Chasing Forever Down
by Nikki Godwin
***
Copyright © 2013 Nikki Godwin.
All rights reserved.
First edition: March 14th, 2013
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my sister, the real Enchanted Emily.
Thank you for lending so much of your magic to this story.
Chapter One
That chandelier should crash to the floor. I’d save one of the crystals as a souvenir, a symbolic end of corporate parties. It’s the same thing year after year – slinky black dresses on women too old to be wearing them, artificially whitened smiles, and the picture of Solomon Worthington, who built this building, still wrapped up in that awful bronze frame that’s the color of a spray tan.
But the guy beneath Solomon is different. No one shows up at this kind of event with a crooked tie, messy hair, or wearing Converse.
And he has.
It’s too late to look away. He’s already seen me all starry-eyed and frozen. His shadow shrinks beneath the picture as he pulls away from the wall and advances in my direction. There’s no time to bail. I wouldn’t dare try. I’d most likely trip on my way out the door and go down in corporate history as the idiot who busted her ass at Town Hall.
He stops in front of me and smiles what has to be the most charming smile in the history of smiles.
“Black tie affairs should make the top ten list of reasons why people commit suicide,” he says.
He tugs his tie to one side. “Noose provided.”
It’s a good thing I didn’t run. That has to be the best line I’ve ever heard. I run my finger along my pearl necklace. “In a variety of styles,” I agree.
“Parents drag you here?” he asks, fiddling with the knot of his tie.
I nod. They’ve dragged me here every year since I started high school, when I was old enough to tag along. Mom always gives me the same speech, the one that starts with, “Haley, please make a good impression. Your future depends on this.”
Every successful businessman and businesswoman across the state is here in our Town Hall, and with them are their protégés aka their children. Some of them can’t wait to take over that CEO position, and others are like me – looking for a way out.
“What about you? Parents?” I ask. I can’t imagine why anyone would be here otherwise.
Yet he shakes his head.
“Nah. I was actually thinking of crashing the party, but it doesn’t seem worth it. Let’s get out of here,” he says, jerking his head toward the exit.
Nothing could sound better right now…except his name. And maybe a little background info to convince me that he’s not a serial killer.
“They’ll never know you’re gone,” he says, as if he can read my silly thoughts. “We’ll be back before this thing ever ends. They’ll be finishing up the last bottle of champagne.”
He looks over me, skimming the room quickly, like he doesn’t want to be noticed. I want to ask who he’s looking for, but I already know his answer will be “no one.” I copy his action – looking for my parents though – and don’t see a familiar face. He pulls away from the wall and walks into the hallway. I follow, hoping someone other than Solomon Worthington’s portrait will see me leave…just in case.
“There’s a cover band playing at The Lyric,” he says.
The Lyric Theater is the oldest landmark in Fallen Elk Grove. It’s the heart of downtown, just a block over from Town Hall. The city wanted to tear it down a few years ago to build shiny new buildings, but it’s part of our history. The good news is that it’s a very public venue and makes for many witnesses.
“Who are they covering?” I ask. I try to read his face for something other than mystery.
“The Ocean in Moonlight,” he says.
He explains that The Ocean in Moonlight is a summery-feel band from Arizona, but I’m miles ahead of him. My best friend Linzi is in love with this band, their drummer Keegan in particular.
“And cover bands usually suck,” I say.
He shrugs his shoulders and looks back into the adjoining room.
“Well, stay here and wait for the chandelier to fall then,” he says.
It only takes about two minutes to locate my dad’s car in the parking lot. I type in the security code, toss my noose of pearls onto the backseat, and exchange my heels for flip flops. I don’t regret the switch, even if they do flap loudly against the sidewalk.
“So…do you have a name or is that confidential too?” I ask as we pass the ancient hardware store. I stare through the window at a wall of hammers, crowbars, and wrenches to avoid eye contact with him.
“Names are boring,” he says. He seems more relaxed now without the tie. “It takes the mystery out of people, don’t you think?”
