The Survivors (8 page)

“Did you ask the coach about playing some of the high school girls to make sure you're being challenged?” he inquires. He ignores Sarah.

“She said ‘Maybe,'” Mackenzie replies.

Sarah stands behind Mackenzie like a knob on the side door. Mitzy is sniffing and sniffing her shoes—and starts to growl.

“Stop that, Mitzy!” Mackenzie says. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

“Clearly you're not being assertive enough,” her father responds. “I'll call your coach this week.”

“So,” Mackenzie's mother interrupts. “Mackenzie tells me she's met a new friend.”

Sarah smiles shyly.

“Hi there, Sarah,” she says. “I'm Jane. This is Mackenzie's dad, Bill. Please, come in.”

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Phelps,” Sarah says as she shakes hands with each of them.

“Just Bill and Jane,” Sarah's mom says with a smile. Bill Phelps has thick fingers with hair on the backs of them. Jane is tidy and fit, a woman who has time to work out and get her short blond hair done. It's shiny and looks stiff.

“And where are you from?” Bill asks. He doesn't smile as easily as Mackenzie's mother.

Sarah goes through her open enrollment, school transfer thing. She's getting better and better at lying.

“Do you do sports?” he asks.

“Not really,” Sarah answers.

“You'd be good at tennis,” Mackenzie says. “You should try it.”

Bill Phelps gives his daughter a what-a-dumb-thing-to-say look. Mackenzie quickly looks down. Then he laughs as if Mackenzie was joking. “It's not like you can just pick up a racket and play,” he says to Sarah. “All my kids grew up hitting tennis balls. It's why they're so good—right, honey?”

Mackenzie doesn't answer.

“And you live outside of town?” Jane asks Sarah—as if to change the subject.

“That's right.”

“On a lake?” Jane asks.

“Yes.” It's sort of true.

“That must be nice,” she says with a glance toward her husband. “There are some beautiful lake homes around here.”

“Do you have a big house?” Mackenzie asks.

“Not really,” Sarah says, pretending mock embarrassment. “It's more of a summer place.”

As dinner proceeds, there is less focus on Sarah. Sitting at an actual dinner table with soft chairs gradually makes Sarah weepy. To get a grip she says, “The hot dish is excellent.” Actually it's long on cheese and short on meat, but she feels as if she needs to say something polite.

Mackenzie's mom is pleased. “Thank you, dear.” She passes the bowl back to Sarah. “Mackenzie just never eats enough. It's so nice to have a hungry girl at the table.”

“What lake do you live on again?” Bill asks abruptly.

“Actually, it's the river,” Sarah says. “The Mississippi.”

“I see,” he says, nodding. “Judge Lawrence and his wife have a big house out on the Mississippi. Do you know them?”

“Sorry, no,” Sarah answers.

“Excellent judge. Great people. Sound family values.”

“Have you found a church yet? A congregation here in town?” Jane asks Sarah.

“Not yet. We're still—sort of—getting settled,” Sarah says.

“Well, there are many nice church groups in town,” Mackenzie's mother says. “You'll have to visit our church—it's the biggest one, just east of town?”

Sarah nods. “I'll mention it to my parents.”

“And what do they do?” Bill asks. Jane shoots him a slightly annoyed glance.

“My father's … retired. My mother is a literary agent, so she can work from home. From anywhere, really.”

“We'd love to meet them. Do you have brothers or sisters?” Jane asks cheerfully.

“I'm an only child,” Sarah says, then take a big gulp of her milk—and scrunches up her face. This milk tastes thin and watery, and maybe it's her imagination, but she thinks she can taste chemicals.

Mackenzie's mother frowns. “That must be lonely. Mackenzie has two older brothers in college. They were both all-state in tennis,” she adds. She scoops more of the casserole onto Mackenzie's plate. Mackenzie makes a face and pushes away her plate.

“In any case, we'd love to meet your parents!” Jane says again.

The Friday-night football game is preceded by a giant Zamboni-like machine, really a huge vacuum cleaner that makes steady passes up and down the field. It leaves strips of brighter green grass in its wake. The dust is bad lately. Coughing up and down the bleachers has a ragged rhythm like acorns falling onto a roof. However, on this small-town Friday night with football under the lights, the high school band thumps loudly, the cheerleaders bounce and cartwheel, and the crowd cheers—though voices are muffled behind dust masks. Sarah follows Mackenzie to a group of girls high up in the bleachers. “It's important to see over the back so we know who's coming and going,” Mackenzie explains.

Just before the game starts, Sarah looks over her shoulder and down. Something just made her look. Ray is staring up at her. His earbuds are in, but he's focused on her.

He waves.

She swallows, then discreetly lifts her chin.

He is holding two bags of popcorn, one of which he holds up to her.

Sarah turns quickly back to the other girls.

“What?” Mackenzie asks. She has major radar.

“Nothing.” Sarah sits for a moment. “Actually, are the bathrooms down there?”

“Somebody go with Sarah and show her the can,” Mackenzie says, and there is laughter.

“I will, I will,” chirp a couple of voices, including Rachel's.

“No—you'll miss the kickoff. I can find it myself.” With that, Sarah trots down the metal steps just as the national anthem starts: perfect timing, as none of the girls get up and follow her.

Behind the grandstand bleachers, Ray is nowhere to be seen. Which is fine, because Rachel, hand over her heart and singing the anthem, is looking over her shoulder and down at Sarah.

Sarah waves and continues toward the concession stand and restroom building.

Ray is leaning against a large wooden post, waiting for her. His ever-present sketch pad is tucked behind his belt; a pencil point pokes out of the dark hair over his right ear. From behind his back, he whips out two little brown bags and holds out one to her. “Popcorn?”

