The Precious Dreadful Page 14

  Drifting down the street, I settle on Hale’s.

  At the counter, waiting for my Caffrappe, their specialty concoction, I hear, “Hey, stranger.”

  Swiveling, I spot him beyond the bookshelves. He’s sprawled, one leg draped over the arm of the old couch. Instantly relieved, I have this impulse to run to him.

  Thankfully, my sandals show some restraint, sticking momentarily to the weathered wood floor. Grabbing my drink, I offer a shy chin tip, and Ed says, “Come on back, grab a seat.”

  As I approach, he clears a spot, hefting a pile of books onto the kilim-draped trunk that serves as coffee table.

  We sit hip to hip in easy silence, until he asks, “Soooo, what made you think to look for me here?”

  “As if.” I laugh.

  When Ed winks, I challenge him with “Where’s Glade?”

  He counters, “Where’s Aidan?”

  “Asked you first.”

  Ruffling fingers through his hair, he says, “She’s got a date.”

  “With . . .”

  “Someone else.”

  “Interesting.”

  We sit, unspeaking. As Ed reaches for a magazine, his leg brushes mine, the hairs on his calf tickling my kneecap. I will my leg to stay put.

  Breaking the silence, he says, “Constant struggle. Classic on-again-off-again.”

  “I can identify. It’s what we get for dating above our rank.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Face it, Ed. We’ve hooked some major fish. Aidan’s perfection with an eight-pack and a tan. And Glade, well . . .”

  “So you’re saying I’m not worthy. That I’m Quasimodo or something? Thanks.”

  “No! Look, you and I are attractive by any standard. You’re like, a solid eight-and-a-quarter, but you’ve got to admit, those two are off the scale.”

  Thankfully, he laughs, so I continue. “Their kind . . . not that they don’t have challenges, but . . . they live by a separate set of rules, different expectations.”

  “It’s true. Take my sister. In seventeen years, I’ve never heard Eleanor belch. She doesn’t sweat. Magic just happens for her. Glade’s the same; enchantment trails wherever she goes.”

  “She’s a Disney princess.”

  “Yeah . . . and,” he pauses, looks away, “I suppose Aidan’s a real-life prince, huh?”

  My bitter laugh surprises him.

  “What’s funny?”

  I sigh. “Prince Charming’s a hollow concept, Ed. The whole idea of a perfect guy to sweep your troubles away? It’s horseshit. Besides, I’m hardly a damsel. I’ve taken care of myself as long as I can remember.”

  “That’s admirable, I guess. But even strong people sometimes need support.” He places his hand on mine. “Or protection.”

  When I slide my hand away, his palm cups my knee. Noting the image—a soulful eye, the number twelve—inked on Ed’s wrist, I meet his gaze. Flushing, he moves his hand.

  I catch us both off guard, leaning in, brushing my lips against Ed’s. He stays perfectly steady, eyes open. I feel the heat of his face. As I shift my weight, the leather couch makes a flatulent squawk, killing the moment.

  Cracking his knuckles, Ed says, “Wow. That . . . I’m glad we finally got it over with . . . was nice.”

  Immediately regretting the kiss, I go mute.

  Straightening the book pile, Ed says, “So. What were we talking about?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, Teddi. Two slightly better-than-average-looking teens grappling with turbulent relationships? A rebound kiss was inevitable. But it’s a bad idea.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, you have real feelings for Aidan, right?”

  I nod.

  “And Glade and me—”

  “You’re right, Ed. I don’t know what came over me. Must be your cologne.”

  “Or my size eight-and-a-quarter magnetism.”

  “Right. Um, I should go.” Slurping my Caffrappe, I stand.

  “Teddi, wait.” Face a map of concern, Ed says, “The other night at SUMMERTEENS you said Aidan wasn’t the problem.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you two are having problems?”

  “It’s just . . . it turns out perfection really is only epidermal.” I perch on the couch arm. “I should know better than to have expectations, you know?”

  His eyes narrow. “Teddi, what did he do?”

  I look away.

