Category: LIN (Carrie’s best friend who died)

Ghost Hearts (V)

Ghost Hearts (V)

A Thursday.

That’s when I find the old novella draft from Lin. Another one unfinished. I kept it because she allowed me to keep it, when I was afraid she’d throw it out. She would have. Then it was with my mum for a long time, until she dropped most of my archived stuff here last year. Fair enough. I threw out a lot back then. But I kept this and then forgot.

Maybe part of me wanted to remember it now, because suddenly it dawned on me – that it existed. But I was afraid that I might have thrown it out. I searched and then I found out that Michael had taken it, because it was – somehow, inexplicably – in the bag with old paper to be reused. A lot of fine crayons 8-year old style on both back and front of the dot matrix-printed story.

So now you are expecting me to say that the story helped me. That grace or something like that made me think of it and find it. That’s not so. As a matter of fact I’ve got so few things left from Lin – even photos – that I obsess about the ones I do have. And even this one, precious as I said it was, did not avoid to come close to extinction in the mess that is my life and my house.

But I saved it. In truth, I thought about it all the way from Vegas. But it was a secret thought – the one I kept pushing away, because I didn’t want to feel it all again. I didn’t want to think of Lin lying in that pool …

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This Is Where We Walked

This Is Where We Walked

The ink black mass at the bottom of the mug is completely solid:



“Has there been anyone in this place since it closed?”

I try to catch Lin’s eye, but she is just sitting there – on the big kitchen desk, pondering unknowns.

“I have.”


“I … have come here sometimes. When I needed to go somewhere quiet. Mostly to get away from my parents.”

Now I don’t try to catch her eye anymore.

“You think it’s creepy,” she says. Not a question.

“Well, no, but you have to admit – coming back to moonlight at your old ‘kindergarten’, turned into ghost house, is, well – “

“Yeah. It is.” Lin lets her fingers strafe gently across the kitchen desk. They go gray immediately, from the thick layer of dust. “Guess I just wanted you to see
it, Carrie.”

“Okay. The, ah, cupboard doors are nice … they almost look handmade – with patterns and all.”

“They are handmade. I believe they are copies of the original cabinet doors from the 1800s. Everything in the mansion has been restored.”

“Some ‘kindergarten’…”

“It wasn’t actually the kitchen, I wanted you to see.”

I swallow. It wasn’t the coffee but it sure feels like it: “Okay then, ready to boldly go where no woman has gone before, Mr. Spock.”

I turn for the large double door, which apparently leads out of the kitchen. But Lin holds her hand up:

“Nothing to see in there but armchairs covered by white sheets and cobwebs.”

” – But since we have broken into the ‘haunted house’, why not go all the way? ” I have my hand on the handle.

I don’t want to look like a complete coward but I sure wish we’d go back to Columbus soon. We were supposed to check on Deborah and now we’re looking for Norman Bates out in Chagrin Falls.

“Miss Super Lawyer,” Lin says, wry smile and all. “You see crimes everywhere. “

“Shut up. I’m barely through the first third of the long and weary road to my bar X.”

“Sorry …” Lin says quietly. “Maybe I couldn’t decide myself what I wanted. But now I have.”

Lin slides down from the desk and walks over to a small door in the opposite corner of the kitchen, between two large cupboards. I hadn’t even noticed that it was a door. But now I do. And it looks like there is a staircase inside the darkness.

“Uh … is there no light down there?”

“Just as much as here, when you pull away the curtains. No electricity, of course. “

“Are we going into the basement?”

“With its basement windows, yes. I didn’t think Captains were afraid of anything?”

I roll my eyes at her. Then I march past her and begin walking the cliché of a creaking staircase. I have to wipe my face with my sleeve almost the whole way down, while a thousand cobwebs try to steal a kiss from me.

Lin follows right after.

We end up in a basement room with curtain-less windows looking out into the empty garden. The pale autumn light is mostly lost in the thick greasy dust, covering the windows, but there is still light enough to clearly reveal a bed, a table with chairs and two shelves without any significant amount of books.

On the wall: A faded poster of Johnny Cash in San Quentin.

A room with more order than items; where you know it is a sin to move anything.

“Janitor’s room,” says Lin. She sits gently down on the bed, which is only covered by a single, tight sheet.

“I find it hard to imagine a janitor in such a neat little place – even if it is in the basement,” I quickly add (and wonder what the hell I meant by that).

“We called him the janitor. He had shown a different title. And someone has keep such a big house going,” she added. “It’s like a ship. It needs a guy to take care of the engine.”

“Lin … why are we here?”

Lin pulls up her legs beneath her on the bed.

I am still standing, not quite sure if I should sit down beside her. She is my best friend. I should.

I keep standing.

“When I was a little girl,” says Lin quietly, “my parents felt that I kept too much to myself – I isolated myself. Like a female Robinson Crusoe or something. I would stay for days, and almost not get out of my room during vacations.”

“That was a problem for them? Your dad who was always on business trips and your mum who was always at some conference? They had Mick to look after you.”

“It wasn’t the isolation that was a problem in itself. But I was also often depressed …. Sometimes angry, sad – without knowing why. Couldn’t explain it. “

I finally sit down, but there’s still an arm’s length between us. The bed creaks a little, like we’re in a bad movie. I fold my hands in my lap and look at her, waiting:

She pauses, and something glistens in her eyes: “Yes, I was damn well not normal – but when I was little …” she tries, then her voice fades.

“I was really … I had some real problems, Carrie.” She looks directly at me. “But no one knew what it was about. I certainly didn’t. However, my mom was a big fan of Goddard’s ideas about pedagogy that could help children with ‘special challenges’. So she and my father agreed that I should attend here, before they dared to send me to school.

“… How was it?”

“It was okay … but there were not many of the other girls I felt I could talk to, or adults for that matter. Except Uriah. “

“The janitor…”

“He scared me silly.” Lin smiles weakly. “Half of his face was scarred from burns. He kept much to himself. But he had to go look after the garden and paint and repair and such. So it was impossible not to notice him sooner or later, although he would certainly try to avoid us. “

“But why did he live here?”

“He had nowhere else to live.”

“Okay …”

Lin stares at a small photo frame on the bookshelf. The photo is in black and white and depicts a young, athletic looking man in full firefighter uniform. He leans almost nonchalantly up against a fire engine. I can see the flash from the camera sparkle in the polished hood. The young firefighter is ready to save the world.

“Uriah Shannon helped put out a lot of fires in the Cuyahoga in the sixties,” Lin continues softly. “There was always someone who had forgotten that the river was more oil than water and dropped a cigarette in it. It must have been quite a sight for tourists – a burning river. One of the fires took nearly a day to get under control. Something went wrong. Uriah must have slipped at one point, for he fell straight down into the inferno. They thought he was dead, but when they pulled him up he was still alive… barely. Perhaps it would have been better for him if he hadn’t been.”

I try to breathe normally, as I look at the photo. Life can’t be that cruel, can it?

I should know the answer to that.

After having been silent a few seconds, Lin says:

“… Uriah was burned on nearly half of the face – and who knows how much more of the rest of the body. He could, for good reasons, not be a firefighter anymore. He could apparently not be anything else anymore, maybe because nobody would hire him because of his face. He started drinking, was repeatedly arrested for fights, got into debt, and was eventually evicted from his apartment because he couldn’t pay rent. Catherine – our principal – was evidently sorry for him. He was her cousin. She offered him a kind of job and a place to be. He had to be a kind of caretaker in the Yeardley House.”

“So finally someone could use him?”

“I think the other teachers didn’t like the idea,” says Lin, and looks as if she is still far away, in another time. “Perhaps they were nervous about what us kids would say to have a man who looked like that, in the house. Or perhaps it was the booze and the trips to jail.”

I nod.

“Maybe some of it’s just my imagination.” Lin shakes her head, motions to get up. “I was only a girl. Maybe I mix things up … memories.” She looks down.

“It does not matter,” I say, and get up, too. I touch her shoulder: “So you were scared of him?”

“Yup. Until one day. I think it was a November day -” Lin smiles, all too briefly “- I had had enough of it all. I had decided to run away. I snuck around by the hedge where we came into the grounds, because I knew there was a hole in the hedge, and in the fence it grew alongside.”

“You ran away?”

“Didn’t make it. But it was not one of the teachers who caught me.”


“Yes, I thought he would beat the crap out me. They said he hit children. They said the principal sent children to him, because the other teachers were forbidden to hit children. But he took me by hand and took me into the yard behind the kitchen and closed the door to the rest of the garden. Then he sat down, looked me straight in the eye. I could see every scar on his face and was petrified. Most of the others were away on some trip. Those who remained were in the other end of the house. For once, I hoped that some of them would come and find me, but I knew that that was unlikely. I was also afraid that if they came, he would tell them what I had tried to do.”

