My Kind Of Crazy (13 page)

I apply my makeup all again and decide on putting my hair up
in a ponytail. Then I take a long look at myself in the mirror, and assure
myself mentally that I am capable of defending myself against another human
being. I am not the weak fifteen year old that a boy and a man took advantage
of anymore.

I’m driving today, but I can’t stop glancing over at her
playing with a strand of hair from her ponytail over her shoulder. She’s been
in a different world ever since her encounter with Mr. Taylor this early
afternoon, and it seemed to have gotten worse after she took a short nap. I
checked in on her once because she had groaned pretty loud, but other than that
she was fine.

Then the look on her face when I had gone in her room to her
wake her had completely changed. There’s a lot I don’t know about Anastasia,
but I have a feeling that, by the end of this week, I’ll get to hear it whether
I want to or not. If she doesn’t tell me, some of the busybodies at this
gathering will.

I roll down my window to let in some fresh air, and remember
the days when May would hang her head out the truck window at the farm. A lump
forms in my throat at the fresh memory of her death and I have to turn my gaze
out the window for an instant to correct my expression. When I look back,
Anastasia is staring at me with knowledge. We’ll both miss that dog.

“Turn up here.” She points to a small road with a mailbox at
the end of it that has cardinals painted all over it. I get a sinking feeling
in my gut as someone turns behind us into the same driveway, and then as
another person turns behind them.

When we are in sight of the actual house, there have to be
at least twenty cars parked outside, and a very nicely dressed Mrs. Hash standing
on the porch playing the perfect host. I feel my nerves start to light on fire
all over my flesh, and sweat pops out on my brow. Before Anastasia can notice,
I wipe it away and turn to give her a reassuring smile. But she’s already
starting to breathe funny.

“It’ll be fine. We’ll go eat, show our faces, and then we’ll
go back to the hotel room. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.” While
I’m giving her a pep talk, Tom sits in the back seat trying to give me one of
my own.

“You’re going to end up in the bathroom screaming your head
off like a lunatic, you dumbass. This is never going to work out for you!
NEVER!” His loud shout makes me jump, and the knowing look on Anastasia’s face
has me curling my left hand into a fist at my side. I’m
going
to make
this work.

“Let’s just go have a few drinks and maybe everyone will
ignore us, right?” She starts out strong, and her sentence ends in a squeaky
question. I try for a reassuring nod, and she opens up her car door first. Tom
disappears from my mind and my sight as we near the front porch steps.

Mrs. Hash is a beautiful woman in her late thirties or early
forties. I can’t tell. Her auburn hair shines several different shades in the
sunlight, and her skin looks flawless. When I hold out a hand, she doesn’t
hesitate to take it, and there is no sign of flinching when I tell her my name.
Instead, she welcomes me into her home and greets Anastasia.

“Now, honey, I know that everyone is going to attempt to
tell you how sorry they are about, well, you know.” I wish someone would just
have the guts to say it out loud, but they only do when they’re standing on the
farmhouse doorsteps as if they finally have permission to say it. “I’m going to
have a moment of silence in about half an hour, and then for your sanity I’ll
forbid anyone from giving you their condolences. When my mother died, it was
like the entire town lit up again with life and they all were on my doorstep
for over a month! A month!” She throws her hands up in the air which is a
contrast to the prim and proper attire she’s wearing. At least the woman has
some life in her.

“I think the casseroles are the worst.” Anastasia blurts
out, and then she puts a hand over her mouth and looks at Mrs. Hash
apologetically.

“I know, that’s why I sent you the pie. Who wants to eat
casserole when they’re upset? I’d rather eat pie.” The warm smile the middle
aged woman bestows upon Anastasia has me feeling the muscles in my bunched back
loosening. If she’s the host of this party, it might actually be a good one.

I hold out a hand to the woman I drove here, and it feels
too right when she slips her fingers between mine. Mrs. Hash has many other
guests to greet, and I don’t want to be the talk of the party. I’d rather we
were able to disappear into a corner and enjoy the food. But as soon as we
enter through the doorway, I realize that’s not going to happen.

