Shera- Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Does Brad Fergusson like you or something?” Chrissie said in a low, almost wicked tone to me over a mocha frappe. We jetted off-campus for lunch at our favorite local coffee and sandwich shop. It was just off the center street of Whitefish that looked right off the set of an old John Wayne movie. We walked through the café’s beaded doorway and unexpectedly found Brad, Richard and Dave sitting on cushions like Gods of Gorgeousness around a low table in the corner.

I’d hoped Chrissie wouldn’t notice Brad staring at me, but his odd yellow-green eyes under his jetting orange hair had hardly left my face. What made things worse is that over the past few days, I’d come to realize that Brad was pretty much the only human I felt like licking. Him and sometimes Richard, and a dark-haired guy in leather chaps I hadn’t noticed lurking in the back of my Chemistry class before, but there was something about the way Brad’s orange hair stuck out like dry grass that made my tongue itch to smooth it down.

“No,” I nearly choke on my steaming latte. “He’s just weird that’s all.”

“Tell me about it,” Chrissie rolled her tongue piercing around in her mouth. “Yesterday in Chemistry I saw him licking a vile of hydrogen.”

My ears perked up. “Licking?” I asked, setting down the mug carefully so it wouldn’t spill all over my new death metal blouse. “Did you say licking?”

“Yeah,” she leaned in across the table. “Some say he’s into some pretty weird stuff, but licking a vile of hydrogen? Come on.”

“That is weird,” I muttered, but my mind was going fast. Maybe it’s some kind of disease: this propensity to lick things. Maybe it’s communicable, I did kiss Greg Browning on prom night, and he seemed to want to do a lot of licking, or maybe it’s airborne. Should I ask him about it? Should I tell Chrissie?

“You ready for the auditions tomorrow?” her question severed my line of thought. Tomorrow? They were already tomorrow?

“Absolutely,” I gave a pretense of supreme confidence but the truth was that I’d been pretty distracted lately. “You?”

“Sure, but I can’t decide to go for Lesiel or the hot Frau chick,” she went on and though I knew she still wanted the part of Maria, I was debating if licking a vile in Chemistry class was a coincidence or just another symptom of a deranged mind. It’s probably nothing, I determined as I liked the whip cream off the tip of my spoon. I’m the one with the real problem, and I shouldn’t say anything about to anyone either especially any of them. My eyes shot over to the corner table where they immediately met Brad’s electric green ones.

I wanted to look away, but I noticed a thin line of white cream just above his upper lip. Out flashed his pink tongue and in less than a second it was gone. My spoon fell from my mouth and clanged onto the table. Brad just cocked an orange eyebrow and gave a mischievous smirk.

“Ugh,” Chrissie whined next to me. “You splattered cream all over my shirt.” She dabbed at it with a napkin, but I stood up and grabbed her arm.

“Come on,” I urged. “Let’s go.”

“Why?” Her brown eyes told me she thought I was crazy, which I probably was, but this was just too much for me.

“I just need to get out of here now.” I couldn’t possibly tell her the real reason.

“Ok, but can I get my drink,” she shrugged my hand off.

“Fine,” I grumbled, feeling both Brad and Richard’s eyes on me now. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Forget Brad. Forget licking. Forget every strange thing that’s happened this week, I told myself as I scrambled out of the school and to the dirt lot where my old beat up Jeep was parked. I have an audition tomorrow to prepare for and need to stay focused. Focus, Valerie.

I fished through my purse for my keys when a voice on the other side of my car said, “Valerie,” and made me drop the whole bag. Ruby lipstick, black eyeliner, and pieces of watermelon gum splattered across the red dirt.

“Great,” I muttered at my own jitteriness.

“Let me help you with that,” they said and a freckled hand picked up a piece of gum and offered to return it to me. “Watermelon. That’s my favorite.” I looked up to see the grinning face of Brad.

“Keep it,” I told him, angry that he scared me.

He gave a light laugh that made his thin shoulders rise. “I think you need it more than I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I scowled. “You think I’ve got bad breath or something?”

Again, he just tossed me that off-smile. A very weird moment passed. Are you going to say something? I wondered and was just about to step around him and get in my car when he said, “Simon wants to meet you. I think he’ll have some answers for you. Be at Riverside Park tomorrow night at 8 p.m. Don’t be late.”