“But you had only looked at the hedge, right?”

“Okay, maybe not exactly … I actually found a place, a kind of hole – not far from
where we came in, and so I tried … you know … to get through.”

” … Escape from Alcatraz.” I squeeze her shoulder slightly, but it’s like she doesn’t notice it. She doesn’t look at me at any time while she tells me this. We’re here, in this little dark, damp room full of cobwebs and frozen memories.

“I was actually almost out on the other side …” she muses, with a grim smile, and then begins to head for the stairs. I slug along, trying not to give in to my urge to overtake her. I wouldn’t able to on the narrow stairway, but I would like to. I’m glad we leave now. Damn glad.

“I almost wet my panties, when I felt his arm grab me from the other side – ” she looks back at me, midstairs, as if this is of extreme importance ” – the hedge was thinner then.” I nod. We walk up. Into the kitchen. Out the kitchen. Into the empty yard.

Lin stops.

“And one minute later I sat here – in ‘his’ yard.”

She looks back at the mansion, then her gaze drops to the dusty basement window – the one in Uriah’s room. It is impossible to see through the dust and the dark, and somewhere behind the mansion the sun is setting in dense, sombre clouds. Distant traffic drones on, behind the neighboring houses, but much weaker since we went in.

Her eyes narrow: “I wonder why he didn’t take this stuff with him when he left?” 

“Maybe he could no longer bear to be reminded of the past?” I suggest.

Lin shakes her head then begins to look for the hole we crawled through to get here. The place some zealous judge might lecture at length about, if we were to be caught ‘breaking and entering’ a property closed down for ages, by some powerful heirs of Catherine Duval, ex-principal, who don’t know what to do with the house, who may even have forgotten it, who have faceless attorneys to nitpick such things.

But we’re alone here. No one will catch us.

It’s as if Lin remembers that she broke off her story: “We sat on his patio and I was ready to die. But after what felt like three hours, he simply said:

‘Would ya like ta tell me why ya wanna go through the ‘edge, Adeline?'”

“I could have come with all sorts of lame excuses. I was only five years old. It is natural that children climb into strange places, isn’t it? But he knew that I had tried to run away and I knew that he knew it. But he was staring at me until I got a strange feeling that I was no longer afraid of the scars – perhaps because I now had been looking at them in for what felt like a long time. It was as if I knew them.”

Lin looks back towards the mansion-house one last time, and it looks like there’s something pulling at her, like she wants to go back and lie down on that dusty bed and never get up again. But there’s also another power, a power that has almost pushed her away from the house – without even being able to finish embracing those memories, as if she had to get away before that embrace chokes her.

“I told him … everything,” she finishes and looks at me, at last with some semblance of summer in her eyes: 

“I don’t remember exactly what ‘everything’ was. But it was everything that I had never told the other adults, even my mother and father: How sad I was to be there, in the house. I do not know if it was because I was stubborn or frightened or desperate or a little of everything. He sat still and nodded once in a while without saying anything. But I could sense that he listened to everything as if it was the first time that someone told him anything like that … and that maybe it would be the last.”

Her voice becomes intense, as if she’s afraid that I will not listen to her. I nod, try to make it look reassuringly. I couldn’t go anywhere right now.

She picks up the thread, one last time: “I became more and more upset because I felt I couldn’t explain it well enough – how I felt. And finally I cried and cried. So he put his arm around me and waited until I couldn’t cry anymore, and I thought – ‘when will the other grown-ups come?’ But there wasn’t anybody coming around, and finally, he let me go, looked very closely at me said, ‘I ain’t gonna say anything ta Ma’m Duval. But next time ya’ll want ta run away, Adeline, ya run by me me first, ‘kay?'”

Lin suddenly shivers, then stops. As if somebody hit her.

” – I’m babbling. Let’s go back to the car.”

She turns, quickly, and begins to look for the hole in the hedge.

I feel like I’ve dropped something precious on the floor, and I want to pick it up but I have to follow. I don’t want to be alone here.

Even with friendly ghosts.


As Lin drives us out of Cleveland, towards the main highway, and the silent mansion of Catherine Duval and her Goddard-inspired pedagogy has long since disappeared in the rear-view mirror, I catch a last glimpse of the Cuyahoga. In the evening sun it looks almost like it’s still on fire.

Lin has been silent since we left the house. But I have to ask:

” … Did you try run away again?”

Lin shakes her head, and the brightness of the fire that is both in the sun and the river touch her eyes:

“No. Now there was a reason for me to stay.”



Clear Horizon

Clear Horizon

After buying the sodas at the gas station, they crossed the street to sit down on the sidewalk. They found the first best, place which was the still warm wall next to a flower shop with rows of violets crammed in the front window, as if they had been hauled in quickly during the day.

They might very well have been. It had been quite a summer’s day – and now night – here in Columbus, and the two young women had had most of the cinema to themselves.

People had better things to do than watch 11 PM showings of scifi train wrecks, it seemed.

But not Carrie Sawyer and Lin Christakis.

“Actually, I find it quite appropriate – ” Lin said as she popped her cola open “ – that the monster did not die.”

“Oh?” Carrie said and gulped down her own lukewarm drink directly from the can – and then spat it out: “Fuck – you took one they had only just put in!”

“Sorry,” Lin said, “I can go back and get another one.” She started to get up.

“No – “ Carrie said and grabbed Lin’s cola. “Just gimme that!”


Carrie drank a bit and then handed the can back to Lin.

“That’s better. Why didn’t you check?”

“Sorry again, mate – he just put’em in the bag, you know and then I paid.”

“Well, at least we have one cold drink.” Carrie leaned back against the bricks and a tired but satisfied smile slowly spread over her lips. “Do you think Alan and Nadine made it home all right?”

Lin snorted: “They didn’t even make it home, the way they behaved – let me tell you that. And the night is warm enough.”

“Warm enough for what?”

“Shut uuup … “ Lin boxed Carrie on the shoulder, but it was the friendliest pain Carrie had felt all day.

“You know … ” Carrie said and followed a lone, slow moving van with her eyes “ … we should be jealous.”

The van passed them and its tail lights were still visible long after its drowsy engine hum had been absorbed into the quiet summer night. Carrie kept staring in the general direction, a dreamy look in her eyes.

“They’re high school friends,” Lin said in a tone as if she was making a routine conclusion to a philosophical problem long out-debated. “Now they are college-friends. And above all – friends. I wish the best for them … ”

“Friends … “ Carrie said and turned her head back to Lin. “Can I have more of that cola? My head hurts.”

“Is it the heat or that bottle of wine we did before we let Natasha entertain us?” Lin asked, a sly smile showing quickly then disappearing and back was the standard Christakis-poker face.

But it was a beautiful poker-face, not particularly because of Lin’s gossamer features surrounding those intense deep dark-brown eyes, but more because when she was happiest it always looked as if there was some secret she did not tell you but really wanted to, and it would make you laugh when you knew.

That’s what Carrie loved about Lin –  that was where it all started: That was what you could see if you knew her. If you had lived with her for almost two years sharing an apartment and argued about dishes and change for laundry machines and Nietzsche and bad scifi movies. You knew it was there, just under the surface of the smile, something beautiful – more than was ever evident in what you could see. And you remembered it when there were blacker nights and visits to the psych ward, and you weren’t sure it was a safe call to have that many pills in a glass in the bath room at the same time.

The good periods outweighed the bad and when you are 19 you can’t imagine it otherwise. You have tremendous powers of suppression, because your whole life is in front of you and no one is going to take that away.

And summer nights with train wrecks on screens, they are the life-blood of your future. That kind of happiness is strong and real and obviously it must win and in the end come to stay forever.

“What did you mean?” Carrie asked, when Lin had not spoken for some time, “about it being good that the monster won? I thought it was a shame. I wanted the movie to end.”

“No more sequels?”

“No,” Carrie said, “I couldn’t stand it, even if she is pure eye-candy.”

“Nothing to be jealous of again?” The sly smile again …

“She is a movie-star, Lin,” – Carrie shrugged, trying to make it sincere “ – she is supposed to look better than the rest of us. Maybe all the making out between her and the others did something for Alan and Nadine, you know – they looked like they were in a hurry to get home. And she told me they hadn’t, you know … for two weeks at least.”


