Exposure (13 page)

“Once the flood of acceptance letters start rolling in we can sit down and figure out the finances,” said Dad, who glanced at my mom and beamed. “If we can send one Kingston beauty to college, we can send two, right?”

Mom reached over and tousled his hair, which was only just beginning to gray around the temples.

“That reminds me, Knick-Knack-Patty-Whack,” he said, fiddling with a puzzle of interlocking chains that had been one of his stocking-stuffers. “Tomorrow's Tuesday. Back to the grindstone — or should I say, ticket booth — for you.”

I looked up from checking out my different screensaver options and watched for Mom's reaction. She bit her lower lip.

“Actually, I've been meaning to tell you. Rodney had to cut my hours. I'm down to just Thursdays and Fridays now. With all the studying I'm having to do for school, it seemed like it was for the best. Besides,” she said with a grin, “I'm looking forward to spending some more evenings at home with my family!”

I glanced back down at my laptop, not sure what to think. Was she lying now, or telling the truth? Maybe this was the completely innocent explanation for why she wasn't at the Regent the night I dropped in. But wouldn't she have been at home if that were the case? It was also possible that I was right all along about her having an affair, and she'd only just decided to end it. Regardless, she appeared to be trying to turn over a new leaf with regard to Dad and us. In typical ignorance-is-bliss fashion, I decided it was no longer worth worrying about. Everything in my life was looking up, and that sort of good news deserved a fitting tribute.

“Who wants pancakes!?!” I said, closing my laptop and jumping to my feet.

“Kye! Pantake!” answered Ollie, adorably.

“Chocolate chips in mine, please!” Mom said, getting up to join me. As we shuffled through the detritus of giftwrap and entered the kitchen, I could still hear Elmo erupting into spasmodic fits of glee in the living room. Maybe I wasn't quite so demonstrative, but in a weird way, I could kind of relate to the little guy.

• • •

Early the next evening, we packed up the plethora of baby gear associated with taking Ollie out of the house. Stroller? Check. Diaper bag? Check. Plastic baggies full of Cheerios? Moist towlettes? Enough small toys for his baby-sized attention span? Check, check, and check. It felt like gearing up for a military invasion, but in reality, we were only headed downtown to see the Crystal Gallery of Ice. Every year, international teams using chainsaws and pick-axes spent forty-eight hours creating some of the most brilliant sculptures imaginable in the town square. The event always drew large crowds, and it was coolest to see after dark when the sculptures, backlit by lights, had a beautiful incandescence.

Mom and Dad were still in an exceptionally good mood as we pulled into a public parking lot and began to extricate my brother and his gear from the car. While waiting for them to get the stroller set up, I checked out my reflection in the car window. I couldn't decide if my green hunter's cap with its earflaps and lamb's wool lining was funky-cool or just plain dorky. Still, the color contrasted nicely with my flame-red tresses, which for once hung in a nice subtle wave without too much unruly kink or frizz. All in all, I thought I was looking damn cute.

“Hey, I'm gonna wander,” I said. I had my camera and couldn't wait to start getting shots of the ice sculptures and the crowd, both of which were sure to fascinate.

“Skye, honey … we just got here!”

“Aw, let her go, Patty,” said my dad. “If we don't bump into you in forty-five minutes, call us on Mom's cell so we can meet up.”

“Okay, I will,” I said, simultaneously snapping a picture of them. “Have fun you kids!”

“Right back atchya.”

I padded across the packed snow to check out the sculptures. From where I stood, I could see replicas of the Sphinx, a giant ice castle, a stegosaurus the size of a VW bus, and a true-to-life ice rendering of all four Beatles. The detail on each sculpture was worth marveling at, but I was more in awe of the slick, glassy surfaces and the way they refracted the light so beautifully. Viewed in this sparkling wonderland, ice seemed incredibly regal, on par with gold or precious gems. And yet it was only water, which drop by drop was melting away. In a matter of days, at most, these astonishing works of art would vanish. Why did things always have to feel so fleeting? Sometimes I wished I could go through life carrying a remote control, one that would let me pause on the good times, like yesterday morning, for example, or let me fast-forward through all the crappy business in between. They say time flies when you're having fun, but boy does it move at a snail's pace when you're worried or depressed or anxious.

Wandering around the festival, I experimented with taking some pictures out of focus, thinking the array of colored lights mixed with the movement of the crowd might result in something impressionistically abstract. The chipper sound of Christmas carols mingled with the harsh buzzing of chainsaws that some of the sculptors still wielded. That, along with the smell of fried dough and popcorn, resulted in an environment of sensory overload. I had to keep reminding myself to look up from my camera's viewfinder at intervals so I didn't get dizzy. As tall as I was, I couldn't help but wish for a stepladder or high perch from which to take a more panoramic shot of the white-and-silver wonderland.

I instantly recognized the next sculpture I came across. It was a perfect replica of Auguste Rodin's
The Kiss
. This was passion personified: two lovers locked in a fervent embrace. I peered through my camera's viewfinder and adjusted the lens. The man's right hand was tenderly placed on the woman's left thigh. Her arm was flung desperately around his neck, and their faces pressed close to one another. They weren't wearing a stitch of clothing, and yet, this sculpture didn't say “lust” — not to me, at least. There was something so pure, idealistic, and uncalculated about the image. You didn't have to be in love to understand the magnitude of love when you looked at it.

“If I ever had a kiss like that one, I don't think I'd mind being frozen in that position for all eternity,” I heard someone to my right say. As I lowered my camera, my stomach went topsy-turvy. I knew the voice. Turning to see him standing inches away from me, looking too hot for words, only made my stomach queasier for some reason.

