Reckoning (4 page)

“Hey, Kat,” he says softly, putting his arm around me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Leaning in, he brings his face close to mine, his brown eyes glowing with desire.

“Hey,” I breathe, lifting my face to his…

“Sheesh, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Should have known you’d be under here.” The smell of Rachel’s perfume is soft and flowery against the sharp tang of the pine tree. Her bracelets clink together in a staccato rhythm as she adjusts herself on the ground.

I open my eyes and smile at her, reaching for my bag of chips.

“What’re you listening to?” She takes one of the earpieces, pressing it into her ear.

“Evanescence,” I say, munching a potato chip, still watching Rick.

She listens for a moment before handing it back. “I love them! Have you heard the new one by Three Days Grace?”

I shake my head. “Is it good?”

“It’s awesome! I just downloaded it last night.”

I nod, offering her half my cheese sandwich, now looking pathetically flat and unappetizing after spending the morning in my backpack.

“No, thanks,” she says, holding up a shiny red apple and a small bag of chocolate chip cookies from the vending machine. “Naturally sweet and crunchy, and artificially sweet and chewy. A nutritionally balanced meal.” She crunches into the apple, chewing slowly before saying, “Just go and talk to him, already, Kat.”

I turn and look at her, my eyes widening in innocence. “Who?”

“Rick. Richard Alexander Laurent. Your dream hottie.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” I shake my head and concentrate on my sandwich, picking off small pieces of bread and cheese while wondering how the heck she knows his middle name.

“You could just go up and say hello. Introduce yourself, at least.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you
loooove
him.” She smiles, popping a bite size cookie into her mouth.

“Oh, God. I do not.”

She narrows her eyes, seeing right through my feeble attempt at nonchalance. I shrug and open my bag of chips.

“Stop thinking about it so much and just do it,” she admonishes.

Rachel continually tells me that I over-analyze things, putting entirely too much thought into even the simplest situations. She’s probably right, but adopting her philosophy of less thinking, more doing isn’t something I can easily master.

“Come on, Kat,” she continues. “This could be your only chance. You know he’ll be a senior next year and after that he’ll be gone forever. You should take advantage. Get to know him now so you can date all next year.” She says this as though it’s the most natural, easy thing in the world. And that there’s no question he’ll want to go out with me. “It’s what I would do.” She lies down on the ground, drawing up her legs, using my backpack as a pillow.

“Yeah. Whatever,” I say again, wishing she would drop the subject. It’s easy for her. She dates all the time, even though she usually never gets beyond the three-month stage, growing bored after a few weeks. For her, striking up a conversation with just about anyone is as easy as ordering a hamburger. But agreeing with her and doing it are two entirely different things. There is no doubt in my mind that the last thing Rick wants is someone fawning over him, red-faced and stuttering. Although, thinking about it, it would probably give him a good laugh. I imagine myself going for the comic effect, appealing to his sense of humor. But the image quickly dies.

I glance back to the eating area. Not surprisingly, the ever-present-whenever-Rick-is-around chesty brunette with the two hundred dollar highlights wanders up squeezing herself in next to him, her arm snaking around his waist in her usual possessive gesture.

“Looks like Princess Jasmine has claimed her property,” I mutter dryly, using the name Rachel and I had given her after hearing her hum
A Whole New World
in the girl’s bathroom last fall. As for her real name, I have no idea what it is, nor do I care.

Rachel studies them for a moment, nibbling the edges of a cookie “She’s nothing. You can tell he’s not really that into her. Watch. She’s the one doing all the touching. I’m telling you, strike while the iron’s hot.”

What iron? What hot? The guy doesn’t even know I exist, let alone lay awake at night dreaming about our future together.

I take a deep breath and let it out softly. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”

Rachel glances at him, wrinkling her nose and cocking her head to the side. “I don’t know. I guess in the right light he’s not too bad.”

I look at her in disbelief.

She laughs, shoving my shoulder playfully. “I’m kidding. You should see your face! Of course he’s cute. Could use a little more muscle, though,” she adds, winking.

I roll my eyes, abandoning my lame sandwich in favor of the chips.

