Drenched in Light (27 page)

Sherita shrugged as if it didn’t matter to her either way, then turned on her heel and headed from the room, in a hurry to be rid of her little brother and moving on to something more interesting.

Keiler noticed me watching her go. “Don’t worry; she’s more lovable than she seems at first.”

“Most of them are.” That was the guidance counselor in me talking.

Keiler seemed surprised.
Under the blond hair, there is more than just a dancer.

The idea caught me unprepared. For most of my life the dancer part of me was all that mattered, but standing here talking to Keiler Bradford, NYU grad and fashion-challenged ski lift operator, I liked the concept of being a competent professional.

“Guess you got your car fixed,” Dell said, and I realized that both Keiler and I were lingering there watching Sherita carry Myrone away.

“Nope,” Keiler answered, reaching into the costume sack and fishing out a pink headband with the White Rabbit’s ears on it. “Traded my old ride in for a Harley. It was hard to say good-bye to the green Hornet. She’s been a good car, but her time had come.” Popping the ears onto his head, he smiled, looking like a cross between a ski bum and a deranged Easter bunny.

Sherita stopped at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “A Harley? You got a Harley?”

“You traded the green Hornet for a
bike
?” Dell breathed, spinning around and heading toward the door. “Cool!”

“I gotta see this.” Sherita started after her, with Myrone already making engine sounds in her arms.

Bounding off the stage to follow them, Keiler hit the floor with a thud, then doubled over and gritted his teeth, grabbing his leg.

“You’ve got a cast on your foot,” Karen reminded him cryptically.

“Yeah.” He sucked in a breath with one eye squeezed shut.

Karen motioned toward the cast. “How in the world can you ride a motorcycle with a cast on your foot, anyway?”

“Oh, hey, not a problem.” With a shrug, Keiler headed up the aisle. “It’s a walking cast. Amazing how lightweight these things are now. Keeps my foot warm, too. I’m thinking, since I’m in this thing for four more weeks, maybe I’ll paint it black and get that full-blown biker look.”

“You don’t look like no biker,” Sherita observed, giving a sassy chin wiggle as she stopped to hold open the door. “If you’re comin’ out here with me, you gotta lose them rabbit ears. I ain’t bein’ seen on the street with no giant Energizer bunny.” Keiler grabbed his ears defensively, and she slid out the door, letting it close in his face.

Winking over his shoulder, he grabbed the handle and disappeared into the sunlight, leaving behind the momentary shadow of a very tall White Rabbit with a bum leg.

“I adore him,” Kate said, laughing as she began attaching a fake tree to the wall. “I absolutely adore him. If I weren’t a married woman and ten years older, I would snap him up.”

Karen rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you two could bum around the country, operating ski lifts by day and playing guitar in tourist traps by night.” She was teasing, but the comment had a bite to it.

Kate gave her sister a scornful look. “Oh, Karen, leave the boy alone. He’s enjoying himself. Might as well do that while you’re young.”

Shrugging, Karen pulled a clipboard from her briefcase and started checking off items. “I just thought, after working with Jumpkids last summer, he’d be inspired to do something a little more . . . serious. By twenty-six, most people have some idea what they want to be when they grow up.”

“He’s been working with the Indian school out there in New Mexico, and helping with the Special Olympics. That’s serious.”

Karen continued checking her list, then finally said, “You know what I mean. It’s a shame to take a biochemistry degree and use it to operate ski lifts. He’s so smart. Think what he could be doing.”

“He wouldn’t be happy in some office.” Kate glanced, toward the door as a Harley roared to life outside, the sound rattling the building. “I can’t picture Keiler in a suit and tie. Whatever happened to seminary school, anyway? I thought he was going to seminary in Dallas.”

Karen sighed like the parent of an unruly teenager. “Said he decided not to go. Said he didn’t feel he was being led in that direction . . . something like that.”

“Well, he’ll figure it out.” Kate went back to work. “There’s a special purpose for someone like him. He’ll end up being president of the UN or ambassador to Africa, or something.”

“He probably will.”

“I’m glad he’s here, anyway.”

“Me, too.”

“How long is he staying?”

“He didn’t say.”

“
Where
is he staying?”

“He didn’t tell me that, either.”

“I’ll call Ben and have him get the guest room ready at the farm.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Although, knowing Keiler, he might have brought a tent and figured on camping out. In February.”

Kate chuckled knowingly. “Once a free spirit, always a free spirit. I’m just glad he’s flitted our way for a little while.”

“Me, too,” Karen agreed.

As Jumpkids camp slowly revved up to full speed, it became clear how much Keiler was truly needed. The building filled with excited kids, and he was the center of their attention. They were fascinated by the tale of the ski lift accident, and by the Harley. When they lost interest in that, Keiler amused them with funny skiing stories.

The day fell into a comfortable, if occasionally frenzied, rhythm as we moved through the process of registering children who came to the camp from Hindsville and surrounding towns, assessing their various talents and interests, then dividing them into groups with Wonderland-appropriate names like the March Hares, the Cheshire Cats, and the Mad Hatters. I began my day with a dozen White Rabbits, who ranged in age from six to nine, and were the wiggliest bunch of dancers I’d ever worked with. Fortunately, their part of the program was uncomplicated, as was the entire production, a one-act
Alice in Wonderland
directed by an on-tape narrator and designed to be learned in a single day, then performed the next day. Dell stayed to help me with the dance class, which was good, considering that I didn’t even know the steps.

Keiler poked his head in the door just as the White Rabbits were finally falling in step. “Snack time,” he announced. My dancers promptly mutinied. Scampering from the stage, they clustered around him, trying to pull off his rabbit ears and asking when they were going to his station down the hall, where he’d been teaching the March Hares to play simple percussion instruments.

