Eyes of a Stalker (2 page)

“No, no, no, child!” he cried, turning to meet Ellen's startled eyes. “Your sentences are loose in places and tightly bound in others. And you've used several words that, quite frankly, do not fit what you're trying to say!”

It's hard to know how much more he'd have said, but for Grimes getting to his feet and clearing his throat. Webster paused, his hand stopping on its upward journey to some kind of artistic gesture.

“Our focus is on creativity, not syntax,” Grimes said in the mildest possible manner. Mr. Grimes is a quiet man, not the sort you could picture in any kind of disagreement, so it was a bit surprising that he spoke up at all. Still, I've seen him become quite impassioned
about literature in class, so I guess there's depth there that you wouldn't see under normal circumstances.

Anyway, from that moment on there was an undercurrent between the two men. Nothing really overt, but you could sense tension between them at times, especially in the way Mr. Grimes would stiffen ever so slightly whenever Webster walked into the room.

I may have been the only one who even noticed the animosity, but I watched it with interest. I'd been thinking that I'd like to study something related to human behaviour after I finish high school, with the idea of going on to work in law enforcement and eventually becoming an investigative profiler.

I couldn't know that what was about to happen would convince me once and for all to either follow that dream or give it up forever.

The first meeting of the drama club had almost been enough to make me quit! Ms. Lubowski started off by announcing that we were all going to try out for a leading part in one of the plays the group would be performing over the school year.

“Not everyone will get a leading role,” she said with a bright smile, “but it will help me to see your strengths and cast each of you in a part that's suitable.”

The thought of getting up on the stage and doing even one scene in front of the whole group was enough to make my stomach queasy, and I told Betts as much while we gathered books from our lockers afterward.

“So? Just make sure you don't get a part.” She shrugged in a way that told me she'd already figured that out. “I don't want to be in any stupid play either.
Unless, of course,” she smiled and her eyes lit up, “I was starring in a romantic role with Kevin.”

“You told me we could just sign up and ask to work on lights or scenery or something,” I said, ignoring the way she'd changed the subject.

“Yeah, well, when they see how lousy our acting is, we'll be lucky to be assigned to parking cars on performance nights. Just relax. No one's going to cast you as Queen Macbeth or anything.”

“Lady,” I said. It didn't surprise me that Betts had it wrong, even though we'd taken that play last year. English isn't her best subject, and Shakespeare isn't exactly easy.

“Huh?”

“It's
Lady
Macbeth. And anyway, I wouldn't even play her for a tryout. She was horrid.”

“Yeah, you're right. I remember she was mean. Bubble, bubble, double trouble,” Betts chanted. “Burn the stew and… uh, I forget the rest.”

“You forget more than ‘the rest,'” I laughed. “It's ‘Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn, and cauldron bubble.' But anyway, that's not Lady Macbeth, it's the three witches. Ms. Lubowski said we had to do something from one of the main characters.”

“Well, there are other plays to pick from,” Betts said. “What did she say they were again?”

“There's
A Doll's House
or
Glass Menagerie
.” I
sighed. “I wish she'd picked at least one play that isn't depressing.”

“I thought plays were
supposed
to be depressing,” Betts said.

“That's because the only ones we ever take are so gloomy. Maybe they think we'll learn more from them than we would from something funny and happy, but this is different. It's a club, not a class. And I bet we'd sell more tickets to something cheerful.”

“Such as?” asked a voice from behind me. I spun around and discovered that it belonged to Ms. Lubowski. My face instantly began to burn.

“I, uh…”

“Really, Shelby, I'm interested.” She smiled, but her smiles are always hard to read. “Our play schedule is hardly written in stone. If you have an idea for something different, I'd be happy to consider it.”

“Or, we could vote,” Betts said.

“Vote?”

“Yeah, like, let the group decide what plays to do.”

“Well, that's certainly a thought,” Ms. Lubowski said. She did a good job of hiding any enthusiasm she had for that idea, and she turned back to me almost immediately. “So, did you have something specific in mind?”

“Not exactly,” I admitted. “At least, not yet.”

“Well, think it over. Our next club meeting isn't until Thursday, so if you bring something to me by
Wednesday I'll have time to think it over.” After a pause she added, “And, of course, I'll give some thought to your suggestion as well, Betts.”

At home later that evening, I wondered why I hadn't just kept my opinion to myself. I knew nothing about plays and couldn't come up with a single idea for one the drama club could perform, no matter how hard I thought.

It was Dad who rescued me, though I might not exactly have deserved it. He'd come into the TV room where I was sitting with Ernie, our newly adopted cat, and clicked on the set. This did nothing to help me concentrate, and it startled Ernie so that he jumped down, scratching my arm in his panic.

I glared at Dad.

“Now there's a happy face if ever I saw one,” he said. Dad is a good guy, but sometimes he has the sensitivity of dust.

“I was
trying
to think,” I said.

“Ah ha! I thought I smelled something burning.”

“Aren't you just the master of wit,” I mumbled. (There's no reason to go overboard with the enunciation when you're being rude to your parents.)

It doesn't matter, though. If they don't hear you the first time — and it's amazing how often they
do
, no matter how indecipherable you are — they're sure to make you repeat yourself.

In this case, there was no need for repetition. Dad raised an eyebrow (never the best sign with him) and very deliberately lifted the remote and clicked the TV off.

“Care to tell me what's making you so charming at the moment?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“I didn't ask for an apology,” he said, “not that it wasn't due. I asked what the problem was.”

“Betts made me join the stupid drama club,” I said crossly. “And now we have to try out for a part in front of everyone, which I don't want to do. And on top of that, I said something that the teacher overheard about the plays being depressing, and now I have to come up with one that isn't. Only I don't know any.”

