Читать книгу Blood Stitches - Erin Fanning - Страница 8

Knit Witch

“What’s his story?” Frank asked.

“Who knows?” I shrugged, trying to keep from crying. “It looks like my blubbering scared him away.”

“Think we should call the police?”

“And tell them what? Mr. C didn’t actually do anything. He sure gave me the creeps, though, and he knows where Esperanza and I live. To be on the safe side, I’m taking a round-about way home.”

“Okay, but I’m coming with you.”

“Sounds good.” Macho Frank was more than welcome after our encounter with Mr. C.

We turned right and left, zigzagging across campus and cutting through several alleys and lawns. I searched behind me until my neck grew sore. No sign of Mr. C.

“Did I tell you about the essay I’m writing?” Frank asked. “It’s called, The Poetry of Lester Ruben and His Influence on Heavy Metal.”

Frank chattered about his favorite subject, the combination of different musical genres, like swing with hard rock.

I appreciated his effort to distract me, but Mr. C had wedged himself inside my brain. What was the deal with the orange skin and hair?

Even worse, Esperanza might actually know him. Secrets had dominated my childhood. Whispered conversations between Abuela and Esperanza, and visitors whisked into the study, door locked behind them.

“An order from a customer, mi hija,” Abuela always said. “Nothing to worry about.” The fact she told me not to worry made me worry until it snowballed into a state of constant anticipation, forever waiting for another Earthquake.

Frank now recited the lyrics to his favorite Ruben song. “‘The beach was hot. The water cool.’ Poetry, right?”

“Not exactly my idea of a poem.” I craned my neck, ready for Mr. C to make a sudden appearance. My hair blew into a frenzy, blinding me, and I tamed it with a rubber band.

“When did you become a music critic?” Frank launched into another song and tap-danced up the hill to my house.

I jogged after him. “I’ve never understood your attraction to Lester Ruben, a one-hit wonder from the 1960s.”

“1950s, to be exact.” Frank rested his hand on my shoulder. “Old Lester sure knew how to attract the ladies.”

A talent Frank didn’t possess; although, I’d overheard two girls at school discussing him that afternoon, how he had a cute smile and butt, the usual nonsense. Muscles he’d gained at summer construction jobs filled out the baggy second-hand suits he’d worn since junior high. His style, at one time ridiculous, smacked of retro-cool.

Frank tilted his head and looked me up and down. Our eyes met, and my heart fluttered. My mixed-up feelings for my best friend, crush or whatever, somehow seemed incestuous.

A cardboard witch, pushed by wind, tumbled across the street, flying over yards and vanishing around a corner. Plastic skeletons danced on porches, and jack-o-lanterns leered. Mr. Tibbs, Mrs. McGlinty’s cat, darted across the sidewalk in front of me.

“Great, more bad luck,” I said.

Frank raised his eyebrow.

“You know, when a black cat passes in front of you, it means you’ll be jinxed. Abuela taught me all about superstitions. She said you avoided the curse by walking backward ten steps.” I spun, counting off ten paces.

Frank tipped his fedora at me. “I think meeting Mr. C was unlucky enough for one day.”

I glanced over my shoulder. A man wearing a white cap stood next to a stop sign at the end of the street. He turned a corner, his red scarf fluttering, and disappeared. Whew. Not Mr. C.

Raindrops hit the sidewalk, and Frank and I ran the rest of the way home. We darted inside, bumping into Esperanza, who poured packets of licorice into a bowl.

“Hi there, you two. What do you think of my costume?”

A knit mini-dress hugged her curves and brushed the top of her thighs. Fishnet stockings covered her legs, and red lipstick matched dangling earrings. With her stiletto heels and hair piled high, she stood as tall as Frank. On top of her curls perched a witch hat, held in place with crochet hooks. One of Abuela’s knitting needles peeked from a pocket in her dress.

“Let me guess.” Frank tapped his chin. “A knit witch?”

Esperanza curtsied.

“Or a knitting hooker?” I laughed at my joke, but it sounded harsher than I’d intended. Sometimes, my resentment toward Esperanza, for her glamour and closeness to Abuela, slipped through before I could stop it. It wore me down being so ordinary next to Esperanza’s elegance.

She smoothed her dress. “It’s a bit short.”

“Come on, a joke,” I said. “Even the best comedians can fall flat.”

“Ignore her, Esperanza. You look gorgeous,” Frank said.

“I love the dress,” I added in a rush. “I don’t remember you knitting it.”

“Oh, something I whipped together.” Esperanza tossed me a package of red licorice, my favorite, the bad joke forgiven.

She’d only been angry with me once, when I threw out a plastic bag of hair. She rummaged through the garbage until she found it and told me never to touch her stuff again, something to do with knitting.

“Speaking of jokes, we met this crazy guy dressed up like a giant candy corn today,” Frank said. “You know, orange skin, yellow scarf, white cap. He was looking for someone named Hope and asked about your grandmother.”

Esperanza ducked her head and fiddled with the bowl of licorice.

“It was far from funny. He actually got pretty pushy. Do you know him?” I’d planned to ask her about Mr. C when we were alone, hoping she might confide in me without Frank around.

“Never heard of him.” Esperanza hurried toward the kitchen. “Now take off those wet jackets before you drip all over the floor, and I’ll make hot chocolate.”

“I’ll start a fire,” I said to her back.

Esperanza, heels clicking faster and faster, bumped into a basket overflowing with Halloween treats. Packets of candy corns spilled to the floor.

I shivered. “That’s a coincidence I could have done without.”

“Me too.” Frank scooped up the candy and swished them into the trash.