The Ghost Runner (7 page)

“Do you think Stacey could be up there somewhere?”

“How would I know?” His voice changes, and I can't detect why. But one thing is clear: He doesn't want to talk about this anymore. So I let it go.

I lean back onto our picnic blanket and let my eyes wander up into the darkening hills above Lithia. I wonder if Stacey is looking down at me right now. I have to go back and try again to find her. If this spirit is Stacey and she has unfinished business, then I, too, have unfinished business.

I
can't believe I'm doing this. Standing in line with Lucy in the lobby of the Lithia College auditorium. Waiting for my audition.

“What's the play again?” I ask.

“Rumor has it that it's
Measure for Measure
,” Lucy says. “I read it in a class last year. It's one of Shakespeare's so-called ‘problem plays.'”

“Problem? What kind of problem?”

“Meaning it's a comedy, Shakespeare's last comedy, but it's also a tragedy. It's the story of this nun, Isabella, who must rescue her brother from execution. And to do that she has to give up the one thing that's most important to her—her chastity.”

“Sounds … interesting,” I say. “Are you auditioning for Isabella?”

“You see me playing a nun? Please. I'm trying out for Mistress Overdone—the boisterous and bawdy owner of a brothel.”

“You sound like a lock.”

“Well, thank you.”

I observe the others in line. They all look as if they belong here; they're all better looking than me, dressed in hip, black clothes. It doesn't seem as if they spend more money on their appearances, just that they are very aware of their appearances. Me, on the other hand? I glance down at my flattened running shoes, my worn jogging pants. I look as if I've just come from the gym, not as if I'm about to audition for a Shakespeare play.

It's funny how every clique has its own culture and dress code. Growing up, I sided with the jocks, largely because I could afford to dress that way a lot more easily than I could dress like the preppies or the cool kids. Being a jock as a girl didn't exactly equate to cool—that only worked with the guys. With the girls, being an athlete meant hanging with other girl athletes and being ignored by the guy athletes; they were too focused on the girls who dressed for getting noticed, not those who dressed for speed. I was always moving too quickly to be noticed, and I definitely looked the part.

I still look the part of the athlete—definitely not the part of the actor. These people are here to follow their dreams; they weren't dragged here by a friend.

“It looks like this will take a while,” I say. “I better go. I've got to get back to work.”

“Forget it, sister,” Lucy says. “No backing out now. Besides, I already picked out your role.”

“What's that?”

“Isabella.”

“The lead? Are you crazy?”

“You could totally do it. You're all bright and shiny and pure-looking. You just look so much like—” She stopped.

“A nun?”

“Well, yes.”

“I've got a boyfriend, you know.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“It's true. And I'm not as innocent as I look.”

“That's what makes you so complex. Like Isabella.”

I hold up the script Lucy had given me to read over as we wait our turns. “But I can barely make sense of Shakespeare. What am I supposed to do if I don't understand a line?”

“It's called acting, dork. And I know you can do it. So stop saying you want to leave. This is an adventure. Who knows, you might actually get a part, even if it's not the lead. It's summer school, after all. Slim pickings.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Kidding. Well, sort of. Your odds really are better because not as many people are here to try out. On the other hand, we're all the more devoted actors—why else would we suffer through summer school? But you never know. Devoted doesn't always mean good.”

“How will I know if I get the part?” I ask. “Do they give you a score or what?”

She laughs. “It's not the Olympics. No, they like to let everyone stew for a few days. Next week sometime they'll post a sheet. If your name's on it, you're in.”

I sigh, look at my watch, and decide to stay—for now. I actually do have plenty of time; I'm just looking for an excuse to leave. I don't want to disappoint Lucy, not again. I need as many friends as I can get right now.

Besides, there's something about acting that intrigues me a little bit—maybe it's because I've been doing it, though not by choice, for most of my life. Acting like I didn't mind moving to Houston when I was a kid, like it wasn't so bad living with my father. Acting older than my age so I could work in a bar, where the tips were better. Even these days, I find myself acting—trying to pretend it doesn't bother me that Alex can't stand my father, and trying not to show that I'm not sure I can trust my dad either. Maybe Lucy's right; maybe I do have a chance. Maybe it would even be fun. At any rate, having lines to memorize, having a brand-new role to play, would keep my mind off all this other stuff I don't want to think about.

“Kat!”

I look across the lobby, and there's Alex, waving me over. It looks as though he biked over to campus—he's soaked with sweat, and everyone is staring at him, at both of us. I gesture back to indicate that I'm staying where I am, in line, and he comes over.

“Who's that?” asks Lucy as he approaches.

