Читать книгу Getting Off On Frank Sinatra - Megan Edwards - Страница 11

“A great place to call home.” That’s the all-American slogan of Henderson, the city south of Las Vegas that used to be an island in the sand. Then, like rising bread dough, both Henderson and Las Vegas expanded to the point where the two cities bumped up against each other.

Because David lives in Henderson, I’m more familiar with the place than I would be otherwise. He’d pointed the Parks Academy out to me a couple of times when we were first dating, but just to make sure I’d find it on my own, I printed out directions and a map.

I already knew from my earlier drive-bys that the Anna Roberts Parks Academy was surrounded by a formidable fence, so I wasn’t completely surprised that the entrance gate had a guard. He set down his oversized Coke cup when I pulled up to his kiosk.

“I’m Copper Black, here to see Marilyn Weaver,” I said.

“Oho! Just who I was a-waitin’ for,” he said as he scribbled something on his clipboard. Then he turned off his television and did something to make the gate in front of me begin to swing open. “Wait just a sec, please.”

He pulled a baseball cap over his bald dome and popped out the side of his booth. Wedging himself behind the wheel of a golf cart, he pulled in front of my minivan and waved at me to follow.

Just past the kiosk a landscaped traffic island featured a carved stone sign. “Anna Roberts Parks Academy,” it read in large chiseled letters. Underneath, a delicate italic script spelled out “Reach for the stars.”

Zipping into a parking lot, the guard pulled up near a space next to a white pickup truck and pointed. He waited while I pulled into it, then I stepped out into the afternoon furnace and locked my door.

“Where—?”

“Hop in, miss,” he said before I could finish. He patted the seat next to him and smiled. “I’m driving you. Nobody’s getting heatstroke on my watch.”

The campus seemed deserted as we rolled down a tree-shaded lane and pulled up in front of a tan two-story building with big letters over the door that spelled out “Beeman Hall.”

“Ms. Carpenter’ll help you,” my chauffeur said. “Her desk is just inside the door.” He offered me a return trip to my car when I was ready to leave, but I assured him I could manage on my own. Tipping his baseball cap, he rolled off.

I stood at the door of Beeman Hall for a moment, surveying my surroundings. Except for the sound of a distant lawn mower, the place was utterly quiet. It seemed more like a retirement community than a high school, but maybe that was the golf cart influence.

Inside, it took a second for my eyes to adjust from the bright glare of afternoon sunlight, even though I found myself in a two-story atrium with a skylight. A serious-looking gray-haired woman was sitting on a high chair behind an elevated desk. A name placard read, “ANASTASIA CARPENTER, REGISTRAR.” Turning from her computer monitor, she peered at me over her half-glasses.

“You’re here for Sean,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Um, no,” I said. “I’m here to see Ms. Weaver.”

“Oh,” the woman said, staring at me as if she didn’t believe what I’d just told her. “Of course. One moment.”

Just then Marilyn appeared in a hallway I could just see from my spot in front of Ms. Carpenter’s desk. Someone was behind her, and as they drew nearer, I recognized Charlene, Marilyn’s cowgirl niece whom I’d met at the Boneyard.

“Copper!” Marilyn called as soon as she saw me. “I’m so glad you could come!”

“Thanks for inviting me,” I said as they reached Ms. Carpenter’s desk. “Hi, Charlene.”

Charlene looked exactly as she had the night before, except this time she wasn’t wearing earrings, and she had slung her leather jacket over her shoulder. Understandable, I thought, given how hot it was outside.

“Charlene made it to the finals today,” Marilyn said. “We’re so thrilled.” She squeezed Charlene’s shoulder and tried to pull her close, but the cowgirl resisted.

“Oh, come on, honey,” Marilyn said. “It’s perfectly okay to be proud.”

Charlene caught my eye before she hid her face under her cowboy hat, but I couldn’t read her expression.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“I only wish I were going to be in town on Sunday for the finals,” Marilyn said, trying the hug thing again. “Would you like to go, Copper? I’d be happy to get tickets for you and a friend.”

“Well—”

Why not? Daniel might like to go, and a little online research had revealed that cutting horses are actually pretty interesting. The trials were all about how well the horses could separate one cow from a whole herd. In addition, attending the finals might just give me another topic for a column.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d love to.”

“Great! Two tickets will be waiting for you at will-call,” Marilyn said. She turned to Charlene. “And I’ll be there in spirit, honey. Just like your mom.”

Charlene’s cheeks reddened, but I couldn’t tell whether it was because she was pleased, embarrassed, or something else.

“I need to show Copper around,” Marilyn said. “You want to come along, or—?”

“I’ll wait in your office,” Charlene said, “but I do have to head back to the Silverado pretty soon. Gotta take care of Scarlett.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, honey,” Marilyn said. “I’m just giving Copper a quick tour.”

“See you on Sunday—” I began, but Charlene was already heading back down the hall.

“Scarlett’s her horse,” Marilyn said as she moved toward the registrar’s desk. “You’re going to love seeing the two of them in action.” She laid her hand on Ms. Carpenter’s shoulder. “Annie, this is Copper Black,” she said. “She’s a journalist—here to make us famous.”

Ms. Carpenter looked at me, but she didn’t smile. In fact, I could almost swear she sniffed.

“How nice,” she said.

“This school couldn’t operate without Ms. Carpenter,” Marilyn said. “The students all call her “The Hard Drive,” because she remembers absolutely everything. She never forgets a face or a name, and she even remembers all their birthdays.”

I glanced at Ms. Carpenter as we moved down the hall, and our eyes met for an instant. Memorizing me, I couldn’t help thinking. Maybe I’d get a birthday card next March.

