A Twist of Hate (3 page)

              Mrs. Dunlop nodded her approval. Only then did Siobhan release the breath she seemed to have held throughout her response.

              Mrs. Dunlop turned to Michael. “Care for a rebuttal?”

              Michael narrowed his steely blue eyes at Siobhan. “Sure. The story of Pandora proves one universal known truth—women ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

              “Very well done, Siobhan,” Mrs. Dunlop said through a tight grin. “Your argument was thoughtful, concise and well organized.” She scribbled grades on two slips of plain white paper. She folded them in half and handed one to Michael, the other to Siobhan. Michael gave the paper a cursory glance. With a salacious grin at Siobhan, he stuck it in his mouth and began to chew.

              Mr. Cleese was sick, or so read the message an underclassmen delivered to Camden right before the first scheduled rehearsal of
The Glass Menagerie
. Camden crumpled the paper in his fist and tossed it into a nearby bin.
Sick? Lovesick probably
, he thought, starting for his locker.

              With a couple hours of unexpected free time to spend, Camden headed across campus to the Athletic Building.

              He changed into grey shorts and a Pearl Jam T-shirt, and he climbed the stairs from the boys locker room to the upper gym. The
SWISH! BAM!
Of someone sinking shot after shot in the lower gym echoed into the stairwell. Instead of going to the upper gym, where he usually played, Camden dribbled his basketball into the lower gym.

              Siobhan stood alone at the farthest of the baskets in the cavernous gymnasium. His dribbling matching his footsteps, he approached her. She paused her shooting to look over her shoulder. After noting his presence with a disinterested glance, she returned to her play.

              Camden held the basketball to his hip with his elbow and watched her. She wore a raggedly cropped, dark red sweatshirt that revealed her taut midriff. Her navy sweatpants had been ripped into lopsided shorts, the right leg several inches shorter than the left. A wide tortoiseshell clip held her dark auburn hair in a disheveled twist, a few free strands curling lazily about her sweaty face and shoulders. She wore black Converse high tops, their frayed laces too stubby to tie. With each clean jump shot, it appeared she would leap right out of her shoes.

              The serious student in the immaculately tailored designer duds that had obliterated Michael in AP English that morning had transformed into a pint-sized free-throw expert.

              “You made a good argument in class today,” Camden said above the noise of her play.

              “We have a class together?” she remarked, feigning ignorance before sinking the ball from the top of the key.

              He overlooked the deliberate slight. “Michael got a D. I think you got the only A Mrs. Dunlop gave out for that assignment.”

              She faced him, bouncing her ball at her side. She swiped her sleeve across her sweaty brow. “There’s something to be said for fancy English schooling. How did you know my grade?”

              “You threw away your grade slip on your way out of class. Michael dug it out of the trash. He thinks Mrs. Dunlop gave you an A because—”

              She caught her ball mid-dribble and spoke over him. “I really don’t care what Michael thinks.” She abruptly turned on her heel and sank the ball from the free throw line.

              “Suit yourself,” he muttered. He started shooting at her basket. He quickly found his zone and sank shot after shot. Siobhan stopped to watch. He missed his next three consecutive layup attempts. “What!” he suddenly blurted, flustered by her unnerving scrutiny.

              She gave him her ball in a hard pass. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

              He dribbled for a moment as if testing the ball for the secret to her shooting skill. “Forget about it. I don’t suppose you’d tell me why you have daggers for Michael?”

              “Are you any good at this?” She held her hands out for the ball and he returned it to her. She attempted a hook shot and missed. “I know you can pass a football. Do you use this as well?” She spun the basketball on the palm of her hand before successfully shooting from the corner of the key.  

              “I manage. Why?”

              “Wanna play?” she asked as she retrieved her ball.

              He laughed, pointing to his chest. “With me?”

              “
Against
you. That is, if you’re not afraid to play a girl.”

              He went for his basketball. “First one to eleven wins, loser buys me a Coke! Ladies first.” He tossed her the ball.

              She shot it right back. “First one to twenty-one wins, loser works the lighting booth on opening night, and you go out first.” She grinned, “Age before beauty.” She pushed up her sleeves and prepared to defend.

              They played hard. At 19-20, her favor, his threadbare T-shirt adhered to the broad planes of his chest and back with perspiration. Sweat stung his eyes as he checked her, his right hand resting lightly on her right hip. She brought the ball in, dribbling close to the floor and through her legs. Her agile spin sent Camden lunging in the wrong direction. He was off balance long enough for her to fire a one-handed shot from the free-throw line. He tried to block it, but she planted her hands on his torso and pushed him out of position. The ball danced along the rim of the hoop before rolling into the net, giving her the victory.

              “Foul!” Camden hollered. Panting, he fell to the polished floor and covered his eyes with a sweaty forearm. “Flagrant, technical, personal foul!”