With that, he turned his orange head around and started to walk away.

“Who’s Simon?” I asked, stunned that he was going to leave after saying something like that, but still he just skipped on further down the lot. I could see Richard’s bulky form leaning up against a pickup at the end of the row. “What are you talking about?”
He gave a little hop and called back over his shoulder. “Riverside Park. 8 o’clock. Don’t be late.”

I couldn’t believe it. Was this guy completely nuts? I turned around to see if anyone else had witnessed this but the lot was empty. I called after him, “You think I’m going to meet you and your creep friends at some park tomorrow night, you’re wrong.” But Brad had already met up with Richard and they were getting into the truck.

What a wacko! Why is it in a town of only 5,000 I’ve got to be the one to attract all the loonies? I slammed the rest of the lipstick and gum back into my purse and resolved that the last thing I would ever do tomorrow was go to Riverside Park.

That night, I ran over the lyrics of every song over and over again in my head until I was sure I sang them even in my sleep. I was a senior now; this was my last shot at something greater than chucking horse manure, or stocking Red Dirt Shirts on the shop shelves. The school musical was just one step for me into a big, bright exciting future that consisted of: L.A. movie sets, and picking the right gowns to wear for all the premiers.

But the next day, I woke up with a massive twisted knot in my stomach greater than the state of Montana. Was it just nerves about the audition? As I slurped down my Fruit Loops, I kept thinking back on what Brad told me as he stood nonchalantly by my Jeep with his quirky grin like he knew something about me I didn’t even know. “Simon wants to meet you. I think he’ll have some answers for you.” Who the heck is Simon and why would he have answers for me? What kind of answers could he have anyway? But the truth was that I did have questions that needed answering. Knowing the truth was so appealing. But shouldn’t I be focusing on the auditions?

Sick of the indecision, I decided I could go to the auditions which were after school at five and then maybe swing by the park just to see if anyone would actually be there. It was probably the stupidest thing I could do, but the part of me that was so desperate for answers drove logic away.

I tapped my legs nervously all through English, American History, Algebra and Spanish, consciously avoiding Brad, but he wasn’t at school at all. Neither was Richard. Dave Lonsley was there, shouting out Captain VonTrapp lines every once in a while to a gathered hallway crowd. My heart fluttered just a bit at the thought that we’d be playing leads together.

“You look sick,” Chrissie told me as we took our seats in the middle of the auditorium as the minutes to show time ticked down. “You sure you’re still up for auditioning?”

“I’ll be fine,” I told her, but I wasn’t sure I was, or if I was more nervous about singing or going to the park. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Simon?” More and more hopeful thespians poured in through the doors. There was a twinge of nervous energy in the air. My hands were shaking slightly in my lap, but I hid them under my hoodie so Chrissie wouldn’t see.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t think so, why?” I didn’t answer her but pretended to be interested in fixing my broken zipper. “You ok, Val? You’ve been acting almost as dumb-headed as the cheer squad.”

“Thanks,” I rolled my eyes and squished the bread between my fingers.

“I’m just saying. You don’t have to go for this whole musical thing, you know.” Yeah wouldn’t that be convenient for you? I wanted to say back to her, but opted for going over “My Favorite Things” again under my breath, but my own invented lyrics kept creping in, making me freak out that they might slip out when I was on stage.

The excited whispers died down as the director, Mr. Dunn, walked onto the stage and gave a few brief words of welcome and good luck before taking his place at a card table with a single lamp which illuminated the stack of audition sheets we all filled out. There were a lot more auctioneers than I thought there would be, and I was suddenly wary of my ability to walk into the lead as easily as I had hoped.

Biting my lip, I took in the seemingly endless rows of students as the first one bravely took the stage. An expectant hush rippled down the aisles as the tiny, blonde girl shakily started her first notes, but something in the back corner of the auditorium caught my eye and I was no longer paying attention. Normally, I would have passed the tall, thin shape off as a shadow, just another crevice the spotlight failed to illuminate, but shadows don’t have eyes that look back at you. Especially not brilliant yellow eyes. I blinked to see if perhaps the stage lights had just reflected oddly, but the distant pair of eyes simply blinked back at me. A thousand spider legs danced down my spine.

