Secrets Page 5

  He gripped my shoulder. “Was she sick? She didn’t seem sick or anything when I saw her.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know who to call to find out what happened. She never talked about any family except a brother, and I think he’s dead.”

  “Do you want me to get dressed, or . . .” Darrell searched my face.

  “No, thanks. Stay and swim. I think I’ll go home and see if I can go into work early. Get my mind off of it.” I turned back toward the locker room.

  “Sure. Take it easy. I’ll talk to you later.” Darrell’s words faded behind me.

  That night, Darrell phoned me as I got ready for bed. “Hey, man, how’re you doin’?”

  “All right, I guess.” I chipped at some of Miss Vivian’s white house paint still stuck under a corner of a fingernail.

  “Sorry, but I’ve got more bad news.”

  “What?” Not that it would matter, unless somebody else I knew had died.

  “The pool’s closing.”

  I huffed. “So? Summer’s almost over.”

  “No, I mean for good.”

  I sat down. “Really? Why? It’s been there as long as I can remember.”

  “Some rich person had been donating to keep it open, and they’re not doing it anymore. ’Course, we won’t be using it much longer, but . . .”

  “Yeah, the other kids coming up in the neighborhood need it.”

  “To keep ’em outta trouble like it did for us.” Darrell’s voice held a softness that was new to me.

  “Maybe somebody else will step up by next year and keep it open.” And maybe I’d be that somebody one day, if I got through college and earned some real money.

  “Maybe.” Darrell’s voice brightened. “Hey, guess what? I got a check in the mail.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Now don’t freak out when I tell you who it’s from.”

  “Okay.” To my knowledge, nobody had ever sent Darrell a check for anything, not even for his birthday or Christmas.

  “It’s from Miss Vivian.”

  A sensation like electricity shot through my brain, and I couldn’t speak.

  “Hello?”

  I blinked hard. “Sorry. I’m here.”

  “It’s dated from right after we finished painting her house. Somebody must’ve mailed it for her later.”

  “That would make sense.” So there was someone close to her, somewhere. If only I could find that person to ask some questions. Maybe I could call the real estate company selling her house?

  “And get this. The check is for two hundred dollars!”

  My body jerked, and envy oozed into my consciousness. That was a lot of money—more than I would’ve expected her to have. She paid him that kind of money after I worked so hard for free? And then had to go to work at my real job afterward?

  I sighed. I didn’t do it for the money, and Miss Vivian never twisted my arm to do any of those chores for her. I wanted to do them.

  “Well?” Darrell sounded so happy, and he needed the money more than I did.

  “That’s great, Darrell. I’m really glad for you, but I’m worn out. I gotta go.”

  “Sure, man. Can we go to the pool together tomorrow or the next day? One last time? Like old times.”

  “Yeah. We will. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  The next morning, the doorbell woke me with a start.

  Ugh. The angle the sun was shining through my window told me that Mom and Dad had already gone to work. I untangled myself from the covers and got up.

  Yawning, I peered through a living room window. A guy in a black suit holding a briefcase stood on the front porch. A nice car was parked in front.

  Probably harmless. I opened the door.

  “Are you Elijah Brown?”

  “Yeah. Can I help you?” I ran my hands over my face.

  The man introduced himself and handed me a business card. “I’m the executor for the will of Miss Vivian Williams.”

  My eyebrows shot up. What did this have to do with me? I was fully awake at last.

  He showed no emotion. “Do you have any ID to prove who you are?”

  “I think so. Sure. Just a minute.”

  I returned with my last student ID and handed it to him.

  He looked it over and handed it back. “That’ll do. Thank you. May we sit down?”

  “Yes, sir. Come in. Sorry, but I just woke up.” I led him inside and showed him a chair.

  He sat and unlatched his briefcase on his lap. “Did you know much about Miss Williams?”

  I shook my head as I sat on the end of the sofa. “What happened to her? I asked around, but nobody knew.”

  The man’s expression softened. “She wasn’t feeling well one day and called an ambulance, but she passed away before they reached the hospital. Heart attack.”

