Shadow of the Past (5 page)

“Mystic Books,” Clara
answered.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey kiddo,” she said. “You sound
pretty excited. What’s up?”

“Well, I was wondering if you wouldn’t
mind if I brought another person to the party this
weekend.”

“Sweetie, it’s your party! Bring
whoever you want!”

“Well,” he said. “I just wanted to
check and see, in case, y’know, there were problems or
something.”

“No, Mark, no problems. I’ll just bring
out another chair. So, is it anyone I know?”

“Well, no,” he said. “She’s new in
town, and I just met her today.”

“A her?” Mark knew this was coming and
knew he could only ride it out. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a
girlfriend now? And on the first day that you met her? That’s
impressive!”

“Clarrrrrrrre,” Mark groaned, “She’s
not my girlfriend. She’s just a girl that I met and well . . . I
asked her and she said yes.”

“Well she’d have been a fool to say
otherwise,” Clara said. “I’ve got customers, so I’ve gotta run, but
I’ll see you tomorrow okay?”

“Sure,” Mark said, hanging
up and flopping back on the bed. He dialed through the few TV
stations he could pick up with the rabbit ears and after a half
hour of boring reruns he got stuff out of his bag so he could begin
to think about doing some homework. The piece of paper with
Christine’s number sat on the table near his phone. It stared at
him, daring him to be the guy that actually called when they got a
number and not just “the guy who finally got a phone
number.”
She probably wrote the number of
some pizza place on it. That’s no trophy, that’s a seven digit path
to mortification.

He dove and snatched it up. “Christine
Baker” it said and underneath the number she’d written: “Call me!”
a looping, cheerful challenge to what passed for his
manhood.

He looked over at the phone, lying on
the bed next to him. He reached it over, picked it up and then
dropped it right back down.

He reached out again. Phone up, phone
down.

“This is stupid,” he muttered grabbing
the phone up again, his other hand quickly stabbing at numbers
before he could chicken out a third time. The phone rang for what
seemed like an eternity, and he almost dropped the phone back down
when she picked up.

“
Is that you Mark?”
Christine answered.

“
Yeah,” he said. Oh God, she
was there! “There’s no surprising you, is there?”

“Well, you’re the only person I’ve
given my new number to so far and I don’t think the telemarketers
could get me that fast. Sorry that took so long, I was stuck behind
a pile of boxes. So what’s going on this weekend?”

“Everything is good to go, so I can
give you the address of Clara’s store or I can swing by and pick
you up. Whichever is cool with you.”

“I’d definitely take another ride if
you’re offering. I think you were holding back on me
today.”

“Hey, I told you, I’m a terribly
responsible driver. You get no fast rides out of me.” He paused.
“Wait, I think that came out wrong.” The phone was good, he
realized. She couldn’t hear wincing and foot twitching.

“Really?” she laughed. “I hope
so.”

“Yeah, definitely came out
wrong.”

“So,” she said, “aside from the fact
that you’re disaffected with your home town, a bitter atheist, good
with directions and drive a snazzy little scooter, what else do I
need to know about you?”

“Oh, not much,” he said, “But then
again, me just telling you would just spoil the mystery, wouldn’t
it?”

“Well, I’ll just have to see how much
of this mystery I can uncover before I get called back to
unpacking.”

He smiled. “Ask away. My life’s an open
book, pretty much.”

Chapter Five

Mark was rooted to the V, holding his
helmet in a death grip. With the lights of Manhattan shimmering to
life behind it Christine’s house managed to look even more elegant
and formidable than it did almost 24 hours ago. Tiny lights lit the
crooked walk up to the front door and then twinkled off the
panoramic windows that curved around the side of the
house.

He knew nerves were stupid, as the
conversation with Christine was amazing last night. While they
didn’t have much in common interest-wise (he wrangled out the
secret of her young love affairs with various boy-bands of mediocre
talent), he laid back and listened with wonder as she regaled him
with tales of the various places she had lived. Almost every story
began with “We were hanging out” or “We were at this party.” Mark
had spent almost a decade in Cedar Ridge and had yet to see a
single party. The closest he came to hanging out was when Steve
dragged him to one of his Theater Club things, where Mark just
ended up practicing for a spot on the Olympic Wallflowering
Team.

When they finally had to get off the
phone she said that she “was really looking forward to the party.”
Mark found himself playing that, and the rest of their conversation
over and over again when he went to bed.

It was easy to say over breakfast that
nerves were stupid, but walking up the path to the world’s
prettiest house of horrors he remembered all the things he’d left
out and avoided on the phone last night - like his lack of wealth
and parents. Nerves were the only things that existed in his body.
As he walked up the path he could see the driveway curve around the
back of the house and down, nestling under the porch and providing
the perfect resting place for the pair of nearly matching sports
cars.

He jabbed the doorbell quickly,
expecting it to shock him with some kind of poor kid detector. The
chime was as perfect and inviting as the rest of the house had led
him to believe it would be and it did nothing to put him at
ease.

The door opened and an older,
shorter-haired Christine smiled at him. “Well hello,” she said.
“You must be Christine’s date.”

Date? She called this a
date? Maybe someone else is coming by when you’re done.
“Ah, yes ma’am. I’m Mark Watson. Pleased to meet
you.” He wiped a hand on his jeans and offered it to her, and she
shook it warmly.

“Won’t you come in, Mark? I’ve got a
roast in the oven, but Christine will be right down,” she said,
heading back into the house and gesturing at the stairway in the
front hall that curved up the wall and up to a second floor
balcony.

“Sure thing,” he called after her,
walking into the living room wondering if “roast in the oven” was a
euphemism or if people actually did that. The living room was a
fancy “not for watching TV” one like Steve’s, and the windows he’d
seen from outside swept along the back wall and offered a
breathtaking view of Manhattan in the distance.