“That's Alex,” I say. “My boyfriend.”

“Oh, so you weren't making him up after all.”

I introduce them to each other, but there's clearly something on Alex's mind. He barely smiles at Lucy through a worried expression on his face.

“Is anything wrong?” I ask.

“Can we talk?”

“Now? I'm kind of in the middle of something.”

“It won't take long.”

Now I'm starting to get worried myself. Nothing good begins with
Can we talk?

“Go ahead,” Lucy says. “I'll hold your spot.”

I follow him outside, wondering if he's breaking up with me, if our relationship can't withstand the tension it's been under lately. But if that's the case, he wouldn't have rushed over here to seek me out on campus, where it's a lot harder to find me than in the store. It must be some sort of emergency, and he confirms it when he stops at a bench and invites me to sit. After a pause, I do, and he sits next to me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It's your dad,” he says.

“What happened? Is he okay?”

“It's nothing like that.”

“Then what? I thought we weren't going to argue about this anymore.”

“I know. And I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Highland Hills. But I've been learning more about Ed Jacobs, and I know for a fact that he only hires fellow cronies. He has most of the city council bought and paid for with perks and campaign donations.”

“What does that have to do with my dad? He said he was hired by the foreman because he's got all this experience with drywall. He's probably never even heard of Ed Jacobs.”

“Do you know that for sure? He came here out of nowhere and got a job right away. Doesn't that seem odd to you?”

“I came here and got a job right away,” I say.

“Yeah, but he got one of the most coveted construction jobs in town. It's strange.”

“Everything in Lithia is strange. What are you getting at?”

“I don't trust him, Kat. He's after something.”

“My father?” I stand up. “What is he after, Alex? My fancy car? My priceless art collection? What can he possibly want if I've got nothing to give him?”

“I don't know,” he says. “Look, don't be mad at me, but I did some Internet searching on him.”

“You what?” I feel the muscles in my neck tense up. This is worse than him breaking up with me—him not trusting me. Not that I'm completely confident in my father either, but I don't like Alex investigating him behind my back, as if he's taking sides. Taking sides against me. “Why are you doing this?”

“Listen,” he says. “This is important.”

I'm tempted to walk away right now, but I'm curious to know what he's discovered. So I tap my foot, glaring at him as if to tell him he's got about four seconds to come out with whatever he's learned.

“I was curious about the shooting you told me about,” he says. “So I looked into all the Houston media reports around the time you said it happened, and there's no police reports, no ambulance reports. Nothing.”

“So? I looked it up, too, back then. There are enough shootings in Texas that it's hard to keep track. What's your point?”

“My point is—doesn't that seem strange to you?”

“I was there, Alex. I shot the man. It happened. Maybe it didn't make the news—so what? We didn't exactly live in the nicest part of town. It's not like in Lithia, where if someone finds a lost purse, it's the top story in the police blotter. Where I used to live, they only reported fatalities, if that.”

Alex doesn't look convinced, but I continue. “I could have told you this if you had simply asked me instead of sneaking off to some computer. And another thing—who are you to lecture me about suspicious people?”

He stands, too, reaching for me as if to take my hand, but I step away. “I've got to get back. Is this little inquisition of yours over?”

“I guess so. I'm sorry.”

“I don't need you to look out for me if this is the way you're going to do it. I've had one investigator in my life already, and I don't need any more.”

I only realize I've raised my voice because the students seated on nearby benches are now glancing over at us. I spin around and start walking back toward the theater. Alex catches up.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “But something's not right. I can feel it.”

“I agree—something's not right. But it's not about my dad. It's about us.”

“What do you mean by that?”

I don't answer him because I don't know how. All I do know is that I'm caught between him and my dad, and I don't know what to do. Is it too much to want both family and a boyfriend? Is it impossible to accept my father into my life if he's involved in everything that I'm against? I just don't know.

I continue walking back toward the theater, thinking I'll tell Lucy that I can't audition. I can't concentrate on pretending to be someone else with everything that's going on in my life right now.

Yet as I return to the lobby, and as I see Lucy waving to me from the front of the line, I remember what she said about Isabella—
she has to give up the one thing that's most important to her
—and suddenly I know exactly how to channel all my anxiety.

~

I stand onstage, blinking into the lights. Everywhere there are lights—straight above me, below me, peeking out of the floorboards from the lip of the stage, ahead in the distance. My heart is beating as though I'm halfway through a 10K.

“Your name?” a voice in the audience asks.

“Kat. Kat Healy.”

“Which part?”

“Isabella,” I say.

“Ready when you are.”