  My stomach flipped. “Oh. That’s awful.” Poor Miss Vivian. All alone and having to call the ambulance herself. If only I could’ve been with her that day.

  “She had no living family, but she remembered in her will the people who’d been good to her. She apparently thought you were one of them, and she wanted you to have this.” He handed me a clear-front wooden box containing a silver medal on a ribbon.

  Wait a second! “This is U.S. Nationals medal.”

  He nodded but kept a businesslike expression. “Yes, it is. For swimming.”

  My mouth gaped open as I removed and held the heavy, shiny thing. That weak little old lady had been a powerful swimmer? No wonder she was so interested in me going to the pool.

  “She also wanted you to have this.” He handed me a photograph.

  A muscled young girl with dark hair and dark eyes smiled as she proudly wore the medal.

  “Wow.” I sniffed and wiped the corners of my eyes. What d’ya know, Miss Vivian.

  “And this.” He held out a white envelope.

  I took it and looked at him.

  “Please open it.”

  I ripped the end open and slid out its contents. A check. The biggest check I’d ever seen or had ever hoped to see. One that would cover four years of college tuition and maybe a whole lot more.

  Like keeping a pool open.

  ###

  Characters that are diverse in color, culture, and physical abilities live in Cynthia Toney’s novels and in her first published short story, “Recreation,” part of the Secrets anthology. Elijah and his friend Darrell were inspired by teens of African and Vietnamese descent that grew up in Louisiana while the author lived there. Readers unfamiliar with the southern U.S. states may not be aware that the neighborhoods, towns, and cities are quite a mix of interesting cultures, more so than some other areas of the country with which she’s become acquainted. In addition to teens of those origins, readers of Toney’s fiction will find Italian immigrants, Latino characters, deaf teens, and—coming soon—Jewish teens.

  ~~†~~

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CYNTHIA T. TONEY writes for preteens and teens because she wants them to know how wonderful, powerful, and valuable God made them. Her novels employ hope and humor to address some of the serious issues young people encounter.

  Cynthia is the author of the Bird Face contemporary series, including 8 Notes to a Nobody, 10 Steps to Girlfriend Status, 6 Dates to Disaster, and soon, 3 Things to Forget. A coming-of-age historical, The Other Side of Freedom, is set in a 1920s farming community. Her novels have appeared on numerous Catholic bloggers’ Top 5, 10, or 20 book lists and favorites lists. They have also been featured in Catholic Teacher magazine.

  She is a member of the Catholic Writers Guild and whichever author association or writing guild is available in the state in which she might currently reside, which so far has stretched across the southern U.S. to Texas. She has a passion for rescuing dogs from animal shelters and lives with her husband and several canines. She loves hearing from readers, who can connect with her through her website, www.CynthiaTToney.com.

  Contemporary

  3

&n
bsp; THE PORTRAIT OF THE FIRE STARTERS

  by Theresa Linden

  Five after seven, Caitlyn Summer clutched her purse strap to her shoulder and hiked up her long skirt. She raced down a hallway in St. Michael’s High School. Late again. Why couldn’t Mom get her anywhere on time? To get things moving faster, Caitlyn had even helped her younger sisters with their homework, fed her little brother a snack, and changed the baby’s diaper. Mom and Dad had been deep in conversation about the budget and juggling the bills.

  She turned a corner and glimpsed her destination, the teachers’ lounge. The Catholic teen group, the Fire Starters, met there once or twice a week. Light—but no voices—came from the room. Strange. She usually heard them as soon as she stepped inside the school building, especially the loudmouths like Peter Brandt and his friends.

  A boy’s blond head peeked out of the room. Peter Brandt. “What, did you get lost on the way here? Hurry up, pokey!”

  Caitlyn stuck out her tongue but not fast enough. He’d already disappeared into the room. Peter annoyed her like the older brother she’d never had, but then their families were so close they’d practically grown up together. Anyway . . . he probably couldn’t wait to get the meeting started since they planned to talk about the upcoming camping trip.