If Mark hadn’t known better he’d have
thought the Bakers had lived here for years. The furniture, all
sleek, modern and stylish, was meticulously placed. The only hint
of the nasty act of unpacking was the couple of boxes tucked away
in a corner. There was an array of pictures hanging on the wall
above a black leather sofa that looked like it cost more than Joe’s
car. Mark leaned in to take a look at them, mindful not to touch
anything.

The pictures looked like they had been
beamed in from some distant universe where everyone was cheery and
visited exotic places like lighthouses, mountains, and what may or
may not be Japan. There was an older boy in the pictures with
Christine and her parents; a perfect, handsome clean-cut male
specimen to go with their fantastic daughter.

“Hey,” Christine said, tapping Mark on
the shoulder. “Ready to go?”

He turned and his bitter envy melted
away. She was at least twice as lovely as she’d been yesterday,
hair down and face slightly more made up. Everything about her look
pushed his jeans and t-shirt down from “casual” to “sketchy
hobo.”

“Yeah, totally,” he said. “I was just
looking at some pictures of you and your family. They’re all . . .
man, you guys get around.”

Christine shrugged. “Yeah. My mom loves
taking pictures and stuff, so it’s always posing and smiling.” She
glanced over her shoulder. “Speaking of which, we should roll out
before the inquisition starts.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mark said as they headed
for the door. “I’ve got the spare helmet, and it should fit you
just fine.”

“Excuse me,” Christine’s mother said,
stepping into the foyer. “Did you say ‘helmet?’”

“Um, yeah,” Mark said, stopped dead in
his tracks by Mrs. Baker’s almost magical appearance.

“You didn’t tell me he was picking you
up in a motorcycle, Chrissy,” Mrs. Baker said.

“Mom,” Christine moaned. “It’s not a
motorcycle, it’s just a scooter. Totally harmless. Helmets and
everything!”

“I don’t know Chrissy maybe I should
drive the two of you.”

“Please!” Christine said, with a wave
of her hand. “Mark’s a safe driver, and we’re going to be late.
It’s perfectly fine, okay?” Christine opened the door, waving for
Mark to take the lead out but he just stood there, eyes going from
Christine to her mom and back again.

“Fine,” Mrs. Baker said with a sigh,
“As long as you’re safe. And remember, you’re supposed to be home
by midnight. No later.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks Mom,” Christine
said, grabbing Mark’s hand and almost dragging him out the
door.

“I hope I didn’t get you in trouble,”
Mark said, handing her a helmet.

“No, it’s just been 24 hours and she
hasn’t found something to bitch about so she had to latch on to
something. With my Dad settling in at the new office and my brother
away at college, it’s gonna be me.”

“Well,” he grinned, “I’m sure she’s
just worried about her little Chrissy.”

She punched him on the shoulder with a
smile. “Please! They’ve been calling me that since I was a little
girl and it’s so fucking Nick at Night. Don’t you
start!”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, starting up the
V.

“A beverage for madam?” Steve asked
Christine, laying a bottle of soda across his forearm for her like
a maitre d’.

“Thanks,” she smiled.

“Raging party, huh?”

“Very . . . intimate.” This was an apt
description of the guest list and the store itself. Nestled between
an appliance store and a Chinese take-out place on one of the main
drags through town, it was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves.
The books themselves ranged from science fiction and horror to
books on mysticism and the occult and there was a small case next
to the register with crystals and tarot cards. Towards the back of
the store there was a small sitting area, where Clara had set up a
card table and wheeled out a TV/VCR.

“This place is cool,” Steve
said, “but there’s always something here that I can’t figure out. A
couple of months ago she had coffin nails, and I
so
didn’t want to know
what that was about.”

“I think she said they were for
protection spells or something,” Mark said, wandering over from the
new releases.

“All I know is that I don’t wanna meet
who she gets ‘em from, y’know?” Steve smirked.

The three stood there, sodas in hand,
the only noise drifting in from the street. After a few seconds,
Steve cocked a thumb towards the back of the store and said, “Hey,
speaking of, I’m gonna go upstairs and see what’s up with that
cake.” With that, he strolled to the back and vanished behind the
curtain labeled “Employees Only.”

The two stood there in the near
silence, Mark rocking back and forth on his heels. “This is nice,”
Christine said a couple seconds later.

“Yeah,” Mark nodded. “I mean, I know
you’ve done way cooler stuff in Boston and wherever, but I’m glad
you like it.”

“Mark,” she said, stepping closer and
putting a hand on his shoulder before he wore a hole in the carpet.
“That stuff’s not important. You helping me out at school and
being, maybe, the best conversationalist in the past decade is way
more impressive.”

“Really?” he said, eyes focusing on the
hand on his shoulder. Talking on the phone had been one thing, but
being in front of her put him right back in the hallway, flat on
his ass and staring up in stupid, mute awe.

“Totally,” she smiled. “I just don’t
want you to be all stressed out and nervous or anything just
because I’m here, okay? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right
now.”

He opened his mouth to say something,
but was cut off as Steve brushed back the curtain and Clara came in
with a candle topped cake. Clara began to sing, and Steve and
Christine joined in. Christine linked arms with Mark, who was
flushed with embarrassment, to drag him towards the table in the
back.

“You didn’t have to go to any trouble,”
he said when they were finished.

“Trouble?” Clara said, waving her hands
and rolling her eyes. “It’s your birthday and we love you! Of
course we have to make a fuss.”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a wide grin,
throwing an arm around Mark and squeezing him close and pulling him
away from Christine. “Happy sweet sixteen, baby. Now let’s get at
that cake!”