I looked back at Chrissie, and even though she was just feet from me, her eyes didn’t glow like those in the back corner. “Chrissie,” I whispered as the girl on stage wound into the last verse, “do you see that over there?” I tried to point to her, but she batted my arm down.

“Shhhh, Val,” she shushed me. But still, the yellow irises peered from the darkness right in our direction and my heart pounded with more than stage-jitters.

“I’m serious,” I hurried. “There’s something over there.” I squeezed her arm.

She whipped her head around to me. “Jeeze, can’t you see I’m trying to scope out the competition?” The girl stepped down and the auditorium echoed with polite applause. Chrissie clapped her black nail-polished fingers together. “Now, what is it?” she demanded me, but I looked back to the corner and the eyes were gone.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, wringing my fingers in my green hoddie. Wow, I must have stage-fright bad. I’m even seeing things. I tried the deep-breathing techniques my mom was also promoting for emotion control. Calm, Valerie. Breath in and out. Slow. Be calm like a deep sea, a still lake surrounded with pines, reflecting jagged mountain cliffs— that’s where the yellow eyes lives. Whoa. What? Where did that come from? Panic started to wheel in my throat. My lungs demanded oxygen quicker and quicker.

“Chill out, Val,” Chrissie whined. “You’re making me even more nervous than my parents were when I hit puberty and it’s my turn in three more.”

I wouldn’t be on till the end, but what was with me? I had performed on stage before: solos in choir concerts, minor things like that, but I had never felt like this. That’s when I realized it wasn’t about being on stage at all, it was about meeting Simon, whoever that was, at the park tonight and the culmination of all the other weird things in my life that had me more freaked than an elk in hunting season.

A really pretty brunette who was just a sophomore got up next and her clear soprano voice rang like one of the chicks from Celtic Women that Mrs. Tanner always plays in the shop. Enthusiastic cheers erupted as she gave a humble nod of her head and exited.

“She was so good,” I exclaimed, my hands pounding together, but my heart sunk a little lower knowing that every stellar audition lessened my chances of getting the lead that much more.

Chrissie shrugged and put her Converses up on the seat in front of her. “Swine flu sounds better to me.” She was probably just jealous.

“Aren’t you up after this?” I reminded her.

“Oh, yeah.” Suddenly, her face seemed very long and pale.

“Go get ‘em,” I encouraged her with a slap on the butt as she faced her doom. She didn’t bolt like I thought she would, but gave a tentative, yet fairly decent rendition of “Edelweiss.” Good for her. My eyes shot to the far dark corner of the auditorium and still, there was nothing there but shadow. No tall black figure or yellow eyes. Breathe, Valerie. Concentrate on getting through these few minutes and worry about the rest later.

Chrissie wiggled back into her seat, giddy with pride. I gave her a squeeze. “You did so good.”

“Thanks,” she gushed, wiping her forehead with her sleeve. “That was so much easier than I thought. I’m sure I did better than that sophomore girl.”

“Yeah,” I pretended to agree, but the truth was that “chorus girl,” was written all over Chrissie’s performance. One after one, I watched mediocre auditions, some looked more like rabbits caught on the highway, some gave self-conscious smiles while their friends cheered them on. A few had surprisingly good voices, but I knew my audition had to be more than that. I had to own the song, own the stage, and sing every note like it belonged to only me.

Before I knew it there was just one last audition before mine. A very reverent silence fell over the auditorium. With his swoosh of jet-black hair and confident gate, Dave Lonsely took the stage. His white teeth flashed as he introduced himself and let out his strong baritone voice in a unique version of “Edelweiss.” His talent was obvious and his confidence was contagious.

That’s what I need to do, I thought, challenged to prove myself. Following him was frightening; like being asked to play after Mozart or Vivaldi.
The cheers died down and a very sickly quiet seemed to creep through the air as I rose from my seat, descended down the aisle and then plodded up the few steps to the stage. Confidence. Straight back. Remember to smile. Again, I looked to the corner where the yellow eyes were, but the spotlight was so bright, I couldn’t see beyond the first row of seats. Big breath.