              Siobhan stood over him, laughing. He graciously accepted defeat along with the hand she offered. “Is there anything you aren’t good at?” he asked on a grunt as she helped him to his feet.

              “I don’t know yet,” she giggled. Her laughter was so pleasant and contagious, Camden chuckled along with her.

              “I would have asked to play the winner, if you’d won, Cam,” called a familiar voice from the shadowy top row of the bleachers. Brian, followed by Michael, descended to the court. “I should have told you the lady is a petite All-Star.”

              “You guys wanna play a quick two-on-two?” Camden asked. “You and Michael against us.” He nudged Siobhan with his elbow. “What do you say, partner?”

              “Have fun in the lighting booth.” Her face as impassive as the side of a cliff, she retrieved her basketball and headed for the exit closest to the girls locker room.

              “I want a rematch,” Camden called after her. She waved without turning around. The boys watched her until she disappeared through the double doors.

              Michael stared after her the longest. “It’s a damn shame a body like hers comes with such a big mouth. Well, maybe not, if she used that big mouth for more than talking.”

              Camden and Brian ignored rather than engaged.

              “Did you guys see her?” Camden dried his brow with the tail of his shirt. “She’s awesome. She sank a three-pointer from thirty feet out.”

              “It’s genetic,” Michael said. “They’re all good at b-ball.”

              “Siobhan’s good enough to play in the WNBA,” Camden said.

              “She’s too hot for the WNBA,” Michael remarked offhandedly, uttering the closest thing to a compliment he could muster. He turned to Camden. “Rehearsal wasn’t cancelled because I didn’t show up, was it?”

              “Are you for real?” Camden demanded. “For God’s sake, Mike. You’re doing exactly what you always do. You can’t—”

              Michael spoke over Camden. “Chrissie got her Porsche this afternoon.” Excitement sparkled in Michael’s water-colored eyes. “It’s an early graduation present. She was foaming at the vee to take me for a drive. I couldn’t say no, could I?” He gave Camden’s shoulder a hard pat. “Things worked out great for everybody. If there was no rehearsal, I didn’t skip it. It’s a win-win all around.”

              Camden rubbed his temples, hearing Siobhan’s
I told you so
in his head. “I stuck my neck out for you, Michael. Don’t mess this up.”

              Michael pinched Camden’s cheeks hard enough to sting and said, “Don’t sweat it, Grandpa. I’ll make you so proud of your boy.”

              “I’m serious, Mike,” Camden replied. “You have to honor your commitment.” He sighed in frustration. “Let me get my stuff and we can go.”

              Michael faced him with a sheepish grin. “I don’t have my car. Chrissie met me at home after school and we took her car for a drive. She’s waiting outside now. I’ve got a date with a hot girl and her hot tub. You know what that means.” He brought the juncture of his index and middle finger to his lips and flicked his tongue between them.

              Disgusted, Brian turned away. “I can give you a lift, Cam.”

              “Great!” Michael clapped in finality. “Everybody’s set. See you tomorrow morning, Cam.”

              Seconds after Michael jogged out of the gym came the screech of tires. Camden and Brian started for the exit to the locker rooms.

              “Maybe I should have listened to Siobhan,” Camden admitted. “She didn’t want him in the play. I asked her why she doesn’t like him, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”

              Brian gripped Camden’s shoulder.

              Camden paused. “You know why she doesn’t like him, don’t you?”

              Brian nodded. “We can talk on the way to your place.”

              “About Siobhan?”

“About Michael.”

Chapter Two

“Was it love at first sight? Wow, that’s a good question. I don’t know. We had so much chemistry the first time we met that we hated each other. It wasn’t real hate. It wasn’t like Michael Littlefield’s.

—Siobhan Curran,
Newsline

              Mr. Cleese, alone onstage beneath the white glare of the overhead lights, stood before the half-finished set. He hooded his eyes with his hand to see the cast and crew scattered in the first few rows of the house.

              “After a two and a half weeks of grueling rehearsals, I can say with confidence that this production is finally shaping into something I’m sure Mr. Tennessee Williams would be quite thrilled to see, were he alive to join us. Not only have our players learned their lines and blocking, most of them have managed to show up on time every day.”

              David Kent, Ann Lewis, and two prop masters glanced at Michael, the offender Mr. Cleese chose not to mention by name.

              “It’s Friday, you’ve all worked hard, and I’m pleased to announce that there will be no rehearsal tomorrow. Enjoy your Saturday.”

              Thus dismissed, the cast and crew began to leave. Siobhan and Courtney crossed the aisle to the section where Camden, Brian and Michael sat. “I don’t suppose we could get some help tearing down the set,” Siobhan asked hopefully.

