Circle of Stones (12 page)

I'm almost at Bank Street when someone calls my name.

“Uh-oh, someone's not at school today,” I hear, and when I turn around Uncle George is standing there.

“Hey, Uncle George,” I say, reaching up to give him a quick hug. “What's with the pants?”

He's wearing a plaid button-up shirt, these weird beige slacks, and shiny shoes. I usually see him in expensive jeans that make him look way cooler, but I guess that's his after-work look.

“I know.” Uncle George rolls his eyes. “Casual office wear is an awful thing.”

Uncle George smiles a big old dopey smile at me. He looks at my hair, like he's going to reach out and goof with it, but I make a face and he sticks his hands in his pockets instead.

“I've been in meetings all morning and I'm desperate for a coffee. Want one, honey?”

I look around at the civil servants swarming out of the offices around us. I see a tall figure in black turn to look at me, but whoever it is ducks and disappears behind two overweight middle-aged men in suits. It might be someone I know from Zaphod's. It might be Lyle.

“Coffee would be cool, but I'm on my spare. I should get back to school.”

Uncle George looks disappointed, so I give him another hug before I dash away. I'm so busy fantasizing about maybe accidentally-on-purpose bumping into Lyle that I don't think of the fact Uncle George is watching me go. I walk fast but I don't find the person in black and I don't find Lyle, so I keep walking.

It took me an hour and about one hundred bobby pins to get my hair to look the right amount of tangled. Now that I'm here at Zaphod's for goth night I see another girl wearing her hair the same way, except that it looks better on her. I'm sitting on one of the plush-covered seats against the wall, but toward the back so I can see when (and if) Lyle arrives. It's still early though for this crowd. Only half past midnight. I've got my one rye and ginger — all I can afford for the night unless someone decides to buy me a drink — and I'm analyzing what people are wearing. Girls walk past in tiny corsets and short shorts with fishnets, or elaborate medieval gowns they've made themselves. The guys are in long combat shorts and tall boots, long-sleeved black T-shirts with names of industrial bands on them, black leather jackets. Everyone's got tattoos, extreme hairstyles, and attitude. Oh, and everyone's wearing plenty of black eyeliner. And black nail polish. And weird jewellery — necklaces and bangles and rings. Girls with overlong eyelashes that flutter like spiders. I have to figure out how to put those on. A boy in a top hat. One with an elaborate cane. I like the fact the sight of anyone here would freak out the bland brand kids from school. I feel like this is some place where I could belong.

The DJ plays a particularly discordant industrial song and the dance floor clears, sending a flood of sweaty people to the bar. There's an odd hush in the club and I turn to see a tiny girl in a tight black dress flanked by two thin men. She's on crutches. One of her legs is wrapped from toe to knee in braces and bandages. But she's beautiful, in that annoying ethereal way that seems impossible, unreal. The two creature-like men glide like eighteenth-century courtesans. The regulars eye the girl with a mixture of suspicion, curiosity, and envy, which means this bizarre trio has never been here before. As they make their way to the bar, I see two large eyes peering in through the glass by the door. Fuzzy hair. Someone tall and slim. I push through the crowd to see if it's Lyle, but the lobby is empty except for the oversized bouncer, who's sitting at his barstool post reading a paperback. I tap on his enormous shoulder.

“Hey, Shane. Did you see who just left?”

“I didn't see nothin'.” Shane looks up at me with slow, old brown dog eyes.

“But the front door is still closing.” I point to the slowly shortening gap between outside and in. Shane looks at it, furrows his brow, and the door clicks shut.

“Oh. That's weird.” Shane places his sci-fi novel down on the windowsill. He swings the door open for me with a quick push of his massive arm. For a guy with a neck the size of my waist, Shane's really nice. We step out onto the sidewalk, but nobody's there. The market is suspended in Hitchcockian silence. I hold my breath, spooked. Then a car door slams. A giggling middle-aged couple walks toward the strip club two doors down. A woman in yoga-wear and a gigantic helmet speeds past on a bike.

“Must have been the wind,” Shane says. He opens the door for me again to go back in.

“I swore I saw someone looking in through the glass,” I say. I lean against the cool black brick wall as Shane resumes his barstool post.

“Uh-huh.” He picks up his book and winks at me. “Watching too many horror movies lately, eh?”