“Lucky for us, Kelly Baskin and Chanel Torres are on campus today. They’re seniors, and both of them have entered a singing competition in Los Angeles. They’ve been coming in to work with Mr. Rice, our voice coach.”

I was about to say something when a guy stepped out from around a corner in front of us. He was about my age, I guessed, and he was wearing a pressed white shirt and tie.

“Sean!” Marilyn said. “I thought you were heading out to meet with Larry.”

“He canceled,” Sean said. “I’ll reschedule for later next week.”

A look of doubt crossed Marilyn’s face, but she banished it with a smile. “I’d like you to meet Copper Black.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Sean said, grasping my hand and flashing a friendly grin. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Marilyn rolled her eyes.

“This is my son Sean,” she said. “He’s our director of development.”

“Money scavenger, she means,” Sean said with another grin. “Keep an eye on your purse.”

As his mother rolled her eyes again, I couldn’t help noticing Sean’s resemblance to her. In addition to being similarly blonde, he was fit and tan. A tennis player, I was willing to bet.

“So you’re going to write about us,” Sean said. “Fast Times at the Anna Roberts Parks Academy.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Well, okay, maybe not.”

“I’m no screenwriter,” I said. “I’m a nonfiction sort.”

“Is there really any difference between fiction and nonfiction?” Sean said. “Maybe we should get together over some absinthe and discuss story theory sometime.”

I couldn’t help smiling as Marilyn heaved another heavy sigh.

“I’m introducing Copper to Kelly and Chanel,” she said, “but—”

She glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s getting late, and I still have to run home before I go to the airport. Sean—my office, please. I need to touch base with you on a couple of things.”

“Yes, Ms. W,” Sean said, snapping his hand to his brow in a military salute. “I hear and obey.”

Just then, a door opened down at the end of the hall. Two girls and a young black man in a workout suit stepped out.

“Just who we were looking for!” Marilyn said. “Kelly, Chanel, and Mr. Rice.” She started walking toward them.

I turned back to Sean, but he was gone.

“Mr. Rice!” Marilyn called. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet!”

She introduced us, then excused herself and headed toward her office. For the next twenty minutes, I learned all about how Kelly and Chanel had both made it through cattle-call auditions for a reality show called Rising Stars in Hollywood the week before. Kelly looked like an updated Spice Girl, and Chanel had obviously modeled herself on Beyoncé. I didn’t hear them sing, but if the judges could be swayed by looks, both of them should continue to do well.

Mr. Rice was eager to recite all his credentials. He seemed most proud of his stint as “Ooey Tophat” in a Broadway musical called The Dalai Lama Goes to Washington. I’d never heard of it, but I emitted an obviously expected “Oooh.”

“So, what brought you to Las Vegas?” I asked after the girls had left to change their clothes. Marilyn reappeared just in time to hear my question.

“A gig with The Boys from Bali,” he said. “It was a bit of a shock going from Broadway to rip-away pants, but Dalai had just ended, and I needed to eat. Fortunately, I met Ms. W.”

Marilyn smiled. “I was the fortunate one. To have someone with Mr. Rice’s abilities and background at a high school is simply amazing. I’m always afraid we’re going to lose him to someplace with more prestige.”

“This is where it happens,” Mr. Rice said. “To be able to work with young talent is a privilege beyond anything else I’ve ever done.” He looked at Marilyn. “Even Ooey.”

“We’re so lucky,” Marilyn said, putting her arm around Mr. Rice’s shoulders. “So, so lucky.”

I looked at both of them, wishing I had a camera. The two of them looked so sincere, so dedicated. I hoped I could stage such a shot in the future, when a photographer would be with me. It would be the perfect complement to the story I was already outlining in my mind.

“Thanks so much for visiting, Copper,” Marilyn said before she headed out to catch her plane. “I’m so glad our paths crossed last night. I have a feeling this is the beginning of an exciting relationship.” I watched her as she said good-bye to Ms. Carpenter and move toward the door. When she opened it, intense afternoon sunlight instantly turned her into a black silhouette.

“She’s amazing,” Mr. Rice said, looking after her. “And that’s an understatement.”

Soon I had made plans to meet Mr. Rice, Kelly, and Chanel the following Tuesday afternoon. All three seemed eager to talk and to be included in my story, and Chanel even promised to talk to another senior named Margot Tanner.

“She’s a writer,” Chanel told me. “And she’s published. Two poems in Southwest Magazine, and her screenplay came in third in the Nevada Film Office’s screenwriting contest.”

It put my high school to shame, I couldn’t help thinking. At New Canaan High, all we worried about was whether we’d look good to the admissions officers at Ivy League schools. These kids were out testing their mettle in the real world—and they were obviously succeeding. While it made me feel a little inadequate, it also made me feel as though I’d struck gold. This was going to be a great story.

After Mr. Rice showed me the rest of Beeman Hall, I steeled myself for the hot trek back to my car. I figured I’d go home, peel off my clothes, pour myself a—

“I meant it about the absinthe,” a voice behind me said. I turned to find Sean smiling at me. “Ever tried it?”

“Doesn’t it make you crazy?”

“Maybe the kind van Gogh drank,” Sean said, “but the new stuff’s okay. Can I prove it? Like right now?”

Was he actually asking me out? God. The universe was throwing guys at me.

“I’m sorry, but—”

“How about a quick beer?”

“Well—” I said, intending to decline.

“I can tell you all the school’s dirty secrets.”

Damn! How could I resist an offer like that?

“Okay,” I said, mopping my brow.

“Let’s go to the V. It’s the closest place, and you’re in dire need of refrigeration.”