Frost (9 page)

Friday arrived without too much drama preceding it. Penny and Pedro made up. He’d apologized to Matthew, and a whole group of the football players had pooled money to pay for a new bar stool and repairs to the wall. Jack continued to head over to Walden as soon as school let out, while I relieved a still-weakened Afi from his post behind the register or, alternately, found Ofelia in his place.

After school, Penny stopped at my locker. “Don’t forget rehearsals start today.”

Phooey.
I had. Plus the fact that I’d even agreed to give it a chance. Penny’s successful angle had been that these were just optional rehearsals so kids had a chance to learn the songs and dance steps before actual tryouts. I’d held my tongue, but honestly — practice to audition? Wasn’t that kind of like begin to get going? Still, I supposed it was cool that everyone got a fair shake.

“So I’ll see you in the auditorium,” Penny said, walking away.

Jack popped his head around my open locker. “What for?” he asked.

Ugh.
We’d barely spoken in the past two days, so I hadn’t shared the fact that Penny had sucked me into another of her extracurriculars.

“Penny and I are attending the practice auditions for
The Snow Queen.
You know, for our project.” I left it ambiguous enough that our participation could be nothing more than note taking and stage measurement.

“Sounds like fun,” he said distractedly. So distractedly, in fact, that I suspected any reply of mine — shaving our heads or becoming circus acrobats — would have received the same reply.

“So you never called last night,” I said.

“Sorry. I stayed late because . . . guess what?”

“What?”

“I got offered an internship. I’ll earn math and science credits for the work I’m doing. Plus, I’ll get out of school two hours early every day so I can log more lab hours at Walden.”

I could tell that Jack expected me to act happy, so I plastered a smile on my face in a big good-for-you facade, but there was something I didn’t like about Jack getting sucked into Stanley’s research project.

“I’ll get to work on Brigid’s field studies.”

Bingo.

“And it’s not just high-school credit. If I attend Walden in the fall, I’ll get three units of university credit as well.”

“But you’re just a high-school student. Aren’t there college kids who should have priority?”

“Just a high-school student?” I could hear the hurt in his voice.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult, it’s just that . . .”

“What?”

“It’s so sudden and all-consuming.”

“Brigid is only here for a short time. I have to take advantage.”

Something about the phrase “take advantage” made me recoil. I wondered just who was taking advantage of whom, but judging by the squint in Jack’s eyes, I didn’t dare air the remark. “Congratulations,” I said. “Really. I mean it. And I’m sorry if I didn’t sound supportive before.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Gotta run.” He hurried off so quickly that I wondered if my apology had truly been accepted. I didn’t have much time to dwell; I was cutting it close for auditions already.

There were about thirty kids hanging around in the auditorium when I got there. I’d expected a bigger turnout. I thought back to when my school in LA had done a production of
Oklahoma.
A friend of mine had been in the chorus, and I attended a sold-out opening day with so many cast and crew on the stage at curtain call I had honestly wondered if we were approaching the real Oklahoma’s census numbers.

Penny waved me over, and I skirted around the small crowd. I noticed Monique, our prom queen and Wade’s former girlfriend, was one of the hopefuls. No longer a victim of Wade’s mind control, she was almost tolerable. Almost. She still had a whiff of entitlement about her. Due to the story Hulda had concocted to explain Wade’s demise, Monique was now the former girlfriend of a hero — a dead one, all the more noble. Or so she thought. At least she now acknowledged others, though her inner circle remained small. Matthew was there, too, with a couple of his fellow band members. Not a huge surprise. The guy loved music.

As we waited, gathering around the back of the auditorium, I heard a voice behind me. “Kat, Penny, I’m so glad you girls are trying out,” Ms. Bryant, our design teacher, said with a warm smile. “As a first-time assistant director, I’m glad to see some familiar faces.” Ms. Bryant was, hands down, my favorite teacher, ever. She was friendly, smart, funny, attractive, and could accessorize like nobody’s business.

“I had a hard time talking Kat into it,” Penny said with a beatific daze in her eyes. We were all a little in awe of Ms. Bryant.

“I’m glad you did,” Ms. Bryant said, rubbing Penny’s arm. “As always, your enthusiasm is infectious.” She walked up the steps to the stage with a flash of toned leg peeking out from under the dark mocha of her side-slitted skirt.

What Penny had said was true, but, still, a little help up from the bus she threw me under would be nice.

“This is going to be a great production,” Penny said, nudging me in the side. “Are you in now?” she asked.

I brushed tire marks from the side of my face. “Possibly.”

“Let’s get everyone onstage,” said Mr. Higginbottom, the speech and drama teacher and the production’s director.

I led Penny to a spot way in the back, well-positioned for hiding and keeping an eye on the rest of the talent pool.

An hour into the tryout, I had to admit it didn’t suck. I’d always loved to dance. Mr. Higginbottom had an over-the-top enthusiasm for all things Broadway. That, paired with surprisingly graceful moves from his burly-chested, triangular frame, had me giggling and having way too much fun to deserve the sweat glistening my forehead. But that was just the dancing; the singing portion was next.

We were sorted into three parallel lines and handed lyrics to the opening number: something entitled “Village Life.” I expressed a sigh of disappointment at the opening words of the song:

Penny shot me a look — one I deserved. No way would the
Blade Runner
commando theme I had envisioned for the sets and costumes work.

And dang if the little ditty wasn’t kind of catchy. During the first two run-throughs, Mr. Higginbottom and Ms. Bryant sat in the audience and listened to us as a group. On our third time, Mr. Higginbottom walked between the rows.

“Very nice, Peturson,” he said to Penny. “Breathe, Leblanc, breathe,” was directed at me.

