CHAPTER ELEVEN ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER by B. A. Linhares

Single again.

 

 

Some time passes and I hear a siren screaming down the boulevard next to the parking lot. I sit up and look around. A fire truck goes by lights flashing and I blink back wondering why the police never came to the school to check on the crazy taxi driver. The clock on the dash says it’s only 5:38, but the parking lot is shrouded with shadows. There’s no sign of Sean. Or anybody for that matter. Just me and a big red sun sitting on the horizon. It’s like I’m in the movie Return to Horror High. A few older model cars are parked near the front of the school. Night security. Everything feels different. Like they say, it's as if one door slammed shut and another opened. Or something like that. Problem is I have no idea what's on the other side.

Why am I sitting here in the front seat like a wounded soldier? I’m fine. I need to go home. I get out, shut the door, and scurry around the back of the Mustang. I yank open the driver’s side door and scoot behind the wheel. I slam the door and reach around locking the doors. My hands are shaking so much I have trouble fastening my seatbelt. I turn the key in the ignition and listen to the comforting sound of the engine. I switch on my headlights, slide a CD in, and then sit there a few seconds regaining my composure. My life changed in a second because of my decision not to let Sean have his way. I smile. I like how it feels to just say no. Thanks Brook.

I pull down the visor and check my face. My face is blotchy and my eyes are red. Every freckle is detectable. Not good. I swipe at the dried mascara on my cheeks and push up both visors. I put the car in gear. On the way home, I force myself to sing along to whatever song is playing. I’m afraid if I think about what happened I‘d start crying.

I briefly wonder if Sean walked home, which is roughly three miles—serves him right for being so mean to me. I half-heartedly search the streets for him. While driving through an intersection, I think I see a taxi on the parallel streets a couple of times as I check right and left. But I’m not certain—it’s probably my imagination running wild. Anyway, Sean is nowhere in sight.

At six sharp, I pull into our driveway. The front porch light comes on, and the rest of the lights in the yard, all are on the same timer. I sigh deeply and smile. If I had on ruby slippers I’d click my heals three times and say, “There’s no place like home.”

I open my door and step out. I slide the driver’s seat forward. A tiny puddle is on the floorboard from the rain. I mop it up with the tissues I used to wipe my eyes, and then gather my scattered CDs on back seat and floor.

I hear a car motor and rise up, looking out the back window through the shadows of the trees and cars lining the street. A taxi with a glowing sign on top of the roof appears ghostlike.

“Holy cow!”

I drop the CDs and duck down just enough to peer over the top of the backseat. Mom’s night vision binoculars would come in handy right now. I realize the dim overhead light totally gives me away and duck down lower as the taxi rolls slowly past our house.

I back out of the Mustang and shut the door silently. Crouching over, I creep around the side to the back bumper and look around the fender. The driver stops at the four-way intersection, red break lights glowing in the dusk. I move side to side and peer around the of tree trunks block my vision. The driver turns right, the turn signal still flashing as it heads away. I stay low, watching until it’s out of sight. I shiver.

“Why is this old guy freaking following me?”

I rush to the backseat and put my CDs in the case. I’m shaking so badly I can’t get the broke clasp to close. Sean’s right, I really do need a new CD case. I set case on the passenger seat and grab my purse and backpack as I back out, shut door and lock it with the key.

I run like a track star to the front door. I guess I half expected the creepy old guy to jump out of the shadows and murder me Freddy Krueger style in the front yard. I can’t help it, the thought of someone follow me creeps me out. The news is full of stories about abductions and murders.

Once inside the house, I lock the door and dump my stuff on the floor by the stairs. I calm down…sort of just as Pop sticks his head out of the kitchen door like a jack-in-the-box and I utter a bark of surprise my nerves are shot.

He pushes through the door with his shoulder. “You’re home!”

I scowl and pat my chest. “Pop, you scared me.”

“Sorry, but I was starting to worry about you.” I pick up the mail to avoid his inquiring eyes. I don’t want him to see my blotchy face and messy makeup.

He waves at the Cuckoo Clock. “It’s past six, I expected you home well over an hour ago. I tried to call your cell. Did you forget to turn it on?”

“No. I turned it on when I was leaving school.” I dig my cell out of my pocket and picture it flying through the air. “I dropped it. Maybe it’s broke…” I mumble trying to explain. “Huh, I guess the impact must’ve knocked it off.” I power it up and show Pop. “It’s working now.”

Pop frowns at my phone. “I’m in the middle of making yeast rolls so I couldn’t pick up.”

