The Twilight Swimmer (17 page)

“His name was Jared,” said Ms. Grace as she slipped silently into her office.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snoop,” said Brandi as she lowered herself onto Ms. Grace’s couch. She lowered her eyes, genuinely embarrassed.

Ms. Grace took her seat behind the desk, conspicuously averting her eyes from the photograph. “It’s not snooping, Brandi. I don’t keep it in a drawer. How are you?”

“Fine, I think.”

“You think?”

“I’m fine.” Brandi kneaded one kneecap with both hands. “You’re not from here. From the coast.”

“I’m from Michigan. How did you guess? My accent, right?”

Brandi gestured to the seashells on the bookshelf. “No local would buy that stuff.”

“That crap, you mean? It’s okay. Don’t spare my feelings,” she laughed. “My mother bought those when she was in town for a visit. Made me promise to decorate my office with them.”

Brandi smiled. “If I had an office, my mother would make me decorate it with photos of failed cooking experiments. None of them failures, as far as she’s concerned.”

“One of those mothers, huh?”

Brandi nodded, although she was not sure exactly what Ms. Grace meant. She was sure, however, that the comment was meant to suggest they’d just found common ground. She knew the counselor was looking for anything she could document in her notes as ‘progress’. Counseling 101, she supposed. If she could muster a tear or two, for any reason, she would probably make Ms. Grace’s week.

“How did Jared die?” asked Brandi, carefully selecting her tone. Half youthful curiosity, half cry for help. Ms. Grace knew all about Jenny’s death and would eat up the chance to find real common ground.

“Did I say he died?”

“You said ‘was’. About his name.”

“Good catch.”

“And it’s
Ms.
Grace, not
Mrs.
,” Brandi added. “From the photo, I’d expect you to be married by now. Or broken up, which would mean no photo on your desk.”

“Unless I was still obsessed with an old flame who broke my heart.”

“You don’t seem like the type,” said Brandi.

Ms. Grace inadvertently stole a glance, now, at the photo. Her lips parted in an uncomfortable smile, and her hand slid toward it of its own volition, as if to turn it away. But she caught herself and withdrew the hand, returning her eyes to Brandi.

“Some counselors think they have to meet students in the middle, sharing details of their lives so that students feel comfortable sharing details about theirs. There’s something to be said for that method, no doubt. And on some days, with some students, I’d do exactly that. Just chat. About anything and everything. But you’re not asking because you really want to know, are you Brandi?”

“What do you mean?” Brandi’s voice wavered. She tried to mask it with a cough, but it was too late.

“You think if you can get me to open up to you, I’ll feel as though you’ve opened up to me. Is that it?”

“You’re the psychiatrist,” answered Brandi, more than a little animosity in her voice.

“I’m no psychiatrist. You know that. I’m not a psychologist, either. Just a counselor. And you, Brandi, are not quite as clever as you think. Close, but not quite.” Ms. Grace ran her palms across the smooth surface of her desk, in almost ritualistic fashion. “Clever, yes. Well on your way to being scary clever. Give yourself a few years and you’ll be savvy enough to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, I’d wager. Including mine.”

Ms. Grace leaned back in her chair, forcing a smile. She’d spoken more bluntly than she should have. But pride and intellectual integrity wouldn’t allow her to withdraw the statement. Instead, she steered the conversation another direction. “So, Brandi, what’s been going on with you? How are your classes?”

“Fine. Not great, not bad.”

“We’ll take ‘fine’. And everything else?”

“What do you mean? My stock portfolio?”

“Do you have a stock portfolio?” asked Ms. Grace with a wry grin. “I could use a few tips. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be able to retire when I’m about 200.”

Brandi didn’t answer. Instead, she allowed her eyes to wander over to Ms. Grace’s bookshelf again. She noticed a volume she hadn’t seen before, called Songs of the Sea, by a woman named Esmerelda de Santos. The binding was mottled blue and white, evoking the ocean stirring at the whim of a firm wind. Brandi reached for the book and drew it from its place. The cover art was an extension of the binding, the vast ocean unfolding, extending into eternity. At the horizon line, only visible with careful study, was a tiny boat in silhouette. A boat so small, the ocean seemed all but obligated to swallow it up.