  Caitlyn picked up her pace. She didn’t care what they discussed so long as Roland West was there. Not that they’d say much to each other. She typically spent most of her time talking to her friend Kiara and sneaking peeks at Roland, while he spoke either to his brother Keefe or to Peter. Sneaking glances at her.

  Two figures stood at the end of the hallway, Father Carston and a boy Caitlyn had only seen in passing. Dressed in jeans and a wrinkled, untucked white button-front shirt, he slouched and stared at the floor while Father spoke to him. By his feet lay a bulging olive-green backpack, a weathered thing with frayed edges and an odd-shaped yellowish stain. She guessed the boy went to school here, but he didn’t belong to the Fire Starters. A few of St. Michael’s high school students did. The rest came from homeschooling families or attended River Run High.

  “Maybe you’d enjoy it,” Father said in a low voice.

  “Really not my thing.” The boy stooped for his backpack.

  Nearing her destination, Caitlyn slowed, let her skirt fall into place, and combed her fingers through her hair. A few inches in, tangles stopped her hand, so she gave up. If she hadn’t been in such a rush, she would’ve combed it before she left the house, or at least put it up. And she should’ve looked in a mirror. Roland might be here tonight.

  She plunged through the doorway and—smack—right into a body. Her purse dropped to the floor, and something else crashed with a loud metallic sound. She stumbled back, her sneakers squeaking.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  The cleaning man stared at her through unusually round eyes, his head tilted to one side, something childlike in his manner. He signed something to her, making zeros with both hands and shaking them. Though she’d seen him around the school often—he was the assistant janitor—she’d never really looked at him. Tall and heavy, his chubby face didn’t give away his age. He might’ve been in his twenties. Maybe younger.

  The old metal trash can lay on its side on the floor behind him, a big black plastic bag at his feet.

  “Can I help you?” Caitlyn stooped for her purse and grabbed the open side of the plastic bag, finding it half-full of trash. “I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry.”

  He smiled, tapped his chin—maybe signing something—and took the bag from her.

  “Oh, okay.” Caitlyn bit her lip, not sure what he meant.

  He signed something else but, just then, a girl on the opposite side of the room called Caitlyn’s name.

  Caitlyn turned, saw Kiara coming toward her, and rushed past the cleaning man to greet her friend.

  “You have to come see.” Kiara’s eyes were open so wide that the whites showed all around the irises. She grabbed Caitlyn’s hand and dragged her toward the rest of the group, which included Roland in his black t-shirt and faded black jeans.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  Roland stood with his back to her, staring at . . .

  Her heart skipped more beats, her steps slowed, and red flags went up in her mind.

  Everyone stood frozen in place, staring at the wall. Looking at what?

  “Look,” Kiara said in an awe-struck whisper, releasing Caitlyn’s hand. “All the core members of the Fire Starters are in this picture.”

  “Really?” Caitlyn neared the group but still couldn’t see it.

  “It’s a painting, not a picture.” Dressed in animal-print pants and a striped orange shirt, Phoebe folded her arms and wandered a few feet from the group. Her no-nonsense attitude didn’t match her typically eclectic wardrobe.

  “What’s the difference?” Peter turned toward Phoebe and must’ve glimpsed Caitlyn in his peripheral vision. He motioned her over. “Check it out.”

  Caitlyn pushed into the group. Her breath caught.

  A three-foot-wide painting hung between windows. Several figures sat or stood in a room with couches, chairs, and windows that reminded Caitlyn of . . .

  Caitlyn scanned the teachers’ lounge. Three mismatched couches, four armchairs, and several folding chairs sat arranged as if for two groups. A note on the coffee table read, “Leave the room as you found it.” Evening sunlight poured in from the windows on one wall, shining on potted plants, bookshelves, and end tables.

  The artist had painted this room with the furniture the way the Fire Starters had it for their meetings.

