Allison (A Kane Novel) (2 page)

Three quarters of an hour after starting out, following a final sprint along a dirt path paralleling Sunset, I returned to my dorm.  Dripping sweat, I punched the entry code into the keypad outside and opened the front door.  By then Mrs. Random, a prim woman in her early forties, was working at her desk in the housemother’s office, just off the entry.  She glanced up from her paperwork as I stepped inside.

“Morning, Mrs. Random,” I said, trying to sound cheery.

“Good morning, Allison.  How was your run?”

“Great.”

Peering over half-moon glasses, the older woman studied me thoughtfully.  “For the life of me, Ali, I don’t understand all this exercise you do,” she said.  “I realize you have more energy than any other three girls here put together, but you already have a perfect figure for a young woman your age, and—”

“I just like doing it,” I interrupted.  Although I knew she meant well, we had tilled this ground before, and I knew no good would come of it,.  Actually, I liked Mrs. Random a lot, for despite her strict demeanor, the housemother cared about all the girls living under her charge, including me, and had proved it many times.

“Hmmph.”

“Why don’t you join me sometime?” I offered with a grin.  “Who knows?  You might enjoy it.”

Mrs. Random frowned, clearly peeved at having her advice go unheeded.  “I don’t think so, dear,” she replied, pursing her lips like a disapproving librarian.  “Don’t wake the other girls on your way up.”

“I won’t,” I promised.  “I’m going to fix some tea,” I added.  “Maybe some breakfast, too.  Want me to make you anything?”

“I don’t think so, Ali,” she answered, finally gracing me with a smile.  “I’ve already had my coffee.  But thanks.”

After returning to my room, I stripped off my running clothes, showered, and pulled on a thick pair of socks and a terrycloth robe.  Still drying my hair with a towel, I descended to the first-floor kitchen.  Meals, normally provided to house residents during the school year for an all-inclusive boarding fee, had been suspended until fall, but students staying over the summer still had refrigerator and hotplate privileges.  I put a kettle of water on to boil and rummaged hopefully through my assigned section of the refrigerator, coming up with a partial package of bagels and an apple that somehow the other girls hadn’t pilfered.  Although each student was responsible for her own food, in actuality the refrigerator was considered fair game by most, especially late at night, and I was pleasantly surprised to find anything left at all.  Resolving to eat a more substantial lunch at the student union after my literature class, I toasted two of the remaining bagels and brewed a cup of peppermint tea, sweetening it with a teaspoon of honey.

Food in hand, I returned to my room and plopped down at my desk.  There, after booting up my laptop, I worked steadily for the next hour roughing out a first draft of the
Daily Bruin
piece.  Deciding I would have plenty of time for a rewrite and polish over the weekend, I next turned to a project with which I had been struggling for the past two years:  my novel.  A world apart from the school newspaper articles and a handful of short stories I’d had published, my novel had undergone interminable rounds of revisions, each new draft seeming to engender a host of previously undiscovered problems.  Glumly, I suspected that the revision process could go on forever.

So what if it does? I thought, my mood plummeting as I highlighted and then deleted a paragraph that yesterday I had struggled hours to write.  No one’s ever going to read this anyway.

So why am I writing it? I wondered.

As usual, no answer came.

At 9:45 AM I glanced at the clock, surprised to see so much time had slipped by.  After saving my work, I closed the computer.  If I hurried, I would just have time to make it to class.  Rummaging through my dresser, I selected a clean white blouse, fresh underwear and bra, and a faded pair of jeans.  As I slipped out of my robe and began pulling on my clothes, my cell phone rang.  I hesitated, then crossed to the bed.  Retrieving my cell phone from my jacket pocket, I answered on the sixth ring.  “Hello?”

“Hi.  I’d like to order a super large deluxe pizza,” a girl’s voice announced on the other end.  “Sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms, and extra cheese.  And throw in a six-pack of beer, too.”

“McKenzie!”

“Home from Dartmouth at last.”

I finished wiggling into my jeans, phone wedged between my shoulder and chin.  McKenzie Philips and I had grown up together, been best friends for most of our childhood, and gone off to college at the same time—she on scholarship to Dartmouth, I to UCLA.  Though we hadn’t seen much of each other since, our friendship was one we could pick up exactly where we’d left off, no matter how much time had passed.  “When did you get back?” I asked, buttoning my blouse and jamming my feet into my tennis shoes.