Rachel finishes the cookies and returns to her apple. Sitting up, she licks the juice from her fingers. “Hey, my mom and her friend Ilene are going to this gem and jewelry show downtown this weekend. I thought I might tag along. Wanna go?”

Rachel loves jewelry and accessories. She’s even started designing her own pieces. But the thought of spending hours looking at uncut stones and designs that all look pretty much the same to me doesn’t exactly fill me with excitement. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

“OK,” she says, tossing the apple core onto the grass. “But let me know if you change your mind.”

We spend the last few minutes of our lunch period discussing finals and joking about whether or not Steph ever found her chemistry paper. When the bell rings, I gather my iPod and trash and step back into the warm sunshine. Tossing the trash into the bin, I glance once more at Rick. He turns and looks directly at me. I could be mistaken, but I think I see his lips form a tentative smile. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain I think that I should smile back and wave. Do that flirtatious thing with my eyes that lets him know I’m interested. But my stomach clenches and I can feel the heat rising to my face. So I just quickly look away, hurrying back into the building.

The day finally comes to an end, and, as promised, Rachel drives me home. Dropping me in front of my house, she waggles her fingers through the sunroof, before tooting the horn and speeding off.

I smile and wave back, unable to suppress a twinge of jealousy. Now that the shock has worn off, I’m really not that surprised she has her own car. Rachel has always had a charmed life. With a father who is a world-renowned heart surgeon, and a mom who has been decorating the homes of the city’s elite for over twenty years, their family has money. The kind that buys ridiculously large houses in one of the most exclusive areas of town, and memberships to country clubs and private golf courses. Rachel could be one of those snotty rich girls that like to think they’re better than everyone else. But she’s not. Just the opposite, in fact – humble, down-to-earth, and accepting of everyone. Which are some of the reasons I love her so much. And her younger sister Cassidy is no exception. Sweet, outgoing and the most popular kid in her fifth grade class, she is like a little carbon copy of Rachel.

But I’m still jealous.

My eyes travel down the street, and I gaze longingly at the Jeep. It’s been parked there for a month, and I know exactly what the sign in the window says: FOR SALE - $800 OBO.

It needs work. Probably everything from a paint job and tires to a new engine. But I still want it. I have four hundred dollars saved, so I’m at least halfway there. And I know a guy at school who loves to mess with old cars. He asked me out once, but I turned him down not really interested in dating someone who always smells like an odd mixture of Pennzoil, Axe and cigarettes. Along with that herbal essence that isn’t shampoo. Despite my earlier rejection, maybe I could get him to fix it up for me.

I shudder, thinking about what he might want in return. Sighing, I turn away. It doesn’t matter until I can come up with the rest of the money anyway. And even if I do, I still have to talk my mom and dad into letting me buy it.

I walk slowly down the street, savoring the quiet of the afternoon. I love this time of year - the warm weather, the new leaves on the trees, the green grass and blooming shrubs. It’s like a rebirth after the long winter. I close my eyes, letting sound and scent wash over me: The steady hum of a lawn mower from the next block; the leaves on the aspen and birch trees rustling in the breeze; the smell of lilac, thick and heavy in the warm air.

“Katriona.”
My name whispers across my eardrums, making my skin prickle.

My eyes snap open and I scan the length of the street, up and down. There is no one. A car slowly passes on the cross street. A dog barks twice, the sound echoing from the next block. The windows of the surrounding houses look back at me blankly, the glass a dark reflection of the afternoon sunlight.

The wind rustles through the trees and I hear it again, fainter this time, the last syllable lingering in the air. “
Katrionaaa
.”

My jaw clenches and I wonder again about my sanity.

A strand of hair catches on my eyelashes, and I flick it to the side, pushing the thought from my mind. The incident this morning has been enough. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I glance to the right, my eyes involuntarily straying to the dilapidated house at the end of the block. Dark and shadowed, it sits like a lonely sentinel, its graceful curves and arches testament to its forgotten history. It has been empty for longer than I’ve been alive, the former grandeur of its two and a half stories slowly crumbling. Years of neglect have left its toll: Rusty wrought iron fences and overgrown shrubs; long trails of ivy pushing through cracks in the brick walls and broken windows; the front steps falling away in large chunks; old, yellowed newspaper and wind-blown neighborhood flyers littering the yard.

