Текст книги "Finding Sky"

Автор книги: Joss Stirling

Соавторы: Joss Stirling
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

As I watched, he mounted his bike, revving it like a warrior prodding a monstrous steed awake. With brief goodbyes to his companions, he shot out of the car park, other students scattering. I’d give a lot to be on the back of that bike, dismissing the school day as my knight whisked me home. Better yet, be the one driving, the lone superhero, fighting injustice in her skin-tight leather outfit, men swooning in her wake.

A gust of self-mocking laughter stopped my random thoughts. Just listen to yourself! I chided my overheated imagination. Warriors and monsters; superheroes? I’d been reading too much Manga.

These boys were a different breed from me. I was not even a blip on their radar. I should be thankful that no one could see inside my head to know just how fanciful I was. My grasp on reality could seem a bit shaky at times as I let my daydreams colour my perceptions. I was plain old Sky; they were gods: that was the way of the world.

I drifted through school for the next few days, gradual y fil ing in the blanks on my map and learning the way things were done. Once I’d caught up with the work, I found I could cope with my classes, even if some of the style of teaching was unfamiliar. It was way more formal than in England—no first names for the students, al of us seated in individual rows rather than in pairs—but I thought I had adjusted OK. So, lul ed into a false sense of security, I was unprepared for the rude shock of my first gym lesson.

Mrs Green, our evil sports teacher, sprang a surprise on the girls early Wednesday morning.

There should be a law against teachers doing that so we at least had time to get a sick note.

‘Ladies, as you know, we’ve lost six of our best cheerleaders to col ege so I’m hunting for new recruits.’ I was not the only one to look crestfal en.

‘Come now, that’s no way to react! Our teams need your support. We can’t have Aspen High out-dancing, out-chanting us, can we?’

Yes we can, I chanted under my breath in Obama-Bob-the-Builder fashion.

She tapped a remote control and Taylor Swift’s

‘You belong with me’ started to blare over the loudspeakers.

‘Sheena, you know what to do. Show the other girls the steps for the first sequence.’

A lanky girl with honey-blonde hair loped with antelope grace to the front and began what looked to me a fiendishly difficult routine.

‘See, it’s simple,’ declared Mrs Green. ‘Fal into line, the rest of you.’ I shuffled to the back. ‘You there

–new girl. I can’t see you.’ Precisely: that had been the idea. ‘Come forward. And from the top—one and two and three, kick.’

OK, I’m not completely hopeless. Even, I managed to do an approximation of Sheena’s moves. The minute hand on the clock crawled towards the end of the period.

‘Now we’re going to step it up,’ announced Mrs Green. At least someone was enjoying herself. ‘Get out the pompoms!’

No way. I was not going to shake those ridiculous things. Glancing over Mrs Green’s shoulder, I could see some of the boys from my class, already back from their run, were spying on us through the window in the sports hal canteen. Sniggering. Great.

Alerted by the attention of the front row to what was going on behind her, Mrs Green twigged that we had an audience. As smooth as a Ninja, she swooped on the boys before they knew what had hit them and dragged them in.

‘We

believe

in

equal

opportunities

in

Wrickenridge High.’ Gleeful y, she thrust pompoms in their hands. ‘Line up, boys.’

Now it was our chance to laugh as the red-faced males were forced to join in. Mrs Green stood at the front assessing our skil —or lack of it. ‘Hmm, not enough, not enough. I think we need to practise a few tosses—Neil,’ she picked out a broad-shouldered boy with a shaved head, ‘you were in the squad last year, weren’t you? You know what to do.’

Tossing sounded OK. Chucking pompoms was better than shaking them.

Mrs Green tapped three more recruits on the shoulder. ‘Gentlemen, I’d like four of you up front.

Make a cradle of your arms—yes, that’s it. Now, we need the smal est girl for this.’

No, absolutely not. I sidled behind Tina, who loyal y tried to look twice her normal girth, pompoms on hips.

‘Where’s she gone—that little English girl? She was here a moment ago.’

Sheena spoilt my plan to hide. ‘She’s behind Tina, ma’am.’

‘Come here, dear. Now, it’s quite simple. Sit on their crossed hands and they’l throw you into the air and catch you. Tina and Sheena, bring a crash mat over here, just in case.’ My eyes must have been like saucers, for Mrs Green patted my cheek. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything but point your hands and feet and try to look as if you are enjoying yourself.’

