Obsessed (2 page)

We fought the bloody British in a town called New Orleans.

Deana had written down the answers. 1815, Colonel Jackson, and the Mississippi River. And Mr. Scharf had been so pleased, he’d complimented her in front of the whole class. Deana had walked out of the room with a smile on her face. Could her luck be changing?

No. She’d gone down to Chuckie’s Wagon for a burger with a couple of girls, and Sally Hornaby had squirted cat sup all over her new peach silk shirt, the one she’d been planning to wear the next time she went out with Michael.

Surprisingly, Deana’s afternoon hadn’t been all that aw ful. The cable had gone out during Oprah, but she hadn’t really been into interviews with women who beat their hus bands anyway. And she’d remembered to put in the roast and baked potatoes the way her mother had asked her to. Of course she’d forgotten that the oven was fifty degrees hotter than it said on the dial, but she’d turned it down just as soon as she’d remembered. Naturally, her bratty brother had complained, but her father had said he didn’t think the roast was that dried out, just a little crispy around the edges.

Deana’s mother had come home late. She’d been crabby because she’d had to work overtime, and she hadn’t forgot ten about Miss Berman’s call, though Deana had hoped she would. Deana was grounded—for a solid month. She couldn’t sing at Covers again until her summer school classes were over. And if she got into any more trouble with Miss Berman, or any of her other teachers, she could forgot about that new guitar they’d planned to buy her for her birthday.

Even though her mother had been angry, Deana had tried to appeal to her sense of fair play. Yes, she’d messed up. And she wouldn’t do it again. But she’d made a commitment to perform at Covers. Couldn’t her mother see that it wouldn’t be fair to quit now, without any notice or any thing? Deana’s mother had pointed out that her commitment to pass her summer school classes was a lot more important than singing at a teenage nightclub. First things first. Then she’d marched Deana up the stairs like a naughty child, and locked her in her room to do her homework and go to bed.

Deana had watched the clock. Her parents always went to bed early on Thursday nights. When they’d come up the stairs at nine-thirty, she’d hopped into bed with all her clothes on, and waited until her mother had opened the door to check on her. The minute she’d heard the television click on in their bedroom, she’d gone into action. The old apricot tree outside Deana’s window had been her secret escape route for years. She’d shimmied down without doing too much damage to her clothing, hopped in the Nissan which was parked a couple of houses down the block, and headed for Covers. She hadn’t been scheduled to sing until ten- thirty, and she’d figured she could get there by ten at the latest.

But the fates had conspired against her. The Nissan needed gas. Deana stopped at the Shell station on the cor ner, charged the gas to her father’s account, and arrived at Covers at ten-twenty-five. But she’d forgotten to look at the new schedule they’d posted at the last rehearsal. She’d missed her first set, and someone had been forced to fill in for her. Mr. Calloway had been very upset with her, and he’d told her that if she was late again, she was out. And then Michael Warden had positively glowered at her when she’d told him she hadn’t had the time to learn the lyrics to the duet he’d planned to sing with her.

Deana glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror and frowned. Now Michael was mad at her, and she had to think of some way to make it up to him. They’d gone out the past three Sundays in a row, and she was crazy about him. He wasn’t that much older, only two years, but he’d just finished his freshman year at U.C.L.A. All her high school friends were envious because she was dating a college guy, and it had given her some real status around the high school campus.

Michael was tall, dark, and handsome, and the best singer Deana had ever heard. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d make it big someday. Since Covers was in Burbank, only a stone’s throw from the studios and the big record companies, Michael had managed to make some good con tacts. Mr. Calloway had connections and he sent out tickets to lots of people in the biz. When you got up to perform at Covers, you never knew who might be in the audience.

Had she blown it with Michael tonight? Deana frowned. She’d had plenty of time to learn those lyrics, and now she could kick herself for putting it off. When she got home tonight, she’d do it. If
she got home tonight.