“I’ve been home awhile now.  Sorry I didn’t call earlier.  My parents dragged me down to Newport Beach for our annual family vacation.  Ugh.  We just got back.”

“How was it?”

“Newport?  Actually, great,” answered McKenzie.  “Matter of fact, I met a drop-dead gorgeous lifeguard there over Fourth of July weekend.  His name is Jeff, and he works at the Wedge,” she added, referring to a popular bodysurfing spot at the tip of the Balboa Peninsula, forty miles south of Los Angeles.  “I’m heading down there this morning to meet him.  Why don’t you join me?  Maybe he can find a friend for you.”

“I’d love to, but—”

“C’mon, Ali.  It’s a beautiful day, and I hear that big surf is hitting the coast.”

“Mac, I have a class at ten.”

“It’s summer.  You’re getting your usual straight A’s, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing.  Missing one class won’t kill you.  Besides, I need another body in the front seat so I can use the carpool lane.”

“I knew there had to be a reason you called,” I noted dryly.

“I’m serious, Ali, and I’m not taking no for an answer.  Look out your window.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Puzzled, I walked to the window and gazed down at the street.  Angled into a no-parking zone out front was a powder-blue VW convertible.  McKenzie was sitting behind the steering wheel, grinning up at me from the car her father had bought her as a high school graduation present.  She waved.  “I don’t have all morning,” she said, speaking into her cell phone.  “Get down here.”

“I’m tempted, Mac.  But I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.  We’re going.”

“Mac . . .”

C’mon, Ali.  We haven’t seen each other since Christmas, and we have a lot of catching up to do.  Am I going to have to come up there and drag you out?”

I hesitated a moment more, then smiled in resignation.  I knew from experience that when McKenzie made up her mind, there was little use arguing.  “You win,” I sighed.  “I suppose I can get today’s lecture notes from someone in class.  Gimme a sec to change.”

After swapping my school clothes for a one-piece Speedo swimsuit, a pair of sweats, and sandals, I grabbed my surfing fins and a beach towel and headed for the door.  When I arrived outside, McKenzie smiled at me warmly.  “Great to see you, Ali,” she said, reaching across to open her passenger door.

“You, too,” I shot back, feeling like a kid playing hooky as I climbed in.  McKenzie was wearing an abbreviated pair of shorts and a sleeveless blouse over a red bikini top.  As usual, she looked stunning, but something about her had changed.  McKenzie had always been a head-turner, but over the past year she had transformed in some way I couldn’t quite define.  Though she still parted her dark, shoulder-length hair in the center, neatly framing her amber eyes, patrician nose, and generous mouth, there was something different about her.  A moment later I had it.  Always a bit on the shy side, McKenzie now seemed to exude an aura of confidence that I wished I felt in myself.  “How’s school going?” I asked, stifling a tinge of envy.

With a perfunctory glance over her shoulder, McKenzie slipped the VW into gear and executed an illegal U-turn that sent us south on Hilgard toward Westwood.  “My design and architecture courses are going fairly well,” she answered with a shrug, selecting an oldies station on the radio and turning up the volume.  “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for my science classes.  Plus my love life is almost nonexistent.  Wayne and I broke up last month.”

“I’ll notify the media.”

“Nonetheless, I
do
have prospects,” McKenzie added cheerfully, ignoring my sarcasm.  “Lifeguard Jeff, for instance.  How about you?  Anyone special?”

“Nope.”

“Who are you going out with?”

“Whom.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.”

McKenzie groaned.  “Ali . . .”

“
Whom
are you going out with,” I corrected, attempting to dodge her question.  “Even better, ‘Whom are you seeing?’ would eliminate that nasty dangling preposition.”

“Thank you, Ms. Perfect English.  I’ve missed your enflamed sense of grammar.  Okay,
whom
are you seeing?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“I’m not dating much, Mac.  Actually, I’m not dating at all.  I don’t have time.”

“Don’t have time?  Ali, sometimes I think you’re afraid of men.”

I felt myself flush.  “That’s not it,” I said, realizing that my friend had struck closer to the truth than she knew.  With the exception of my parents and a rape-counseling therapist, I had never told anyone about my attack, not even McKenzie.