              Michael rose, then turned to address Camden. “Chrissie’s folks are in Myrtle Beach for the weekend,” he smirked. “We’ve got seven bedrooms to ourselves. See ya!” He skipped out without as much as a goodbye to anyone else.

              “I can’t stay. My grandparents are in town,” Courtney said. She scooped her bookbag onto her shoulder. “If we leave now, Brian can meet them and celebrate Shabbos with us.”

              “Grandparents?” Brian winced. “I’ll help with the set.” Courtney gave him a playful punch in the gut. “Sorry, guys,” he said. He took Courtney’s bag and slipped it onto his own shoulder as they walked to the rear exits of the auditorium.

              Diligently working in silence, Siobhan and Camden finished breaking down the set in an hour. “I can give you a ride home,” she offered backstage after they fastened the doors to the prop cabinet.

              “Great, thanks,” Camden said.

              They collected their coats and backpacks from Mr. Cleese’s office, and walked to Siobhan’s car, which was parked on the upper lot.

              “Would you like to grab some dinner?” Camden asked as she pulled out of the lower parking lot.

              To cover her shock, she busied herself with the radio. She tuned it to KBAD and adjusted the volume to a conversational level. “Sure,” she finally said.

              She’d given him time to reconsider his hasty invitation. “We don’t have to,” he said, managing to mask his eagerness with indifference.

              “I’d like to. Really.”

              “You don’t have anything better to do on a Friday night? Something fun?”

              “My grandmother constantly tells me there’s more to life than fun.” She turned onto Clayton Road. “Where would you like to go?”

              “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

              They rode another mile or so in silence. She stopped for the red light at Brentwood Blvd. “Do you want to sit down or get take out?”

              “What?” Suddenly very warm, he cracked opened the window.

              “Do you want to go through a drive-thru and eat in the car on the way to your house, or would you rather sit down in a restaurant? We could go to the Galleria and check out the Food Court.”

              “I don’t have a preference.” He wiped his sweating palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Anything is fine with me. You pick.”

              “I know a place,” she said after they had spent another mile listening to the radio. “But one complaint and you walk home.”

              She drove into University City, made a left turn onto Delmar Blvd., and then a right a few blocks later onto a narrow side street. She parked her Honda in front of a co-operative health food shop adjoining a crowded, store-front restaurant.

              “We’re eating there?” Camden stared at the diners inside Thai Guyang Café.

              Grinning, Siobhan unbuckled her seatbelt. “That’s typically what people do at restaurants.”

              “Those people are eating on the floor,” Camden said, aghast.

              “They’re
sitting
on the floor. They’re eating from a table. The cushions are very comfortable. You’ll love it.” She exited the car, then poked her head back in to ask, “Haven’t you ever had Thai food before?”

              “No.” Camden got out of the car. He eyed something long, wiggly, pale and steaming that one of the diners drew from a wooden bowl with chopsticks.

              “It’s good,” Siobhan assured him. “It won’t kill you.”

              The diner slurped up the thing on his chopsticks. Camden blanched. “Are you sure about that?”

***

              Dinner miraculously transpired without a single disagreement or even a twinge of discord. After sharing an enormous slice of ginger cheesecake for desert, Siobhan drove Camden home, following his directions.

              “This is the long way,” he said, “but there’s something really cool on this street. It’s one of the most awesome structures I’ve ever seen. I spent all last summer sitting in the park across the street from it, watching it go up. That sounds lame, but it’s an amazing house.”

              He directed her to a contemporary aberration among the stately, World’s Fair-era brick mansions lining the long expanse of Lindell Boulevard facing Forest Park. “This is it.” He pointed to a boxy mansion of broad white stone. Cobalt lighting fixtures heightened the stark whiteness of the ultra-modern building. A silvery-blue column of glass cubes towered from the black pavement of the driveway to the angled roof. The column separated a six-car garage from the house. The first floor wall, all one-way glass, reflected passing cars and the greenery of the park.

              “This house is unbelievable,” Camden said, awed anew.

              “It’s mine.”

              He abruptly turned to her. “There were two huge articles about this house in the newspaper last year,” he said. Siobhan smiled at his uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “The first article came out when the house was designed, and the second ran after when it was finished. I’ve admired this house from the day the foundation was poured to the day the street numbers were applied. Your dad is Damon Curran? The architect?”

              “That’s him.” Siobhan pulled into the driveway.

              “I heard his interview on NPR about that industrial park he designed in London. That’s why you were living there, right? I knew Damon Curran planned to live in this house, and he mentioned he had a daughter… Damn, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t make the connection.” He turned back to the house. “Its lines are so clean. The design is bold but elegant at the same time. Your dad is an artist.”

              Siobhan let the engine idle. Camden was the most devoted of a long line of gawkers. When she and her father moved into the house, trade journals and magazines wanted to do stories on it. Strangers came to the front door at all hours to ask for tours.