The industrial noise pulsates in my ears as soon as I open the club door. I don't recognize the song that's playing, but the dance floor is full, so I walk over and join in. I'm getting into it and over my self-consciousness when I look up and see Lyle standing by the DJ booth. He runs his fingers through his hair. A skinny blonde girl stands closely at his side. She's wearing his leather jacket over a tight PVC minidress.

I slip off the dance floor along the bar side so I don't have to walk past them. That's when I see the tiny girl and her two creature courtesans again. She's perched on a tall barstool with her injured leg propped up on a chair. Even with her awkward leg, she sits perfectly straight, her neck impossibly long, thin arms elegantly posed. A slight shine on her face turns her skin plastic. She looks like a mannequin. Intrigued regulars lurk around her, but she gazes straight ahead at the dance floor. Not a mingler. The courtesans resemble ninjas the way they're standing by with crossed arms. I wonder if she's ever had any close friends who are girls, or only ever boys. And men. She seems too beautiful to ever want to be a best friend. Or to just want to chat or laugh about whatever. I feel big and shabby next to her. She's probably used to being adored and has no idea what it's like for a girl like me. I wish someone would look at me with adoration. Once or twice. Three times and I'd be charmed forever.

I make the mistake of looking straight at her on my way by. She fishhooks my eye and reels me in.

“Hi. I'm Jennifer.”

She touches my arm. It feels like static and makes my skin crawl.

“Hi.” I wipe my arm against my skirt to stop the tingles. “I'm Lhia.”

“Is this your scene, Lhia?” Jennifer is waiting for an answer, but I'm distracted by Lyle and his blonde sidekick heading to the bar. I'm trying to figure out how to avoid them. I take a step closer to Jennifer. She puts her tiny arm on my shoulder and my feet freeze in place. Like her delicate little hand is an enormous weight.

I study her face. She'd be interesting to sketch — up close I can tell she's not one to just rely on her beauty — though I have no idea how you'd draw that. I wonder if other people can see this, and I don't think so. Not unless they've watched a ton of old movies. I can see there's something animated underneath her perfect skin. Some weird, intimidating strength I don't have, and I can't imagine I ever will.

“Ahhh, you're a Capricorn.” She waggles her index finger at me. “Capricorns are always so smart.”

“How did you know?”

“I'd like to read your tarot cards, Lhia.” Jennifer pulls a smallish pouch from the black bag slung around her shoulder. “We can stay after hours. It'll be easy to arrange with the bartender.”

“I've got to —”

“Honey, you need a drink.” Jennifer turns to one of her ninja courtesans. “Rory. Get lovely Lhia a —”

“A rye and ginger please,” I fill in.

“A rye and ginger,” Jennifer repeats.

Rory turns toward the bar and waves a twenty-dollar bill.

Now Jennifer's holding on to my arm. It's making me nervous. I've heard people in the scene talk about magic before. A few of them wear crystals and say they're mystics or Wiccans. These same people also play role-playing games so it's hard to know whether it's real or make-believe. I grew up believing in science. Like my mom. But Jennifer has super-intensity. Maybe it's magic, maybe it's attitude. I like it in the movies, but in real life it's scary. I feel like I'm part of some kind of performance. I stare at the dance floor until a drink is placed in my hands. I give it a vigorous stir and take a tentative sip from the straw.

“Thanks.” I try to say my line convincingly.

“Ta.” Jennifer finally lets go of me. Shifts her injured leg and grimaces. It looks painful. She nods at the dance floor. “You should go dance if you want to dance. But come back here at closing time so I can read your cards. It will be fascinating.”

Her face is illuminated with blue light. She says something else, but her words are lost to the noisy electro beat. Maybe she wants to give me advice, though I have no idea why. She's not anyone you'd expect to be kind. She's not the kind of girl who needs to be nice.

“Yeah sure.” I fake a smile. “Definitely.”

Lyle is still standing by the bar. Now he's leaning down to hear something the blonde girl is saying. He's nodding, smiling. She's still wearing his jacket. She hands Lyle her drink and starts making a big show of taking the jacket off. I half expect her twirl it around her head and throw it on the floor, but she hands it to Lyle, pushing into his chest with it for an embrace. Gross. I take a couple of steps toward the dance floor, but hesitate. Jennifer will be watching. That's too weird. I turn the corner, walk around the DJ booth, and slip toward the back of the club. I grab my corduroy coat from the booth where I stashed it. In the lobby I smile at Shane while hiding my drink under my coat, smuggling it downstairs to the bathroom. I want to sip my drink, fix my makeup, and figure out what to do. But there's a cluster of girls in the bathroom sharing lipsticks. They stop talking when I walk in. A closed discussion. I take a couple of sips from my drink, set it on the counter by the sink, and leave. The hallway is dark and eerie. I throw on my coat and a button pops off. I'm not petite and pretty like Lyle's blonde. And her dress isn't from a thrift store. I want to go home. I take the stairs two at a time.