“Dunno – too many books, I suppose. Or Alan hasn’t been himself since his father died. It’s hard … “

“Movies with monsters having sex usually isn’t the recipe,” Lin said, “to get over that … “

There was just the slight edge of pain in her tone now and Carrie got up quickly, holding her hand out to Lin.

“Let’s go home. Fuck monsters. Fuck bad movies.”

“And you love both,” Lin said and grinned but took Carrie’s hand and got to her feet.

“I love this night,” Carrie said. “That’s enough.”

3 A.M. Eternal

3 A.M. Eternal

“What time is it?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Guess not… “


The world is tonight; a cascade of lights and sound. 

This is the world we’ve both been yearning for all week.

Of course, there’s always tomorrow: Chronic hangovers, one more impossible deadline for a new assignment, the ever-growing pile of laundry, and a fridge that hasn’t learned to fill itself.

But tomorrow is another world.

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All I Wanna Say IS

All I Wanna Say IS

“They don’t really care about us … “

Carrie shook her head and tried – just for a second – to imagine she and Lin, two slightly off-beat high school girls, handing out signed copies at one of those comic conventions she had read about.

Right here, right now, sitting as they were at her desk in Carrie’s half of the two-room suburban Cleveland apartment, it felt like a really long way to San Diego or New York.

“You just have to believe in it – ” Lin retorted, giving Carrie that determined, slightly unsettling look.

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In the Eye of the Storm

In the Eye of the Storm

Have you ever had one of those experiences where the phone rings and you just know something bad has happened?

Not easy to explain why – maybe there is no explanation. But I think everyone knows.

“Should I get it?”

Jarrod looks quickly at my mum. She only looks at Don Johnson on the TV. So he turns to me, almost apologetically.

“I can do it,” I say and reward him with a quick smile.

Mum has only been seeing Jarrod for a week, but he is pretty sedate. So I don’t mind being nice …

Wriggling out of the couch, I do feel a small point of iciness in my stomach but I ignore it. 

I take the three steps from the couch to the kitchen door, slowly and deliberately as if my body already knows something I don’t. Grab the phone and then close the door as much as I can without choking the chord: The eternal struggle.

Now I’m alone in our tiny kitchen. It’s snowing outside again. The lights from the street below give the flakes an eerie fluorescent glow against the night sky. It would be pretty if it wasn’t coming down in waves that only grow bigger by the hour.


“Carrie … ”



“It’s … almost 10. Are you alright?”

“Not … really. Can I come over?”



“Where are you? Are you at home?”

“Not really … ”

Tendrils of coldness spread in my stomach.

“Lin – where are you?”

“It’s kinda hard to tell. Street signs are all covered by snow.”

“I’m coming to get you. But can’t you see where you are? There’s got to be something … ”

“I know where I am. Sort of.” 

A note of irritation creeps into her voice, but it quickly evaporates and there is only deep tiredness left like she is already half asleep.

“Are you far away?” I ask, twisting the phone chord harder between my fingers.

“No. I think I can be at your place in maybe 20 minutes.”

I want that to be 2 minutes. I want to interrogate her about what the hell is going on, but part of me already knows. 

Lin’s father dies in a hotel in Haiti. Big famous IT-business man and then  … dead. 

And her mother’s a nervous wreck whose best idea of a ‘cure’ to the insanity is to leave Lin with the old man who takes care of the house and then fly off to the Keys with her own lover, and then come back because she has a guilty conscience … but not really be there.

Lin got counseling. Lin got back to school. Lin walked and talked normally. But of course … ‘normal’ is just a word.

I feel determination rising in me, mixed with my own guilt about all the things I didn’t do or say until now, because how the hell could I? I can barely figure out my own life.

“I’m coming out to meet you. Are you coming up from the main street?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is weak. “I’m at the phone booth near the park … I think.” 

“Okay. I’ll go get my clothes. I’ll meet you.”

My heart beats faster, louder. I don’t remember if I manage to say goodbye properly. I just hang up and rush through the living room again, past Don Johnson and his melancholy beach walks on the TV …

Lin, please … stay safe.

There are the usual questions, from my mum – and a few perfunctory ones from Jarrod. And then a bit of shouting. But I’m off – down the stairs so fast I almost fall, and then into the gusts of snow that are like small razors against my skin.

There’s practically nobody on the street at this hour because the weather is straight from Antarctica. I work myself through the snow piles towards the main street and the little park. I didn’t get extra socks in my boots and soon I feel the cold numb my toes. So I walk faster.

I expect to see Lin all the time, but she is not coming. Did she go another way? Did she get lost?

After what feels like forever I see the small huddled shape on a bench, just opposite the first phone booth, I know on the main street.

I hurry closer and the small wiry form becomes Lin Christakis.

She is not wearing a cap, although this is definitely cap weather. Her dark stiff hair locks are sprinkled with snow. For a moment she looks like a frozen hedgehog.

I stop right in front of her and grab her shoulders, not really knowing if I should shake her or what the hell I should do.

“Why the hell didn’t you walk to meet me?” I yell.

She looks up at me, hollow-eyed. “I knew you’d find me.” 

“You’re absolutely crazy, girl. You’ll get pneumonia.”

I pull her up from the bench. She follows willingly, but as we make our way home, her arm in mine, I wonder if she would have kept sitting there if she hadn’t called me.

I quench the thoughts and we get the hell back to my apartment.

Everything has been so bad this autumn: The jerks in class, the teachers, Richard dumping me … everything except Lin. 

Until now.

We finally get in. My mum meets us in the hallway. She is all business and Jarrod follows in her wake.

“You must be freezing!” Mum almost pulls Lin’s coat off her and gives it to Jarrod so he can put it over the extra heater we have in the kitchen.

“It’s okay, mum …” I know it’s a pipe-dream with an entrance like that, but God, I wish mum would let us handle this ourselves!

“No, it’s not ‘okay’. Lin – do you want a hot shower?” My mum pulls open the door to our bathroom cubicle with one hand, while she is on her knees, working Lin’s boots with the other.

Lin kind of nods and I go with her and show her how to work the tabs. 

After half an hour, Lin gets out of the shower, a cloud of steam following her into our box of a hallway. 

I take her to my room and we find some dry clothes that don’t look too much like they don’t fit.

Inside the living room, my mum has found a use for her herbal tea obsession and made big mugs for the three of us.  Jarrod has strategically retired to the kitchen to make more coffee.

Nobody is talking and the only sounds are fake gunshots from the obligatory shootout at the end of the Miami Vice re-run. 

Lin sits on the couch. My mum sits beside her. I take the footstool with the “sacred Maya pattern” blanket. Jarrod stands by the kitchen door. 

Lin puts the tea to her lips but doesn’t drink anything before she sets it down again.

Next up is the news on TV about death here and bad shit there, and then I become clear-headed enough to find the remote and mute it all.

Lin sips her tea, at last, her lips barely touching.

My mum breathes deeply. “What’s going on, Lin?”

“My mother and I had a fight.” Lin’s voice is little more than a whisper.

“Again, huh?” I deadpan because that’s all I really can do now. 

“Again … ” Lin nods, while she looks down in the tea.

Then she eyes Jarrod for the first time. That’s his cue.

“Hi,” he says and smiles a well-rehearsed smile under the crisp mustache. “I’m Jarrod. Deborah’s … ” He nods towards my mum but hesitates.

“My hot date for the evening,” my mum explains, returning the smile but wryly.

“Since last Monday,” Jarrod adds, keeping up the cheery smile. “I’m the counselor at Collinwood High. Deborah subs in middle school there.”

“That’s nice,” Lin says, making an obvious effort to make it sound nice.

Then the phone rings.

I get up ready to get it, but my mum is quicker.

“Stay here,” she says.

I bite my lip and move over to the couch beside Lin. I don’t want my mum to take the damn phone because I know bloody well who is calling now. But what do I do? – Run past her and block the door?

Lin rocks a little back and forth, her eyes closed, holding the tea in one hand like she is meditating. The scent of hibiscus, the warmth – promises of other worlds than this.

My mum’s voice cuts through the half-closed kitchen door as Jarrod clears his throat and moves to annex the footstool I just left.

“Hello, Julia. Yes, she is here,” I hear my mum say from the kitchen.

“So … you two are attending Cuyahoga High?” Jarrod starts and looks expectantly at us.

And that’s when Lin jumps from the couch and barges into the kitchen. “I’m not going home – I’m not!”

My mum looks stunned for a moment and I can hear Lin’s mum at the other end talking frantically, a mixture of anger and desperation as if she wants to reach out and grab Lin just by shouting.