Something moves behind the window and I quickly turn away. Abandoned, yes. Empty, no.

Hurrying down the sidewalk I turn to my house. For decades most of the houses in my neighborhood looked the same – small, 1920’s and ‘30’s brick bungalows, fronted by deep, brick porches and mature trees, with detached one-car garages accessed through an alley in the rear. But in the last few years, owners have started remodeling, popping the tops to add another level or extending out the back. Or even tearing the house down entirely and building a new one from the ground up. And it’s usually more house than the lot can hold, which gives the neighborhood an odd, mismatched appearance: Small, historic houses cowering beside modern monstrosities.

Fortunately, ours is still one of the originals, with a short, central hallway, two small bedrooms and a bathroom on one side, and a living room and small dining room on the other. There is a tiny kitchen in the back. With the exception of finishing the basement, which added a third bedroom and a half bath, and updating the kitchen appliances and bathroom fixtures, the house looks pretty much the same as it did seventy years ago. And I love it. The wood floors, the gorgeous trim and fireplace mantles, even the little dip in the floor of the hallway where a long ago roof leak warped the wood. It’s a house with history. My mom and dad have talked about moving, or renovating for more space, but the thought sickens me. Sure, a bigger closet would be nice, but remodeling would mean wiping out everything that makes our house unique.

I dart up the front steps, noticing with surprise that the lawn next door has been mowed. The dead leaves have been swept from the porch and the
For Sale
sign removed. I hope that someone bought it. For the past year, it’s been an eyesore, the untended yard slowly becoming a mass of weeds and overgrown clumps of grass that shrivel to dried brown clumps in the heat of summer.

Turning back to my house, I can see the front door standing open behind the screen door, so I know my mom is home. Which surprises me since she hasn’t been getting home until eight or nine o’clock for the past month. She works as a legal assistant for Katzenmeyer & Wilton, a firm that specializes in real estate law. She usually does a lot of her work from home, but they’ve been calling her into the office more and more lately. Although she complains about it, I think it’s good for her to get out.

I drop my book bag by the door and head to the kitchen, the sound of the television growing louder. As usual, my mom has left the small TV on the kitchen counter on, tuned to CNN. Mom is a news junkie. At almost any hour of the day or night at least one TV in the house is be tuned to some news channel, supplying her with a never-ending rundown of the day’s events. I don’t know how she stands it. To me, it’s just information overload.

Grabbing the remote, I turn it off, pleased to see the blackened shell of a bombed out car disappear. In the ensuing silence, the sound of my mom typing away on her computer floats up from the basement.

“Hey, Mom,” I call down the stairs. “I’m home. You won’t believe what happened today.” I want to tell her about Rachel’s car, but need to do it in a way that will work in my favor. If I can put the right spin on it, maybe it will help convince her to let me buy the Jeep. I decide on the positive approach: Play up all the good points of having my own set of wheels, then act nonchalant, dropping subtle hints over the next few weeks.

And hope that no one buys the Jeep in the meantime.

“Hi, honey,” she calls back. “I’ll be up in a minute. I’m just sending an e-mail to Dad.”

My dad is kind of non-existent. Since he spends most of the week traveling between Chicago, St. Louis and Dallas selling medical supplies to doctors and hospitals, I usually only see him on the weekends. And even that isn’t guaranteed since meetings and conferences sometimes keep him out of town for two weeks at a time.

Alecto stretches in a patch of sunlight by the back door, her velvet black fur glistening. Mewing softly, she blinks sleepy blue eyes at me. Bending down, I scoop her up.

“Hey, baby. How’s my best girl?” I nuzzle my face against her side, rubbing behind her ears. A soft purr begins deep in her throat, and I kiss the blotch of pristine white on her nose. She pulls her head back and gazes at me, her eyes bright with knowledge I can never hope to understand.