I automatically check for new messages. Five, all from Sean—oh, please come back to me baby…blahblahblah…sorry Charlie…

Pop says, “Okay…well…I was getting worried after I heard the dismal message Sean left on the answering machine in the den. I didn’t know what to think…”

My mouth drops open as I look up from my cell. I can’t believe he’d listen to my personal messages. He holds up both hands, which are completely coated with sticky dough, and wiggles his fingers to prove his case.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, Geez-Louise, Pop, please don’t make me talk about it.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, reading my expression and backing away. “Whatever is going on between you and Sean is none of my bees wax.” He pauses before going back in the kitchen. “I’m just the cook and bottle washer around here.”

Then it occurs to me that Sean only has is my cell number. When I didn’t answer it, he freaked and called information. Before cell phones came out, the phone in the den was the only number we had. It’s the only number in the telephone company’s system. Just our close friends and family have that number on the phone in the foyer and kitchen, which is unlisted to stop the influx of telemarketing and political calls.

“Okay, if you must know, Sean broke up with me––”

My voice cracks and I feel a rush of hot tears burning my eyes. I run a hand through my hair and swipe my eyes. I stare at the floor trying not to lose it––plus I have to pee really badly and need to check on the situation below.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” he says tenderly.

I raise my chin and see Pop’s eyes cloud over for a few seconds. Pop is a big sensitive teddy bear that will tear your head off if you hurt his daughter.

“Is there anything I can do or say to make it better?”

I shake my head. “Not really...uh, I’d like to hear what Sean said.” I go around him and enter the den. The little red light on the answering machine flashes in the dark, beckoning me to listen. I moan aloud. “Uh, I hate this.”

Pop flips on the ceiling light with his elbow and fills up the doorframe with his body. “Cookie, I’m not trying to get into your business. It’s just that when I heard the phone in here ringing, I ran in thinking it was an emergency.”

I sigh deeply. “I know. I’m not mad at you, Pop.” I look at him.

He pinches his lips together and frowns at me.

“What exactly did Sean say?”

“Basically that he was sorry. He sounded completely beaten and perplexed about what to do. Call the poor lad.”

I feel my temper boiling over and think, oh if you only knew the real Sean. I sit down at the desk and look at Pop. “A little privacy please?”

“Sure love,” he says, stepping back indicating that his hands are all gooey so I get up to close the door. “Dinner’s ready in one hour if you’re hungry.”

“Starving! Thanks Pop. Love you,” I call out and shut the door. I don’t want him to feel bad because I suck at choosing boyfriends.

I cross to the desk again and sit down in the soft chair that’s been in our family forever. I sit back and stare at the answering machine for several seconds. It almost feels as if I am face to face with Sean again. I replay the nasty things he said to me. The last thing was the worse.

“You mother is dead…get over it!”

I should just delete all of his messages and be done with him. End of subject…Game over! I blow out a long breath and reach for the delete button. My finger hovers over the delete button. The not knowing what he said will drive me bonkers. I push the play button instead and the robotic voice says, “You have one message”. There’s a long pause, finally Sean’s voice comes on.

“Um…hey, this message is for Cookie. Um—” He stops talking then waits for a second. “Cookie, are you there? Please pick up if you’re there. I called five times on your cell, but I keep getting kicked to your message center.” He pauses. “Come on Cookie, I really need to talk to you!” There’s another long pause. “Okay…you’re probably too mad to talk to me right now. I don’t blame you. I acted like a total shit …I’m sorry…okay? Please call me. God, I hope your dad doesn’t hear this message... That was dumb.” Click. I reach over and stop the machine.

“Way to go Palmer.”

Hearing Sean’s voice makes me realize that there’s no way I can go back with him, not after what happened in the parking lot. At least he said he was sorry, that was a rare and beautiful thing. For about half a second I debate calling him back and letting him have a piece of my mind.

“Nah let him squirm.”

I erase his message and stand up. I just might let his messages on my cell go unanswered as well. I need time to think.

Smiling to myself, I shut the door. For the first time in a very long time (maybe ever) I feel in control of my destiny. I gather up my stuff and head upstairs. The front of my new backpack feels damp. Oh no, my swimsuit is still in there. I hope my other stuff isn’t mess up.

I make a full pit stop in the upstairs bathroom. I shut the door and hang my wet swimsuit on a towel rack. After I take care of business, I head to my bedroom. I kick off my shoes and empty my backpack, spreading everything out on the carpet to dry. Nothing looks ruined except one of the new folders I haven’t used yet.