“What, then?  You don’t like fraternity guys?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I scowled, trying to hide my embarrassment.  Thankful that McKenzie had her eyes on the road and not on me, I replied, “Well, for one thing, most of them display an intellectual maturity somewhere in the range of broccoli—not to mention being about as subtle as a pair of brass knuckles.  Or as romantic as a love scene from
Alien
,” I added, warming to the subject.  “By the way, I’m an English major, so don’t try to use those similes at home.”

“As usual, you’re letting your brain do too much of your thinking, Ali—especially when it comes to men,” McKenzie said as we turned right on Wilshire and took the 405 Freeway on-ramp south.  By then rush hour traffic had thinned a bit, but even at 10 AM, commuters still crowded the highway.  After negotiating the Santa Monica Freeway Interchange and proceeding south, McKenzie edged into the 405 carpool lane and picked up speed.  “I simply think a little romance in your life might be a welcome improvement,” she added.

“As I said, I don’t have time for that right now.”

“So make time.  And don’t tell me you’re not interested.  Remember that short story you wrote about a blind girl falling in love for the first time?  It was so romantic, I cried at the end.  What was the title?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Sure you do.  Your main character went through all these changes, only to finally discover what she truly wanted in life was to have someone who really
knew
her—what food she liked, her taste in music, what side of the bed she slept on, how to make her laugh.  In the end, she realized that sharing herself with someone was the one thing that could make her feel complete.”

“She was a character in a story, Mac.  A
short
story.  Perfect for people like you with short attention spans.”

“But you said that when you write, you put parts of yourself into your work.”

“It was just a story,” I insisted.

“Well, I think it’s a big contradiction for someone to be able to write so movingly about something they don’t feel themselves.  It doesn’t make sense.”

“Life doesn’t make sense.  And contradictions make characters interesting.”

“In fiction, maybe.  In real life, contradictions lead to trouble.”  Then, noting my darkening mood, McKenzie finally relented.  “So you’re off to USC this fall?”

“Right,” I replied, grateful for the change of subject.  “UCLA doesn’t have an undergraduate journalism curriculum, and USC does.  I can transfer most of my lower division credits and still graduate in four years.  Tuition’s considerably more at SC, but my folks have worked it out.”

“Your dad’s borrowing on the beach house?”

“He planned to, but Grandma Dorothy offered to help—at which point my mom unilaterally accepted.  Dadzilla wanted to handle everything himself, of course, but even he knows better than to tangle with Mom and Grandma at the same time.  He didn’t take kindly to being overruled, however.”

“I can picture it now,” laughed McKenzie.  Then, keeping her voice light, “When you start at SC, will you be seeing much of Trav?” she asked, referring to my older brother Travis, who was attending USC on a music scholarship.

I shrugged.  “More than I see of him now, I suppose.  For the past two summers the Kane family prodigy has been touring on his Van Cliburn recitals, leaving for parts unknown the minute school lets out.  Right now genius boy is in Washington, D.C., preparing for a concert with the National Symphony Orchestra.”

McKenzie nodded.  “On my way to your dorm this morning, I stopped by the beach house.  Speaking of which, the rebuilt version looks terrific.  Not as much character as your old house before the fire, but it’s great,” she added.

I remained silent at McKenzie’s mention of the fire, for the second time that morning finding my thoughts venturing into territory I didn’t want to revisit.

“Anyhow, while I was there, your mom told me about Trav’s concert,” McKenzie went on.  “You’re going?”

“Uh-huh.  Mom and I are catching an early flight to D.C. next weekend.  Which reminds me.  Now that you’ve broken up with your college flame, do you want me to tell Trav you’re available?”

“Don’t you dare!” McKenzie squealed.

I grinned.  McKenzie had been sweet on Travis in high school, and I knew she still wasn’t over her crush.  “Whatever you say, Mac.”

“Your mom invited me to a barbecue at the beach house tonight,” McKenzie continued, trying to cover her outburst.  “Will you be there?”

“Yep.  My dad’s cooking.  There’s no way I’m going to miss one of his meals.”

McKenzie smiled.  “Me, neither.”

As we drove south under a cloudless Southern California sky, the high-rise condos and office buildings of Westwood gradually surrendered to a succession of retail businesses, warehouses, and car dealerships lining the freeway from West Los Angeles to Orange County.  Continuing our rambling conversation, McKenzie and I brought each other up-to-date on our lives.  Forty minutes later, still engaged in our nonstop exchange, we exited the freeway on Brookhurst and turned left on the 101 coastal route.  A few miles farther on, as we swung right on Balboa Boulevard, a newsbreak came on the radio.