“My name is Valerie Brighton,” my voice came out clear and carried well but my hands trembled slightly at my sides, so I gripped onto my jeans, “I’ll be singing “The Sound of Music.” I bowed my head then to collect myself. My heart was fluttering faster than a hummingbird and all time seemed to slow down. I even noticed the tiny dust particles in the spotlight falling down to the wooden stage floor. I found the note in my mind, and a sudden complete calm came over me. You were made to do this, a voice in my head told me. Yes, I am. I lifted my chin and put my right foot out to the audience.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music,” my tone was clean and carried well, “with songs they have sung for a thousand years.” Hearing my own voice ring back to me off the curved walls gave me more confidence and I soared into the next line. “The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.” I squared my shoulders, imagining the spotlight was a warm sun made just for me and danced into the final line. “My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”

A second’s silence followed the last ring of my voice and then the audience burst into an applause close to as enthusiastic as Dave Lonsely’s.

“Thank you,” Mr. Dunn said. It was over. I had done it. Robotically, I moved out of the spotlight and into the darkness beyond. My eyes took a minute to adjust and I could barely make out the steps. Just as I passed the thick, red curtains a voice said lowly.

“Nicely done.”

I jumped nearly a mile, my head jerking to the shadows beyond the velvet. Standing there in a low crouch, I could just make out the orange hair and green eyes of Brad Ferguson. I didn’t say anything but rushed down the steps truly creped out. Had he been there the whole time, or just my audition?

Chrissie rushed at me in the center aisle. “You were amazing!” Her blue highlights bounced as she jumped up and down. “I never knew you could sing like that.”
I didn’t either, I thought but couldn’t get out more than a weak, “thanks,” because my head was too jumbled up.

Chrissie wanted to go out for ice cream at The Firepit to celebrate and anxiously pass the time until we got the results of the audition, but I mumbled some excuse about having to get home and help my mom close up shop.

Grabbing my bag and sheet music, I rushed out of the school and into the chill early spring Montana air wondering what more this day could possibly hold for me.

"Shera"

Shera
Chapter One

It first started when I wanted to lick Brad Ferguson’s peanut butter smeared cheek. That’s right. Lick the orange streak right off his freakled skin and then slide my rough tongue up the tips of his ears and then the left side of his head so his reddish-blonde hair would lay flat. It wasn’t a sexual thing. I didn’t even like Brad Ferguson. He was part of the empty-headed, steroid-pumped popular pack and I was stuck somewhere between gothic chick and drama dweb. But there I was in Mrs. Webb’s lecture on late British literature slumped over the edge of my desk with my tongue nearly lunging out of my mouth to scrap the dimples of his cheeks.

I shook my head to try and get a grip on myself but my taste buds felt like sand grains and how I longed to lick something. I pulled a piece of my favorite watermelon-flavored gum out of my purse to hopefully satisfy this new impulsive drive, but my eyes were still riveted on the curve of Brad’s face and he finally turned to look at me and as he did, I found myself licking the back of the wrapper instead. Stop it, I told myself. Most of the 725 students of this hick High School already think I’m weird, and this will just give them another reason. He’s watching you, I told myself, but licking the fruity foil felt so good. Then I licked a bit of my hand, and soon my tongue was sliding quickly up and down my own salty skin.

A distant part of me was still searching Brad’s face for a reaction as I continued to frantically satisfy this urge. Instead of puzzlement, mockery or revulsion, there was a slightly bemused smile on his thin lips, and his pale yellow-green eyes flickered. He’s got the weirdest eyes I’ve ever seen. Except for maybe Richard’s: Brad’s best friend. They’re pretty strange too, like the kind of contacts you can buy at Hot Topic, except that I’m pretty sure they’re real. But I couldn’t see Richard’s orangish-brown eyes because his broad back was turned to me as he watched the last minutes of class tick down. But then Brad shot a spit wad at Richard’s arm and Richard glowered back at him. I swear Richard’s irises were more tangerine than brown. Who has tangerine eyes and why was I still licking my arm?

Later that night, as I sliced tomatoes into pretty little ovals for a dinner salad, and resisted the temptation to lick up the tiny bit of butter smudged onto the counter, my Mom asked me, “Valerie, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lied and scratched behind my ear with the back of my hand. “I just had a really weird day, that’s all.”

