this year! If I’m not mistaken, three exceptionally handsome boys from Eastbrook just signed in not five minutes ago.” Vivien arched a brow at this piece of news. Grabbing a pen, complete with tacky plastic flower, she signed her name, taking an extra second to scan those ahead of hers. Her heart sank as she mouthed the names Nathan Dorsett, Thomas Crane, and Declan Mieres. Was this a cruel joke? Every Wednesday afternoon she was going to have to work alongside those immature jerks? What were they doing here, anyway? Weren’t their schedules already overloaded with important things like lifting weights, running laps, or discussing their latest conquests as they high-fived each other in the locker room? Immediately she was in a foul mood.

  As she made her way to the gym, she thought some more about the conversation she’d had with her friends at lunch. Why did they suddenly think the lacrosse team was so cool? What had happened to them? Couldn’t they see the obvious? Was she the only one who could? And that remark about her being bitter was totally out of line. Vivien certainly didn’t see it that way. Common sense, that’s what it was.

  Bitter, ha! Now that was the perfect word for Ramona. Her mother. Over the seven years since the divorce, Vivien had watched her mother withdraw and become more and more self-absorbed until at last she’d ceased to assume any sort of mothering role whatsoever.

  Of course, it wasn’t completely her fault. Divorce was ugly. It left scars. And if you happened to catch your spouse cheating—repeatedly—the cut was deeper.

  Alan Allen (yes, this was the actual name printed on his birth certificate) was a snake. You’d never have known it from looking at the photos of the striking couple on their wedding day. Her father had been prince-like: tall, dark, and handsome. But behind the winning smile lurked a sneer. A proud untruthfulness. He’d pledged his love to the lovely Ramona Patton, knowing full well he’d never remain faithful.

  The sad thing was her mother would have overlooked the cheating if only he’d made the least effort to be subtle about it. Ramona was desperate to hold on to her life: lucrative attorney husband, palatial house, bright son, and a blooming concert pianist for a daughter. Everything she’d ever dreamed of.

  Around the age of seven, Vivien overheard a nasty fight concerning her father’s “roaming eye.” At the time she’d had no idea what this was and worried that her father had contracted a rare medical condition for which there was no cure. (In retrospect, she’d been dead on; his disease was incurable.) Despite the fact that things were obviously falling apart, Ramona managed to guilt him into staying. But the energy required to keep up appearances took its toll. No longer did she enjoy being a wife or mother, but played these roles in a cold and calculating manner.

  The good times were over. That’s what her older brother, Ashton, had told her. Ashton was the sullen, brooding type whose main goal was to appear as disinterested as possible in anything involving adults. In reality, however, he was a keen observer.

  One day he’d pulled Vivien aside and said, “Watch Mom.”

  “Watch Mom what?”

  “She’s different now.”

  And she was. An imperceptible short-circuiting had occurred in the deep recesses of her brain and she now flitted about the house silently, eyes glazed over like a plastic doll’s. And not the friendly kind of doll, but the kind from horror movies: unblinking, expressionless save the phony smile it wore right before it snuck up and sank a kitchen knife in your back. Her mother took housekeeping duties to a new and disturbing level, ironing sheets, Windexing fingerprints, beating rugs on the front steps with a shocking display of vehemence. Elaborate dinners were crafted, boasting new bold flavors like fennel and mustard seed. Ashton joked that soon they’d find miniature squares of European chocolate resting on their pillows each night.

  Upon completion of each supermom chore, her mother would search her father’s face for approval. As if her new, sup
remely anal Martha Stewart personality would be enough to keep him firmly planted as head of household. Looking back now, Vivien suspected Ramona’s insane wifely zeal had only sped up the departure. It wasn’t long before he’d made his escape to a bachelor’s pad on the trendy side of town with a fresh young secretary from his firm as a roommate.

  The day he packed his bags, Vivien had sought her brother out, hoping to ease the hollow feeling that had settled in the center of her heart. She could hear his music blasting long before she came to stand hesitantly outside his door. Ashton’s way of dealing with their dysfunctional family was to spend hours on end locked away in his room, writing biting, sarcastic lyrics and wailing on his electric guitar.

  “What?” he said, opening the door scarcely a crack, a deep scowl set on his face.

  “I just…Dad left.” She waited. Waited for the words to sink in. “He left and…he’s not coming back. I just know it.”

  She could see Ashton’s thoughts whirling, his hands shaking slightly, but still he said nothing.

  “What’s Mom gonna do? What will happen to us now?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “Didn’t I tell you? It doesn’t matter.”

  She stood frozen in the doorway, her mouth hanging open. Ashton sighed and rolled his eyes. “Listen…shit, Vivs! What do you want me to say?” Yet even as his words pushed her away, he stepped forward, taking her gently in his arms. She buried her face in his chest, tiny squeaks escaping the back of her throat.

  At length he pushed her away and gave her a solemn look. “We don’t need him, understand? We’re way better off without him. You’ll see.”

  She nodded, wanting to believe but plagued by the feeling that while this was certainly bad, the hard times were only beginning.

  Vivien heaved open the gym door to be greeted by the thunder of bouncing balls. Kids were running in all directions, shrieking and shouting at each other. She stood uncertainly, her eyes sifting through the chaos for any sign of an adult in charge. By sheer luck she managed to dodge an errant basketball just before it collided with her face. At last, near the center of the gym, she spotted a bald man wearing an ID badge and she made her way toward him.

