Lark (8 page)
Authors: Tracey Porter
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Sexual Abuse, #Death & Dying, #Girls & Women
Nyetta takes us into the family room. She settles in a leather recliner shaped like the letter C. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with academic texts about antiquities and archaeology. It’s the only family room I’ve ever seen without a TV. On the side table next to her, strands of rust-colored beads hang in a clear plastic box.
“They’re mummy beads,” she says “My mother bought them when she was still in college.” She gestures toward the other display boxes encasing bronze and stone objects. “It was the first thing in her collection.”
“Whoa!” says Ian. “They must be worth a lot of money!”
“Not really,” says Nyetta. “They’re not as rare as you’d think.”
She’s quiet and composed, undisturbed by silence, content to answer my questions in a few words without asking any of her own.
“So . . .” I try again. “Do you play any sports? Take any lessons?”
“No,” she says, staring back. Her eyes are dark shiny brown like espresso beans. “I don’t even go to school anymore.”
“Why not?” I ask.
Nyetta sighs. “My mother teaches me better. Besides, I’m too tired. I can never get enough sleep.”
Ian opens the pastry box and sends a shower of sprinkles to the floor. Nyetta jumps out of her chair
“Why did you do that?” she demands. “We can’t eat those here! We never eat in this room!”
Ian picks up the sprinkles one by one, then we follow Nyetta to the breakfast room, where we pass around the box of cupcakes and begin to eat. Nyetta’s mom pours tall glasses of milk and leaves. We sit at a yellow Formica table, silently eating. Nyetta chooses the chocolate truffle cupcake. She licks at the frosting like a cat. I choose the cupcake with the lost sprinkles. Ian makes half of his red velvet cupcake disappear in one bite.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me at Lark’s house. About how she used to visit you because she wanted you to see . . .”
“I can’t talk about that here,” whispers Nyetta.
“Why not?” I ask.
“
My mother
,” she mouths, and twirls an index finger at the side of her temple.
“She’ll go crazy.”
“Can we talk somewhere else?” whispers Ian.
Nyetta nods.
“Is there anyplace you want to go?” I ask.
“The Hello Kitty store,” she says.
Between aisles of shelves filled with Hello Kitty pillows, alarm clocks, and stationery, Nyetta tells Ian how Lark used to visit her and now she doesn’t anymore because she got fed up with her cowardice.
“Plus, she’s almost a tree,” she says. She talks about how girls can turn into trees if no one finds out what happened to them. “And it’s not what they want. They hate being trees. All of them do. And there isn’t much time before it happens to Lark. But I couldn’t do it. So you and Eve have to. You got to see where the knife went in.” She points to her left. “It went in here.”
A giant plush Hello Kitty sits in the corner of the store. She’s dressed in a flowered kimono, surrounded by dozens of tiny clones. Nyetta sits in the huge white cat’s lap and throws her arms around it. Ian takes a picture with his phone. “I’ll email it to you,” he says.
The jewelry counter glitters with Hello Kitty lockets, charm bracelets, and rings. I help Nyetta try on a pink watch. It blazes with crystals and has Hello Kitty faces instead of numbers. Tiny cats bob to and fro nodding yes.
“Twelve happy cats,” says Ian.
Nyetta puts it up to her ear. “It has a good tick,” she says.
She opens her purse, pulls out the different bills stuffed inside, and counts.
“Do you have enough?” I ask. “If not, I can lend you some.”
She takes off the watch and gives it back to the salesperson.
“That’s okay,” she says, looking down at her clasped hands.
“I’m sure your mom would pay me back,” I say.
“Let’s go,” she says. “I don’t really want it.”
TRIAL BEGINS FOR FAIRFAX MAN ACCUSED OF MURDERING ARLINGTON GIRL
APRIL 10: Opening statements begin tomorrow in the trial of a Fairfax man accused of murdering Lark Austin, a 16-year-old Jefferson High School student.
Stephen Blaire, 29, is charged with kidnapping, assault, and first-degree murder. The girl was last seen the evening of January 23 in the lobby of the Virginia Gymnastics Academy, where she was waiting to be picked up by her father. She died in the early hours of January 24 of exposure, during the area’s first major snowstorm. Two days later her body was found tied to a tree in Potomac Overlook Park.
Arlington police say Blaire abducted the girl at knifepoint after luring her into his car at approximately 7:30 p.m. on January 23. He then drove her to Potomac Overlook Park, where he beat, stabbed, and sexually assaulted her. Prosecutors claim strong forensic evidence proves Blaire’s guilt.
The trial is expected to last three or four days.
First-degree murder and sexual assault carry a mandatory life sentence in the state of Virginia.
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For once my mom drives me to Hallie’s instead of having my dad get me. She even walks me up to the house and says hello to Zeke when he opens the door.
