The Fifth Stage Part 4

No need to reply. I sip my coffee and clamp the phone against my shoulder as I think about the sales proposal on my CRT.

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"I thought we'd go to Sister Moon. That okay with you?"

"Fine."

"Then I thought we'd go to Platters and make love in a bathtub full of Jell-O in front of half the town." Can't fool good old Fly By.

"Whatever. I don't want to be out too late, okay?"

"Afterwards, you'll wise up and admit you love me."

That got my attention. "Fly, we agreed not to go there."

"Smell the coffee, girl. You know you've been the love of my life ever since we met."

"So that's why you've bedded every woman in the tri-county area over the past fifteen years?" This conversation is so old I can recite it like the poem about Abraham Lincoln I learned in fifth grade.

"Got to do something while I'm waiting. You know, keep in practice for when you wise up. I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"I'm sure you could teach me a thing or two, Fly, but you'd get bored and I'd get hurt. Then what would I do? You're the only best friend I've got."

"Have it your way. We'll always be together, one way or another."

"I know, sweetie."

A light flashes on my phone telling me the conference call is waiting. "I'll talk to you later. Okay, buddy?"

"Catch you later."

I punch the conference line. "Good morning, all."

The meeting drags on as usual, and after forty-five minutes of a jumble of voices droning through the speaker, I'm ready to bounce off the walls.

After all, Rebecca is waiting.

CHAPTER 7.

Senior year had moved into late September, and the summer's haze still clung to the sky like a humid blanket, saturating the region with wet heat. Jill and I had spent two hours after school in the gym's office to finish up a fund-raising project for the girls' basketball team. Silently, we walked toward the student parking lot.

Jill had never been a big talker, but since the beginning of the school year, she'd hardly strung together a dozen words at a time.

Whenever she did utter more than one complete sentence, she was talking to someone else.

Jill either loved or hated someone, without much middle ground, and it wasn't always clear how a person ended up out of favor. One day she'd like them and the next, for no apparent reason, she'd cross them off. If you asked her why, she'd say, "He gets on my nerves," or "She thinks she's so cool." And just like that, she was finished with them.

Lately, she'd been acting as though she was moving me to the hate category. I didn't know what I'd done to alienate her, but a showdown was coming and I wasn't looking forward to it.

"Want to shoot some baskets later?" I asked, shading my eyes against the afternoon sun.

"Maybe." Jill didn't look at me, but focused in front of her as if fixing on an unseen target. "I figured you had plans with your new buddy."

I didn't understand her disdain for Lora Tyler. Lora was smart, funny, and made sure I had a good time, no matter what we were doing.

Sure, I'd spent a lot of time with Lora. Almost every day we'd cruise by Pizza Oven after school, and on Sundays we'd get together and watch campy horror flicks on channel six.

Okay, so Jill wasn't around, but it wasn't my fault she didn't like scary movies. And every time Lora and I went to Pizza Oven, we invited Jill, but she always had something more important to do, like go grocery shopping for her mom or clean her room. Fat chance. I'd been in Jill's 29

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bedroom a hundred times and knew the excuse was totally lame. She hadn't cleaned her room since eighth grade.

"Have you ever met Lora's mom?" I asked.

"No, why?"

"G.o.d, she's a hateful old woman. That house is like a concentration camp."

The senior citizen I described couldn't have been over forty, but to my teenage eyes, she seemed ancient. She was the source of Lora's dark good looks, with thick undisciplined hair and penetrating brown eyes, but that was the extent of their likeness. Mrs. Tyler had the personality of a drill instructor. The first time I met her, she let me know my place with only a scorching look. I was to mind my manners in her presence, and I did so in military style.

It didn't take a psychoa.n.a.lyst to find the source of Mrs. Tyler's sour disposition. Lora's maternal grandfather spent his days at their house and his nights at the veterans' home across town. He was a dried-up old man who sat in a lawn chair on the front porch in his unders.h.i.+rt and blue mechanic's pants, smoking unfiltered Camels and drinking malt liquor from a can. In all the time I'd spent at their house, he'd never said a word to me, never looked in my direction, and didn't treat the members of the Tyler family any better.

"He was at Normandy," Lora had explained. "Mom says he was sh.e.l.l-shocked. Hasn't been himself since."

But I'd been desensitized to violence by too many Jamie Lee Curtis movies. Real gore and death didn't register, so Mr. Kane looked like just another old geezer with an att.i.tude problem.

Jill glanced at me. "For someone who hates it so bad, you sure do spend a lot of time at her house." Her fixed look lasted an instant but fired a bullet into my chest.

"We've got a lot of studying to do." I followed her to her yellow Volkswagen Beetle and leaned against its front fender as she fumbled through her purse for the keys.

"Hey, Claire! Jill! Wait up." Lora rushed up to the car, nearly dropping her armload of books. "Where are you guys going?"

"Home." The flare in Jill's nostrils revealed her thoughts to me if not to Lora.

"Jock and Matthew are waiting at Pizza Oven. Let's all go, okay?"

Lora grinned, but as usual, her attempt to crack Jill's defenses fell flat.

"I'm up for it," I said, but I knew Jill's response even before she shot Lora a hateful smirk.

"I have to pick up my little brother at piano lessons."

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I laughed and b.u.mped Lora's shoulder. "I've heard him play. Trust me, he can use an extra hour of practice."