I eyed the boys with distrust; they were looking at me closely, possibly for the first time, estimating just how much weight I was carrying. Then Neil shrugged, making his mind up. ‘Yeah, we can do this.’

‘On the count of three!’ bel owed the teacher.

They grabbed me and up I went. My shriek probably could’ve been heard in England. It certainly brought the basketbal coach and the rest of the boys running in the belief that someone was being brutal y murdered.

I don’t think Mrs Green wil be picking me for the squad.

Stil in shock, I sat at lunch with Tina, barely eating a thing. My stomach had yet to return to earth.

‘They got a fair bit of height on that toss, didn’t they?’ Tina flicked my arm to interrupt my blank stare.

‘Oh. My. God.’

‘You make a lot of noise for such a smal person.’

‘So would you if a sadistic teacher decided to torture you.’

Tina shook her mane. ‘Not going to be a problem for me—I’m too big.’ She thought it funny, the traitor.

‘So, Sky, what’re you going to do with the rest of your recess?’

Spurred out of my stupor, I dug out a leaflet from my welcome pack and put it between us. ‘I thought I’d go along to the music practice. Want to come too?’

She pushed it away with a wry laugh. ‘Sorry, you’re on your own. Me, they don’t let me near the music room. Glass shatters when it sees me coming with my mouth open. What do you play?’

‘A couple of instruments,’ I admitted.

‘Details, sister, details.’ She beckoned with her fingers, drawing the words out of me.

‘Piano, guitar, and saxophone.’

‘Mr Keneal y is going to die of excitement when he hears. A one-girl band! Do you sing?’

I shook my head.

‘Phew! I thought I was going to have to hate you for being sickeningly talented.’ She dumped her tray.

‘Music’s this way. I’l show you.’

I’d seen pictures on the school website but the music suite was much better equipped than even I had hoped. The main classroom had a glossy black grand that I was already itching to get my hands on.

Students were mil ing around when I entered, some strumming on their guitars, a couple of girls practising scales on flutes. A tal , dark-haired boy with John Lennon glasses was changing the reed on his clarinet, his expression serious. I looked for somewhere inconspicuous to sit, preferably with a good view of the piano. There was a space next to a girl on the far side. I made towards it but her friend sat down before I could.

‘Sorry, but this seat’s taken,’ the girl said, seeing I was stil hovering at her shoulder.

‘Right. OK.’

I perched alone on the edge of a desk and waited, avoiding meeting anyone’s eye.

‘Hey, you’re Sky, right?’ A boy with a shaved head and complexion of rich roast coffee took my hand, giving it a complicated shake. He moved with the easy grace of the long-limbed. Put into one of my comic book dreams, he’d be cal ed something like Elasto-man.

Stop it, Sky, concentrate.

‘Um … hi. You know me?’

‘Yeah. I’m Nelson. You met my grandma. She told me to watch out for you. Everyone treating you wel ?’

OK—so he wasn’t like Mrs Hoffman after al , way too cool. ‘Yes, everyone’s been very friendly.’

He grinned at my accent and dropped down beside me, putting his feet up on the chair in front.

‘Awesome. I think you’l have no problem fitting right in.’

I needed to hear that because just then I was having doubts. I decided I liked Nelson.

The door banged open. Enter Mr Keneal y, a hefty man with the ginger hair of a Celt. Doodling on my pad, I immediately had him tabbed: Music Master, Harbinger of Doom to al disharmony. Definitely not a candidate for spandex.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began without breaking step. ‘Christmas is coming with its usual alarming swiftness, and we’ve a big programme of concerts scheduled. So you can al expect to let those little lights shine.’ I could hear his signature tune now: lots of drum and building tension, a kind of revved-up version of the ‘1812’ overture. ‘Orchestra starts on Wednesday. Jazz band Friday. Al you budding rock stars, if you want to book the music rooms for your own band practice, see me first. But why do I bother—you know the dril .’ He dumped the papers down. ‘Except perhaps you.’ Music Master had brought his X-ray vision to bear on me.

I hate being new.

‘I’m catching up fast, sir.’

‘Good for you. Name?’

Hating my parents’ whimsical choice more and more, I told him, receiving the usual giggles from those who’d not met me before.