  “Excuse me!” she shouted, extending her hand. “I’m one of the volunteers. Vivien Allen.”

  His hand gripped hers in a firm shake. “Another one. Fantastic! Wonderful! We’ve got a nice-sized group this fall. Excellent!” He spoke every word without ever losing his broad grin. “I’m Mr. Peterson. Bob, you can call me. Where would you like to start?” He gestured toward the basketball nets. “We’re about to get a game going in a minute here.”

  She hesitated, eyeing the net with suspicion. She knew nothing of the rules of basketball. In fact, she avoided all sports whenever possible. To say she was unathletic was putting it kindly. As her gaze dropped, the sight of a small boy crying caught her eye. One of the volunteers was crouching before him, his back to Vivien. He appeared to be listening thoughtfully as the child sobbed and pointed his finger at the accused (another small boy who, upon being singled out, promptly split the scene). Slowly the volunteer rose to his feet: faded jeans, cardinal-red Eastbrook Lacrosse sweatshirt, perfectly tousled dark hair. Oh no. She sucked in a breath. He remained still, hands on hips. Then at last, Declan Mieres turned and looked straight at her.

  She swallowed, eyes darting away, but not before he’d caught her staring. Great. “Um…are there any other choices?” she asked.

  Bob managed to reveal an even more spectacular view of his back molars as he nodded and signaled for her to follow. She trailed along behind, flinching every now and then as a basketball whizzed past her ears. At the opposite end of the gym were another set of doors through which they passed, ending up in a small cafeteria. Here she saw three rows of long tables set up for various arts and crafts. Much better, she thought.

  “Jules is in charge of this room,” Bob explained, indicating a frazzled-looking woman cradling a large tub of crayons. “She’ll get you situated.”

  Before she knew it, her two hours had gone by and she was letting Jules know it was time for her to leave. Most of the afternoon had been spent showing a second-grade girl how to make cootie catchers. She’d been drawn to this particular girl when she saw her sitting glumly, methodically kicking her foot against the table leg. None of the other children sat by her or paid her any attention whatsoever. She seemed in dire need of a friend.

  “See you next week, Dashayla,” Vivien promised as she headed for the door. But Dashayla protested her departure by wrapping her chubby arms around Vivien’s thigh and clinging to her the entire length of the cafeteria. Gently she peeled the fingers off one by one. “You better go back before you get in trouble.” Dashayla put on a pout. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here every Wednesday.” Vivien bent down and gave her a big hug.

  Smiling to herself as she headed toward the front office, she couldn’t help but marvel at the easy affection of her newfound friend. Everything seemed so simple in elementary school. If you liked someone, you showed it. Had she really been that way once? She couldn’t remember at what point she’d begun to tuck away her true feelings…just in case.

  Her head in the clouds, she failed to notice the three Eastbrook seniors as they crossed paths exiting the office.

  “Oh!” she gasped, stumbling backward. “Sorry!”

  Directly in front of her, Declan stood gaping, as if he’d just come upon a perplexing riddle.

  “Dude!” Nathan shouted over his shoulder. “Watch where you’re going. You almost ran right over this fine girl.”

  Vivien returned Declan’s stare. Never before had she been this close to him; he traveled in packs made up of lacrosse players and the most attractive senior girls. Now at last she had a golden opportunity to see for herself what all the fuss was about. He was nice-looking, she gave him that. Yet his striking presence failed to induce rapid heart palpitations, as all the other silly girls claimed was the case. Maybe he did have soft brown eyes, the kind that looked like pools of melted chocolate. And maybe they did go flawlessly with his olive skin and his wavy dark hair. And he wasn’t exactly hurting physically, either; his muscular body towered over hers by a good twelve inches (she’d inherited the “short genes” from her mother’s side of the family and was finally coming to grips with the fact that she was never going to be much over five-foot-two). But none of these things could make up for the fact that he was nothing but a player.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t you go to Eastbook?” Declan asked, still gawking. “You look…familiar.”

  She nodded, trying with difficulty to pull her gaze away. And then, strangely, absolutely nothing happened. The four of them stood trapped in an uncomfortably prolonged moment. A moment of complete and utter silence. The spell was broken at last by Thomas as he cleared his throat, and time was permitted to resume its natural progression.

  A self-conscious dance variation followed—a simultaneous shuffle in one direction, then the other as the four bodies attempted to navigate the narrow confines of the doorway. She managed at last to slide past the three leering Neanderthals, stomach sucked to her spine as if it was essential to create as much space as possible between their species and hers. Despite this superhuman effort, she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rise and stand at attention as she and Declan shared the intimate space of the doorframe.

  “Nice set of DSLs,” she heard Nathan mutter once she was several feet away. She had no idea what this meant, but coming from Nathan, the king of crass, she was certain the comment was hardly complimentary. She made a beeline for the sign-out sheet, fighting the urge to look back. The sound of laughter drifted in as the three boys headed out to the parking lot.

  It took a minute before she’d regained the mental capacity to sign her name. She didn’t know how they’d managed to fluster her so badly. Why should she care about them? She had nothing but contempt for the entire lacrosse
team and their social circle. They breezed through the halls like they were some kind of royalty. And she was only a minor character—the lowly chambermaid—in their star-studded cast.

  One thing was for sure: hell would freeze over before Miranda could talk her into going to Nathan’s Friday night.

  She was not going. Period.

  Two