The next five minutes are a blur. I remember running to the kitchen also, reaching out for Lin, who stands there like a wild animal, trapped. Lin’s mum shouts at the other end of the line. My mum shouts. Lin cries. I say small incoherent, meaningless things, meant to calm her down, but I think Lin barely registers that I’m there.

Lin doesn’t want to talk to her mum, even though the distant, desperate voice pleads with her to do so, and sneaks in a few veiled threats, too, about changing schools again.

Then Jarrod tries, and that counselor-voice does something to douse the fire, enough for my mum to get Julia Christakis calm enough to listen to my mum’s pitch that I think she just made up on the spot:

‘Lin might get a serious cold if she’s to go out anymore tonight. Not good for her asthma … What if your car is stuck in the snow? … What if … What if … What if … ‘

My mum is annoying in a million ways which include being a certified health nut, stuffing half the kitchen with dietary supplements … but sometimes it’s pretty darn useful, especially when Lin’s mum is a sucker for those things, too. And sees my mum as an authority. 

That and the fact that it snows an awful lot outside now …

So Lin’s mum relents and lets her stay. At least until morning.

After she hangs up, Jarrod asks the predictable questions about Lin’s family, and if she gets any help and all that, but my mum ushers him back to the couch and says she’ll take that from here.

“Carrie – find the air mattress for Lin,” she says to me through tight lips. “And maybe you two should just go to your room? We’ll be off to Jarrod’s after the news … ”

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The snow feels like crushed diamonds beneath my feet, as I slowly walk towards the house. The winter day would be beautiful, if it wasn’t for the fact that I am going to die in this house.

The others are going to try to explain it all away. Worse, they are going to say they “know” how I feel. Why do people always get so awkward when somebody else’s mum or dad dies?

It’d be much worse if their own father or mother had died, wouldn’t it? At least most people have normal fathers—who somebody actually misses when they have died.

I know what you are thinking, but really – I am going to die today. At least a part of me is.

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Bound To Be A Better Ride

Bound To Be A Better Ride

“It’s Lin!” my mum yells.

She is standing at the doorway to the living room with the phone in her hand, looking slightly annoyed at having had to get up from the sofa.

I had my headphones on, the door to my room closed. But not anymore.

“I’ll be there!” I holler back, throw away the headphones, walk man, magazine – and fly out of bed.

Slam the door open and cross the living room in one or two steps. I’ve practiced that run a lot. Easy when there are no other rooms to practice in. Easy even with all the VHS-cassettes on the faded carpet I have to sidestep to get over there.

My mum looks impressed in an overbearing kind of way but she doesn’t comment for once and just hands me the phone.

“I’ll be watching the rest now,” she remarks as she returns to the couch and cranks up the volume on the TV again. Not loud enough so I can’t hear myself in the kitchen, but … loud enough.

I close the door, make sure the cord is stretched to be furthest away from her, and then I pull out a kitchen chair.

“Lin – is that you?”

“Sure, dummy – who else would it be at Christmas time?” she deadpans.

I lean back as best I can on the hard wooden chair.

“I’m just glad you called,” I say.

“You thought I wouldn’t call?”

“No, I mean … “

“Hey, we had a good time last time, didn’t we?”

“Yes. Yes, we did.” I say it and I mean it, even as I push away some of the more awkward memories, like Lin suddenly breaking off Michael Jackson on the ghetto blaster to announce that she wants to buy me my own place to live.

I struggle to find out what to say next. I thought it would be so easy. I missed Lin so much, and yet –

“Awfully silent, you are – “ Lin says in her best imitation of a certain little green movie creature that by now she already knows we both love.

” … I’m silent because it’s Christmas,” I reply, try to make it sound like a joke.

“For four whole days?” she asks incredulously.

“We’ve been, you know, Christmas shopping and all … “

“Yeah, right.”

Why didn’t I call? I wanted so badly to call but –

“Look, Carrie – I’d like to see you again, get out of this crazy place.”

She means that big house. All being packed and packaged now, I suppose. Set up for sale.

“I’d like that, too,” I say.

Why didn’t I call Lin? Her father’s funeral, I think. But I could have … called?

“We’ve got a lot in common, Carrie,” Lin continues with that determination I have gotten to know well already. “And this place is pretty nutso with my mother back from the Keys running around like one big excuse for herself … not much Christmas here.”

“Yeah, I guess she would.”

“She’s a bitch,” Lin says with absolute surety and I flinch. I don’t like my mum a lot of times, but to call one’s mum that …

Lin senses my uncertainty. She quickly ads: “Julia means well … “

Like me she also calls her mother by her first name sometimes. But I only do it to myself when I don’t feel like being related. Lin does it – well, she has done it quite a few times in the few times we’ve been together. Let’s just say that.

“My mother is okay,” Lin continues flatly. “She panicked. Left me with ol’ Mick and the housekeeper. Thought she couldn’t handle it all, you know.”

“That your father … ?”


“I’m so sorry, Lin. God, I’m so sorry. I never really said – “

“Yeah, it sucks. All of it.”

“I should come out to you. I should have called, but – “

“Forget about it.”

” … How’s the house?”

Not much party there now.”

“Did, eh, your mum say anything to, you know, the living room?”

“No, she doesn’t talk to rooms. She is not that crazy,” Lin deadpans again. But there is a tinkle of something in her voice. Something that makes me smile again.

“Silly girl!” I shoot right back. “I was wondering if she had killed you because you smashed the living room and a couple of other rooms as well.”

“I think she didn’t like it, but I also think it made her see that flying off to the Keys with Gerard wasn’t so smart.”


“Her shrink.”

“Oh, you said she had gone down there with, er someone, but nae that they … that he … ” I start and quickly stumble over my own words.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Lin interrupts. “I think they’ve been going at it for some time … “

“Lin, I – I never had anyone in my family do stuff like that.”

“You’re lucky … “

There is a long silence now, longer than I’d like.

Grey snow falls outside the kitchen window. It’s a white, white Christmas all right, but not here.

“Do I freak you out, Carrie? I have to know.” Her voice is very thin now. Nothing determined, not at all.

” … A bit.”

“Me or my family?”

“It’s nae like that. It’s… “

“It’s okay, you can say it.”

“You are hard on them – like you do nae care.”

“Sometimes I don’t.”

She never cried over her father while she talked about him. Not once.

“I’m just saying – I thought I was hard on my mother – or my father. But you are harder, much harder.”

“My father left me all that money, specifically for me. My mum takes care of it until I’m 18 but still … ” her voice momentarily fades ” … I guess that’s kind of nice of him.”

“Maybe … we should spend some of that money then?”

“Ha, are you looking for a loan, lassie?”

“No, lame-o,” I give her back, laughing.

She already knows how I feel about Scotland but it was kindly meant. So I laugh so she knows she is a kind “lame-o”.

“I was wondering … ” I continue, searching a bit, ” – if you want to get out … Have you seen that movie yet  – 12 Monkeys -?”

“No! But I really want to. It sounds awesome! But I haven’t … you know … “

“Why don’t we go see it then?”


“No, I mean – after Christmas. Maybe on the 26th?”

“I’d like to see you today, Carrie. And I think maybe we should just stay at home. You can dive into my comics. There’s a lot of soda left from the party.”

I hesitate.

“You don’t feel good about coming out here because of my father and all?”

“No, it’s … “

“My mum won’t be around the house that much. Or Gerard.”

“Oh, okay.”

“It’s good,” she continues, “because if there ever was a dick it’s Gerard. I can’t understand why my mother wants his dick.”

“Jeesh,” I try but in reality, I feel like vomiting.  “Lin, your mum’s sad and … “

Oh, shit. That came out bad.

“What, and you don’t think I am?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

I breathe deeply, then:

“It’s just … yeah, what you said. It’s just far out, with Gerard and all. But I get it. I get why you think he is a dick. He sounds like a dick!”

She chuckles but without warmth: “My mum adores him.”

“But she’s, well – och, Lin, I really, really wish this had never happened to your dad. Fuck, it’s just so … fucked up.”

Softness finds a way into her voice: ” … I’d like you to meet my mother and, you know, see the house when it doesn’t look like the Cuckoo’s Nest. And Gerard, well, he has the kids this Christmas, so he will be leaving for Chicago in a few hours.”

“And … “

“I’d like you to come out. Please.”

“This afternoon?”


“Lin, it’s, like, you know, Christmas.”

“Well, what are you doing for Christmas – you and your mum?”

“Well, me and my mum have – ” I start but then a siren blares from the TV in the living room.

“What the hell was that?” Lin blurts. “Are the cops coming for you?”

“Muum – turn down the volume!” I open the door and yell into the living room.