“Oh, hi,” says Hallie, smiling as she bounds down the stairs. She’s in another yoga outfit. Lavender and pink. The gold Buddha dances on her necklace. Her curls bounce.
“Hello,” my mother answers. She’s professional and polite. Short hair and trousers. Black turtleneck. Practical watch. It’s April, and she’s wearing sunglasses. I can’t believe my father married both of these women. I’ve seen pictures of the weddings. My mom and dad in a church. Hallie and my dad in someone’s backyard. My mother didn’t want me to go. She said it would be too much for me. Anders and Zeke were the ring bearers. Hallie didn’t wear white, but I guess that’s because she was married before. Her first husband died.
Hallie tells Zeke to take my overnight bag to “Nyetta’s room,” and I can feel my mother tense up. She’s sending out electrical impulses only I can read.
She’s my daughter! My daughter! She doesn’t have a room in your house!
“Enjoy the weekend,” she tells me.
“Thanks for driving,” says Hallie. “And don’t forget Sunday dinner! See you at six!”
The door slams and my mother stamps to the street. Her car takes off.
“Sunday dinner?” I ask, stunned. “All of us?”
“Yes. Sunday dinner. Family dinner.”
“But we aren’t a family,” I say.
“Sure we are,” says Hallie. “I’m making polenta.”
I drift about the house, wondering where Hallie got such a weird idea and when my dad will be back from the store, feeling as tired as I’ve ever been in my whole life. I fall into the fluffy couch in front of the big-screen TV. Pillows pin me down like sandbags. The Disney Channel blares. Anders and Zeke sit directly in front of the screen, cross-legged, transfixed by lemurs and spider monkeys. Hallie sets up a little table for me with a cup of tea and a plate of gingersnaps.
“I want some!” Anders yells.
“Use your manners and I’ll see.”
“Nyetta didn’t use her manners,” says Zeke. “She didn’t even ask for cookies.”
“Nyetta’s tired,” says Hallie. “She’s been through a lot.”
“Lucky!” says Zeke.
“No,” says Hallie. “Not lucky.” She puts her hand on my forehead, slides it to my cheek, checking for fever. “But things are getting better. I can feel it.”
Inside the courtroom, fluorescent lights glare from the dropped white ceiling. I blink to refocus, trying to make out the faces of the jury in the blur. Lawyers scribble notes and tap on their laptops. They take out papers from one file and shuffle them into another. The jury seems tired. They swivel in their chairs or stare at the ceiling. The judge looks on, his chin propped up with his hand, his body swallowed in his black robe.
Ian holds my hand while the prosecutor opens his case. He tells the jury about the fibers found in Blaire’s apartment and car and how they match those found on Lark’s clothes.
“And that’s not all,” he tells the jury. He paces and gestures, drops his head for dramatic effect. “DNA evidence links Lark’s blood to a knife found in his apartment, the very knife that he used to stab her here. . . .”
The lawyer taps the left side of his chest, the same place where Nyetta says Lark was stabbed, where Nyetta said the wound is, the one she had to see so Lark wouldn’t turn into a tree. I shudder and feel sick. Ian and I turn to each other. It’s true. What Nyetta told us is true.
We stay all day, listening to details of Lark’s death, how the knife collapsed her lung, how semen was found on her leg, how her body entered hypothermia stage two, how her skin turned puffy and blue in stage three, how it took hours to die.
I listen to everything, storing facts in one corner of my brain while another remembers the last time I saw her alive, lumbering up her driveway days before she died. I was upstairs in my room, drawing windmills and empty fields, lonely farmhouses, canals lined with bare trees. A landscape I don’t even know.
LarkLarkLarkLarkLarkLarkLarkLarkLark . . .
Her name pulses in my head like a heartbeat. Memories and images fall into slots. I see her pour her body into a perfect back dive, entering the clear blue water with barely a splash. I see our footprints in the mud, her damp hair hanging down her back as she runs in front of me. Smells of sunscreen and cut grass waft through the woods. Only a few feet away was where she would die.
* * *
Days later, after the evidence, the testimonies, the witnesses, and the questions, after the closing arguments and the guilty verdict, I take Ian to the place in the woods where Lark and I used to throw stones at the islands. Thousands and thousands of tight little buds burst above us on silvery branches. Here and there, between outcroppings of rock, bright shoots sprout, bold and insistent. We wander the woods, trying to find the exact tree where she died. We place our hands on one after another, feeling deep into the tiny ridges of bark for her pulse.
“Here!” calls Ian.
A tall elm clings to bare rock. Roots snake between stone and bury themselves deep in the earth. I put my hands next to his.
“Look,” he says.
I peer into the bark and there she is, her face through the wood. She’s startled and fraught, like she’s been grabbed by the hair or caught in a trap. Her eyes stare into mine. Her breath rasps. Her heart beats faint and fast beneath my hands.
“We know, Lark,” I say. “Let go of Nyetta. Let us be the ones to set you free.”