              “Could I see inside?”

              He was taller and more muscular than Michael Littlefield and her father was in Chicago for the weekend. If she invited him in, would she end up pinned to the carpet with his hot breath in her face? Or worse?

              The curiosity in his bright eyes seemed honest and harmless rather than predatory. Despite their myriad petty disagreements and conflicts, she had never felt weak or threatened by him. On the contrary, she was totally comfortable with him. “I suppose I could give you a quick tour, but we’ll have to be very quiet.” She dropped her eyes to add, “I don’t want to disturb Dad.”

***

              She saved her room for last. Camden’s jaw almost hit the floor when he entered the enormous chamber. His own bedroom would fit twice within hers, with room to spare.

              The triple-paneled headboard of her king-size bed had once been the stained glass window of a demolished chapel in Scotland. Three large palladium windows lined the back wall, the cushioned seat built into the wide sill of the center window providing a full view of the sprawling backyard with its pool and garden. Camden almost stumbled into a circular recession about ten feet in diameter in the floor. Shelves in its circumference housed a high-tech entertainment center. Suede bean bags in muted tones lined its bottom. The most outstanding feature of “the Pit,” as Siobhan called it, was the wood flooring that slid in place to conceal it at the flip of a wall switch.

              Her music library, arranged on thin, stylized CD towers, everything from Mozart to Motown and Alicia Keys to Warren Zevon. She had the most expansive collection of Broadway and Off Broadway soundtracks Camden had ever seen.

              He loitered in her bathroom, envious of her six-headed shower. He examined the computer set-up on her desk while she changed into a white T-shirt and a pair of green and blue plaid boxer shorts.

              She sat at the head of her bed, one leg folded beneath her, and brushed out her hair. Camden slowly swiveled in the leather chair at her desk. “Is your dad really here?” he asked.

              “Wh-Why?”

              “I’d like to meet him.”

              “Now?” she squeaked.

              “This is beyond stellar.” He brought the chair to a stop and gazed at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I’m actually in Damon Curran’s house.”

              “I can’t believe we’ve spent four hours together without fighting.”

              “You haven’t gotten on my nerves yet.”

              “There’s still time,” she smiled.

              “He isn’t here, is he?”

              Her smile faded. She furtively glanced at the phone charging on her bedside table, wondering how quickly the police would respond to a 911 call. “How did you know?”

              “Just a feeling. You seemed anxious while you were showing me the house.”

              This was their first moment of awkwardness all night. Camden almost brought up Michael—which would surely have brought the evening to a thudding stop. He kept quiet.

              “My father is in Chicago, consulting on a civic center.” She heaped her pillows at her back and lounged against them. “He’s been apprehensive about leaving me here alone ever since that kidnap rumor about Christopher Daley last semester.”

              “His work must be very exciting. I’d like to meet him. I want to be an architect. I like building things.”

              “Then perhaps you’d find a career in construction more rewarding.”

              “Okay, I like designing things,” he clarified. “I like the idea of creating something beautiful and functional. This place is a work of art that you can live in.” He jumped into the Pit.

              “It kinda just looks like a house from the inside, though, doesn’t it?” She nestled deeper into her pillows. “Dad kept all the weird features for the outside, to seduce an audience. It’s Lego-meets-Frank-Lloyd-Wright.”

              “Does your father know how little you appreciate his talent?”

              “Do you want to walk home tonight?”

              He grinned at her from the Pit. “I don’t want to go home at all.”

***

              He put on a Pearl Jam CD, the music pulsing from speakers concealed in the walls. He asked her about the shows she had seen in London as he leafed through her collection of
Playbills
. He started with
Ain’t Misbehavin’
. Close to midnight, he reached
The Pirates of Penzance
and his stomach grumbled.

              Yawning, she gave him permission to raid the kitchen. He went down by himself and returned with a bag of microwaved popcorn, two bright Kiku apples, two chocolate candy bars, and two cans of cola.

              Siobhan, curled up at the head of her bed, softly snored.

              Camden put the snacks on her desk. “Siobhan?”

              He never thought to wake her, nor could he turn away from her.

              Dark, thick lashes feathered above the flawless cinnamon of her cheeks. Her full, pouty lips reminded Camden of ripe raspberries. The soft lamplight painted red highlights in the silky pattern of her hair atop her ivory pillowcase. Her bed linen and décor, all warm tones of earth and spice, seemed to have been inspired by her. Awake, she was a scholar-warrior-princess whose presence electrified a room the moment she entered. Asleep, she appeared vulnerable, perhaps fragile, and younger than eighteen. And beautiful. Not photoshopped-fashion-magazine beautiful, but natural, honest, sculpted-by-the-hand-of-God beautiful.