Deana’s frown deepened. She didn’t dare call her parents to come and get her. They’d be mad she’d sneaked out of the house in the first place, and when they found out she’d spent the money they’d given her for the auto club on clothes, she’d never be allowed to leave her room again! But what should she do? She couldn’t sit here all night. It was almost midnight, and there was no traffic. That meant there were no cars to flag down. This area was relatively safe, but she still didn’t want to try to walk home alone.

A car rounded the corner, its bright headlights illuminat ing the interior of her car. It pulled over to the curb to park behind her, and Deana shivered. A rapist? A murderer? But then she recognized the car, and she smiled in relief. Her luck was changing. Help was here!

It took Deana only a moment to grab her purse and lock up her car. Seconds later, she was standing by the open passenger door. “Boy, am I ever glad to see you!” she said. “My car conked out. Can you give me a lift home?

“No problem. Climb in.”

Deana climbed into the passenger seat with a smile on her face. She’d be home in a couple of minutes.

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“I don’t know. It just died.” Deana frowned. “It sounded like it was out of gas, but I know that’s not it. I just filled the tank.”

“Do you want me to stop at a gas station?”

Deana shook her head. “Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it in the morning. All I want to do right now is get home.”

As they headed down the street, Deana glanced at her watch. Eleven-forty-five. This awful day was almost over, and tomorrow was bound to be better. Things were always rushed in the morning, and if she was lucky, her parents wouldn’t even notice the Nissan was gone. One of the guys from school could help her fix it, and her parents would never know.

But this wasn’t the way to her house! Deana turned to the driver in surprise. “You know where I live, don’t you?”

“Yes. I’m taking a shortcut.”

“Great,” Deana said. Anything was fine with her, as long as she got home as fast as possible. An experience like this could make her swear off sneaking out of the house for life!

But suddenly they pulled over to the side of the road, and Deana frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Car trouble.”

Deana almost groaned as she looked at her watch. Two minutes to midnight. This day wasn’t over yet, and this area was really deserted. No houses, just warehouse buildings that wouldn’t open until morning. Her rotten luck was still with her. But at least she wasn’t alone.

The trunk opened, and then the hood popped up with a solid clunk. Deana didn’t bother to get out to help. She didn’t know anything about cars, anyway. What good would it do?

“Deana. Come here a second, will you?”

Deana sighed as she got out. She supposed she was ex pected to hold tools or something, and she’d get her hands all greasy. She might even break a nail and she’d just spent a fortune having them done. “What do I have to
—”

Deana’s question died on her lips as something hard struck the middle of her back. There was a burst of horrible pain, and she fell heavily to the pavement. The last thing she saw was the bright moonlight glinting off a heavy tire iron as it arced down toward her head.

Two

J
udy Lampert put her eye to the screen and peeked out through the mesh at the audience. It was a full house to night, but that wasn’t surprising. Covers had been very popular since it had opened last year. She’d really lucked out when she’d landed this job.

There was a mirror on the back side of the screen, and Judy checked her reflection. She looked good tonight. Her wavy blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and she was wearing her usual stage manager’s outfit, a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, and black sneakers. She was responsible for adjusting the microphones, prepping the stage between numbers, and handling the props. They didn’t have a curtain, so they cut the lights between acts, and no one really noticed her up on the stage as long as she wore black.

“Ready, kid?” Michael Warden walked up behind her and slipped a friendly arm around her shoulders. Judy felt such a rush of pure pleasure, she knew she would have purred if she’d been a cat. But Michael was only being friendly. She’d lived next door to him for enough years to know that he wasn’t interested in her, except as a sort of kid sister. He hadn’t paid attention when her hair had grown long and wavy. He hadn’t commented when her braces had come off and her smile had turned out picture perfect. He hadn’t even noticed when she’d lost her awkward baby fat, and started wearing the clothes that would show off her new svelte fig ure. Sometimes Judy felt like the invisible woman. Michael never seemed to really see her. It was frustrating to be in love with a guy who didn’t seem to know that she existed.