“Hey, it's still early!” Shane looks up from his book as he sees me.

“Gotta go.” This time I push through the door before he can open it for me.

Outside, the air is still heavy with mist. I cut through parked cars and walk quickly until I'm around the corner. The old stone buildings on Sussex Drive weep with moisture as I stroll past, droplets beading on the surface and then soaking in to make strange dark patterns. I pass an arched wooden doorway and then another and I'm almost past the third when I realize something is crouching in it. Dressed entirely in black, the figure is nearly invisible until it lifts its face. Pale skin under ice-white streetlights. Black glassy eyes. A ghost. I start to run.

“Wait!” I hear behind me, accompanied by the slightest of footsteps. “Wait! I want to talk to you!” But I don't stop. I sprint to Wellington and into a bright shock of light from the Château Laurier. I'm winded. I lean back on a marble column in full view of the parking valets, doormen, and whatever security cameras are rigged up to protect the wealthy people who stay there. I look back, but no one's there. I stand in the pool of light and watch for movement in the shadows.

Then someone turns the corner by Sussex. A man. I watch him walk slowly toward me. This is not the ghost. I see the silhouette of a hand wave. It's Lyle.

I hear him say “hey,” but I stay exactly where I am, not answering. When he gets
thisclose
to me he reaches up and lightly touches a fat lock of hair that's fallen out of my tangled up-do. “Your hair looks nice,” he says.

“Thanks.” I'm still breathless from running. And scared.

“You walking this way?” Lyle says it without taking his eyes off me.

“Yes.” I agree without knowing what direction he's talking about.

Lyle starts walking up Wellington, toward Parliament Hill. I match his steps, only looking behind me once to see if the spooky figure is following. I'm hoping Lyle's spiky hair and leather jacket make him a visual deterrent. Lyle didn't leave the bar with me this week, but he's walking with me now. I'm hoping that means the blonde I saw him with is just a friend. I clear my throat. I need to know.

“Was that your girlfriend you came in with at Zaphod's?”

There's a long pause. I concentrate on matching Lyle's leggy steps. Each one stretches the limits of my narrow skirt.

“Well, kinda.” Lyle lights a cigarette. One cigarette. “She thinks she is.”

“What do you think?” I only half expect an answer. In the pause I notice the Hill's eternal flame is out. Again.

“C'mon,” Lyle says. He takes my hand and leads me through the tall metal gate, past the eternal flame, onto the grass, and up the slope to the left of the main Parliament Buildings. We're walking uphill. I start breathing hard again, take a few gulping breaths, try to disguise how out of shape I am. Lyle charges ahead and suddenly we're in a large, angular
Sound of Music
-style gazebo, toward the back of the gothic buildings. I think we're doomed, like Liesl and Rolf, until Lyle sits down on a hard marble bench, pulls me down with him, and starts kissing me.

This did not happen in the movie. Now I really can't breathe.

I hear a muffled bark and Lyle pulls his face away from mine. He shushes me as though I'll bark back and we see a flashlight coming our way, followed by the silhouette of a short, squat man. A security guard.

Of course every square inch of the Hill is on security cam.

Lyle grabs my hand and we run through the gazebo and down a steep, dark staircase toward the river. There are no lights, so we take turns tripping and stumbling. Security gives up the chase, but we run until my lungs are bursting and the cold night air makes my nose hurt and there's ringing in my ears from all the motion and a momentary lack of noise. Behind Parliament Hill, in between trees, earth, and river, all I can hear is the sound of a steady rush of water, the rain-like riffling of wind through dry leaves. We emerge at the shore, stare across the river at the orange glow of Hull. An ugly paper factory emitting frothy fumes into the air from twin smokestacks. Lyle squeezes my hand then lets go. His face shines in the muted light. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out his pack of smokes. He takes out two, lights both, and hands me one without asking.