Unfazed by Jill's cantankerous mood, Lora giggled and started toward her car. "Okay, I'll see you two there in a minute."

"I told you, Claire. I'm not going," Jill said through gritted teeth as she unlocked the driver's door. "You and your friends have a good time.

I'm sure I won't be missed."

"What's your problem?" I was more than a little fed up with her snotty att.i.tude. "Can't you at least give them a chance? You have plenty of time to stop by for a minute. It's only three o'clock, and I know for a fact that Frankie's lessons aren't over till four."

Jill whirled on me, her eyes afire. "What's my problem? What the h.e.l.l's your problem? Ever since the first of the year it's been 'Lora this'

and 'Lora that.'"

She turned away and threw her books into the back seat.

"According to you, Lora-f.u.c.king-Tyler hung the G.o.dd.a.m.ned moon.

I've been your friend since seventh grade, and all of a sudden I'm not good enough for you anymore. That's my f.u.c.king problem. Satisfied?"

Her words cut deep, but I didn't know how to handle the hurt, so I turned it into anger. "You're f.u.c.king crazy." I fired the words at her and stormed away.

"Bet your a.s.s, I am!" Jill yelled.

Fuming, I made it to my rattletrap Datsun B-210 and yanked open the door. Ignoring the wave of heat rus.h.i.+ng from the car, I slid into the driver's seat and slammed my books onto the floorboard. What was that all about, anyway? So what if Lora and I had become friends? I was having fun, real fun. It didn't mean Jill and I weren't friends anymore. I hadn't done anything wrong. Sure Jill and I didn't hang out together like before, but she acted like we'd been dating for six years and I'd dumped her for Lora. It was stupid, that's what it was, plain stupid.

Jackie Milano's Pizza Oven was one of those picturesque small- town establishments that thrived in Franklin. Jackie, a second-generation Italian-American with stunning dark features and a down-home drawl, had parlayed his heritage into a thriving business. After all, the mostly Irish- and English-Americans living in town didn't know squat about Italian food, so Pizza Oven didn't have to be authentic, just hot and good.

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I wheeled into the s.p.a.ce beside Lora's red Pinto, still seething over Jill's outburst in the parking lot. But when I s.h.i.+fted the car into park and shut off the engine, a strange calm fell over me. Sitting there looking at the Pizza Oven's rough red brick exterior and tinted arched windows, I sensed my future lay inside. Among the familiar particleboard tables and Naugahyde booths, my destiny waited like a shadowy phantom, calling me forward but refusing to reveal itself.

I burst through the swinging front door and let the aroma of garlic and mozzarella cheese soak up the remnants of my foul mood. I found my friends sitting in the booth near the jukebox, sipping c.o.kes and talking. Jock and Lora sat on one side of the table, his muscular arm thrown over her shoulder. As I approached, Jock's maple-syrup eyes were a little too eager as he scanned me from head to toe. If he hadn't been Lora's boyfriend, I might have been flattered by the thin smirk that crossed his lips when he gazed at my chest, but even his chiseled features and boy-next-door charm couldn't tempt me into returning his flirtatious gaze. He belonged to Lora, and his stare made my blood boil.

On the other side of the booth sat Matthew Carter. His pale blue eyes danced as he talked about the upcoming football game against our archrivals, the South High Raiders. While Jock was the undisputed, all-around prince of sports at Franklin High, on the football field Matthew was king. He had it allathleticism, poise, and leaders.h.i.+p skills beyond his years. Most guys would've given their right arm to be Matthew lean, handsome, with curly dark hair and the rugged good looks of a teenage Tom Selleck. But although his looks and popularity made him every girl's dream date, and the college recruiters had been lining up at his front door for over a year, Matthew never let it go to his head. He was the same gentle, soft-spoken little boy who'd carried my books in fourth grade.

True to form, Matthew stood up as I neared the table. "Hi, Claire. I was hoping you'd make it."

Lora and Jock exchanged knowing glances. Holy c.r.a.p. They were setting us up. Matthew and I had been casual friends for years, but I had no idea he might have a romantic interest in me, and I blushed in spite of myself.

I slid into the booth and Matthew settled down beside me. "So, Claire," he said. "I hear you're the new star of the basketball team."

I shrugged. "I don't know about that, but we are having a pretty good season so far."

Lora glanced toward the three soph.o.m.ore boys lined up to play Pac Man, and strained to be heard over the constant wacca wacca

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reverberating over our heads. "You should go to the game tomorrow night, Matthew. She'll need a cheering section, and I have to work."

"I'll come, too," Jock said with a wily grin. "I kind of like the looks of that little redheaded water girl."

Lora gave him a playful slap with her palm and a serious punch with her eyes. "You'd better keep your eyes to yourself, hotshot."

He squeezed her shoulder. "I'm kidding, for Christ's sake. If I wanted to be with her, I would, but I'm with you, ain't I?"

"Don't let me stand in your way, stud." She tried to wriggle from his embrace, but he held tight.

Jock's teddy-bear eyes went hard. "For f.u.c.k's sake, Lora, don't get all bent out of shape. I'm only saying"

"I know what you're saying." She stopped struggling and cut him off at the knees with one of her mother's razor stares.

He jerked his arm from around her and stood up. "See you at practice, Matthew." He shot Lora a scowl and swaggered out the door like a gunslinger at high noon.

"Geez, what's up his a.s.s?" I asked.