Mom dumped a pot of steaming noodles into a strainer, framing her dyed-blonde hair in a halo of steam. “Hormones,” she re-iterated her favorite diagnosis for her only child, now turned teenager. If a pimple showed up on my arm, or a Huggies Diaper commercial produced tears, or the moon stopped orbiting the earth, it could only be because of one thing: hormones.

Maybe she was right, maybe my new licking urge was merely the symptom of more feminine “changes,” but I was 17 already. You’d think my body had pretty much figured it out by now. Either way, I wasn’t about to confess it to my Mom who would probably take me to some sex shrink for unusual obsessions. But that so wasn’t what it was, or why would I get so much relief from licking a bubble-gum wrapper?

I chopped the tomatoes more madly this time, not caring to make each one symmetrical and just hoped that soon everything would be normal. Or as normal as life could be for a goth-girl who had no father, no siblings, a Mom who thought violet leg-warmers were coming back, and a best friend whose primary ambition in life was to take the lead of the Spring Musical right from me.

Auditions for The Sound of Music were in less than a week and I practiced “My Favorite Things” for the four-hundredth time in the shower the next morning, adding a few lines of my own.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. Eyeliner and incense, and silver skull rings. These are a few of my favorite things.”

“Why do you even want that part anyway, Val?” Chrissie, my best friend asked me as we walked through the melon-painted halls of Whitefish High between classes. She was trying to use the tactic of making what I want less than desirable so she could then go ahead and have it. The real thing was that the part was pretty much guaranteed mine: most kids around here were into calf-roping and the typical Montana ho-downs, not drama. Besides, I had the voice and decent enough acting skills, and Chrissie’s singing was more like a donkey in heat.

“I think it would be fun,” I tried to slough it off.

“But then you’ll have to be a Nun,” her tongue piercing showed as she over-enunciated the word like it was a rotten bit of apple. How I wish my Mom would let me get my tongue pierced. Chrissie knew that and seemed to show hers off every chance she got. “Nuns are so grouse.”

“I think they’re hot,” I came back at her. “Especially if become anti-nun at the end of the play, marry a rich captain and inherit a mansion.”

“I thought they had to climb the Alps after they got married,” Chrissie said in her winey voice as she tucked a strand of blue hair behind her ear.

She had a point. I needed a new tactic. “Well Dave Lonsley is most likely to get the part of Captain VonTrapp.”

“Oh,” Chrissie gave the usual sigh most girls gave at the thought of Dave Lonsley. If Brad Ferguson and Richard Alred were in Westpoint High’s elite class, then Dave Lonsley was the king. His ink-black hair, roughly cut cheekbones and olive skin made babies laugh, old women cry with joy and even Principle Whitler bat an eye if ever he missed class, which by the way only happened once in recorded history.

It was impossible to resent Dave either; if ever there was a Prince named Charming, his was named Dave Lonsley. Everyone loved him: from bubble-popping cheerleaders, to farm nerds, to pent-up-frustration-filled Goths, because he loved everyone. He knew all 725 students of Whitefish High by name, helped old Mrs. Daffiny with her gift shop on Saturdays for free, and always seemed more interested in you than himself. It was almost disgusting how his dimple-producing smile never seemed to leave his angelic face.

Rumor was, he was planning to audition for the musical. My musical. Of course he’d walk right into the leading role just as he excelled at soccer and chess and Mr. Personality of the Year.

“Well who wants a stage kiss from Dave Lonsley anyway?” Chrissie scowled but I could see the way she rubbed her strawberry Chap Stick lips together. My mouth salivated too, but I was just grateful that I didn’t have the urge to lick him. Actually, I hadn’t felt the impulse all day. Maybe things were back to normal.

“Look,” Chrissie whispered and squeezed my arm. “There’s Samantha Gray. Did you know she spent the whole weekend in a mental hospital?”

The news surprised me. Samantha’s family had a two-hundred acre ranch up near Whitefish Lake and she had always been so quiet and reserved. Watching several sophomores try to rope a couple of freshmen with cattle rope ahead of us, I knew who deserved institutionalization more. “Why?” I asked Chrissie as we dodged the sophomores.

