Finding Sky (3 page)

‘Very good, nay, excellent!’ Mr Keneally pronounced when we had finished. ‘I fear I’ve just been bumped from the jazz band.’ He gave me a wink.

‘You aced,’ said Nelson in a low voice as he passed my back.

Mr Keneally went on to other matters, organizing the choir and orchestra rehearsals, but no one else was asked forward to play. Unwilling to give up my barrier, I stayed where I was, gazing at the reflection of my hands in the raised lid, fingers tapping the keys without pressing down. I felt a light touch on my shoulder. The students were leaving but Nelson and the clarinet player stood behind me, Zed further off still looking as if he’d rather not be there.

Nelson gestured to the clarinettist. ‘Sky, meet Yves.’

‘Hi. You’re good.’ Yves smiled, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

‘Thanks.’

‘That idiot’s my brother, Zed.’ He waved a hand towards the scowling biker.

‘Come on, Yves,’ Zed growled.

Yves ignored him. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s like this with everyone.’

Nelson laughed and left us to it.

‘You twins?’ They had the same colouring and golden-brown skin, but Yves was round-faced with sleek black hair, a young Clark Kent. Zed had well-defined features, strong nose, large eyes with long lashes, and a head of thick curls, more likely to be one of the colourful bad guys than be found among the boring good. A fallen hero, one of those tragic types who turn to the dark side like Anakin Skywalker …

Keep with the programme, Sky
.

Yves shook his head. ‘No way. I’ve a year on him. I’m a senior. He’s the baby of the family.’

Never had I seen anyone less like a baby. My respect for Yves soared as it was clear he wasn’t intimidated by his brother.

‘Gee, thanks, bro, I’m sure she wanted to know that.’ Zed folded his arms, foot tapping.

‘See you at band practice.’ Yves tugged Zed away.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I murmured, watching the brothers. ‘I bet you can’t wait.’ I hummed an ironic little exit tune, imagining them both leaping into the skies as they departed from the sight of us mere mortals.

 

That same afternoon, Tina ran me home in her car, saying she wanted to see where I lived. I think she was really angling for an invitation to meet the parents. Her vehicle only had two seats, the boot devoted to tool space for her brother’s plumbing business. You could still make out the words
Monterey
Repairs
on the side.

‘He gave it to me when he upgraded to a truck,’ she explained cheerfully, honking the horn to move a cluster of teenagers out of the way. ‘He’s officially my favourite brother for at least another month.’

‘How many brothers do you have?’

‘Two. More than enough. You?’

‘It’s just me.’

She chatted away as we wound through town. Her family sounded wonderful—a bit chaotic but close. No wonder she had bags of confidence with that behind her.

She gunned the accelerator and we shot up the hill.

‘I met Zed and Yves Benedict at music practice,’ I said casually, trying to ignore the fact that I was being thrown back in the seat like an astronaut on take-off.

‘Isn’t Zed gorgeous!’ She smacked her lips enthusiastically, swerving round a cat that dared to cross the road in front of her.

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘There’s no suppose about it. That face, that body—what more could a girl want?’

Someone who noticed her? I thought.

‘But he’s got a big attitude—drives the teachers mad. Two of his brothers were similar but they say he’s the worst. Almost got kicked out of school last year for disrespect to a staff member. Mind you, none of us liked Mr Lomas. Turned out he liked some of us too much, if you know what I mean. Got fired at the end of term.’

‘Yuck.’

‘Yeah, anyway. Seven sons in the family. Three still at home in the house at the top of town next door to the cable car station and the older ones in Denver.’

‘Cable car?’

‘Yeah, their dad runs it during the season; their mom’s a ski instructor. We all think the Benedict boys are the kings of the slopes.’

‘There are seven of them?’

She hooted at a pedestrian and waved. ‘The Benedicts kept to a pattern: Trace, Uriel, Victor, Will, Xavier, Yves, and Zed. Helped them remember, I guess.’

‘Odd names.’

‘Odd family, but they’re cool.’

Sally and Simon were unpacking art supplies when we arrived back. I could tell they were delighted that I had brought home a friend so soon. They worried about my shyness even more than I did.

‘Sorry we’ve nothing to offer you but shop-bought biscuits,’ my mother said, rustling up some refreshments from the grocery box on the kitchen counter. As if she were the kind of mother who would be baking her own!

‘And here was I hoping for a full English tea,’ said Tina with a twinkle in her eye. ‘You know, iddy-biddy cucumber sandwiches and those cake things with jelly and cream.’

‘You mean scones and jam,’ said Simon.

‘Sc-
own-
es,’ Sally and I corrected him automatically.

‘Sorry, did I miss something?’ Tina asked when we laughed.