  She studied the figures in the painting. They had no faces. One with sloppy yellow hair and a wise-guy pose reminded her of Peter and the way he gestured when he spoke. Two figures stood with him: a brown-skinned boy with jet black hair like Dominic’s, and a boy with a humble, attentive posture that made her think of Keefe, one of Roland’s older twin brothers. And there—

  Caitlyn’s mouth fell open. A skinny girl with long, messy red hair and a frumpy dress sat on the couch with another girl.

  “Is that supposed to be me?” she said.

  “Who else has a mop of red hair and wears outdated clothes?” Peter grinned, his eyes lit with mockery.

  Caitlyn glanced at her long pink skirt. It resembled the one in the picture. “They’re not outdated. They’re vintage.”

  “Vintage. Right.” Peter smirked. “I guess you could say that of everything you get from the second-hand store.”

  After shooting Peter a glare—he loved to taunt her—Caitlyn turned back to the painting and identified a few more figures. Where was Roland? She scanned the figures until she found one in a shadow.

  Before she got a good look, Roland turned his pale face and gray eyes to her, as if he realized she’d searched for and found him in the painting.

  Butterflies flitted in her stomach. She smiled and whispered, “Hi.”

  He gave her a nod and the hint of a smile, holding her gaze longer than usual.

  Her heart melted and her head grew light as a helium balloon. She snapped her gaze back to his image in the painting.

  “I guess that’s me with you on the couch.” Kiara took Caitlyn’s hand again and giggled. They held hands in the painting, too, the way they often did when excited about something. “And there’s Phoebe.” Dropping Caitlyn’s hand, Kiara pointed to a figure who sat on a windowsill in the painting. She wore a black vest, several bracelets, and jeans with flowered patches. Blue streaks ran through her fluffy hair.

  Then Kiara turned her head.

  Caitlyn followed Kiara’s gaze to where Phoebe sat with folded arms and one leg swinging. On the windowsill. While very opinionated, she preferred to sit outside the group during the Fire Starters meetings. Unless Father asked her to sit with them on the furniture.

  “Ha, look!” Peter jabbed a finger at the painting, his face brightening again. He must’ve found someone else to mock.

  “Careful, it m
ight be wet,” Kiara said.

  “It’s not wet. It looks like it’s acrylic.” Caitlyn ran a finger over a lower part of the painting. A thicker stroke of paint dropped off to thinner paint that showed the crisscross pattern of the canvas, all of it dry.

  Peter pointed again. “There’s Roland.” He turned a mocking face to Roland, who stood next to him. “Hiding in the shadows.”

  Roland shrugged and walked away, toward the couches in the middle of the room. The shyest member of their group, he did often sit or stand away from others.

  Caitlyn admired his pale complexion and dark eyebrows and the wavy hair that hung over one side of his forehead—

  Someone jabbed her arm with a sharp elbow.

  “You paint with acrylic, no?” Dominic jutted his chin toward the painting. Then he tilted his head down toward her, his shiny black hair falling over his forehead. His new haircut kept it from covering his eyes. Now she could clearly see his hunger to uncover every little secret as he stared at her.

  “Yes, but I didn’t paint this. I’m not that good.”

  “Good?” Peter put his hands on his hips, bumping kids who stood near him. “They have no faces.”

  “So who did paint it?” Kiara glanced from one teen to another.

  “And why?” Phoebe slid off the windowsill and stomped to the group. Arms still folded, she studied the painting. “I don’t see the artist’s name anywhere.” She grabbed the painting, one hand on each side, and lifted it from the wall.

  Several kids protested.

  She turned the painting over. The canvas wrapped around a wooden frame with no markings. “Hmm. No name.”

  Peter pushed through the group, heading toward the furniture. The other guys followed, leaving only girls standing around the painting. First Peter, then the other boys began to slide the furniture into the arrangement the Fire Starters liked best, everything together and facing in. Scraping noises filled the air.

  “What’s the attraction, girls?”

  The boys stopped moving furniture. Everyone turned to the speaker.

  Eyes on the girls who stood around the painting, Father Carston strode to the little table near the kitchenette and set down a stack of books and a folder. A strange silence came over the room.