“Seems like a good reason to snap at your father,” he said, nodding.

“I said I was sorry. And anyway, you were annoying me.”

“Well, take me out and pistol-whip me,” he said. Dad says weird things sometimes. “Anyway, I might be able to help.”

“Yeah?”

“Your mother and I saw a very comical play a few years back:
The Americans are Coming
by Herb Curtis.”

“I've heard of the book,” I said. “You mean it's a play too?”

“Well, almost any novel can be done as a play. It's a matter of someone writing it in the right format for the stage.”

“And that's already been done for
The Americans are Coming
,” I said, “since you and Mom saw it. It would be perfect!”

A loud meow sounded and I looked around to see Ernie peeking at me accusingly from the corner of the doorway. I scratched invitingly on the couch and he came toward me, but veered off at the last second and walked past, head high. He does that when he's suffered some imagined kitty injury — mostly to his pride — just to make sure no one thinks he cares.

“C'mon now, Ernie,” I coaxed while he sniffed the air indifferently. “No one meant to upset you.”

He looked at me, his usually bright eyes lazy and bored. After pausing to yawn and stretch he made his way back to the couch and leapt up. It was pure performance — Ernie's usual act of total disinterest — and I could hardly keep from laughing. I just managed to suppress it because I knew he'd get all indignant and insulted and have to be sweet-talked all over again.

“That rascal is spoiled beyond redemption,” Dad commented.

“He sure is,” I said pointedly, looking straight at him. This time it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. He looked away pretty quick.

He can say what he likes about Ernie, but Dad is about the worst offender when it comes to spoiling the little guy. He tries to cover it up, but I've caught him sneaking Ernie bits of haddock off his plate and covering for him when he's been on furniture that's supposed to be off limits. I've even seen him carrying Ernie in under his jacket if it starts to rain when the cat's outside.

Even though Ernie's only been here for a short time, it's hard to imagine our house without him.

He snuggled down on my lap, purring happily while I stroked his silky black fur. That's one thing about Ernie. He might be all aloof for a few minutes, but he's really quite forgiving.

Unless there's a second disturbance, which can send him off sulking for hours. And that's what happened only a few moments later when Mom called out for me to come to the kitchen.

While Ernie pranced off, head in the air and tail snapping, I hurried to see what Mom wanted. As I got to the kitchen doorway I could see that she wasn't alone. Her back was to me and she was talking to a man at the door.

“Shelby, honey, there's a delivery for you,” she said, turning her head, when she heard me approaching.

“A delivery?” As Mom moved aside I saw that the man was holding a large plant that had been done up in cellophane.

“Yes, ma'am.” The man smiled and held the plant out toward me.

I took it and sat it on the table, signed the delivery slip, told him “thanks,” and closed the door.

I clipped the ribbon that was tied at the top and gasped as the cellophane fell away to reveal the most gorgeous plant I'd ever seen.

“A calla lily!” Mom said. “It's beautiful!”

“Is there a card?” I asked, peering in among the leaves. At the same time, I tried frantically to think if today was some kind of special occasion for Greg and me. He'd sent me flowers before, but it wasn't a regular thing with him. Sometimes he'd show up for a date with a rose or carnation, but nothing like this.

“The card is attached to the ribbon,” Mom pointed out.

I saw it then, and opened it quickly, still curious and unable to think of an explanation for the delivery. The tiny card matched: pale lavender with a calla lily along the side. Its message was short:
“You will always be mine.”

Mom was standing there, pretending she wasn't waiting to see what kind of romantic message Greg had put on the card. I read it out loud so she could stop trying so hard to look uninterested.

“You will always be mine?” she echoed.

“That's all it says.” Something uneasy stirred in me, but it disappeared as soon as I looked at the lovely plant again. “I can't think of why he'd be sending me this. It's not any kind of anniversary that I can remember.”

“It's a bit of an odd thing to write on the card,” Mom commented. “Of course, I'm sure he meant it to be romantic.” She forced a smile.

“It must
mean
something,” I said, “only I can't think what.”

“I hope so,” Mom said. “Otherwise it has an awfully possessive tone to it.”

“Well, I'll give him a call right now and find out.” I gave her a look and she took the hint and left the room. It's kind of a compromise we've reached that if I want privacy for a phone call, my folks will try to give it to me, since they keep turning me down when I ask to have a phone in my room.

I dialled Greg's number and he answered right away.

“What's up?” he asked. His casual voice sure wasn't giving anything away.

“I just wanted to thank you for the beautiful plant,” I said. “Was it for, uh, a special reason?”

“What plant?”

“The plant you sent me.” Was this some kind of game?

“I didn't send you a plant.”

“What?”

He repeated himself, not that I hadn't heard him perfectly well the first time. I stood there holding the phone, trying to sort out this new bit of information.

“But if it wasn't you…”

“Yeah, that's what I was just thinking.” His voice was light and teasing, though. Greg knew he had nothing to worry about from any other guy. I'm crazy about him.

“Then who?” I finished the question automatically.

“There's no card or anything?”

“Oh, there's a card all right, but there's no name on it.” I told him what it said.

“That's creepy.” The breezy tone was gone. He sounded almost angry.

“To tell the truth, I found it a bit creepy even when I thought
you'd
sent it,” I admitted. “I just figured it meant something, and once you told me what it was it would make sense.”

“What kind of plant is it?”

“It's, uh, some kind of lily.” I found the information spike in the soil and pulled it out. “A calla lily. Why?”

“I dunno. I just thought maybe it signified something. Like certain colours and types of flowers are supposed to mean certain things. What colour is it?”

“White.”

“I don't even know why I'm asking these things,” he said. “It's not like I'm some kind of expert on what any of it means. Do you know?”