“No offense,” Penny said once we were finished and retrieving our bags and coats from the auditorium seats, “but you’re chirping out the words. I don’t think you open your mouth wide enough.”

Chirping?
If only she knew.

“Tell you what,” Penny continued, “if you help me with the dance moves, I’ll help you with a few vocal basics.”

“Am I really that bad?”

“Not bad. Just a little tweety.”

Great.
Another bird reference. “All right. Let’s team-tackle this thing.”

My throat was dry, my legs were achy, and I still had a gob of homework to do — nonetheless, focusing on something other than my worries had been a good diversion. The Christmas blizzard still weighed on me heavily and continued to be a taboo topic between Jack and me. Pile onto that my fears for Hulda, and no wonder I welcomed the distraction.

I worked at the store Saturday morning. Penny and I sang and danced that afternoon till we got the giggles and snorts so bad that I accused her of enlarged adenoids and she claimed I peeped. We were both right, which only made us laugh more. I spent my Saturday night at the movies with Penny and Tina and our noses in a big tub of buttery popcorn, which was cool, but still it wasn’t like that heady rush I got just sharing air with Jack. We had last checked in with each other around noon. He was at the lab and expected to be there for a while. “Don’t count on me” was his advice for the evening’s plans.

Sunday morning, I got my first look at my dad’s new digs in Walden.

“I like it,” I said, trailing my hand across the sleek gray kitchen countertop.

“It’s temporary,” he said, “but at least it’s recently remodeled.”

As a college town with more in the way of shops and restaurants, Walden was a better fit for my dad than Norse Falls.

“So where are we having brunch?” I asked.

“Wherever you and Brigid want to go.”

“Brigid?”

“I invited her. She’ll be here any minute.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“If I wanted her to join us.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“What are you guys — like dating?”

“Hon, you’re overreacting. It’s just breakfast.”

Uh-huh.
And once upon a time my parents had sat me down
just to chat.

The doorbell rang. My dad ran for it like a birthday boy for a tower of gifts.
Just breakfast — my foot.

Brigid walked in looking even more fetching than she had six days ago. She wore welded-on jeans, heeled boots, and a short fur: brown and spotted this time and still incredibly real-looking. Wouldn’t environmental types be into the whole PC gamut: Save the Whales, Go Vegan, PETA Forever?

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, handing her coat to my dad like he was some kind of manservant. “We worked into the wee hours last night.” She turned to me. “How’s Jack feeling this morning?”

Something about her having last contact had me breathing through my nose and had my right foot itching to do a bull-like scrape at the ground. “Fine,” I replied, knowing it would take more than hard work to get the better of him.

“Who’s hungry?” my dad asked. “And where should we go?”

“I hear the Pantree is very good,” Brigid said.

“Green Eggs is better,” I chimed in.

We stared each other down.

“I’m getting the C.A.T. in the Hat omelet,” I said, folding my menu.

“It’s not really cat, is it?” my dad said with a grimace.

“Cheddar, avocado, and tomato,” I replied.

“Sounds delicious,” Brigid said.

I glanced down quickly at her coat, wondering
Which one?

The restaurant was packed, and the waitress took her time getting to us. I don’t like bad service any more than the next guy, or gal, or giant Greenlander, but I felt a little sorry for the frazzled girl. Brigid, obviously, did not. She clapped her hands like some sort of boarding-school tyrant and called out, “Waitress!”

The harried server appeared, and we ordered. While waiting for our meals, we managed to speak, but talk about nothing. Our food was delivered. I noticed, swallowing a smile, that Brigid was served last, her plate dumped down with a clatter.

“Bon appétit,”
my dad said, shaking a big glug of ketchup onto his scrambled eggs.

Brigid scrunched her nose and turned away, her shoulders betraying her disgust with a small tremor. “Ketchup on eggs?”

“Absolutely,” my dad said. “Why? You got something against ketchup?”

“It’s just so very . . .”

“So very what?” my dad asked.

“Red . . .”

I looked up at her over my forkful of omelet.

“. . . looks awful against yellow,” she continued.

Weird, but I got a strange vibe and couldn’t help feeling that last bit was an afterthought.

I asked my dad to pass the ketchup. I’d have asked for the mustard, too, had there been any.

“So how did you and Penny do yesterday? Ready for those tryouts?”

I wished I hadn’t told him, and not because he said it with a little bit of a mocking tone.

“What tryouts?” Brigid asked.

That was why.

“Kat and her friend Penny are auditioning for the school musical.”

“How wonderful,” Brigid said, stumbling over the
w
and giving it a pronounced
v
quality. “Which musical?”

Vot do you care?,
I wanted to say. I didn’t. I played nice.
“The Snow Queen.”

“As a musical?”

Lord forgive me, but I almost laughed out loud.
Moosical.
It was funny — in my current mood it was, anyway.

“I don’t know where they got the script or the score,” I said. “I’m pretty sure it hasn’t made it to Broadway yet.”

“Sounds very interesting. I have stage experience, you know.”

“Really?” my dad said. “Where?”

“All over,” Brigid said. “London, Stockholm, Copenhagen.”

Just my luck. Brunch with the singing scientist. I scooped a big forkful of omelet into my mouth. At least I had Jack to look forward to later.

Sunday afternoon; finally, time with Jack. A study date. Not exactly my idea of rip-roaring fun, but it was at least something I knew he’d agree to.

I placed a glass of milk on the table in front of him and draped my arms over his shoulders. “Whatcha workin’ on?”

Besides the scratch of his pencil, the house was as quiet as a morgue. My mom, who’d spent all yesterday and all morning in bed with back pain, was finally up and out shopping with Stanley for baby things.

Jack pointed to a chart with ascending red peaks. “Shrubs and forests encroaching on the once-barren tundra.”