“Oh, okay … “ Lin says.

“Sorry, about that.”

” … I’d really like you to come.”

“Right now?”


“But you are moving.”

“Not the night before Christmas.”

“You, uh, know where you are going yet?”

“Afraid we’ll be neighbors?” 

“No, dummy, you would nae want to live here!”

“Well, I’ll buy a condo for sure, somewhere Downtown. Then in two years’ time I can always sell it and be even richer. Then move, if I have to go to college somewhere else.”

“Yeah, who’d want to stay in jolly ol’ Cleveland!” I chirp.

But there is no answer. Again.

Then she says:

“Carrie, I could come to your place if you’d rather I do that …”

I breathe deeply, wonder what to tell my mum. Then I listen to the TV and I figure that I don’t need to tell her anything. I’ll be back in time for Christmas take-away anyway.

Maybe late take-away.

“No, Lin, I’m coming to you. I want to.”

“Then it’s going to be a merry white Christmas after all,” she says in a way so I can almost see her smile.

“But the snow is really yucky here in the city,” I reply, feeling a smile of my own take over. I let it.

“A merry yucky Christmas then!” she drones on.

“Right. I’ll see you in about an hour!”

“Wait. I can’t send Mick for you,” she says. “He’s off for Christmas.”

“No worries. I’ll take the bus. I do nae want it to be a habit riding in a Mercedes!”

“Afraid you’ll get addicted to it?”


“I know,” she says and I can hear the light in her voice now. “Take care. See you soon.”

Then she hangs up.

I sit and stare at the grey snowflakes for awhile. And I wonder … are we going about this the right way?

Perhaps I’m just too desperate, coming over here a few months ago and all. Dad and mum’s divorce. All the jerks in class.

But it’s Christmas. You can’t just sit and wait for gifts to come


Last edited: 24 August 2019

Strangers In Moscow

Strangers In Moscow

We had only been hanging out together in school for about a week after the party … before Lin pops the question I’ve been dreading:

“Why don’t I come over to your place?”

Yeah, why don’t you … girl-who’s-about-to-inherit-the-seventh-biggest-company-in-the-state?

“Sure thing, that’d be … fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah – jus’ come by.”


“Uh … yeah, why not? Me mum’s prob’ly home, tho’ … “


“Well, we … it’s a small apartment … “

Suddenly the noises from the yard seem crisp and intent, as if they are all zooming in on me. I glance around. Denise passes over by the shed, some new boy wrapped around her but I’m not sure if she looked in our direction.

“I’m sure I can fit in,” Lin says. “I’m not that voluptuous.” She flashes a grin, as she heaves up in her A-cup breasts and I try to find a stance that indicates to people who’re looking that we’re not having this conversation.

“Okay,” I manage to confirm. “Ye can come.”

“Okay!” Lin sparkles even more. “I can go with you after the last lesson?”

I nod, feeling as if somebody had strapped an anvil to my neck.

“Maybe I should call first? It’d be better if she’s out … “

“I wouldn’t mind meeting your mum, Carrie. I’m sure she’s nicer than mine.”

“Lin, it’s only two rooms.”

Her eyes widen, just for a sec, and then she quickly finds the ‘normal-mask’ again.

“So?” Lin shrugs.

“Lin, ye live in a friggin’… castle… ”

“So maybe I’m tired of that. Did I tell you my mum’s gonna sell everything and move back to England?”


“Yeah, everything – company’s going to some cousin or something. But she gets a lot of money. She won’t have to work for the rest of her life.”

“And you?”

Lin shrugs again. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s go back in? I think I saw Old Hacksaw heading our way. He probably thinks we’ve been smoking again.”

“Admit it, Lin – ye have the hots fer him.”

“Oh, I’m sure the old fart likes petite girls, but I’m not gonna be one of them. I’d rather be Willie the Groundkeeper’s wife!”

We both crack up for a few, joyful moments, but enough to notice – for the first time today – that the winter sun over Cleveland feels mild.

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Boats Against The Current

Boats Against The Current

It’s not a unique girl problem to try clothes on a hundred times and never be able to find something that you like. Not if you know you are doing it to distract yourself from something unpleasant.

Like that phone call I have to make to Richard.

It’s not like anybody can see my underwear at the party anyway. It’s not like I have that much underwear to choose from anyway. Or blouses. Or skirts. Or shoes. Or jackets. Or … you get the idea.

But I dig and I search and throw it all on the floor in my cardboard box excuse for a room, and every time I get the vaguest awareness of my decision to call Richard and say I’m not going to Adeline’s party with him, I search some more.

And then I stop. Take a deep breath.

This can’t go on.

I shake my head and grab a plain T-shirt, and then I go into the living room which also doubles as my mum’s room. She’s there on the couch watching some crime movie or other, as usual. Her long curly hair is blonde like mine but more faded and right now it looks like she tried to comb it but just gave up.

But she looks like she’s having a good time, right there in her pastel blue bathrobe with lots of herbal tea and chocolate.

“Hi, honey,” she greets me. “You ready for the party?”

“I’m not going, mum.”

“Why not?” She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even look surprised, and I want to say something snarky, but why bother.

“Can I use the phone?”

“You know where it is,” mum says, still not taking her eyes off Detective Reynaldo Curtis who looks sharp as usual even on our 13 inch blurry TV screen.

“I’d like to talk … alone,” I sigh, knowing what the answer will be.

“Kitchen,” my mum says still without looking at anything else.

I don’t care to argue. I don’t care if she hears.

And it’s not like we can afford any of those fancy mobile phones.

So I grab the phone from its hanger on the living room wall and pull the cord as far away from the door to the kitchen as I can. I then go and sit down at the small kitchen table. I close the door behind me as much as I can without squeezing the cord. It’s a balancing act. Like everything else.

I remember Richard’s phone number like it was my birthday, but I can’t push the buttons.

On the other side of the kitchen window there is only the grey winter afternoon over East Cleveland.

Then this idea just comes into my mind, clear like yesterday when the world was crisp with morning frost.

I see a cityscape before me, much like the one outside the window, but more like that movie – Blade Runner. It’s darker and raining. But in the overcrowded gloomy streets one figure stands out: a girl. She is blonde. She has an overcoat but otherwise no fancy clothes. She walks as if she is searching for someone.

I don’t know what the heck that means, but it sure would be nice to draw. And paint. If only I was better with colors. I am not. I’m better with pencils. Colors – even crayons – they are still a challenge. But I’m getting there. I could try it. This evening. Now.

Then I remember that there’s still that final essay for next week in history and I have no idea what to write and I’d hate to disappoint Mr. Anderson. Or myself.

Also, I’d hate not to disappoint those ‘nice’ classmates who are looking for a new topic to pass secret notes about during class. That is, a new variation on the topic of Carrie Sawyer who sounds like her surname is still McDonnell and who constantly makes herself look like a jerk because she doesn’t know computers, or how to jump into the right bus for excursions.

We had one bus in Scotland where I lived and it came like twice a day. Not in winter.

At school we had two computers, and one was broken all the time.

I have to get a decent grade on that final essay. I will not give the others any reason to pass more notes.

So I shouldn’t draw. I stay at home and I should start that essay. The U.S. Civil War … what the hell do I know about that? I have barely landed … so I have to read up. A lot.

Also a good reason to tell Richard why I’m not going with him to the party.

Pity. He is one of the only guys who seem … well, nice and … all.

I’ll surely see the last of him if I make this call.

But I just can’t go.

Adeline Christakis is that hotshot new girl who lives in a frigging mansion out near the lake. A frigging real mansion. Even many seniors will come. Maybe all of them …

I push the last button.

“Hey, Richard.”

“Carrie? Great that you called.”

He must have been waiting by the phone. I can’t help but smile to myself, but it doesn’t last. I know what I have to do and I feel like crap.

“Are you ready for tonight?” he asks cheerfully.

“I’m … not sure I’m going.”

“What? Don’t you want to go with me?”

“I do … very much.”

“Then we go. It’ll be so great.”

“I don’t really have anything to wear.”

“I know you’ll look terrific – even if you wear a bag.”

He chuckles and I remember how that was one of the sweetest things about him when we first talked. How it still is. Like he knows everything is going to turn out fine. Really knows.

“Look – “ I begin.

And he says something I don’t remember, but it makes me want to talk more. And then we talk more. And when I hang up I have agreed to go to the party, even if I have no decent clothes and I know the likes of Denise Fulcher and Ann Salcroft will be there, too, and looking to get a shot at the new girl from the country.

But I want to go.

“I’ll meet you there,” he said.