He doesn’t have to worry about anything taking away from his mystery. He runs his fingers through his night-sky-black hair and examines his reflection in a store window. My guess is that he was aiming for the messy-haired emo boy look, but he’s got more of a beach bum shag going on instead.
Nothing else is said in our two-minute walk until we see the vertical word LYRIC glowing in red lights. He looks both ways and grabs my wrist before taking off in a run across the completely vacant street.
“I’m guessing you’re from nearby since you knew about The Lyric,” I say.
He’ll know I’m prying for anything he’ll give me, but I don’t care at this point. He smiles but shakes his head.
“Nothing a little research can’t tell me,” he says. “Besides, it’s the most historic place in the area, so it’s all over the tourist websites.”
That’s true, but I don’t believe him. Tourists call it The Lyric Theater. He called it The Lyric, which only locals do. And tourist websites? Really? What kind of guy checks out the tourist websites for a no-name town like this one?
He pulls on one of the double doors and holds it open for me. No matter how many times I’ve been here, I still feel tiny when I step into the auditorium. Multi-colored stage lights and splatters of glowing cell phones speckle the dark room. A mass of other teenagers huddle around the stage.
He keeps a grasp on my wrist as we push through the crowd then he moves behind me so I can have a better view of the stage. He didn’t seem so tall until now. The cover band is halfway through The Ocean in Moonlight’s biggest hit “Ocean Air.” They sing about sitting outside all day and night, next to the ocean with someone special…then losing that person. I’ve always wondered if west coast ocean air is different from our east coast ocean air. Something about this song always makes me think I’m being cheated.
The girl next to us slings her hair over her face and sings every word like she may erupt if she doesn’t scream her lungs out. I remind myself to smile so she won’t think I’m glaring at her.
She catches my stare and yells, “What’s your favorite Moonlight song?”
“Chase Forever Down!”
The bass vibrates over my vocal chords when I scream the words back to her. It keeps me from speaking when I realize that Mystery Guy screamed the same song title to her.
I spin around to look at him, but I still can’t speak because the stage lights dance in his eyes – from red to pink to orange, then green to blue to yellow – and he smiles this totally perfect smile that makes my brain fizzle into hot summer ocean air. It’s like he knows everything I’m feeling and thinking in this very instance.
The vibrations in the floor cease and give
me an excuse to look back to the stage. I watch the drummer hit his drumsticks together three times before the next song begins.
“For a cover band, they’re not so bad,” Mystery Guy leans down and whispers into my ear.
I halfway glance at him and nod, but I can’t turn and face him or else I may end up spilling my heart all over his white button-up. He knows my song, and not only does he know it, he loves it.
“Chase Forever Down” is unlucky number thirteen on The Ocean in Moonlight’s debut album, the song that was never released as a single or even played on their live DVD that Linzi made me watch all last summer. But it’s always been my song, my secret anthem.
It’s the only song that understands how I feel, how badly I want to escape. It embodies my daydream of running so far away that I can’t even see the North Carolina state line. It’s the song I plan to blast on repeat until I am away from the world of corporate parties and parents barking about business degrees and a realistic future. Oh, that song. It makes my heart skip beats and fuels me to make the great escape and chase my own forever down.
And just as my daydream of chasing forever starts to dwindle in my mind, the cover band’s guitarist strums those first few chords, and Mystery Guy grasps my shoulder. He says the words over and over.
“This is our song! This is our song!”
The scent of hair dye and his pineapple shampoo sweeps around me. The Keegan-wannabe-drummer bangs on his drums so hard that a drumstick flies out of his hand. Everything in the air feels so right – the freedom, the rush, the fact that I’m living for something more – and the only way it could be better would be if the real The Ocean in Moonlight was playing it.
The night falls silent as the cover band shoves their last amp into the back of an SUV. Mystery Guy was the only person nice enough to stick around and help them, which left me sitting on the curb watching for the past twenty minutes. Their drummer bangs on the side of the vehicle with his drumsticks and then hands them to Mystery Guy as a souvenir. He waves goodbye to us and climbs into the backseat.