  Punching a cushion, he says, “Dammit! I knew I should’ve warned you. If that prick hurt you—”

  “Calm down, Ed. I’m fine. Anyway, how could you have warned me? You just met Aidan.”

  “Like I said the other night, I know his type. And I’ve,” looking away, he says, “heard some things. He . . . seems . . .” Clearing his throat, he takes my hand again. “Just be careful.”

  “Why are you saying this?”

  “Because I can’t stand by and watch it happen, and because—” He stops himself.

  “What?”

  “If things were different, you and I . . .”

  I cut him off. “Whoa there, Edlenson. No point pondering what-ifs.” Then, ignoring the stone in my stomach, I smile. “Catch you later, Joy.”

  Ed manages a strained half smirk and says, “You bet.”

  I head home for a much needed quilt burrow, just me and my thoughts. Hours later, I’m tangled in bedding and confusion.

  Postpond, I’m not sure Aidan and I are worth another attempt. Closing my eyes, I picture him. Eyes raging, screaming at me.

  If Aid and I are done, I pray Willa’s salvageable. Because what I said—“You’re lying”—may have changed us. Permanently. Even as I accused her, I knew Willa would never lie about Aidan kissing her. I’d deserve it if she never spoke to me again.

  Thoughts of Ed are a jumble. What made me kiss him? Am I so off the rails I’ve blown our shot at friendship?

  I’ve managed to torpedo three relationships in rapid succession. Impressive feat? Or further proof I’m losing my grip?

  20

  This afternoon, the sky fell. Fine, it’s water, but it’s been coming down for hours. A true deluge. Binks flipped out as rain hammered the aluminum siding; his relentless pacing had me ready to snap. So, sealed in my room, I blasted the TV, successfully drowning him out. Now I feel guilty.

  When I get downstairs, he’s reached critical volume. Practically sloshing, he circles, nips my heels. He’s ready to bust, so I skip the search for Brenda’s rain poncho. Clipping leash to collar, I open the door, and we step into sheeting storm.

  Binks has this wacky-when-wet gene; he morphs into a complete spaz when he comes into contact with water. Bracing for the inevitable yank, I sprint after him across mushy grass.

  Feet luging sideways, sinking ankle-deep in mud, I scream, “Binks!” and jerk his leash so hard he pinwheels in the air. It barely fazes him. He’s immediately flying top speed again, and it’s impossible to keep my Crocs on. Kicking out of them, leaving them half sunk in sog, I skid after the little maniac.

  Rounding the corner of the pool fence, my feet slide, almost skiing, and the leash flies from my hand. I nearly face-plant, but somehow, miraculously, I recover. For once, Binks doesn’t take advantage of the situation to fly to freedom.

  He stops, panting, a devious spark in his eyes. Then, snuffling the mud furiously, he flings himself on his back in a manic wriggle-roll. By the time I get to him, he’s a living chocolate bunny.

  Scooping his leash from the grass, I decide to head past the basketball court to the kiddie pool. Even in this rain, the fountain will be on full spray. It runs 24/7, rain or shine, from June 30 through Labor Day, a colossal waste of water—and total E. coli breeding ground—tots love.

  I figure I’ll let Binks paddle and de-muck before bringing him home. As we cross the field beyond the baseball diamond, thunder blasts the sky, and Binks curls into a quaking cower. If he weren’t filthy, I’d pick him up for comfort. Instead, sayin
g, “Okay, Ironman. Let’s move,” I drag him through the grass.

  Nearing the sprinkler, I’m shocked to spot someone else braving this weather. Kneeling at pool’s edge, she’s beyond soaked, and not just due to rain. She’s not dressed for swimming; her clothes puddle—a failed parachute—but as I watch, she wades slowly toward the center of the pool, where the water’s about three feet deep.

  She submerges; then, surfacing, floats on her back. I hear her voice but can’t decipher what she’s saying as she drifts. A sudden flurry of limbs, she thrashes, and I almost call out. Before I can, she stops, stands, repeats the process.

  Finally, she glides back toward pool edge, lips moving. They’re the only feature I can make out. The rest of her face is hidden by her large hood. It and the cape she wears make her look time-travelish, as if she’s been beamed into Sylvan Park from a previous century.