“I care,” he said.

Those are the words I repeat to myself again and again as I find some clothes and get the hell out there.

Those are the words I use to crush all doubts.


The beat hammers everything. Writhing bodies on the dance floor. Somehow they always bounce back, just when it looks like someone has had way too many drinks and is about to get hammered completely off balance.

For tonight’s P-A-R-T-Y, Adeline has stapled all the furniture, sprayed graffiti on the walls and plundered both the wine cellars in the house. Presto: One football-field-sized-designer-dining-hall transformed into suburban techno garage.

Her parents are going to kill her.

That is, when they get home from the Caribbean or … wherever.

I have to admit that after the first five minutes or so I got the weird feeling that Adeline’s parents never really lived in this huge lakeside mansion – which, by the way, I never really had any idea was only ten miles up the shore until I had to look it up, so I knew how to get here. It’s still so far away from dirty old Cleveland, though, that it feels like another world in which just Adeline reigns supreme, like some Pippi Longstocking Queen of Goth.

Most of the teachers went ballistic when she handed out invitations to everyone at school. ‘What about the annual year-end party on campus?’ they whined.

Ha. What about biology lessons vs. an actual roll in the hay? I don’t think the teachers have anything to worry about, though. Most of the boys and girls who came here tonight will probably show up at the traditional event next week, as always. But this all-round warm-up was too tempting to turn down for half the school.

Except if you happen to be me, of course.

In that case, it’s not surprising that someone had to spend two days convincing me to attend; someone like Richard.

The same Richard, by the way, who should have been here to meet me an hour ago.

But I don’t want to bore you about me and Richard right now. How can I when there’s still sooo much I could tell you about our gracious hostess instead?

Yes, she’s definitely something else: Adeline Christakis, only daughter of Greek IT-superstar Theodoros Christakis and British imported Yale professor, Julia Stephen. And apparently Adeline went to some kind of private super-elite high school up in Toledo before she transferred to ours. Or so they say.

I’ve also heard that she badgered her folks every day for about a year until they let her do it. In the beginning I wondered why any sane girl would do this, because you don’t just arrive in our run-of-the-mill school and think you are queen of the hill, even if your allowance is probably more than the principal’s salary.

And now I sit here in my corner and just watch the hundred or so boys and girls drinking, dancing, and generally freaking out all around me like it’s 1999. I mean, how can you compete with all the free booze in the world and lots of exciting exotic rooms to disappear in? You can’t and she knows it – Adeline – frolicking over there, annoyingly relaxed, on a bunch of sofa-sized pillows under the big Gerhard Richter on the wall, relishing all the worship.

No, I don’t wonder anymore. Except about myself, that is. When am I going to get up and snatch some boy and disappear into one of those rooms? If nothing else, then just to get even with Richard?

How about … never?

Maybe that’s why I feel so great about skulking here in the farthest corner of the makeshift techno-garage with my slouchy margarita – which I’ve only been nipping at for the last hour. It feels infinitely safer, and I get plenty of time to brood about what Richard Dufraine actually meant when he insisted that he ‘cared’.

I finally decide to finish the margarita. After all, there has to be room for refills.


“Penny for your thoughts?”


Yeah, that was me, crying out. Because this is the point where I have managed to get way more drunk than I am allowed to. And she had managed to sneak up on me:

Adeline. One drink in each hand; total poker face.

“You’re thinking about Jesus?” she exclaims, looking at me like I was the weird fish that I would give the world not to be.

“O-oh no – ” I manage to blurt. “Ye just startled me, that’s all.”

Great. I stammer so much that it gets even more difficult to hide my bloody accent. Why did she even sneak up on me like that?

No wait. Now I understand.

How about the little watch-while-I-pick-on-the-most-uncool-girl diversion?

I mean, it looks like her worshippers are staring in my direction. Probably thrilled Addie decided to throw some peanuts into the monkey cage.

“You want another one?” Adeline nods towards my empty glass.

“No,” I say without conviction even while I strain to get the accent right. I could drink the whole world’s stock of alcohol right now, legal or not.

She hands me one of her drinks; so blue it could be straight out of a scifi movie. Then she smiles slightly and I can’t help noticing how black her lipstick is.

Her Goth look is pro, got to give her that. Pitch black eye-liner, too. She wears a skirt so skimpy it wouldn’t exist if it was any shorter. Finally, there’s the black leather bra underneath the see-through black blouse. It looks surprisingly cool on her, even if she doesn’t exactly fill it out. Or maybe it looks cool exactly because she doesn’t fill it out and doesn’t give a damn. Wish it was me.

“There’s more where it came from,” she confides.

“Thanks, Adeline.”

She winces: “It’s Lin. I hate ‘Adeline’. It was my mother’s idea. She thought it sounded ‘literary.’”

“How so?”

“Maybe I should sit down?” She nods at the empty chair on the other side of the little table in front of us.

I shrug. “Ye do what ye like.”

She doesn’t answer but grimaces in a way I can’t quite decipher. Then she drops down in the other chair.

The beat feels louder than ever. I eye her worshippers who are now alone with Gerhard Richter. They seem to be dispersing a bit, though.

I try to look relaxed while cramping the blue drink in my hand.

I watch Adeline watching me from the other chair.

I know I should not have come. But then everyone would have talked, too, wouldn’t they?

“You look sad,” Adeline says.

“What? No.”


“I’m not.” I begin to gulp my drink.

“You’ve been sitting here all evening. I’ve watched you.”

I’m not sure I like that, and now some fight-or-flight reflexes kick in. I decide to make a stand.

“I’ve watched ye too,” I say.


She doesn’t grin, when she says it. Instead she looks away for a moment. There is a shadow on her face.

It is not the visible shadow painted under her eyes in hundred dollar Goth make-up.

It is something else.

“What are you looking at?” she asks.

I see her lips move but I barely hear the question.

I gulp more of the blue drink.

What do I say to that?

“I … I just thought your make-up was cool. Really cool.”

I look down at myself briefly, all too aware of the jacket that I borrowed from my mum and prayed nobody would notice.

Adeline nods, looking at me in a strange way.  I get the feeling that we both want to push hard into other territories and I don’t know what to make of it.

I don’t get the time, though, to make anything of anything, before we are in another territory I don’t like.

“You’re the girl who came over from Scotland, right?” Adeline asks with perfect casualness.

I breathe.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I came over from good ol’ Scotland.”

“So your mom is Scottish?”

“American, actually.”

“Okay … so your dad is?”


Adeline smiles. “‘Aye’,” she repeats.

My face goes redder than my jacket.

“You have a lovely accent,” she says quickly.

For a moment I am very close to getting up and leaving, but I sense that she means it.

So I don’t.

“Your parents split?” Adeline asks softly.

I nod and look at the blue in my drink. I wish I could disappear into that blue.

“Why?” Adeline asks again, sincerely. “I mean, if your mom is American she must have wanted to move to Scotland to marry your dad. That’s something.”

I do my best imitation of shrugging: “It is but then one day it wasn’t.“

She nods: “I’m sorry.”

I eye her cautiously. Adeline doesn’t blink. Neither do I.

Then I decide what the heck and serve this night’s version of my family record – the one that’s mixed with the don’t-give-a-fuck ingredient. But it’s not nearly as dark as I wanted to make it, because, I don’t know – I just feel that she really wants to hear it. And even though that shouldn’t be enough for me, it is.

Afterwards we talk some more. About everything and nothing. As you do at parties. It is awkward, but neither of us seems willing to find an excuse to break it off.

I look at the worshippers but they are truly gone now. But it seems as if there are more people in general instead. I hope we don’t need to find a fire exit anytime soon.

I hope no one sees me.

And oddly, I have the feeling, as we talk, that Adeline hopes the same.

Ten minutes ago I was convinced I hated her. Now I’m not so sure.

Stranger things have happened.


I don’t know how much more time passes but the carefully constructed peace in our corner comes to an abrupt end.

From the dance floor, someone tries to yodel along with the first 30 seconds of Tanita Tikaram’s new single, and then somebody else breaks it off and flips another techno-disc into the CD-player.

“I love that … ” Adeline murmurs, while watching the dancing crowd with strange intensity.

“Uh, yeah.  It’s good,” I reply meekly, not really sure if she’s talking about the worshipers or the electronica music.

Suddenly she looks straight at me:

“You like New Order?”

“Kind of.”

She smiles thinly, but not without warmth:

“The ’94 version is not the best version.”


She finishes her drink:

“Hey – why don’t we go upstairs? I’d like you to hear the original version.”