Mr Keneal y frowned at them. ‘What do you play, Miss Bright?’

‘A bit of piano. Oh, and guitar and tenor sax.’

Mr Keneal y rocked on the bal s of his feet, reminding me of a diver about to take the plunge. ‘Is

“a bit” some English code for “real y good”?’

‘Um …’

‘Jazz, classical, or rock?’

‘Er … jazz, I suppose.’ I was happy with anything as long as it came on a stave.

‘Jazz, you suppose? You don’t sound very certain, Miss Bright. Music is not take it or leave it; music is life or death!’

His little speech was interrupted by the arrival of a latecomer. The Hispanic biker sauntered into the room, hands thrust in pockets, his mile-long legs eating up the floor as he strode to the windowsil to perch next to the clarinettist. It took me a moment to get over the surprise that the biker actual y participated in any school activities; I’d imagined him above al that. Or maybe he’d come just to make fun of us? He leaned against the window as he had his saddle, ankles crossed negligently, an expression of amusement on his face as if he’d heard it al before and no longer cared.

Al I could think was that they don’t make them like that in Richmond. It wasn’t so much that he had the poster boy looks, it was more to do with the raw energy that rippled under the skin, pent-up rage like a tiger pacing a cage. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I was by no means the only one affected. The atmosphere changed in the room. The girls sat up that little bit straighter, the boys were put on edge—

al because this godlike creature had deigned to come among us mere mortals. Or was it the wolf among the sheep?

‘Mr Benedict, so kind of you to join us,’ Mr Keneal y said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, his previous good humour chil ed. A little scene flashed through my head: Music Master facing up to the Wicked Wolfman, weapons a bul et spray of notes.

‘Al of us are thril ed you’ve torn yourself away from your no doubt far more important schedule to make music with us, even if your arrival is somewhat tardy.’

The

boy

quirked

an

eyebrow,

evidently

unrepentant. He picked up a pair of drumsticks and rol ed them in his fingers. ‘I’m late?’ His voice was deep as I had imagined it, a shrug of bass tones.

The clarinettist bravely elbowed him in the ribs, a reminder to behave.

Mr Keneal y’s buttons were definitely being pushed. ‘Yes, you are late. I believe it is a custom in this school to apologize to the teacher if you arrive after they do.’

Drumsticks stil ed, the boy stared at him for a moment, his expression arrogant like some young lord contemplating a peasant who dared correct him.

Final y, he said, ‘Sorry.’

I had the impression that the rest of the room gave a subtle sigh of relief that conflict had been averted.

‘You’re not—but that’l have to do. Watch your step, Mr Benedict: you may be talented but I’m not interested in prima donnas who don’t know how to treat their fel ow musicians. You, Miss Bright, are you a team player?’ Mr Keneal y turned back to me, dashing my hopes that I’d been forgotten. ‘Or are you afflicted with the same attitude as our Mr Zed Benedict?’

A very unfair question. This was a battle of superheroes and I was not even a sidekick. I’d not yet spoken to the Wolfman and I was being asked to criticize him. He had the kind of looks that made even the most confident girl a little in awe of him and, as my self-esteem was way down at rock bottom to start with, what I felt was closer to terror.

‘I … I don’t know. But I’ve been late too.’

The boy’s gaze flicked to me, then dismissed me as no more than a fleck of mud on his Wolfman superboots.

‘Let’s find out what you can do. Jazz band fal in.’

Mr Keneal y shot music out like Frisbees. ‘Mr Hoffman, you take the sax; Yves Benedict, clarinet part. Maybe you can prevail upon your brother to delight us al on the drums?’

‘Of course, Mr Keneal y,’ John Lennon specs replied, shooting the biker a dark look. ‘Zed, get over here.’

His brother? Wow, how did that happen? They might look a little like each other but in attitude they were on different planets.

‘Miss Bright can have my place at the piano.’ Mr Keneal y caressed the grand fondly.

I real y really didn’t want to perform in front of everyone.

‘Um … Mr Keneal y, I’d prefer—’

‘Sit.’

I sat, adjusting the height of the stool. At least the music was familiar.

‘Don’t mind the prof,’ Nelson muttered, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘He does this to everyone—

tests your nerves, he says.’

Feeling mine were wrecked already, I waited for the others to settle.