“Maybe,” Sarah says. “Though how do I know it doesn't have some sort of date drug?”

Ray grins. “Here's mine; we'll switch.”

“That old switch-the-popcorn-bag trick,” Sarah says as she takes his.

They stand munching their popcorn like crazy so they don't have to talk.

“So where are all your friends tonight?” Sarah asks.

Ray shrugs. “They're not big football fans.”

“So what brings you here?”

“Well. To be honest …” Suddenly Ray gags—then coughs and expels a white bullet of popcorn. “Jeez, sorry!” He covers his mouth, and his face reddens.

“The old choke-on-the-popcorn trick,” Sarah says.

Ray's dark eyes shine; they make Sarah's face feel warm.

“No kilt tonight?” She glances down at his jeans.

“It gets cold later,” Ray says, “if you know what I mean.”

“Let's not go there,” Sarah says. It's her turn to grin stupidly and look away.

“Actually, I wear the kilt just to annoy Mr. James, the school principal. Drives him crazy.”

“How so?”

“Enforcing the school dress codes is his life's ambition. He called me in right away the first day of school about my kilt and threatened to send me home. But I was way ahead of him—I had the papers,” Ray says.

“Papers?”

“If you have a Scottish family name, there's a particular plaid that belongs to your clan. I had the list that proved it, so he had to let me go. But he was steamed, let me tell you.”

Sarah glances over her shoulder toward the bleachers. Rays starts munching popcorn again. “So tell me about your family,” she says.

“Pretty generic,” Ray says. “One older brother. My mom's an artist—which is sort of where I got hooked on drawing, I guess—and my dad's a nurse at the hospital. I work there, too, about twenty hours a week.”

“So you're an artist and a doctor?” Sarah teases.

“I wish. My dad got me a janitor's job. I'm one of the swing-shift guys who do floors. What about your family?”

She gives him the short version: transfer student on open enrollment, her family's summer place “on the lake,” a phrase that everybody in Minnesota understands. “My mom's an editor and a literary agent, and my dad's a musician,” she says.

“A musician? Cool,” Ray says.

“Sort of a musician,” she says quickly. “More like wants to be a musician. Someday.”

“What does he play?”

She hesitates a second. “Piano,” she says.

Ray nods. “My mom's a sculptor. She makes these wild things out of found material. She won't use anything new—it has to be thrown-away stuff.”

“Cool,” Sarah says.

They're standing really close now.

“I'd better get back,” Sarah says.

The skin on Ray's forehead bunches. “Before you do, tell me again why you hang out with Mackenzie?”

“Why do you hang out with your friends?” she replies.

“Mackenzie's not your friend. The only friend Mackenzie has is Mackenzie.”

“I've gotta go. Really.”

“See you in school?” Ray says.

“I guess.”

“What I meant was will you talk to me in school?”

“Sure,” Sarah says evasively.

“No, I mean
talk
talk. Like we are now.”

“Sure. That is, if I have no aftereffects from the popcorn you gave me.” They hug briefly, clumsily, and then Sarah hurries away.

Back in the bleachers, Mackenzie is overly focused on the game.

“There goes Django!” Rachel says as a receiver races for a pass—and gathers it in. The crowd cheers. Django breaks loose for a few yards but is tackled; he goes down in a pile of players and a faint cloud of dust.

“What's the score?” Sarah says brightly.

Mackenzie is silent. Then she turns to Sarah. “Were you talking to that creepy Ray?”

Sarah clears her throat. “Yeah. Sort of. We were both getting some popcorn, so, you know, it's not like I could avoid him.”

“Right,” Mackenzie says flatly. Her eyes turn back to the game.

“Want some?” Sarah asks, holding out the bag.

Mackenzie ignores the popcorn. “Ray O'Keefe is from this really crazy family. They live in this little house right in town. His dad bikes everywhere, even in winter, and his mom is this old hippie or something. They're, like, totally poor.”

Back at Mackenzie's house they get ready for bed. Mackenzie's room is nearly half the size of the cabin and has its own bathroom. Mackenzie and Rachel go in to brush their teeth, and Sarah goes to wash in the hall bathroom. She takes her time, washing her face and then running the warm water over her hands for a few extra minutes, savoring the luxury of indoor plumbing. Of hot water.

Heading back to Mackenzie's room, she pauses in the hallway before a wall full of family photographs, all framed. Mackenzie's brothers in their letter jackets. Mackenzie with her tennis racket. The entire family posed together in the backyard, smiling and happy. All the pictures look so … normal. So BV.

When Sarah returns to the bedroom, Mackenzie and Rachel are sprawled on the queen-size bed poring over their sixth-grade yearbook. “Come on, Sarah,” Mackenzie says. “This will be very educational for you.” Rachel giggles. Mackenzie starts flipping pages and pointing to pictures; her mood has improved.

“That's Dylan,” she says, pointing to a skinny boy with his hair in his eyes. “He was a total loser last year; but he sits behind me in algebra this year, and I noticed that he got cute over the summer.”

“I always thought he was cute,” says Rachel, staring at the picture.

“Really, Rachel,” Mackenzie says. “You have such low expectations.”

“And there's Kara Lindberg,” Rachel says. “Remember her?”

“Ick,” Mackenzie says with a shudder. “She and her family came here last fall from Colorado. Her parents lost their jobs after the volcanoes and then their house was foreclosed on, so they had to move.”

“That's horrible,” Sarah says quickly.

Mackenzie shrugs. “They were camping in the state park here. She had to shower in the school locker room.”

“No way!” Sarah says, as if that was totally disgusting.