‘Old joke—not funny,’ Simon said briefly. ‘Cut it out, girls. Sky told us you were into art, Tina. What have you heard about the new centre?’

‘I’ve seen the building—totally awesome. Mr Rodenheim had big ambitions for the place.’ She sneaked a peek at a sketchbook Sally had just unpacked. She looked impressed, taking time to study each one. ‘This is great. Charcoal?’

Sally stood up and tossed her scarf over her shoulder. ‘Yes, I like that medium for sketching.’

‘Are you going to hold classes?’

‘That’s part of the deal,’ Sally confirmed, shooting Simon a delighted look.

‘I’d like to come, Mrs Bright, if I may.’

‘Of course, Tina. And please, call me Sally.’

‘Sally and Simon,’ added my dad.

‘OK.’ Tina put down the sketch pad and shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘So did Sky here pick up artistic genes from you then?’

‘Er … no.’ Sally smiled at me, a little embarrassed. It was always like this when people asked. We’d agreed we’d never pretend to be other than what we were.

‘I’m adopted, Tina,’ I explained. ‘My life was a little complicated before they took me in.’

Read ‘seriously messed up’. I’d been dumped at a motorway service station when I was six; no one had been able to trace my birth parents. I’d been traumatized, not even able to remember my name. The only way I had communicated in the next four years was via music. Not a time I liked to remember. It had left me with the haunting feeling that maybe one day someone would turn up and claim me like a suitcase lost by an airline. I knew I didn’t want to be traced.

‘Oh, sorry—I didn’t mean to put my foot in it. But your parents are awesome.’

‘It’s OK.’

She picked up her bag. ‘Cool. Gotta go. See you tomorrow.’ With a cheery wave, she was gone.

‘I like your Tina,’ Sally announced, hugging me.

‘And she thinks you’re awesome.’

Simon shook his head. ‘Americans think shoes are
awesome
, someone offering them a lift is
awesome
: what are they going to do when they meet something really awe-inspiring? They’ll have run out of road with that word.’

‘Simon, stop being an old fuddy-duddy.’ Sally slapped him in the ribs. ‘How was your day, Sky?’

‘Fine. No, better than fine. Awesome.’ I grinned at Sally. ‘I think I’m going to be all right here.’ As long as I steered clear of Mrs Green’s cheerleaders.

Jazz band practice fell at the end of the week. During the intervening time, I didn’t come across the two Benedicts in the hallways as our timetables appeared not to overlap. I did see Yves in the distance once when he was playing volleyball, but Zed’s schedule did not coincide with mine.

Tina saw him.

Nelson shot a few hoops with him. Brave man.

But not me. Not that I spent all my time looking out for him, of course.

I heard a lot more about him. He and his family were one of the favourite topics for gossip. Three of the Benedict Boys—Trace, Victor, and now the youngest, Zed—were notorious for roaring through Wrickenridge on their motorbikes, getting involved in fights in the local bars, leaving a trail of broken hearts among the female population—mostly from their failure to date the local girls. The oldest two, Trace and Victor, had settled down a little now they had jobs out of town, ironically both in law enforcement, but that didn’t stop their past exploits being related with great relish and some fondness. ‘Bad but not mean’ seemed to be the verdict.

Tina’s summary was the most succinct: ‘like Belgian chocolate—absolutely sinful and completely irresistible’.

Guilty in the knowledge that I was far too interested in someone I’d met just the once, I tried to shake the habit of looking for him. This wasn’t my normal behaviour—in England, I’d rarely taken an interest in boys, and if I’d chosen a candidate to flip the switch, so to speak, it wouldn’t have been Zed. What was there even to like about him? Nothing but a sneer. That made me shallow for taking such an interest. He might have become the anti-hero of my ongoing graphic novel plotting, but that didn’t make him a good candidate for my attention in real life. Maybe the fact that he was so far out of my league made him strangely ‘safe’ to fancy; it would go no further because the moon would fall from the sky before he noticed me.

Our paths did cross once, but that was out of school—and definitely not to my advantage. I’d dropped by the grocery store on my way home to pick up some milk and got cornered by Mrs Hoffman. In between grilling me as to how I was getting on in every single one of my subjects, she also enrolled me in fetching goods for her.

‘Sky, honey, I’d like a jar of dill sauce,’ she said, gesturing to a small green bottle on the very top shelf.

‘OK.’ I put my hands on my hips and looked up. It was out of reach for both of us.

‘Why do they make these pesky shelves so tall?’ huffed Mrs Hoffman. ‘I’ve a mind to call the manager.’

‘No, no.’ I didn’t want to be there for that particular episode. ‘I can get it.’ I glanced down the aisle, wondering if there was a handy ladder available and caught sight of Zed at the far end.

Mrs Hoffman spotted him too. ‘Well, look there, it’s that Benedict boy—Xav—no, Zed. Foolish names if you ask me.’