Holding his rabbit ears in place, Keiler shrugged toward the door. “I guess if nobody’s hungry, I’ll just leave. If these White Rabbits were hungry for some bunny chow, they’d be lined up at the door, ready to go to the fellowship hall.” The kids promptly fell into a squirming column. Counting them off in eenie-meanie-miney-mo fashion, Keiler chose a little boy named José as the line leader. “Ok, head ’em out, José,” he said, and my dancers marched off like the Queen of Heart’s playing-card soldiers.

Keiler motioned to Dell and me. “Time for snacks.”

Glancing pensively toward the hall, Dell shook her head. “I’m gonna stay here, ’Kay? I’m not hungry.”

He eyed her sideways. “Dell Jordan, not hungry? Since when?”

“I’m just not, all right?” she returned sharply, and both Keiler and I blinked in surprise. “Sorry,” Dell muttered, her eyes hooded.

“ ’S all right.” After studying her a moment longer, Keiler turned toward the door. “Your next group will be here in about . . . twenty minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said, then waited for him to leave before speaking to Dell. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? It’s been kind of a long morning already. A snack and a soda might be just the ticket.”

“I don’t want anything,” she insisted, sounding less than convincing because her stomach was rumbling audibly. In that flicker of an instant, a dozen thoughts ran through my mind.
Why would she deny being hungry when she obviously is? Why does she want to stay here instead of going to the snack room? What if something deeper is involved?
I’d been about her age when I’d started obsessing about food—my body just beginning to develop the curves of a feminine figure.

Don’t jump to conclusions,
I told myself, but deep inside me was a fear that my problems could be spread like a contagious disease, and just by being around me, someone else might catch it. “Dell, is something wrong?”

Sighing, she focused on her hands. “I’ve got two nine-week tests on Monday, because this week’s the end of the grading period. English and science. The study sheets are huge. I can’t learn all that stuff by this weekend.”

“How long have you known about these tests?” It occurred to me, of course, that we could have been studying for the past several days during our tutoring sessions.

“I don’t know.” Crossing her arms, she turned her shoulder to me evasively. “The teachers just told us Friday.”

Even though the seventh-grade science teacher was young and inexperienced, and I couldn’t stand Mrs. Morris, I knew that probably wasn’t true. “Was it on the chalkboard?”

“I dunno . . .” she muttered reluctantly. “I guess so . . . maybe. But we had Jumpkids after school all week. I was gonna study this weekend.” Her gaze fluttered upward, caught mine hopefully, then sank again.

“When, exactly?” I asked, trying to sound gentle, nonjudgmental, to lead her to form her own conclusions rather than hammering her over the head, as my parents would have done to me. “Because it sounds like you’re tied up with minicamp all day today, then church tomorrow morning, then Jumpkids performance after church. When were you going to study?”

Flyaway strands of dark hair caressed the smooth cinnamon skin of her cheeks as she sighed, despondent at the reality of it all. “In between . . . stuff.” Another hopeful glance fluttered my way, saying,
That’ll be enough, right?

I wanted to tell her yes.
Yes, you can spend the weekend singing and dancing in Wonderland, helping underprivileged kids whose schools offer no music classes, and then Monday at Harrington, things will magically work out.
Instead, I dosed up reality like castor oil. “You know that’s not going to do it. Come on, Dell. Achieving passing marks this grading period is going to take some serious work, and you’ve been doing it. You can’t whiff on it now just because there are other things you want to do.”

“Karen needs me to help with Jumpkids.” Uncrossing her arms, she flung her hands into the air, then let them slap to her thighs. “She didn’t have anybody this weekend, and—”

“Dell.” I cut off the litany of excuses. “Karen would understand, but the fact is that you’re not telling her you need more time for your schoolwork. As wonderful as Jumpkids is, you can’t spend all day at Harrington, and all afternoon at Jumpkids, and, I suspect, all evening practicing your instrumental and voice pieces, and expect to pass your classes. Classes come first, and then all of those other things.” How many times had teachers told me that—class comes first, then dance? I never believed it. At a place like Harrington, you quickly learn that the performance is what really matters. The rest is just window dressing—everyone assumes you’ve got the basics down, and nobody wants to hear otherwise.

The problem was that, in Dell’s case, the basics were about to bring everything else to a crashing halt.

“You need to tell Karen and James the truth,” I said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Her eyes met mine, soulful, pleading. “Can’t you just help me? With the tests, I mean? If you help me get through these exams, then the next nine weeks, I’ll work harder, I
promise
. Please.”

“Of course I’ll help you.” I sighed. “But you need to tell Karen and James the truth. You need to be honest with—”

“I’ll get my backpack.” She was gone before I finished the sentence, bolting like a caged rabbit making a dash for the escape hatch.

D
ell and I studied intently throughout our breaks, and during the classes, she stayed in the corner with her book as much as possible. She sat there with her head in her hands, making very little progress on her study sheet for English, except when I popped over and helped her find an answer. Her mind was clearly in Wonderland with the Jumpkids. When Karen, Keiler, Brother Baker, or one of the church volunteers came in, she hurriedly set down her book and joined the class, watching nervously to see if I mentioned her schoolwork to anyone else.

By the end of the day, I knew more about transitive verbs, subordinate clauses, and prepositional phrases than I had since high school. Unfortunately, Dell still hadn’t memorized everything she needed to know, and there was also a list of forty literary terms to learn. I started mentally calculating percentages, ciphering how many questions she would have to answer correctly on a hundred-question test to achieve a passing grade.