Judy glanced at her watch. Michael was right. It was time to start. She gave him a quick hug. He didn’t seem to mind that, and then she walked to the old-fashioned light box on the wall. During the year she’d been working at Covers, Judy had learned a lot. The first time she’d brought up the lights, they’d clicked and blown a fuse. Now she knew the right way to handle the finicky old equipment. She brought the stage lights up slowly, gradually illuminating the painted flat that formed the backdrop—dark green with a pink Cov ers logo. Several students from the Burbank high school art class had completed it last summer.

When the lights were up all the way, Judy cued Michael. He gave her a thumbs up gesture, and walked quickly to the black stool that sat on the apron. Michael was tall, and he didn’t have to climb up on the stool. He just slid on with one fluid motion, crossed his long legs, and grabbed the hand microphone while the audience applauded. All the regulars knew Michael. He was the closest thing to a star they had, and there were rumors about possible singing and acting contracts coming his way.

For a moment Judy felt almost jealous of Michael’s suc cess. But that was ridiculous. She knew she had no per forming skills. She couldn’t sing, act, do stand-up comedy or play a musical instrument. She didn’t know how to jug gle, and she couldn’t do magic tricks. But she was good at her job, and that was all that counted. Mr. Calloway had told her that she was the best stage manager he’d ever had.

“I’m Michael Warden. Welcome to Friday night at Cov ers.” Michael grinned and went into his opening speech, the one he gave every night except Sundays during the sum mer. When school reopened in the fall, Covers would only be open on Saturday nights. But it was summer now, and they were in full swing.

“I see some regulars out there,” Michael said as he waved at a group of people he knew. “I’m glad you’re back, Bill. Hi, Mary. Nice sweater.”

Judy tuned out for a minute. Michael always greeted the regulars by name. It made them feel important. But she started listening again when he went back to the script.

“It’s always good to see new faces in the crowd, and that’s why I’m up here . . . to tell you about Covers.”

That was Judy’s cue to bring up the back-lighting on the Covers logo. It began to gleam vividly against the dark green background, and she smiled. Back-lighting the logo had been her idea, and once she’d shown Mr. Calloway the effect, they’d used it every night.

“Covers is our nightclub, staffed by teens with teen en tertainment. But Covers isn’t owned by a teen. I’m telling you that right up front, because sometimes my former teacher, Mr. Stan Calloway, tries to pass himself off as a high school sophomore. Stand up, Mr. Calloway, and show everybody how young you look after that last face lift.”

Judy swept the spot toward Mr. Calloway, and he stood up to take a bow. The audience applauded, and there were a few predictable chuckles from the regulars. Stan Calloway was a short, bald-headed man in his forties, and absolutely no one would mistake him for a teenager.

“Covers serves the best burgers this side of the Burbank River.” Michael paused, waited for the puzzled expressions, and continued, “That’s the concrete drainage ditch that runs right by the back of the building.”

There was a burst of laughter, and Judy nodded. Michael had given this speech so many times, he could probably do it in his sleep. But Michael was a good actor, and he had the ability to make it sound fresh each night.

“But seriously folks, our burgers are great. Andy Miller, our short order chef, just won several prestigious awards from the California Council of Intestinal Medicine.”

There was another burst of laughter and Judy was ready with the spot. As he did every night, Andy poked his head out of the kitchen and waved a spatula at the crowd. He was a high school senior who looked like he enjoyed his own cooking. His face was freckled, and his curly red hair was almost hidden under a high chef’s toque that Judy had found in a gourmet shop. Andy hated the white, puffy hat, and he only wore it when Michael did his introduction.

“Your menu’s on the table, under the glass. Order from Ingrid Sunquist, she’s the stunning Scandinavian blonde in the pink blouse. Or you can flag down our lovely Latin beauty, Nita Cordoza. Nita’s brother, Alberto, will also take your order. He’s the big, dark-haired guy in the pink shirt. And I wouldn’t say anything about the color of Berto’s shirt, folks. He’s a fullback on the Burbank High football team.”