Читать книгу Running Scared - Brenda Chapman - Страница 4

I had never been inside a police station before, but I guess there is a first time for everything. My mom, luckily, didn’t go totally over the edge when the police car pulled up in the driveway, even though I knew she was majorly unhappy when she heard about all the things I had kept from her that week. Could it really only have been a week since this nightmare had begun? Well, I had had enough stress packed into that one week to last me three lifetimes, and I sure was glad to let someone else take over.

Officer Long told me to take my time and just tell everything I remembered. She put me in what I think is called an interrogation room. It was quite small, without a window, but the fluorescent light gave it that shopping mall glow. They sat me on a straight-backed chair, behind a sizable wooden table that was covered with what looked like knife gouges and dark-blue ink splotches. I wasn’t uncomfortable, but I can tell you, this was no Holiday Inn. Officer Long brought me a can of diet pop and a doughnut that was all wizened-up with a film of chocolate icing that had hardened and cracked. Since it was past supper time, I gulped down both and soon felt an uncomfortable heaviness around my navel area.

I made myself breathe in deeply and felt the tightness in my chest ease just a little. I still couldn’t believe that one forgotten textbook could lead me into such a horror show. I held my hands together to keep them from shaking. How long before this fear in my stomach would go away? I really hoped that by telling what happened, I would be putting it all to rest. For a while there, I thought it was me they were going to put to rest.

My name is Jennifer Bannon. I am thirteen, nearly fourteen, years old and I live in Springhills with my mom, Alice Connelly, and my nine-year-old sister Leslie. I am very happy that my mom never resorted to naming us after soap opera stars or the cast of Charlie’s Angels. My best friend is named Tiffany Amber, much to her own disgust, although she goes by Ambie because she doesn’t want to be confused with the lamp. I think even her mother now regrets her past stab at cuteness.

My birthday happens to fall on Christmas Eve, making me the second youngest in my class. Ambie wins at being the youngest, having been born January tenth and having started school a year before she should have. She was always big for her age, with a vocabulary that the rest of us in the primary years had difficulty comprehending since, aside from Ambie, we’d only just mastered the fine art of stringing words into sentences. Half the time, back then, I didn’t know what she was talking about. Sometimes even now, I can be surprised by her knowledge of trivia and her mathematical ability. I never quite figured out why she latched on to a scholastically challenged person like me, although she did so from the moment we laid eyes on each other.

Springhills is a subdivision on the outskirts of Toronto. It is very much like a small town, although we are close enough to the action that we don’t feel cut off from anything. Mom isn’t making scads of money as an on-call nurse, but we manage in a three-bedroom bungalow on Maple Lane. Ambie lives six blocks over on Paul Anka Boulevard. It seems that Ambie is destined to spend her life associated with names that most of us wouldn’t choose. Even her cat is named Madonna.

It was an evening in early October. I think a Tuesday, because I had been at school and stayed late for the second-last volleyball practice of the season before the junior girls’ team was selected. Mr. Jacks, who was our coach again this year, had decided to have tryouts instead of just letting everyone be on the team like in past years. That meant showing up for every practice without being certain of even making the team. Luckily, I loved volleyball and was pretty good at it. Ambie, however, hated sports of any kind, so she didn’t even think about coming out to practices. That Tuesday, she’d headed right home after class and hadn’t hung around to wait for me and remind me what books to bring home as she usually did. That’s why I’d forgotten about the history assignment due for the dragon lady first thing Wednesday morning. It’s funny how these things all line up when you look back over them.

Miss Dragot had been teaching Grade Nine and Ten history since the Stone Age, and I suppose she had heard every excuse for incomplete homework ever invented by the adolescent brain. Unless you were home in traction with a broken hand, Miss Dragot did not accept late work. She was a really fierce-looking woman, short and wide with steel grey hair and even steelier blue eyes. She had a way of calling out your name in class that made you feel like you just had to be guilty of something. As a first-year high school student, she caused me to have heart palpitations on a regular basis.

I remember thinking that I could feel snow in the air for the first time as I scuffed home through the leaves captured along the curbs. When I scrunched the leaves underfoot, they let out that rich, earthy smell that reminded me of Thanksgiving and pumpkin carving and Hallowe’en caramel apples. The wind was coming up, and every so often a swirl of leaves danced across my path. Morton T. High School was a good half-mile from home, and I was just starting up our driveway when I remembered my history textbook, still back in my locker. Mom had been called into the hospital to work nights all week, and I knew she would be waiting for me to get home to look after Leslie so that she could catch the bus for work. There was no time to run back to school, and I experienced a feeling of unease that was hovering somewhere above my large intestine.