  Not wanting to frighten her, I announce our approach before Binks has a chance to bark her out of her trance. Raising my hand, I call, “Unusual weather. Isn’t it?”

  Startled anyway, she almost slips stepping from pool onto equally wet grass. Facing me, she folds back her hood, and I recognize her. It’s Tamika, the senior playing Viola in Twelfth Night. We had trig together my freshman year. I doubt she’ll remember me.

  Dipping her chin, she says, “Gosh! You caught me practicing. I must’ve looked like a real whacko!”

  “No, not at all.”

  She peels off her robe, twists water out of it. Wringing her dripping braid, she says, “I’m trying to get the hang of what Viola would feel, after the shipwreck. All disoriented, dumped in the water fully clothed. The method-actor thing, y’know?”

  “Sure.”

  Gazing skyward, she says, “Storm’s finally over.” As Binks snarls, she says, “Cute dog.”

  “Thanks.” I give his leash a tug, and he looks up as if to say, Just doing my job.

  “It’s Teddi, right?”

  “Um, yeah. Good memory. Trig class?”

  She looks embarrassed. “Oh . . . sure. But I was really remembering you from the other night.” When I don’t respond, she continues. “At rehearsal. You’re the one who screamed.”

  “Oh, God. I am so sorry about that. I probably ruined your whole practice.”

  She laughs. “No, no! It was actually the highlight. I admit it threw me, but Miss LaRose rolled with it. We had a whole discussion about audience unpredictability. She said we need to expect the occasional oddball reaction.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Um . . . that came out wrong.”

  “No, I get it. I’m glad my psychotic break proved useful.”

  She eyes the sidewalk that leads to civilization. Probably debating whether to run for it.

  “Kidding.”

  After a pause, she says, “Sure.” I’m not certain she’s convinced, ’til she laughs and says, “So. You were there with Aidan Graham.”

  She waits as if some response is required, though that was more statement than question. I grant a noncommittal “Yup.”

  She leans closer. “It was really romantic the way he carried you out.”

  “That’s one way to spin it.”

  “Teddi . . . if you don’t mind my asking, are you two a couple?”

  I search for the perfect response. None comes.

  Tamika says, “Oh, that was rude, huh? Guess it’s none of my damn business.”

  “No worries. I’m just . . . our relationship status is . . . questionable, right now. Let’s say we’re experiencing technical difficulties. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Well, good luck. You make a cute couple. Of course, you do have an unfair advantage with Mr. Hotness on your team.”

  Eager to change subjects, I say, “So, the play looks cool. Can’t wait to see it. I’m friends with Willa and Nic.” A crinkle forms between her brows, so I follow up with “Your cast mates.”

  “Uh-huh.” She sucks in her bottom lip. After a long silence, accompanied by further braid wringing, she says, “I’m guessing you don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Nic got kicked out of the play.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I wasn’t there; had to work. But I heard he showed up late, out of control. Swearing, arguing with Miss LaRose. He actually tried to pick a fight with my friend Vinnie.”

  “That’s impossible. Nic’s never been in a fight. He’s basically the mellowest guy ever!”

  “Maybe, but two crew guys had to literally pull him off Vinnie. Miss LaRose tried calming Nic down, and he called her”—she lowers her voice—“the c-word. She was furious, and she’s usually so calm. Vin says Nic had to be shitfaced. Stoned or whatnot.”

  I just stand, like someone’s kicked me in the gut, until Tamika says, “Teddi, I’m sorry to blurt it all out this way. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

  “That’s insane! Nicolas Andrewski does not do drugs.”

  Riled by my unexpected temper, Binks flattens in the grass, growling again.

  “Sorry.” Tamika takes a backward step. “Just telling you what I heard.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Stooping to pat Binks, I say, “I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just . . . a lot. When did this happen?”

  “Gosh, a few nights ago. Just after the rehearsal you visited.”

  I shake my head. “That can’t be right. I was with Willa yesterday, and she complained about Nic being obsessed with the play. She said he’s at rehearsal every night. She never mentioned any of this.”