I feel something tense in my stomach: “Ye know, I think I should just go home. I have a headache.”

Adeline looks at me incredulously. Then disappointed.

“Okay. Nice talking to you, though, Carrie.”

“Thanks for the drink. I’m sorry that – ”

Suddenly the music changes again.

Oh no.

“Hey, Braveheart!”

From the improvised DJ stage, Eric Markham waves frantically – in my direction. Denise Fulcher and Ann Salcroft beside him, drinks in hand, grinning openly.

Because Eric is such a funny guy, you know.

“Show us your Riverdance moves, Carrie!”

I get up, head for the door; cheeks on fire, eyes stinging.

I want to smash Eric Markham’s stupid fucking head into that loudspeaker, and I also want to run.

Eric hollers again.  “Come on, Carrie! Show us!”

Someone begins to clap, a clumsy drunken imitation of rhythm.

I make my choice.



My high heels rapidly prick holes in the crispy snow carpet, as I make for the gate fast as I can. I don’t look back.

I’m not going to look back towards that gross imitation of some French seaside resort; that tower; that marble swimming pool. And so many acres of lawn and garden all in white as if it was supposed to be extra fucking beautiful this time of year! For a catalog or something!

Fuck it! Fuck it all!



What the … ? She actually followed me out?

Adeline pants slightly, as she finally reaches me.

“Carrie, don’t go!  Eric’s a total jerk. We both know that.”

I stop and turn towards her, not really wanting to, but I can’t help myself now. In a way I’m even more angry that she can’t just let me brood in the safety of solitude:

“It’s not just Eric, Adeline – ”


“Okay, Lin – since the day I started, I was everybody’s punching bag!”


Suddenly there’s a strange defiance in her voice. Out here, in full Goth, against the twilit gray-white snow-carpet, she looks like a tiny black troll that just popped out from under the old oaks.

“Ye know it is so … !”

Adeline shakes her head vigorously.

“I don’t know anything about anything about you, Carrie. I just transferred to your – our school – less than four weeks ago, remember?”

“Don’t pretend in front of me!”

“I’m not pretending! Okay, okay – we don’t have that many classes together. I don’t know you that well – okay, fuck that – I don’t know you at all, Carrie.”

She shakes her head again: “Until now you just seemed like … well, one of those quiet girls … And yeah, there was some talking, but everybody’s talking about everybody and for Pete’s sake – it’s not just because you come from over there. Come on with me back inside. Let’s show them that – ”

Suddenly something flares in me; something that’s been smoldering all evening, every time I had to look over at her majesty.

“Show them what? That Adeline Christakis has a new pet? ’cause that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Ye want to show everybody just how Samaritan ye can be to the poor wee – the poor little girl from Scotland.”

Even out here in the dark, I can see how much that stung.

Good. I want to kick back at somebody. And it’s way overdue.

Long seconds pass.

When Adeline finally answers, it is with a calm more chilling than the whiteness around us.

“You think you have no friends? That a lot of people backtalk you? Maybe you’re right. But I’ve got news for you: Everybody’s a punching bag from time to time. Everybody! Dan B because he came in from a farm and smells like it, Ellen Nga because her skin is gross, and – whatshername – Sharon Carthwright because she’s, well, because she dresses like eight years ago. We both know none of it is true, but that doesn’t matter – because they – ” she nods angrily towards the house, “say it’s true. And that’s just the lousy facts of life: Everyone gets their turn to check out the bottom of the pyramid. In a few months it’s someone else. Deal with it.”

And that’s what really pisses me off.

“Yeah, I reckon ye must have a lot o’ experience in ‘dealing with it’ when ye are born at the top o’ the food chain yerself!”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Och! Now ye are pretending!”

“No I am not. Tell me – tell me what you think of me.”

“Ye really want to know?”


“Ye are not going to like it one bit. Och, ye are not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

“I think ye … ”

No. Not tears. Not now.

“I think ye are … ”


“Forget it. I’m going.”

“No,” Adeline grabs my arm. “Tell me.”

“Okay – fine.

“Yes. Now tell me! And don’t hold back for my sake!”

I look away. “I think ye are … … shallow.”



“That’s it? ‘Shallow?’”

I just keep looking away. Something’s completely stuck in me.

Adeline, however, doesn’t have that problem. She breathes deeply first, though, shaking slightly, like she has to take in a thousand frozen, shattered thorns before she can say it:

“You know what, Carrie … you are right. I am shallow. In fact, I am so shallow that instead of going to counseling, I’m just throwing a party for half of Cleveland Heights, when my father got stabbed dead two days ago with a nail file while trying to push his tiny dick too far up a 15-year old hooker’s asshole, the highlight of his business trip to Port-Au-Prince! I am so shallow that I just party on, while my mother flew off to the Keys with her boyfriend. That’s right, Carrie.  I’m the fucking definition of shallow!

She turns and marches back. I react the only way I can:

I decide that she is lying.


Finally. The night bus.


The sooner I get away from here, the better. It was stupid of me to come in the first place. I’m not going to let Richard humiliate me anymore. And I’m definitely not going to let that lying little Queen-of-black-lipstick-bitch get the better of me. It actually makes me feel stronger that she said all that crap, because now I know how shallow she really is.

That crap-story about her father was pathetic. So pathetic.

My victory is that I don’t care. I already feel strong enough to not care about Eric either.

Or Richard.

The bus stops. A sleepy black driver pushes a button. The door grinds half-way open. Some dirty snow blocks it from opening all the way.

She’s so pathetic.

“You getting in?” the driver asks.

A little pinprick.

Just a tiny little pinprick of doubt.

Damn you, Carrie. If you go back there for this, they’ll slaughter you. Eric will get his Braveheart-girl – right in his lap. And for what?! Because you suddenly decided to develop a conscience? What are you going to say? ‘I’m sorry’?!

“Miss?” The driver’s impatience cuts clear through the frosty air.

“Uh, it’s a-all right,” I say. “Err, I’m waiting for another bus.”

The driver looks at me like I was waiting for the ambulance to the cuckoo’s nest.

“There are no other buses on this route at this hour, miss.”

“Really? Well, I just remembered that I left something inside.”

His eyes narrow. He casts a long look back over his shoulder, towards the mansion:

“That the big drug party by that Christakis-girl up there? Shoulda lived on the moon not to hear about it! You sure you don’t wanna go home?”

I shake my head.

He grins. “Don’t say I didn’t give you no choice.“

The bus veers away from the small stop, amidst the dark trees. It plows through a small snow pile. Then it’s just me and the black road again.

And a new choice.

So I beat on.


“Well, well – look who’s back.”

“Denise, I need to know where Ade – where Lin went.”

“Lin who?”


“Haven’t seen her in a while. Why are you looking for her, Braveheart?”

Denise’s long, artificially whitened hair reflects cold disco lights, as do her gray-green eyes. She watches for my reaction, as if she’d just casually observed that I was a rat following a bride to the altar and maybe I am.

But tonight I’m a stubborn rat. I turn away from her.

“Ann, hey Ann – have ye seen Adeline?”


“Have ye – have you seen Adeline?”


Ann Fremont – short, stocky, big tits, capable of snorting out a grin with so much derision I can actually feel it across the room. It’s the only answer I get. I turn away again.

The music is thunder now, all around. Something about a “gangsta’s paradise.”

I feel stinging in my eyes. I look, again and again, but I’m like a piece of flotsam being swirled around and around in some dead-end harbor. I am numb, too.

Maybe good. I have to numb myself in order not to run.

“Hey, Rich – your girlfriend’s here!”

No, not him.

Up there beside Eric, beside the enormous B&O – up on the stashed boxes that created a temporary DJ scene for everyone to use and abuse is Richard.

He smiles sheepishly as he looks down at me, simultaneously trying to disentangle himself from some brunette I don’t recall having seen before. But she looks very concerned. Especially about his crotch. She looks down at me, too, but not like I really exist. Just like there was some small ripple in the swirling sea of dancing, drunk people – temporarily – but not really something significant. Not as significant as whatever she’s looking for in Richard’s jeans. He tries to remove her hand. It comes back like it’s tied to a rubber band.

“I thought you weren’t here,” he blurts and tries to smile in a way that signals something I’m not even sure he knows.

He still struggles with the brunette’s hand – but not overly much. “I was a bit late.  The snow, you know.  I would have called, but the only phone booth on the way out here didn’t work.  The snow … ”

I nod, in terror and wonder at the same time. This can’t be happening.

“The snow … ” I repeat.

“Really only came here half an hour ago,” he stammers on. “You were gone, I thought.”