I caught the smell of macaroni and cheese as I hung my jacket on the coat hook inside the front door. At least I wasn’t going to have to make dinner. Our foyer entered into a hall that split left into the kitchen and right into the living room, where I could hear Leslie watching TV. Our three bedrooms and the bathroom were down a hall that exited off the living room.

“Hi, Mom! I’m home!” I called, as I always did—just in case she thought it was an axe murderer or someone coming in to steal the good silver. Not that we had any good silver.

Mom met me at the kitchen door. Her lips brushed my cheek, while at the same time, she fastened a gold scarf around her neck that Leslie and I had given her for her birthday. She picked up her coat and purse from the kitchen counter, so I knew that I had kept her waiting. There would be no chance to explain about my forgotten textbook.

“The casserole will be ready in ten. Leslie has to do her math after supper, then she must, I repeat must, have a bath. She can watch one TV show if she gets done in time. Make sure the doors are locked before you go to bed. I’ll try to call at my break, if I get one tonight, that is.” Mom looked more worried than usual. I knew she was trying to sound casual. “Your father seems to be back in town. I heard at the grocery store that he and Uncle Phil were seen at Hunter’s Pub Friday night.”

I told you that Springhills is just like a small town. Everyone knows your business before you do. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I said to reassure her. “I won’t let Dad in unless you’re here.”

Mom opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air and a couple of leaves. “I wish he’d just stay away,” she sighed and pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Lock the door, Jennifer, and I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, she was gone.

I suppose to put my story and the events that happened into perspective, I must explain the strange relationship between my parents. Apparently, as the legend goes, they met at a high school dance when Dad tripped over someone’s foot and landed squarely in front of Mom’s platform heels. She helped him up, and the rest, as they say, is history. Dad happened to be at the dance with that year’s prom princess, but he saw something in Mom that was much more substantial and up to the challenge of life with a man who could not sit still. I believe today that Dad would be labelled hyperactive, but then, he was just considered full of beans. He was also quite an attractive, romantic kind of guy, according to the legend, and before the end of their senior year, Mom and Dad were engaged. Luckily, Mom’s parents talked her into finishing nursing at university before getting married, because Dad wasn’t what you’d call a stable breadwinner. He did have an aptitude for fixing cars, however, and he could get work whenever he needed to. I guess Mom would have put up with that if she hadn’t caught Dad for the second time in the arms of Sherri-Lynn, you guessed it, the ex-prom princess, at the annual Fishing Derby Dance. That was two years ago, and I guess the argument was brutal. Mom wouldn’t discuss what happened with us, and for whatever reason, Dad just left town and headed west to get away from Mom, Leslie, me and Springhills.

At first, I thought that if I had done better in school or whined less often or hadn’t been so self-centred, Dad would never have left us. After a while, I thought that maybe it was the fights I had with Mom and Leslie over stupid stuff that had driven him away. While my rational self has since come to accept that I wasn’t the reason Dad left us, I still have nights when I lie awake thinking that a better daughter would have given him a reason to stay. In the meantime, Mom stayed angry for over a year. Then she seemed to just get weary and lose confidence in the good of the world. That’s when she started worrying all the time about where I was and who I was with and if I wanted to date anyone. Did she really think I was going to end up like her and Dad? My marks may have slipped with all the nonsense I’d had to think about, but I was certainly not a fool. I intended to stay as far away from marriage as a snowman from a hot air vent. Meanwhile, I missed Dad so much that I could barely stand it.

So there I was, cleaning up the sticky, macaroni-encrusted dishes, running Leslie a bubble bath and worrying about my assignment. I decided to call Ambie and see if she could run her history text over to my house. I knew she’d have it because, of course, she was a straight-A student who actually liked doing the work. In addition to her mother giving her the name Tiffany Amber, her mother had blessed her with a brilliant mind that could figure out the most torturous math problem ever designed by the teaching faculty at Morton High. Unfortunately, Ambie did not have the same know-how when it came to figuring out people. She was always lending her notes to people who lost them, or being volunteered to do jobs that nobody else wanted to do. Her trust in human nature seemed to be the exact opposite of my mother’s.

When Ambie answered the phone on the third ring, she sounded distant. “I’m not feeling so great,” she said. “I walked to the store for Mom about half an hour ago and suddenly felt nauseous like you wouldn’t believe.” Then she offered, “But come get the book if you want. I’m already in my pajamas and don’t feel like getting dressed again.”

Now what was I going to do?

Leslie came sliding into the kitchen, trailing a wet bath towel and bringing with her a waft of sweet, soapy scent. Her face was rosy from the hot bath, and she was dressed in her Mickey Mouse pajamas with the feet. “Can I watch my show now?” she asked, grabbing a bag of marshmallows from the counter and dropping the towel when she figured I wasn’t looking.