We watch until their taillights fade away. Mystery Guy pulls me up from the curb. Little is said as we walk back toward Town Hall, mostly just which Moonlight songs are our favorites. He drags a lone drumstick along the walls of the old downtown buildings. The click-pop sound bounces off the bricks and echoes against the empty night, in perfect rhythm with the town clock announcing the arrival of eleven o’clock.
He rattles his drumsticks against the stone podium at the bottom of Town Hall’s cement steps. A bronze plaque details Town Hall’s history and the boring facts of the Worthington family. I run my fingers over the raised letters and avoid eye contact.
“Solomon Worthington would totally tell you to ditch this place,” Mystery Guy says.
I want to argue because I could see the Worthingtons sipping champagne and conversing with the townsfolk about literature, art, and politics. But deep down, maybe beneath his bronze heart, Solomon wanted something more too. Maybe he didn’t want to draw blueprints. Maybe he wanted to jump into his horse-drawn carriage and chase his forever down.
“Champagne will last another thirty minutes,” Mystery Guy says. He flashes a sneaky smile that tells me to run before I get sucked in too deep, but it’s too late because I’m already wrapped up in his dark whirlwind of ocean air and cover bands. He gets it. And no one around here gets it.
We walk the sidewalk until we reach Bristow Park, three blocks from Town Hall. I haven’t been here since sixth grade, when my best friend Chris was forced to move to Alabama because his mom was marrying her high school sweetheart who wouldn’t leave his hick town behind for the east coast.
This park was so much bigger in elementary school. It doesn’t feel like the massive ship we sailed. This tiny playground has zero imagination. I lie back next to Mystery Guy on the wide slide. He rambles about the stars and making wishes and good luck, and none of it makes sense, but I watch his finger trace pictures in the sky.
He turns his head toward me, and I watch him from the corner of my eye.
“So what do you plan on doing for forever?” he asks.
“Do you use that line on all the girls?” I keep my face toward the stars.
“Note to self,” he says. “The forever line is a no-go.”
He’s quiet for a minute. Then he asks again. “But really, what is your forever plan?”
Summer break just started three days ago, and already I feel like I’m back in school with teachers and counselors and college recruiters asking the same future-oriented questions.
“First I have to survive senior year,” I say. “Then there’s college. Then the real world.”
He sits up just slightly and leans back on his elbows.
“That’s a cop out,” he says. “That’s what your parents and teachers have told you to say because you haven’t decided on a major. My guess is that your parents want you to be like them, and you want anything but that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m not the one paying for college. They are.”
He drops back onto the slide. “But you want to chase forever down, right?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I don’t know anyone else who likes that song.”
I finally look over at him. The reflection of the creamy black sky zaps all color from his eyes. His jaw line moves up and down as he chews a piece of gum that I never saw him put into his mouth.
He looks over and laughs.
“So tell me about forever,” he says.
I look back at the sky. Something in me questions whether I should spill my secrets to the guy with too many secrets, but he’s the only person in this vast universe who seems to be on the same page I am in the book of forever. And I need to know how to escape. I’m so sure he knows.
“My grandmother had a framing shop on the beach, about an hour from here,” I say.
I recount the picture frames made from driftwood and our shoreline adventures chasing after that very wood. There was an antique metal pelican perched on the picket fence outside of the shop, like a mascot for Secrets of The Sea. The store closed down after she went into the nursing home, and my mom stashed every last remnant of those summer memories into our attic after my grandmother’s death.
“Your parents didn’t want the store?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “They had bigger and better business deals. It’s not about business deals, though. I always said it’d be mine someday, but they remind me that it’ll be after I’m grown…with a real degree and a real job…on my time, not theirs.”
I hesitate to say any more. I never talk about Secrets of The Sea or the metal pelican or how my grandmother told me stories about where all of the wood came from – the storms that threw trees into the ocean and wooden planks rescued from pirate shipwrecks on the ocean bottom. The ones like me don’t complain or talk about big dreams. We go to the colleges our parents choose, and we get a degree to decorate our future office walls with. We don’t chase forever down. Our forevers are planned.