“I heard about the incident in the lunchroom. With Jesse,” said Ms. Grace.

“Spider. He goes by Spider,” answered Brandi, her eyes still on the book. “It wasn’t really an incident. Just him being weird.”

“Weird or romantic?”

“Same thing.”

Ms. Grace laughed aloud and rose from her seat. She walked around the front of her desk and leaned against it, taking a closer look at the book in Brandi’s hand. “I think Jesse is a nice guy. Don’t you?”

“I barely know him. He could be a nice guy, or he could be a raving lunatic. And judging by the incident in the lunchroom—“

“I thought it was ‘hardly an incident’,” Ms. Grace retorted, pleased with herself.

Brandi tried not to roll her eyes at the quip. “He was wearing twenty t-shirts. Maybe thirty. Even if he is nice, weird is his fatal flaw.”

“It was only nine shirts,” said Ms. Grace. “I told him not to get carried away.”
“You helped him?”

“I thought it was a really sweet idea. I thought any girl would absolutely love it. Provided she liked the boy, that is. If you don’t like the boy, it doesn’t matter what grand gesture he does, in my experience.”

“I can’t believe you helped him,” said Brandi, shaking her head. “He embarrassed himself in front of everyone.”

“No, Brandi. He embarrassed you. And you’re right, I shouldn’t have helped him. I should have known you wouldn’t appreciate what he did.”

“Meaning what? I’m a cold, heartless, broken shell of a human being who can’t appreciate a gesture?” Brandi glared at Ms. Grace, but her lips were quivering just a bit despite her best efforts to appear defiant. “If that’s how you see me, why do I have to come here? I’m a lost cause.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth. All I said is that I should have known. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“I’m too cold, heartless and broken to be offended. Can I go now?”

Brandi rose from the couch, still clutching the book from Ms. Grace’s bookshelf. She leaned down to return it to its spot, but Ms. Grace placed a hand on her arm. “You can borrow it. It’s pretty fantastic.”

Brandi returned the book to the shelf and headed for the door.

The last bell of the day rang and the students poured out into the hallway like frantic moths, dumping books in lockers and bolting for the freedom beyond the school’s double doors. Brandi caught sight of Candace and Lacy waiting near the drinking fountain, their backpacks slung over their shoulders. They muttered words she couldn’t hear but could fairly guess: “Where’s Brandi?” “What’s taking Brandi so long?” “Oh my god, so rude…” Brandi saw Candace glance at her watch, then raise it so Lacy could take a look as well and share in her indignation. As the crowd thinned, they finally gave up and headed outside.

Brandi waited another minute or two, then followed.

To Brandi’s relief, all the busses were pulling out of the parking lot when she emerged. Now she would have to walk to the police station. She was in no hurry to get there, and at a leisurely pace it should take about forty-five minutes. When she arrived, breathless, she had every intention of claiming to have missed her bus because she stayed late to speak to Ms. Grace. Never mind that her appointment with Ms. Grace had transpired hours earlier; the story would have the ring of truth, particularly when she rattled off a few details of their conversation. Her father was desperate to believe that his last remaining daughter was slipping back into normalcy, and could not help but buy any plausible line she was selling.

She was admiring her plan as she stepped from the asphalt parking lot to the concrete sidewalk, but then she saw her father’s police cruiser parked on the curb. Unbelievable. He’d come to pick her up. She wanted to slump her shoulders and drag her feet the entire walk to the car, to let her father know how annoyed she was by this little surprise. But she remembered that missing her bus was meant to be an accident, and the long walk to the police station was meant to be a burden. She had no choice but to plaster a relieved smile on her face and put a little pep in her step. As she neared the cruiser, the driver’s side door swung open and the uniformed man behind the steering wheel stepped out. But it wasn’t her father.