“Put the towel in the laundry pile and you can,” I answered. Suddenly I made a decision. “Leslie, I’m going over to Ambie’s to get a book. You must sit in front of the television until I get back. Do not move or answer the door until I’m home again. Do you understand?”

Leslie nodded her head, her right cheek puffed out like a lopsided chipmunk’s as she sucked on a marshmallow and turned to hop on one foot into the living room. I bent to pick up her towel, figuring I owed her for not putting up a stink about my leaving her alone.

I did up my jacket and put on a black tuque, tucking in my blonde hair. I got a pair of red gloves from the mitten bag, knowing that it was going to be a cold walk. Mom had strictly forbidden me to leave Leslie alone, and I wasn’t feeling too good about disobeying. I checked that Leslie was safely in front of the television before stepping out of the front door. She was tucked under a blanket with two of her stuffed animals peeking out from either side of her and seemed quite engrossed by the TV program. I patted my pocket to make sure that I had my house key and double checked that the door was locked. Already I felt little pinpricks around the spot where my conscience lived.

The six-block walk to Ambie’s took me a little over ten minutes. I was somewhat out of breath when I stood on her front stoop and rang the doorbell. Mrs. Guido, a plump, comfortable kind of mother, opened the door and smiled at me. “Come in, Jen dear. Don’t stand out in the cold.”

“Oh, thanks, Mrs. Guido, but I can’t stay. I just came to get Ambie’s history book.”

“Okay, dear. I’ll ask her to bring it to you.” She left the door open, and I could hear her yelling up the stairs as I waited outside on the front porch. It was almost five minutes before Mrs. Guido returned with the book. “Sorry, dear, but Ambie’s asleep. I guess she’s got some sort of flu.”

I almost snatched the book out of her hands but stopped myself in time. I sure hoped Leslie’s TV show was keeping her on the couch and out of trouble. “Thanks, Mrs. Guido. Tell Ambie to get well soon.” I tucked the book under my arm and decided to double my pace back home.

The trees were dark, hulking shapes hovering and swaying next to the road. In Springhills, we have curbs but very few sidewalks, so I was trotting home along the side of the deserted street. Three blocks from home, I passed a neighbour wearing a black raincoat out walking her collie. She was about my height, with short grey hair under a black beret-type hat. She smiled at me and said, “Good evening, cold isn’t it?” as we passed.

I answered, “Sure is,” catching a waft of her perfume. It reminded me of roses. I thought that she must be the retired school teacher who lived a block over from us, and who was friends with my mom. They’d met at the community centre at some yoga class, if I remembered right.

Not even a minute later, I heard a car. I remember thinking that it must be going way over the speed limit, because the whine of the tires was coming up so quickly behind me. Automatically, I stopped and turned, my heart pounding as if it was coming through my chest. My neighbour stopped walking too and half-turned toward the sound of the approaching car. Then, in a moment that I was to relive over and over, I watched in horror as her collie pulled her into the road just as the car swung around the corner and swerved into her path. She was sent hurtling into the air, landing with a horrible thud and lying motionless, her legs twisted at a funny angle. Somehow, the dog wasn’t hit. It immediately sat down and began to howl—a sound so haunting that it filled me with panic. I felt my hands go up in the air and my mouth formed a silent scream.

The driver didn’t stop. I kept my eyes fixed on the car as it raced toward me, too scared to run. Instinctively, I took a step backward, stumbling but catching myself from falling. The driver sped past without slowing, but in that instant, I saw a face turn to look in my direction. I stared at the windshield, frozen in place. Whoever’s face was staring back at me looked like one of those eerie, dark masks that you see in horror movies—glowing eyes surrounded by blackness. A second more, and the car was past me and careening down the street. My legs felt like they couldn’t move, and for a moment, I could only think about running to see if the woman was all right. Then lights went on in the house next to where she lay on the ground, and the front door opened. I heard a man and a woman yell and run from the house toward the body on the street. It was at that instant that I turned and ran for home. I felt like I was being chased by something dark and evil. I heard a moaning and sobbing coming from my throat.

Then I reached our front door and dropped the key twice before I could get the lock to work. I almost fell into the hall, slamming the door shut behind me as I doubled over, gasping for breath. I wiped tears from my cheeks, licking the salt from my upper lip. In another world, I could hear Leslie laughing at the cartoon just before she shut off the TV. In a few moments she would be in the hall, and I would have to act as if nothing had happened. If Mom knew I had left her alone, I would be so grounded that I would never see another volleyball practice until graduation. Yet that wasn’t what steered me into a course of silence. For just before the hit and run car had sped out of sight, I had recognized the bright red colour of my dad’s Chevy Malibu.