“It’s okay,” I finally hear myself say. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.  Look, a little later, perhaps we could – ”

But I ‘can’t’ anything. Not anymore.



Compared to the inferno in the techno garage below, there’s an uncanny sacred calm up here. Sure, the floor is bouncing from the bass, but there’s no one around to feel it bounce.

No one but me.

At least I don’t think there is anyone but me curled up here in an endless hallway, back against the wall, my legs crammed up against me. Make-up is probably smeared, but I gave up caring long ago. I found some stairs, I think. I don’t remember it clearly. I just had to get away.

I wonder if Lin’s up here – didn’t she hint she had a room or something? Now that I’ve thrown myself to the lions, I might as well try to do what I came for. What did I come for? To say …

“Gee, I’m really sorry if it’s true that your dad fucked an under-age prostitute in Haiti and got stabbed. It’s just one of those risks travel risks, you know.”

I get up, reeling a bit. But it’s not from the blue stuff Lin fed me. It’s a kind of vertigo I think. So I walk, very slowly, down the hallway. I don’t want to pass out up here.

Strange.  This big, empty second floor of the house reminds me of something.

Yeah. That mansion in The Great Gatsby. About the only book I loved in English class, the year before we moved from Skye and back to mother’s Cleveland. Her big capitulation. Her –

No, fuck that. I’d be better off thinking about the good stuff on Skye. Like my English teach, Mr. Jackman. He was a lovable old codger – one of the only reasons there possibly could have been to have stayed behind on that island of nowhere … with dad. I wish I could take a photo or something and send it to him of this place. But that would be stupid. He has probably already forgotten about me. I was just another pupil and not a very good one.

And then I get to a certain door.

This must be it.

I thought … Hell, I don’t know what I thought. But this must be it. Big gross poster on the door with some gloomy lady, but where half the lady’s head is cut off and transformed into some kind of freaky monster instead.

There is no name plate on the door or anything but who else in the house would have such a poster on their door?

I knock.

“Lin … ?”

No answer.

I knock again.

More silence.

Then I discover it. The door is not locked. Without really knowing how I’m able to make myself do it, I gently push it open.

Oh, my…

I don’t know what I expected. I guess, anything but … this?

The room is the size of my mum’s two-room apartment downtown; (only place Deb could afford as a part time substitute teacher and part time unemployed). And it’s like a library, lined with books – books in all shapes and sizes. Comic books, too – and magazines: A total mess or a daring mosaic of tastes – depending on who you are, I guess. I’m not sure who I am. I’m just sure it’s overwhelming.

I go to the small, single bed and carefully sit down.

No chairs in the room, no other furniture, not even a cupboard with clothes; just a little night table and then this bed, here in the corner. And – wow! – one of those royally expensive portable computers, I’ve heard about – lying casually on the sheets, black, closed, like an extra pillow or something.

Okay, obviously, she’s not here. I have to do what I came here for and then get out.


So I open my small bag, find the calendar, rip out a page. Then I try to find the words.

That’s the hard part. I write it three times but each time just feels worse. In the end, I give up with this:



I’m really, really sorry. I screwed up. Maybe I’m not strong enough to be a punching bag any longer. I hated Scotland. I wanted to live in a real city – the bigger the better. But now I’m just the odd girl from Scotland who dresses wrong, talks wrong, and does everything wrong. I know it’s nothing compared to what’s happened for you. So for what it’s worth –  I’m really sorry about what happened with your father and all. It’s terrible. It’s almost more than I can comprehend. I don’t have the words. Just that I wish I could take back the stupid things I said about you. But I can’t. So you’ll have to do with this corny note. I know it can never be enough but I wish it was.



I leave the little piece of paper on the bed, beside the computer, ever-so carefully as if it’s the petal of some flower that’s almost dead.

In some way I hope she won’t read it; already a part of me is crying out, Take it back – don’t show it to her. She’ll use it against you. It’ll make everything worse.

I force myself to turn around and walk out, and then … a ridiculous, absurd coincidence that almost makes me laugh out loud. There, on one of the shelves, right in front of me – the treasure beyond treasures.

I slowly take out the original, 1925 first-print edition of The Great Gatsby. It’s in almost perfect condition. Even the dust-jacket only has one or two fine rifts in it.

And – she has more of them! First edition masterpieces – there’s Hemingway, Woolf, Yeats, more Fitzgerald, even a whole collection of Jane Austen. I’m not much of a classics reader, but these old books… my God, they must have cost a fortune! Mr. Jackman would’ve fainted just seeing this!

“What are you doing here?”

For the second time tonight Lin manages to almost scare the living daylights out of me. I turn slowly, Gatsby still in my hands, trying not to shake too much. Trying.

“I, uh, uh – I was just looking … for ye.”

Lin quickly walks over from the open door; snaps the book out of my hands, stuffs it back on the shelf.

“Why did you take that book?”


“Why that one?”

“It’s one of my favorite books. H-honestly. It’s one o’ the most beautiful, and sad, books  I ever read. Ye know, the ending  where Nick Carraway searches for someone to come to Mr. Gatz’ – to Jay Gatsby’s – funeral and no one wants to and he realizes that it’s all about … that we all, ye know, have to ‘beat on, like boats against the current … ’ and all that … ”

Lin stares coldly at me, waiting for my voice  to die. She clearly never expected an answer. Especially not some lame attempt at trying to reconnect by blurting out about some lame old book that I coincidentally got all mushy about in my last English class in a past life I ought to have buried long ago. Lame, lame, lame.

No, I had my chance at connecting – an hour ago.

I look to the floor, then brush past her back down the stairs.

Outside the winter is still gray, silent.


The bus stop again.

For the hundredth time I’m looking down the empty night-black road. For the hundredth time, I’m wondering how sick I will get from waiting 45 minutes more for the night bus in minus 5 degrees. For the hundredth time, I’m wondering if I should just go home and kill myself.

Because Adeline was trying to … you know … and I just threw it back into her face. I got a chance – one really good chance – to be someone else other than ‘Braveheart-girl’ and I …

And I had no idea … that her parents … her father … that she



Wait … What was that? Some car coming out of the driveway from the mansion?

Big, sleek BMW. Really big. Blocks the entire bus stop as it. Pulls over. A huge man is in the driver’s seat: sixty-ish – looking distinctly like all the stereotypical ideas I ever had about what an old beat-up boxer should look like.

“You Carrie Sawyer,” he grumbles, hardly bothering to look at me out of the half-open window. It was not a question.


“Mick Driscoll. I work for Mr. Christakis.”


“Yeah, gardens, driving, stuff like that.”

He eyes me like it was the stupidest question in the world. Being me, of course I can’t help myself before I go with another one.

“He … he really is dead, then, Mr. Christakis, I mean … ?”

Embers of twilight twinkle in the old man’s eyes.

“Not officially. You gettin’ in or what?”

“Getting in?”

“Is there an echo ’round here?”

“But – ”

He holds up a warning hand:

“Because the young missus asked! I’ll drive ya home, okay? Now get in before I bloody change my mind and forget why I let myself be persuaded to get out of my warm, cozy bed at this ungodly hour. Ya juvenile monsters got no respect for ol’ Mick!”

I don’t get in. (I mean, what would you do?) This is totally surreal. And he is –

Mick barks a laugh when he guesses my thoughts: “Ha!  The young missus thought ya might not be stupid enough to get into a car with a lurid old man. Glad to see yer not just blonde. Here!”

He hands me a note out the car window. It’s the one I left on Lin’s bed.

“Now,” he drawls on, the gravel quotient in his voice several notches up, “Are ya satisfied that I’m not an old pedophile out cruising the frosty roads in his new BMW?”

I shake my head, but I mean “yes,” of course. It’s all about confusion and how to pretend it’s not there. Like it’s been all evening. But finally I begin to feel how exhausted I am.

Too exhausted … and cold.

I open the door, slowly and let myself slip into the backseat. It’s real, crackling leather, and there’s a quirky, but reassuring, smell of pipe tobacco from Mick’s driver’s jacket; soft jazz purrs from a ten thousand dollar-something car audio system. My mind’s already racing to figure out what Lin’s game is. But somehow – maybe – it doesn’t matter now. I’m cold and I just want to go home.

Mick growls a two-word question about our apartment’s address and I tell him. The car lurches on, skidding a little bit over the icy road. Then we are off, away from the mansion, away from Eric, Denise, Richard – all of them. At least until Monday.

And then I see it:  something written on the backside of my note. Not much, but enough.

In fact, if there was one definition left of the word “enough” it would be this:


Let’s beat on then, if you still want to –


Ms. Gatz



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