‘OK, take it away,’ said Mr Keneal y, sitting in the audience to watch.

With the first touch, I knew the grand was a honey

–ful toned, powerful, capable of a great range. It relaxed me as nothing else could, providing a barrier between me and the rest of the room. Getting lost in the score chased off my jitters and I began to enjoy myself. I lived for music in the same way my parents did for their art. It wasn’t about performance—I preferred to play to an empty room; for me, it was about being part of the composition, taking the notes and working the magic to weave the spel . When playing with others, I was aware of my fel ow performers not as people but as the sounds: Nelson, smooth and loose; Yves, the clarinet player, lyrical, intel igent, sometimes funny; Zed—wel , Zed was the heartbeat, powering the music along. I sensed he understood the music as I did, his anticipation of shifts in mood and tempo faultless.

‘Very good, nay, excel ent!’ Mr Keneal y 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 Keneal y went on to other matters, organizing the choir and orchestra rehearsals, but no one else was asked forward to play. Unwil ing 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 stil 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 wel -

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 fal en 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, Tin

a ran me home in her car,

saying she wanted to see where I lived. I think she was real y 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 stil make out the words Monterey Repairs on the side.

‘He gave it to me when he upgraded to a truck,’

she explained cheerful y, honking the horn to move a cluster of teenagers out of the way. ‘He’s official y 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 hil .

‘I met Zed and Yves Benedict at music practice,’ I said casual y, 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 enthusiastical y, 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 stil 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 al 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, Wil , Xavier, Yves, and Zed. Helped them remember, I guess.’

‘Odd names.’

‘Odd family, but they’re cool.’

Sal y and Simon were unpacking art supplies when we arrived back. I could tel 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 ful English tea,’ said Tina with a twinkle in her eye. ‘You know, iddy-biddy cucumber sandwiches and those cake things with jel y and cream.’

‘You mean scones and jam,’ said Simon.

‘Sc– own- es,’

Sal y

and

I

corrected

him

automatical y.

‘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—total y awesome. Mr Rodenheim had big ambitions for the place.’ She sneaked a peek at a sketchbook Sal y had just unpacked. She looked impressed, taking time to study each one. ‘This is great. Charcoal?’

Sal y 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,’ Sal y confirmed, shooting Simon a delighted look.

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

‘Of course, Tina. And please, cal me Sal y.’

‘Sal y 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.’ Sal y 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,’ Sal y announced, hugging me.

‘And she thinks you’re awesome.’

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

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

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

Jazz band practice fel at the end of the week. During the intervening time, I didn’t come across the two Benedicts in the hal ways as our timetables appeared not to overlap. I did see Yves in the distance once when he was playing vol eybal , 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 al 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, ironical y 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 shal ow 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 fal 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 gril ing me as to how I was getting on in every single one of my subjects, she also enrol ed me in fetching goods for her.

‘Sky, honey, I’d like a jar of dil sauce,’ she said, gesturing to a smal 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 tal ?’

huffed Mrs Hoffman. ‘I’ve a mind to cal 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. ‘Wel , 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.

‘Shal we cal him over?’ she asked.

That would be great: ‘Excuse me, Mr Tal -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, pul ing 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 dil sauces rocked precariously, looked sure to fal , 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 pul ed out a five dol ar bil .

There went my chocolate treat.

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

Without a word, Zed sauntered over and plucked another jar of dil 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 cal ing 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-fal 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 pul over.

I carried on walking, trying not to worry that it was getting dark and he was stil on my tail. He fol owed 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—al 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 dwel 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 tal er than me, thanks to her petite Chinese mother. ‘But five members of the same family were kil ed 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.’

‘Tel your brother not to worry: Mrs Hoffman wil 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’l 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 wil 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 intel igence. Being foreign cut me a little extra slack.

Making my excuses to get away from al this talk of murder, I arrived outside the practice room five minutes early. I had the place to myself and indulged my wandering fingers on the grand, dipping in and out of a Chopin nocturne. It helped cleanse me of the shivery feeling I got when thinking of the Denver shooting. Violence always made me feel panicked, as if it was about to release a tiger from a cage of memories inside me—something I couldn’t fight or survive. Not going there.

We didn’t yet have a piano at home and I was having serious withdrawal symptoms. As I weaved my way through the notes, I distracted myself by wondering what reception Zed would give me today.