I open the script to the bookmarked page. I pause and look out into the darkness until I hear papers ruffle and someone clear his throat. There are probably only a handful of people out there, but they're all obscured by shadows created by the lights. I'm suddenly tempted to close the playbook and retreat from the stage, not sure why I thought I could do this. But I've never been one to back away. And maybe, if I can spend a few minutes in the mind of this character, it'll help me understand what I need to do—how I can get out of this mess, being caught between the two people I'd like most to trust and to have in my life, not knowing how or why, only that it has to work out, somehow, as impossible as it seems.

P
rofessor Lindquist is on a roll. His ponytail swings back and forth as he paces across the front of the room, his arms waving about as if he's conducting a Beethoven symphony. It's fun to watch him, though I can tell by the looks of some of the others in the class that they just think he's lost his mind.

“
Global warming
is the worst term ever invented for what we are witnessing,” he says. “Every time there's a cold freeze, the media poke fun of it, like global warming is only about heat. But it's not just about heat. It should be called
climate chaos
. That is what we face. The weather patterns are no longer predictable. Mother Nature seems erratic—vengeful even. We provoked her, and now we must calm her.”

“How about some Prozac?” suggests a slacker type in the back of the room. Everyone laughs.

“Very witty,” Lindquist says. “You yourself may need Prozac after you see your grade from last week's quiz.”

I like how Lindquist can take a joke with a smile on his face, then throw it right back at you. Given the depressing subject matter of this class, he has a way of keeping the mood in the room upbeat, even optimistic. Even as he talks about melting icebergs and water shortages, he also talks about water conservation and renewal.
Always look for the upside
, he'll say.
And if you can't find an upside, be the upside
.

He also talks a lot about Lithia, like today—how the drought has already led to water conservation measures throughout town. People can't water their yards or wash their cars. There's also talk of charging swimming pool owners more for their water usage.

“These hills provide for us now,” he's saying, “but without water, they will turn on us.”

“How do you mean?” Lucy asks.

“They'll burn,” he says. “And it won't be the first time.”

“I've heard that fires can be good,” I say. “Isn't that true?”

“Absolutely. Fires can be good; they thin out the old-growth trees, which is the best way to maintain a forest. A healthy forest captures water and purifies it. You all know the Lost Mine Trail, don't you? A hundred years ago, gold miners stripped those hills bare of trees—and the dirt, freed of roots, spilled into the waterways, killing the fish, ruining the drinking water. But what did the miners care? They were just passing through. In a sense, we're all just passing through, I suppose.”

He pauses, and we all sit there waiting. Lindquist does this sometimes—he starts talking and goes off on a tangent and gets all philosophical. As much as I like him, sometimes I wonder whether he's playing with a full deck.

This time, he remembers where he was and gets back on track. “To get back to your question,” he continues. “Yes, fires can be good for forests, just not so good for the houses next to the forest. We like to think that we control nature. And because we are generally good at predicting the weather, we achieve some degree of illusion—control by clairvoyance, so to speak. But we do not control nature—and knowing this is the highest form of respect one can give.”

He leaves us with a long silence before turning our attention to the quiz he'd given us last week. He likes to do that silent thing—I've seen students roll their eyes, but it doesn't bother me, having a moment to let what he's saying sink in. And now, it makes me think about a question I suddenly want to ask him.

After class is over, I tell Lucy I'll meet her on the quad, and I wait for the other students to leave. When the room is empty and Lindquist is packing up his canvas backpack, I approach him.

“How much do you know about the gold miners here?” I ask. “The ones who worked around the Lost Mine Trail?”

“I know they destroyed the land, but then the land got even.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was an earthquake,” he says. “A big one. The mine caved in one day. In fact, the side of the hill was so barren of anything to hold the earth together that there was a massive landslide, and nobody could ever find the entrance again.”

“So the earthquake was the land protecting itself?”

“That's the Gaia point of view. The miners had an adversarial relationship with the land. They looked at the planet as one giant piggy bank to be cracked open. In this case, the piggy bank cracked back. Collapsed their network of tunnels. Put things in order again.”

“Do you believe that?” I ask.

“It doesn't matter what I believe. What do you believe?”

“I think there are probably not enough earthquakes.”

He laughs. “Fortunately, we have people like you who can have as much of an impact as any earthquake.”

“I don't understand.”

“Gaia isn't just about natural disasters. It's about you and me. It's about people working to make the world a better place.”

I nod, feeling inspired, then remember my original question. “How many miners were buried in the mine?”

“I'm not sure, but I'm guessing somewhere around fifty men were buried that day.”

“Any women?”

“I doubt that very many women worked as miners back then. Why?”