“I thought we were avoiding each other these days, to prevent me from making any further claims on your popularity.”

“You know that's not what I meant. I'll admit I was out of line, but just know that I was going through some stuff.”

“Stuff, meaning being hauled in to talk to the chief of police again?”

He paused for a moment before replying, as if weighing his words carefully. “Stuff at home. You wouldn't understand.”

“You'd be surprised.” With my head lowered, I dug the toe of my boot into the snow, making a divot.

“Speaking of the chief of police, I hope you weren't too freaked out,” he finally said. “Was it awful?”

“You ask that
now
?” I shook my head in disbelief. “You saw that I was going to be fed to the lions in Schaeffer's office, and you only think to ask me about it two weeks later? Gee, thanks for the belated concern, but you know what? You were right to end our sham of a friendship that day. Your troubles aren't mine anymore.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked, searching my face for an answer. His eyes looked weary. When I didn't respond, Craig ran the palm of his hand across his face, as if in physical pain, and walked away.

I meant what I had said to him. I was relieved not to have to worry about whether he'd be doing the perp walk while the rest of us walked the stage at graduation. I was sick of analyzing his dysfunctional relationship with Beth and holding my breath every time he got slammed against the boards in a hockey game. I was here-and-now officially declaring my brain to be a Craig-free zone. Still, I wondered what he was getting at when he said he had some problems at home. Having recently been through “stuff at home” myself, I could relate. Problems with his dad, no doubt. The guy was always ragging on Craig for the smallest things. I remembered on one particular occasion when I'd first met Craig, Mr. MacKenzie had blasted him about needing a haircut. “My only son, walking around looking like a woman,” he ranted for the entire week, even after Craig had gotten it trimmed shorter.

“This from a man who parades around in a plaid kilt and knee socks every St. Andrew's Day,” Craig had laughingly confided to me at the time. I don't think he was afraid of his dad so much as he was desperate to please the man. I gathered that the more dutifully he obliged the old man's wishes, the more his dad tried to control him and dictate his future. Come to think of it, Mr. MacKenzie and Beth Morgan had more than a few things in common.

So whatever. If he was having more problems with his dad, that was too bad, but in my new Craig-free zone, this was not my concern. You heard me right. Skye Kingston was taking the imaginary remote control of life and hitting the “delete” button on one Craig MacKenzie. And what did he mean by that “I-wouldn't-mind-kissing-like-that-for-all-eternity” business, anyway?

VALENTINE'S DAY. The most ridiculous Hallmark excuse for a holiday ever. End of story. You're either totally guilted into buying crappy gifts and schmaltzy cards for someone, or, in my case, being made to feel like a pathetic loser who will go to her grave alone and unwanted. Isn't being in love reward enough without needing a special day as a bonus? Why isn't there a holiday for all the sad sacks of the world who might actually need a crappy gift or schmaltzy card to cheer them up? I'm waiting for the “Let's All Mope!” day or a “Life Sucks” three-day weekend. Aren't we the ones who really need that box of chocolate?

I scanned the classroom noting the giddy excitement of several of my female classmates. Their eyes were locked feverishly on the sophomore girl who, clad in a pink velour track suit, inched between the rows of desks, delivering long-stemmed roses one at a time. Wavering between fear, anticipation, and abject longing, each girl clearly hoped a boyfriend or secret admirer had ponied up the two dollars necessary to send a rose to his beloved. Some girls would receive multiple roses, others none at all. Oh, the humanity.

Surprisingly, the only person who looked like she cared even less than I did was Beth. She was staring out the window, semi-catatonic, her face an unreadable canvas. Probably imagining her and Craig's future coronation as Prom King and Queen, I thought dismissively. Not that it mattered to me … Craig MacKenzie, after all, was the furthest thing from
my
mind.

Rolling my eyes, I looked back down at my battered copy of the
Oxford Anthology
, rereading the Shakespearean sonnet we'd been discussing before the rude interruption of Cupid's Pepto Bismol–tinged messenger. I doubted that we'd get back to it since everyone was chattering and distracted, and there were only a few minutes left before class was dismissed.

Based on that description, his mistress would never have managed a prom date at this school. The concept of inner beauty doesn't exactly fly here. Lost in thought, I hadn't noticed right away that Beth was standing over me. I looked up to see her practically boring holes in my skull with her glowering eyes, a look of unmistakable hatred on her face.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” she said in an angry voice as she brandished a rose, waving it in front of my face.

“What are you talking about?”

“This!” She yanked off a cardboard tag tied to the stem by a red ribbon and shoved it under my face. Trying to remain calm, I opened the tiny, folded card and read the typed note on the inside:
You never really know your friends from your enemies until the ice breaks
.

“You said the same thing to Craig — he told me about it. What are you trying to imply, anyway?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, although I did remember using the line when Craig had banished me from his friend roster. Oh no, she thinks it's about Duncan, I thought. “This isn't from me.”

Just then the bell rang, so I scooped up my books and made a mad dash for the door. “You should talk to Kristy,” I threw out over my shoulder. I didn't want to completely rat out her former best friend — I clearly wasn't in the business of narcing — but wasn't going to stand around and take all the heat for this little stunt, either.

My hands were shaking as I fumbled with my locker combination. Clearly Beth still suspected that I knew something linking her and Craig to Duncan's death. Since Christmas I'd convinced myself that I had just been paranoid about the whole thing. True, memories from that night still rose to the surface every so often, but for the most part, I'd kept those thoughts at bay as I focused on my photography, my college applications, and the fact that my family life was finally on an even keel. But that perpetual state of anxiety I'd been trying to outrace had just caught back up with me. No, I scolded myself. I won't let myself go there. Things are fine. Everything is fine.