“Hey there, Brandi. It’s Dallas,” he said with an embarrassed grin. He opened his hands at his sides, palms extended toward her in apology.

“I know ‘it’s Dallas’. I’m looking right at you.”

Dallas chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah, sure. Don’t know why I said that.” He gestured toward her backpack. “Let me get that for you.”

A half-dozen sarcastic quips flowered in Brandi’s mind, but something in Dallas’s boyish expression prevented her from lashing out. Instead, she slipped her backpack off her shoulder and handed it to him. He pretended the weight was substantial and that he could barely hold the bag aloft. A silly joke, but Brandi allowed herself a subtle smile. He swung open the passenger side door and ushered Brandi inside the vehicle, then returned her backpack to her. The brief transfer of possession hadn’t served much purpose, but Dallas seemed pleased with himself as he gently swung her door shut and danced around the front of the car to climb behind the wheel.

“Shall we?” he said.

“We shall,” she answered. “Let’s take the long way.”

The long way took them south through Edgewater. They passed by the inaptly named Laughlin Car Emporium with its dozen used vehicles of every make and model proudly displayed beneath a tangled matrix of colored tape. They passed the only fast food restaurant in town, Moose Gyros, run by Maury Moustakoulus and his son, Maury Jr., who somehow looked older than his father on the faded sign that displayed both their smiling faces. They passed the barber shop with its perpetually twirling red and blue post, a clichéd touch that was anything but cliché in a small town like this one, still existing in another era. The hardware store, the TV repair shop, the glassware outlet, the bait shop and a half dozen businesses that couldn’t be bothered to identify themselves in any way. They passed them all before they reached the southern edge of town and Dallas finally spoke.

“You’re not mad he sent me to pick you up, right?” He took his eyes off the road to steal a concerned glance at Brandi.

“I’m furious. You should have refused, even if it meant getting fired.”

“It’s just, my paycheck supports more than just me. My mother is depending—“

Brandi slapped Dallas’s arm and let out a laugh that surprised her as much as him. “I’m kidding. So what if you picked me up? Even if that was a terrible offense, which it definitely isn’t, I can’t expect you to defy your boss for me.”

“Okay. Okay, good.” Dallas sighed audibly, broadcasting his relief. “I thought you’d be insulted. I didn’t want that.”

“I’m a little insulted he thinks I need a ride to make it to the station, like I can’t be trusted to make it there on my own. But I’m not insulted he sent you.” She dropped her backpack to the floor between her feet, playing with the zipper. “Better you than him, honestly.”

Dallas sat quietly for a moment, trying to determine exactly what she meant. She realized the comment may have sounded flirtatious.

“Because he’d find something to lecture me about the whole way there,” she added. “I’m sure you’ve heard a lecture or two, working with him.”

“He’s a great guy, your dad. Kind of tough, sure, but he’s teaching me a lot. I’m lucky to be working with him.”

“Is he in the car right now?” asked Brandi, turning around to scan the backseat. “I love him, and yeah he’s great, blah blah. But there’s no need to kiss his ass in front of me. I won’t repeat a word you say, good or bad. And if you lay it on too thick I might hold it against you.”

A call came through on the radio. Sally’s scratchy voice, broadcast from the station.

“Dallas, pick up.”

With an apologetic smile for Brandi, Dallas lifted the radio from its cradle and brought it to his mouth. “I’ve got you, Sally. What’s up? Over.”

“How many times have I told you, you don’t gotta say ‘over’. I’m adept at conversational cadence and fully capable of noting when you’ve said your peace on a subject.”

A mild scolding, but Dallas cringed melodramatically for Brandi’s benefit. “Sorry, sorry. Learned it from too many cop shows to break the habit.”

Brandi stifled a laugh.

Silence on the other end, until...  “Over?” Sally asked, sarcastically.

“Yup. Over,” Dallas answered with a chuckle.

“Stop flirting with me and get your hind parts over to the medical clinic.”

“What’s up? Surly donors at a blood drive?”