The first person to greet Anastasia grips her free hand
between his gnarled fingers and smiles at her sadly. It’s as if she’s at her
father’s wake and everyone is paying their respects without saying a word.
They’re honoring the vow of silence on the matter, but a look can speak
volumes. Poor Anastasia takes it with grace but by the time the last person
releases her hand I can see the toll it’s taking on her.

“Let’s find those drinks.” I tell her quietly as I drag her
away from yet another consolent.

“I really shouldn’t.” She tells me as we near the small
table set up in the dining room with glasses and a few bottles of different
wines and champagnes. Mrs. Hash really knows how to throw a spontaneous
get-together.

“Just a few sips of champagne, and then you’ll have to let
me have the rest.” My lip tugs up at the corner, and she returns my half smile.
We’re standing at the small table when a teenage boy puts a hand on Anastasia’s
shoulder, and she visibly tenses.

“Ana! I’m so glad you came. Who’s this?” He asks about me as
if I’m just a side item, and he’s the main course. I feel a smile coming onto
my face as I reach out a hand in a friendly gesture, but when the young man
slides his hand into mine I make sure my grasp is firm.

“I’m Jonah Quinton.” I don’t offer up an explanation as to
why I’m here with Anastasia, and I believe the young man understands my point
by the time he pulls his hand away. While the gesture with her may have been
friendly, if he truly knew her he would have known better.

“Lee Hash, Anastasia’s
friend
.” I glance to her face
to make sure that he’s telling the truth, and a shred of shock shimmers through
her eyes before she smiles coldly. I don’t believe Lee understands that smile,
but he understands the warning look in my eyes.

I watch as he retreats after a quick farewell and
well-wishes to Anastasia. His mass of friends accepts him back into the group
with a few pats on the back, and I quickly hand over the glass of champagne.
I’ve added an extra dash just to be on the safe side.

“He’s brazen, that one.” I say to her warmly as I put a hand
on the small of her back and lead her to a more quiet spot on the other end of
the room. The roaming eyes over Anastasia and the startled glances don’t go
unnoticed, but there’s nothing about it I can do at this point. She’s rigid
under my touch, and I wonder why we’re putting ourselves through this. To prove
we’re normal?

“He reminds me of my childhood too much. But he is a nice
boy.” The way she says it sparks my curiosity, but now is not the time to ask.

“You know most of these people?” I watch her take a rather
large gulp of champagne, and take the glass from her to steal a sip of my own.

“I remember most of them from when I was a kid, but the last
few years of school are kind of a blur. I was just trying to get by. You know?”
Oh, how I know all too well about just trying to get by.
I don’t tell
her that. Neither one of us speak for a long time, and then Mrs. Hash walks
into her home and gently closes the door halfway.

“Everyone!” She calls out over the mulling crowd, but no one
looks up. So she raises her voice. “Excuse me! Hey!” The loud, strong tone gets
everyone to turn around abruptly and look at her. She smiles into the crowd
gently as if she didn’t just shriek, and someone hands her a champagne glass.
Is that a hint?

“I would like to first thank everyone to coming out to my
small, informal party. Henry is home from his rounds in Florida and Cassandra
was just dying to see her friends and family again! Besides, who wouldn’t want
to show off their adorable son, and my grandson, Geoffrey! Tomorrow is his
third birthday, and I just wanted to have a little grown up celebration before
the kiddy party tomorrow.” She raises her glass and everyone wishes Geoffrey good
health and a happy third birthday celebration. Then Mrs. Hash clears her throat
to gather the attention back to her.

“I understand that there has not been a funeral yet for
Nathanial D’Salvatore yet for obvious reasons, but we all need the opportunity
to mourn.” Anastasia draws in her breath and holds it beside me. I’m not sure
if she’s doing it to keep herself from bolting out of the room or to keep tears
from forming. “He was a wonderful man with excellent values as a friend, lover,
and father. I would like to take a moment of silence for Mr. D’Salvatore, and
then afterwards I forbid anyone from speaking of the matter! While we all mean
well, I’m sure that Anastasia would appreciate some space from the tragedy.”
Mrs. Hash bows her head, and I see most of the other guests bow their heads at
the same time.

