Crystal Grader - Tag Cavello (reading women .TXT) 📗

possession and sentences you to one hundred hours of community service, said service to be determined by the Huron County Department of Transitional Assistance. In the event that a suitable service cannot be agreed upon, a fine of one thousand U.S. dollars shall be enforced in lieu of the original punishment.” A dry crack! whipped across the room as the judge struck his anvil. “This session is now adjourned.”

***

The Huron County courthouse was in Norwalk. Riding home to Monroeville took fifteen minutes. It was pleasant…on the outside of the car. A warm, friendly sun lit the fields between the two towns on this first week of summer break, nourishing flowers and crops alike from a sky in which nary a cloud could be seen.

“Sorry,” Crystal said for the fifth time, as they cruised past a large house where a little girl was picking flowers by the porch.

“Very sincere,” Lucretia replied. “The depth of your remorse couldn’t be more obvious.”

“Well it’s hard to sound sincere when I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure you didn’t.” She shot a quick, bullet-hard glance over the console that Crystal, still numb from the judge’s outburst, barely felt. “Let’s forget about why you were stupid enough to put a whole carton of cigarettes in your locker for now. Where did you buy them, Crystal?”

“I didn’t buy them, Mom. I wish you would believe that.”

“You stole them?”

Crystal looked at her. Lucretia Genesio, she realized at that moment, had always been a bit of a witch—usually a good one. From the cavalier advice she doled to her daughters (romance, fashion, schoolwork) to her love of candy, cookies, and presents on the holidays, the elder Genesio maintained a streak of little girl in her almost as strong as the ones she was raising. That playfulness had even allowed her to wink at Crystal’s occasional cigarette in the park or on the front walk (her first drag, in fact, had come from her mother’s own package of Virginia Slims, stolen out of curiosity).

But little girls were also stubborn. And fussy. And shrewd.

“Yeah,” Crystal said icily, “I stole them, Mom. I broke into Vanson’s one night and cleaned out their whole rack. Does that make you happy? Are you satisfied now?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going to make me satisfied, young lady: locking you in your room until school starts again. I might even shove your meals under the door so you feel more like the goddamned criminal you are.”

“I can’t believe you’re taking their word over mine! I just can’t believe it!” She kicked the glove compartment hard as she could while tears began to sting her eyes.

Lucretia was unmoved. “Stop it, Crystal. I know you can lie with the best of them.”

“I’M NOT LYING ABOUT THIS! SOMEBODY PUT THOSE FUCKING CIGARETTES IN MY LOCKER!”

That finally did it. The witch’s face turned red as a brick, and her eyes burned. “Well I’m not lying about this one either, girly! You are grounded for the entire summer!”

“I DON’T CARE!”

“No television, no telephone! No lessons from Mr. Powell! NOTHING!”

“I SAID I DON’T CARE!”

“And if I see one cigarette in that filthy little mouth of yours, if I smell any, if I even THINK you’re smoking again—“

“SHUT UP!”

“I will lock you in the BASEMENT instead of your room! Do you understand? DO YOU?”

“YES! NOW SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“I’ll leave you alone, all right. Very, very alone.”

***

She spent the rest of that day crying in bed. At just after six p.m. a tentative knock came to the door. It was Hannah. Dinner was ready. Crystal garbled from beneath her pillows that she wouldn’t be coming down today, that she wasn’t hungry.

“Mom says it’s okay,” Hannah added, but didn’t press the issue any further.

After she’d gone Crystal rolled over to stare at the ceiling with empty red eyes. The cheerful noontime sunlight had gone a sickly orange-yellow, and now tainted her reading nook with its poisonous rays.

Fuck off, she thought. Go supernova and put an end to this shitty excuse for a species.

Her mood didn’t change over the weekend. She lay in bed for two days wondering who exactly had put those cigarettes into her locker. Faces floated before her mind’s eye—teachers, classmates, the cheering team. One member from this latter category hovered for longer than the rest: Megan Holt. And why not? Apart from Crystal she was the most talented girl on the squad. She had a cunning, crooked smile that betrayed (perhaps) a gift for plots and assassinations. She didn’t seem to like Lucy very much. She had red hair.

“I’ll kill you,” Crystal said to the empty room. “I’ll jam a carton of cancer sticks right up that little freckled butt of yours and light the whole thing. Then every time you take a poop the surgeon general will send somebody to your porch to give a lecture.”

On Monday she snuck out of the house to see Jarett while Lucretia was at work. Their sessions had not gone well since the birthday kiss. She’d finished two stories and had them blandly critiqued by a man too frightened to sit on the same couch with her, choosing the recliner on the other side of the fireplace as a retreat. From here he would issue the occasional vague nod as she read aloud, with an even less frequent good, good, or an all but nonexistent piece of advice.

Crystal didn’t begrudge him—yet. He needed time to know that she could be trusted with their secret. That was fine and understood. But the clock had been ticking for almost four months now. To demand more proof of her underhandedness did not seem fair. She had kept the secret of their birthday kiss from everyone—even Lucy.

And perhaps he knew that she was getting frustrated, because today she was let into the Jackson farm with a warm welcome while Chubby pranced around her legs barking his happy barks. Wearing his typical blue jeans, hiking boots, and dress shirt, Jarett led her towards the kitchen before she could get out a single word about the cigarettes.