“No reason.” I briefly consider asking him about the ghost I saw, but I figure this is better left unsaid. Better to let him remain the strangest person in the room.

~

I'm helping a customer try on a pair of shoes when David comes over. “I think we'll close early tonight.”

“Why?”

“Your dad invited us to dinner.”

“Really? Both of us?” I step back to let the customer walk around in her new shoes.

“Us and Alex, from what he said.”

This is news to me. I'd seen Dad yesterday, and he hadn't mentioned anything. And I've heard nothing about it from Alex either.

“So is Alex going to join us?” David asks.

“Not that I'm aware of.”

My response is so abrupt that David looks at me sharply. “Is everything okay between you two?”

“He doesn't like my dad.”

David smiles. “You know Alex is a little protective of you.”

“You'd think by now he would get over it and trust me. I mean,
you
like my dad, right?”

“Sure I do,” he says. “But I don't really know him—and neither do you.”

“Great. Now you sound just like Alex.”

“I'm just saying that trust takes time to develop, and practice. It's like running.”

“Everything to you is like running.”

“Of course.”

The woman decides to buy the shoes, and after ringing her up, David closes down the register. While he's busy, I call Alex from the back room. He doesn't answer, so I leave a message for him to call me back. I'm wondering whether he even got Dad's invitation, or whether he's already turned him down. I know Alex is busy and probably not answering his phone very often. It's been a couple of days since we've spoken, and I have to admit I miss the sound of his voice.

David and I meet Dad at the Italian place, where he is waiting at a table set for four. David sits next to my dad, leaving an empty seat next to me for Alex, though I have a feeling it will probably remain empty.

Dad asks us about our day at the store, then starts in on one of his favorite topics: telling us all about Lithia back when he used to live here. How the theater only had two stages then. How people used to drink lots of that mineral-rich water.

“Now it's just something tourists spit out,” he says. “Back then, we'd fill up glass bottles and take them home. Some people bathed in it.”

“I'm not too late, am I?”

I recognize the voice and look up. Alex is standing next to the table.

“Of course not,” my dad says. “As a matter of fact, if you'll excuse me, I've got to use the restroom.”

“You know, come to think of it, I need to make a quick phone call,” David says. “Be right back.”

I sigh loudly as the two of them leave Alex and me alone. “That was subtle,” I say. Then I look at Alex. “So are you here because you got my message or because my dad invited you?”

“Both.”

“Really?”

“Don't worry, Kat. When he called me, I apologized for giving him attitude. It's all going to be cool from now on. I've realized he's not the problem here. I need to focus on Ed Jacobs. I hope you're not mad at me.”

It really is hard to be mad at Alex—he's so cute when he wears a guilty look. And then he gives me that contagious smile of his. “Well, if you're staying, sit down already,” I say.

He sits next to me, and I feel his hand take mine. I give it a squeeze. All is forgiven.

It turns out to be a pleasant evening. Dad doesn't make a single crack about being surrounded by vegans. He and David talk about the economy and gossip about old-timers in town, and Alex and I thread our fingers together and whisper about things we might do over the weekend, both inside and outside of his apartment. It feels so good to be with him again, to be happy, to be making plans.

Then Dad breaks into our conversation. “I almost forgot,” he says. “I brought you something.”

He reaches into his jacket, removes a photo, and hands it to me. It's a picture of me as a child with both my dad and my mom. We're in the woods, near a river. We are all smiling, even my dad. “I balanced the camera on this big boulder to get that shot. Almost lost it down the other side of the mountain when I went to grab it back. I wasn't sure you ever saw this one.”

“No, never,” I say.

Alex leans over, and I try to hide the photo from him. “No, it's too dorky.”

He grins. “That's exactly why I want to see it.”

“You
really
want to see what I looked like back then? It could change everything.”

“Absolutely.”

So I hand it over—and when looks at it, his mouth freezes in a tight, straight line.

“Come on, I was only kidding. It isn't
that
bad.” Then I notice how pale he is. “Alex? What's wrong?”

He doesn't answer. It's as if the photo has hypnotized him, sent him into some strange form of shock.

“Alex?” I ask again. He hands the photo back as if in slow motion but doesn't look at me, his eyes staring off into nowhere.

I give a nervous laugh, trying to lighten the moment. “Is it my lazy eye? Look at me—see, it's totally gone now.”

“I've got to go,” Alex says.

“What? Now?”

“There's something I forgot to do.”

“I'm sure it can wait another hour,” my dad says.

“No,” he says. “I'm sorry.”

“But—” I try to protest, but he's already halfway out the restaurant.

“Was it something we said?” asks my dad.

“I don't know what it was.” I just don't know.