A man with his arm around a pretty, young woman stares in my
direction over the bowed heads, and I return the glare. I’m not sure who he is
or why he’s pissed, but it’s obvious the brute wants to knock me out. As soon
as heads come back up after a short moment, the man’s gaze flicks to Anastasia
before it turns docile again. She hasn’t noticed him, and I figure it’s a good
idea not to say anything to her about the matter.

“Whew, I hope that does it. If I see one more casserole…”
Her voice trails off as the pretty woman from the brute’s side ambles up to us
with two glasses in hand. I glance around for her boyfriend or husband, but I
don’t see the man.

“So this is the infamous Jonah Quinton!” The young woman
with blonde hair and brown eyes hands Anastasia one of the glasses of champagne
and holds her hand out to me. I take it upon instinct and shake gently.

“And you are?” I inquire, attempting to sound polite.
Anastasia seems to have been forgotten and turns her attention towards the
crowd. But not before I catch the glimpse of jealousy flashing across her face.
She has nothing to worry about. This young woman has a man, and she’s not my
type. She’s a little too insidious for my taste.

“I’m Cassandra Cooper.” Neither one of us miss the hiss that
escapes from Anastasia. When she turns to look at Cassandra, I don’ t miss the
fear in her eyes.

“Sorry, stubbed my toe.” I want to point out to her that
she’s not walking, and she’s wearing flats, there’s no way she could have
stubbed her toe. But a mask slides down over her face, one that I’ve never
witnessed before.

“It’s quite alright, sometimes these floorboards just come
right up and getcha! Don’t ask me how I know.” Cassandra’s smile is false and
misleading. I see a glimpse of her husband as he tries to push through the
people to get to us, but Anastasia doesn’t see him approaching.

“Would you excuse us for a minute?” It wasn’t until
Cassandra said Cooper that Anastasia hissed, so I assume she doesn’t want to see
anyone from that family. I take her free hand in mine and lead her towards the
doors that open up to the backyard of the family’s estate. Her drink sloshes
around in the glass, and barely manages to stay in.

I pull her down the back steps and into a younger crowd of
people who are dancing unabashedly on the lawn. They’re keeping it PG
considering their parents are around, but the music is anything but. A girl
probably four to five years younger than me attempt to pull in for a dance, and
I politely decline.

“What was that for?” Anastasia looks more than a little
rattled and holds her glass up high so that a pair of very young kids doesn’t
knock it over.

“Why don’t you like the name Cooper?” I’ve decided that now
is the time for this conversation. Apparently she has not. The mask is
carefully drawn back over her face, and I’m given that false, sick smile.

“It’s nothing, just a bad memory from my younger years. I
had a run in with Henry Cooper once.” The sleeve of her fluttering shirt falls
down to her elbow, and I reach forward to pull it back up to her wrist gently.
Those scars are not meant for anyone else’s eyes.

Anastasia’s look of discomfiture and gratitude has my chest
tightening. I feel an overwhelming need to protect her from whatever it is
she’s running from today. I lead her a little more ceremoniously and gently
towards a picnic table where I set my glass down, and put hers next to my own.
She sits and crosses her legs demurely at the ankles.

“Are you going to tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Anastasia,” The way I say her name has her looking up at me
with hurt on her face. “I need to know what I’m protecting you from. Don’t get
me wrong, I won’t stop doing it even if I have not a clue why, but I’d really
like to know.” She fidgets next to me. First it’s the right leg twitching just
enough to move her pant leg, and then her fingers clench and unclench as if
she’s determining whether or not to punch someone.

“I can’t tell you here, but maybe when we get back to the
hotel. Do you want to go now?” I look at the food being brought out in bowls
and on platters, and wonder if she’s up to a quick meal before we ditch this
party. Obviously we’re both running from memories and the present right now. I
still can’t shake the feeling that most of the people here are staring at me as
if they’re waiting for me to snap.

“Do you want to eat first?” She looks a little on the pale
side, but she agrees.

When we’ve successfully navigated the crowd to the buffet
table and successfully made it back to the picnic bench, it’s still empty.
There are several more around it, but not a single soul has sat down. That is,
until Mrs. Hash and her younger, biological son sit down across from us. The
table fills up quickly with a few more of the old timers from town, but the people
around our own age stay back.