He unhooks his C-shaped cufflink and rolls up his sleeve to check the time. I find it odd that he wears a watch. He looks like the “I keep time with my cell phone” type. He sits up and exhales like he’s forcing ocean winds from his throat and into the night.
“We better head back,” he says.
He grabs his drumsticks from the ground and walks back to the sidewalk. He pulls a small piece of paper from his pocket, spits his gum into it, and tosses it toward the trash can. It falls short and rolls onto the grass.
“You’re littering on my childhood turf,” I tell him.
“Gonna arrest me now? I can post bail.” He laughs and drums an inconsistent beat against the Bristow Park sign. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
He walks me as far as the front entrance of Town Hall. Goodbyes and well wishes float around inside, and in a matter of minutes, tipsy CEOs will pour out of these same double doors.
“Meet me tomorrow?” he asks.
“The park? Twelve noon?”
That’ll be after a long night of internet stalking trying to figure out this guy’s name and why he won’t tell me anything. The serial killer vibes are gone, but there are as many untold stories lingering in him as there are in the old driftwood frames in our attic.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Great,” he says. “I’ll see you then.”
He descends the concrete steps and disappears amongst the cars in the parking lot. He never even looks back.
It’s three A.M. when I shut down my laptop. Of all the social networking sites, all the search engines, all the information on the internet – there’s nothing that remotely hints at this guy. And it doesn’t help when you don’t have a name to search.
There are only a thousand and one reasons why he doesn’t want to be found. He’s a criminal. He’s wanted by the FBI. He’s homeless and doesn’t want anyone to know. He’s an undercover agent. He’s the lovechild of a corporate genius who was impregnated in high school and gave him up for adoption. At this time of the night, nothing that makes sense. I fall back onto my pillow and wait for morning’s light.
The park is empty as of 11:57 A.M. It’s still empty at five after twelve and ten after twelve, and as of 12:30, I realize he’s not coming. Bristow Park feels as sad as it did the night Chris and I took our final voyage across the world of imagination and childhood. I run my hand over the top of the park’s sign, the same spot where Mystery Guy tapped his drumsticks last night, and that’s when I see it. A paper star. It’s lime green and folded origami-style. It wasn’t here last night, and my gut feeling says it’s for me.
I recount pieces of last night for Mom when I get home, leaving out the part where I snuck off with a stranger, and drill her on the families with college-aged sons. She digs out the last edition of the “corporate yearbook” and wishes me luck on finding him. Even if he’s in this book, it’s five years old and may fail me. Still, this is my only option right now. As I thumb the pages, I realize the A’s are unpromising, full of daughters and much older children. The B’s provide the same results until page twenty-seven. Burks.
He’s not the same disheveled emo-boy-wannabe from last night. He’s well dressed. And blonde. But his face is the same, down to the cheekbones and his jaw line and the way his smile does that crooked thing where it’s a little higher on the left side than the right.
I fold the corner of the page and slam the book shut. I can’t get downstairs fast enough to ask my mom. She’s standing at the stove when I burst into the kitchen.
“What do you know about the Burks family?” I ask.
I drop the book onto the table and flip back to their page, hoping the visual aid may help Mom with details other than what company the family owns or how big their house is. She doesn’t walk over to the table, though. A reminiscent gaze sweeps her face, and she says, “Oh, they’re nice people.”
That tells me nothing. “What about their son, Spencer?”
She turns toward me, sad-eyed and nostalgic.
“Spence,” she says. “They always called him Spence.”
“It’s him,” I say, pointing at his picture. “This is the guy from last night.”
This gets her to the table. She stares at the picture for what feels like too long, and I wait for her to say something, anything.
“Sweetie, there’s no way the guy you met was Spence Burks,” she finally says.
I shake my head. “I’m a thousand percent sure it was him.”
Mom shakes her head back. “It’s impossible, Haley. He died three years ago.”