“Not sure,” Chrissie shrugged. Suddenly, she ducked behind me. “Crap,” she whispered. “There’s Mr. Wilcox. If he sees that I’m not home with the flu, I can’t ditch class.” As he passed with his typical pointy-nose scowl, she hushed “See you,” and scampered off toward the Gym building.

Time to practice lyrics again in my head while I had a few minutes of freedom left maneuvering through the halls. I wished I could ditch with Chrissie, but my name had been red-flagged for having missed so much class and my mom threatened to ship me off to etiquette school if I skipped one more time. Chrissies parents were so laid back, it wasn’t fair. Mom blamed my rebellion because of my father, who walked out on us when I was four. That was why she moved us to this pathetic little town.

We moved around a lot for a couple of years and then my mom had this great idea to take this road trip around the country to take in all the sights there were. But then she took a wrong turn trying to get to Great Falls, Montana and our white Honda broke down on Hwy 93. An old weather-worn man toed us with his even older green pick-up to Whitefish and when my mom laid her eyes on the quant western town, she said, “Valerie, sweetie, I know where our home for now on is.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tanner let us stay the night in the apartment above their shop until the Honda was fixed, but my mom fell so in love with the warm hospitality of the people and they must have fallen in love with her too, so that when the car was good to go, we just stayed. The Tanner’s let us keep the cozy apartment as long as we helped out in the souvenir store a couple hours a week. So, in Whitefish we stayed, while the rest of the world melted away.

I never did see or hear from my father again. My mom was probably right about him being the source of my anger, but mostly I just felt angry at everything; especially this pathetic town where on any given day, the tourists quadrupled the town’s population of only 6,000 plus or minus a few babies born or old people dead.
Now, I was in a particularly sour mood that Chrissie was still trying to swipe the lead role right out from under me. Everything was back to normal.

I turned down the last hall to head to Algebra where I’d spend the next 45 minutes pretending to pay attention and try not to breathe the B.O. of the kid who always wore a straw hat in front of me and didn’t seem to know how to apply deodorant. At least there’d be no Brad Ferguson or Richard Alred there with their weird eyes. I maneuvered myself around a rather large senior shoving papers into his locker and joined the stream of students reluctantly plodding to class like a bunch of mechanical sheep.

My mind was inventing more lyrics for “My Favorite Things,” and half-thinking how my mom probably wishes she could trade me in on a new model like she finally did our old Honda after years of saving tip money, when my eye caught the purple strap of a backpack on some chick in front of me. It fell down to her knee and I watched as it swayed back and forth, back and forth. Very quickly, all my thoughts seemed fixed on the movement, almost like I was mesmerized by it.

The final bell rang and the chick sped up causing the strap to sway faster. My calves bunched together and my arms tensed as I squatted low, my eyes still riveted on the line of purple. My fingers curled in and suddenly I felt like pouncing. Back and forth it went over and over and I couldn’t resist it: I wanted to swoop down on the strap so bad. The small rational part of me wondered what I was doing, but it was like pure instinct had taken over my body. I pushed my hands off the floor and prepared to leap into the air when the chick turned right into her classroom.

Dang it. I wasn’t fast enough. What was I talking about? Shouldn’t I be glad that I hadn’t tackled her in the middle of the hall and became the joke of the day for Whitefish High? As soon as the strap was out of sight, the feeling was gone and only my disturbed paranoia remained. I shook my head and tucked my short brown hair behind my ear, disgusted by a straw of hay I found caught there. The halls were nearly empty now. Crap, I can’t be late. So I rushed off to class and tried to pretend the strap incident hadn’t happened for the rest of the day.

That was how it started. I thought it was just a weird happening but it got worse from there. The next few days I fought hard to keep from attacking a loose shoe lace, or from licking up my bowl of Fruit Loops instead of eating it. Sometimes the urge to lick and pounce happened at the same time: like in Gym class when I wanted to leap upon the volleyball, flip over onto my back and lick the rubbery surface. Times like that, it was best if I just fled to the bathroom.

All the while, Brad Ferguson and Richard Alred’s bizarre green and orange eyes seemed to be watching me. Life can be weird for any teenager, but this was more than acne or popularity or driver’s licenses; something terrifyingly more.