“I’m really glad you’re here today,” he blustered. “Really glad. I was hoping you’d come.”

Crystal laughed. Here was more excitement than she’d seen from him in months; its source put her on pins and needles. Chubby nudged her down the hallway with his cold nose, every bit as eager as his master to get her into the kitchen. A sharp smell stabbed at her as she stepped on the tiles.

“What’s that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Jarett was spared the hurt this expression may have caused. He stood facing the counter, spatula in hand, and called cheerfully over his shoulder that there would be fried chicken for dinner, if she wanted any. Crystal supposed it necessary to believe him.

“I thought I was cooking for you,” she said, trying to stifle another laugh.

“You do, you do,” the other replied with a quick glance, “I love your cooking. But I caught this program on Food Network earlier and kind of got inspired.”

There came the sound of metal on metal as he flipped one of the pieces over. Grease flew across the kitchen in a sizzling spray that caused Chubby to dart for cover under the table.

“How much earlier?” Crystal, grinning, wanted to know.

“I think it was around three.”

“In the morning?”

“Yep!”

“Well let me get some plates so we can find out how fabulous this new hobby of yours really is.”

She set the table in a significantly better mood than the one she had come in with. Minutes later Jarett placed a basketful of meteorites onto the table. It was evident by the smile on his face that he was thrilled with his creation. Crystal offered a few complimentary remarks while keeping her own smile free of derision, then told him—crunching at the toasted remains of a wing—all about what had happened on the last week of school, as well as the punishment that went with it.

Jarett’s eyes became incredulous as she spoke. His chewing slowed. He took several swigs from the bottle of Beck’s he’d sat down with. By the time Crystal finished her story the smell of the chicken had faded, allowing an afternoon cornhusk breeze to permeate the kitchen through a window over the sink.

“One hundred hours,” Jarett said, nonplussed. “For a lousy carton of smokes?”

“That I did not even put there,” Crystal reminded him.

He paused, then slid the bottle of beer over to her. “Take a drink, kid. You need it.”

Crystal lifted the nozzle to her lips and took a tentative swallow. Much to her surprise, it tasted delicious. She took another with her eyes closed. A pleasant, dizzying sensation forked across her brain like lightning.

“What is this stuff, Jarett?”

“Germany at its finest.” He paused a second time. Then: “Who put the cigarettes in your locker?”

Hearing the question nearly made her choke as she drained the bottle. “You mean you actually believe me?” she asked.

“Of course I believe you. Why wouldn’t I?”

She wanted to kiss him—just jump over the table, throw her arms around his neck, and kiss him. “God, Jarett, you are the only one who does. Sincerely.”

He nodded. “But you are innocent?”

“Yes!”

“So who’s the perp? Any ideas?”

“One. A girl on my cheering team named Megan Holt.”

“Why her?”

“Because…” she began, but the reasons were slow in coming the second time around. They had something to do with her not liking Lucy, and having red hair. In other words they were stupid—too stupid to share out loud. Crystal looked wistfully at the empty bottle of Beck’s. She had no idea who’d framed her.

Reading her mind, Jarett rose and got a fresh beer from the fridge. He popped the top and handed it to her.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she said.

“No.”

“Rats.” She took a drink, winced, then told him: “I guess it wasn’t Megan after all. She’s a little mean-spirited sometimes but not harmful.”

“So you’re back to square one.”

“Yeah.”

“You said the cigarettes were in your locker. Is it a combination lock or key-fit?”

“Combination.”

“Who knows the number besides you?”

“No one.”

“That’s not true, Crystal. Someone does. Now think.”

Crystal swallowed more Beck’s, then took a bite from a slice of bread. “Well I haven’t told it to any of my friends. Or enemies,” she added, though the list in this category was short. In fact she could think of no one who disliked her enough to do such a thing. It was square one indeed.

“Faculty,” Jarett said, reaching for another piece of chicken. Apparently what courage he lacked in the romance department he more than made up for in the arena of ingestion.

“Oh come on, Jarett, none of my teachers are going to…”

The words trailed off. Her hand stiffened on the bottle, and as her eyes floated drunkenly around the room before coming to rest on the basket of black wings she muttered: “Shit-Shit.”

“What was that?” Jarret came back with.

“Shit-Shit.” She looked at him, nodded, then took a celebratory gulp of beer. “That’s our man.”

“Who the hell is Shit-Shit? Are we talking about a guy who doesn’t know how to wipe his ass? Give me that beer.” He took it from her and swigged it down to the half-way point. “I let you have it all and you really will be drunk.”

“The kids call him Shit-Shit because he smells bad. Maybe he doesn’t know how to wipe—“

“The janitor,” Jarett cut in.

She smiled back. “You remember.”

“I remember. All you had to do was mention a guy at that school who smelled. So he knows your locker combination?”

“He has access to all the locker combos. And he was really pissed at me that day of the fire. Pissed because we caught him with cigarettes.”

Jarett took another sip and handed the bottle back to her. “Yeah, a fire, right.” A wink that gave her goose-bumps came over the table. “I thought the whole school was going to burn down.”

“He put the cigarettes in my locker,” she said between gulps, “leaned them up against the door so they’d fall right out in front of everybody. Which they did.”

“That prick.”

“Yeah.” Another