  “Strange. I mean, she must know, right? Could be she’s covering for him. Or else she’s too embarrassed to tell you?”

  “Willa’s my best friend. She tells me everything.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Maybe he hasn’t told her. She has a real small part, so she hasn’t been at rehearsal either. I bet he’s trying to figure out a way to break it to her.”

  I just stand there, stunned, until Tamika says, “Listen, I’d better get home. I’m really sorry, Teddi. I dropped a real bomb on you, didn’t I?”

  “You sort of did. But I’ll be fine. I just need to talk to my friends. Find out what the hell’s going on.”

  Tamika’s hug catches me off guard. Binks must sense I need it. He just sits there, no toothy menace.

  I watch her shrink into the distance as she follows the path toward Parkview. Then, lifting Binks, I carry him to water’s edge. Plopping him in, I say, “Time for a swim, buddy. I almost forgot the whole reason we came here.”

  He rolls his eyes as if to answer, Small wonder. That was a major mindscrew, don’t you think?

  21

  Finished reading, Jeanine returns to her seat. With a dainty thumbs-up, Petra says, “Nice job, JC.” The rest of the group claps sluggishly.

  The newly fixed AC limps along, burping sporadic puffs. The storm had zero impact on temps; with the air in here pudding-thick, we’re a troupe of pit-stank zombies—all except Eleanor.

  Enthusiastic in the face of swelter, she exclaims, “Solid work, Miss Costa! The shift in time comes across more vividly. Questions? Comments?”

  When no one responds, Eleanor says, “Alrighty, then. Let’s call it a night. Unless anyone objects to adjourning twenty minutes early due to heat.”

  There are no objections. The gang splits quickly, Ken and Todd debating how the library basement could possibly be so hot, given “the inherent buoyancy of heat.”

  Ed slouches in the doorway, shaking his head as they pass. He gestures me out to the hall. As I cross the stained carpet, Marisol approaches, tentative, serious.

  Our interaction tonight was all business, nothing but writing, and strained. We haven’t really spoken since the reading with her aunt. I worry how much Adaluz shared with her. I don’t suppose there’s such a thing as psychic/client privilege; that’s probably just with doctors. And I doubt mediums take a priestly vow.

  We “hey” in synch, and then Mari says, “Don’t take this wrong, but . . .”

  “What is it?”
/>
  “Just so you know, my aunt didn’t tell me anything about . . . you know. The other day.”

  “Really?”

  “I thought you must be wondering.”

  It dawns on me Mari may have inherited the family talent.

  “Thanks for telling me. I did feel funny about it. I’m afraid I acted kind of wenchy.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I told her it was stupid coming to her for help. That she was wrong about what she saw.”

  “Oh.” She stops to examine the mole on her wrist.

  “I’m sorry, Mari.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  I look at my shoes. “For real, she didn’t say anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “I think I owe her an apology.”

  Marisol smiles. “Not necessary. Lots of people refuse to accept what Tia tells them. But she’s usually right. Anyway, she’s not one to get angry over that stuff.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Sliding a small purple envelope from her binder, Marisol hands it to me. “She did ask me to give you this.”

  “It’s not a bill, is it? I felt bad cheating her out of the twenty bucks.”

  “No, Teddi, she’d never charge one of my friends. Actually, Tia doesn’t like taking money. She says it ‘cheapens her gift,’ and has the capacity to ‘taint the message.’ But it’s how she put her daughter through radiology school.”

  “Seriously?”

  I wait for her to continue, but it suddenly feels like we’ve maxed out all the words, neither quite sure what to say. Thankfully, Ed comes to the rescue.

  “So, not that I was eavesdropping, but now that we’ve confirmed radiology’s a growing field; Marisol’s aunt isn’t holding some psychic grudge; and cash can interfere with communication from the spirit world—a concept I find fascinating, by the way—would you two hug it out already, so I can talk to Teddi?”

  Laughing, we step toward one another with open arms. As we embrace, Ed says, “My work here is done.”

  Marisol excuses herself, and I turn to Ed and ask, “So, what’s up?”

  He’s about to answer, but then he really looks at me. “Hey, are you all right? You seem a little . . . off lately.”