I didn’t ask because I had no doubt she’d also have something to say on the subject of mine.

‘Shall we call him over?’ she asked.

That would be great: ‘Excuse me, Mr Tall-and-Good-looking Wolfman, but can you help the English midget reach the sauce?’ I think not.

‘It’s OK; I can get it.’ I climbed on the lowest shelf, pulling myself up by the middle one, reaching up on tiptoes. My fingers curled around the topmost jar—almost …

Then my foot slipped and I landed on my backside, the jar flying from my hand and smashing on the tiles. The row of dill sauces rocked precariously, looked sure to fall, but miraculously stayed on the shelf.

‘Bummer!’

‘Sky Bright, I won’t stand for such unladylike language!’ said Mrs Hoffman.

The assistant arrived, towing a mop and bucket on wheels behind her like a tubby dog.

‘I’m not paying for that, Leanne,’ Mrs Hoffman announced immediately, pointing to the mess I’d made with the jar.

I struggled to my feet, feeling a bruise already forming at the base of my spine, but I resisted the temptation to rub the offended part. ‘It was my fault.’ I dug in my pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill. There went my chocolate treat.

‘Put your money away, honey,’ said the shop assistant. ‘It was an accident. We all saw that.’

Without a word, Zed sauntered over and plucked another jar of dill sauce from the shelf with no difficulty whatsoever and tucked it in Mrs Hoffman’s basket.

Mrs Hoffman beamed at him, perhaps not realizing she was smiling at the school’s bad boy. ‘Thank you, Zed. It is Zed, isn’t it?’

He nodded curtly, his eyes flicking over me with something like derision.

Zap—he paralyses his enemy with a flick of an eyelash.

‘How are your parents, Zed dear?’

Wonderful! Mrs Hoffman had found another victim to interrogate.

‘They’re OK,’ he said, adding as an afterthought, ‘ma’am.’

Wow, was America weird! Even the town bad boy had a polite streak drummed into him—not like his British equivalent who wouldn’t have dreamt of calling anyone ‘ma’am’.

‘And your older brothers, what are they doing these days?’

I slipped away with a soft ‘bye’. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I thought I heard Zed mutter ‘traitor’ as I abandoned him, which made me feel a lot better about doing a prat-fall before his very eyes.

I’d not got far before I heard a motorbike behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see Zed manoeuvring a black Honda up the street, weaving expertly between the streams of traffic returning home for the night. He was obviously better at cutting short a conversation with Mrs Hoffman than I was. He slowed down when he spotted me but didn’t pull over.

I carried on walking, trying not to worry that it was getting dark and he was still on my tail. He followed until I reached my gate, then zoomed off, doing a wheelie that made a neighbour’s little poodle yap as if she’d been electrocuted.

What had that been about? Intimidation? Curiosity? I thought the first was most likely. I would die of embarrassment if he ever knew how much time I had spent wondering about him that week. It had to stop.

Friday morning and the local news carried non-stop coverage of a gang shooting in the nearest city, Denver. Family members had got caught in the crossfire—all now in the morgue. It seemed a long way from the concerns of our mountain community so I was surprised to find everyone was talking about it. Violence of the ‘ka-pow!’ sort was OK in the imagination, but the real thing was sickening. I didn’t want to dwell on it but my classmates were unstoppable.

‘They say it was a drug deal that went down real bad,’ Zoe, a friend of Tina’s, told us over lunch. She had an irreverent attitude to life and I particularly liked her because she was only a shade taller than me, thanks to her petite Chinese mother. ‘But five members of the same family were killed including a baby. How sick can you get?’

‘I heard the gunmen have gone on the run. An APB is out over the whole state,’ added Tina knowledgeably. Her older brother worked in the sheriff’s office. ‘Brad’s signed up for extra duty.’

‘Tell your brother not to worry: Mrs Hoffman will spot them if they come here.’ Zoe snapped her celery and dipped it in salt, deftly slicking her long black hair over her shoulder with her spare hand. ‘I can just see her taking them out.’

‘Yeah, she’ll have them begging for mercy,’ agreed Tina.

Mrs Hoffman—Judge Merciless, dealing out justice with her wooden spoon of doom, I mused.

‘Do you think the gunmen will come here?’

The two girls stared at me.

‘What? Something exciting happen in Wrickenridge? Get real,’ laughed Zoe.

‘No, Sky,’ said Tina. ‘Not a chance. We’re at the end of a road going nowhere. Why would anyone come here unless they’ve skis strapped to their feet?’

It was a good question. I realized too late that I’d been stupid not to guess that they were joking about Wrickenridge getting involved in the big story, but Zoe and Tina were more amused than scornful of my intelligence. Being foreign cut me a little extra slack.