Next, a hot shower and a shampoo are in order. I totally reek from sweat and chorine. While my hair conditioner does its thing, I soap up and analysis my day. First thing that comes to mind is the creepy dude in the taxi. Is he a lone pap taking pictures of us or is he a pervert stalking me? And if so, why? I’d bet my last dollar he’s the same man I saw at the Checkmart. How many people wear fedora hats theses days? Is his next move to call here and breathe into our telephone? What should I do? Report him to the police? He hasn’t broken any laws. I picture the “See something, say something” billboards Homeland Security placed all over the country after 9-11.

I rinse off until the water runs cold and shiver while turning off the nozzles. I’m shocked that Pop hasn’t banged on the door and told me to stop using up all the hot water. He feels sorry for me.

I grab a towel and step out of the shower. I know what to do. I can ask Josh to tell his dad—no wait—Josh said his father is in Florida. No, telling the police is not an option because I’m still legally a minor. Pop will have to get involved. He’ll have a coronary. But what if this man is a deranged-pedophile-kidnapper-type––wanted by the police? Isn’t it my patriotic duty to tell someone? I’ve have to tell Josh O'Dell. He’ll know what to do and I can trust him to keep it a secret from Pop. I just hope this guy doesn’t pull a home invasion thing before I have a chance to call Josh.

After drying off, I slip on my bathrobe, wrap the towel around my hair like a turban and go back to my room. Still shivering, I slip into a pair of sweat pants, a long sleeve top, and a hoodie. Even though it’s probably ninety degrees outside and seventy-something in the house, I can’t seem to get warm. Over the last six months or so, I’ve noticed the temperature in parts of my room will fluctuate from warm to ice cold. This phenomenon usually only lasts a few seconds. Pop says this old house has all sorts of quirks. I can’t understand why this only happens in my room.

Something scratches at my window and I jump backwards.

Take a pill, it’s just a Mockingbird.

I steal over and slide into my window seat.

The Mockingbird sees me and flies down to the ground. He starts pecking around in the lawn searching for a fat worm. There’s so many lights on in our backyard he probably thinks it daytime. That reminds me of the night Pop got Mom’s night vision binoculars and we spied on a nest of Mockingbirds and their babies in the Irish oak tree branches just outside my window. Everything looked eerie and green, but we could make out every detail. I picture the binoculars downstairs inside the coat closet hanging on a door hook. Mom kept them there for some reason. I’ll go fetch them as soon as I warm up.

I pick up Mom’s yellow throw and wrap it around my shoulders pulling it up to my face, sniffing. Her perfume is still lingering. Suddenly, memories of us in Austria last Christmas come flooding back to me in vivid detail, like never before. We had so much fun walking around Schladming. The quaint Bavarian village was magical.

Consequently, next come the horrible days that followed her death and I have to sit back. Usually, when I’m alone and find myself drowning in memories of Mom, I block them out. I’m not trying to forget her. It’s just that sometimes it’s too painful to think about. This time I let them play out like a movie in my head. My therapist keeps telling me if I want to come to grips with Mom’s death, I need to remember everything. Right now, I want to remember so I can start to solve this mystery.

I press my fingers to my temples and close my eyes. I think about the airport limo dropping us off at home, the day after Christmas. Pop and I were beyond exhausted. We left our luggage in the foyer and wandered room to room. It was very late, but it didn’t seem right to just go up and go to bed as if nothing had happened.

I wanted to stay up and try to feel normal again.

While Pop made a pot of coffee, I walked into the living room and plugged in our Christmas tree. It was surrounded with unopened presents, most of them for Mom. Her birthday is the day after Christmas so she was going to come home with us and stay until after New Years.

I sat on the floor and burst into tears.

I literally could not stop crying.

Finally, Pop made me go to bed.

I put on my flannel pajamas and crawled under the covers exhausted and numb.

After awhile, Pop came in and sat in a chair by my bed drinking coffee. He sang Irish lullabies and I eventually fell asleep.

The next morning, loud voices woke me up. I stumbled out of bed and looked out the window. During the night, it’d snowed pretty hard. The oak tree branches were covered with white sparking snow. Glad to be home, I ran downstairs and found Pop sitting on the sofa in the living room, still in his bathrobe. He was watching the news and rocking back and forth. His face was unshaven and he looked haggard. He glanced over at me, shook his head and waved me over.

Just then there was a loud commotion outside.

“What the heck is going on?” I asked, and started to cross the floor to look out the front window.

Pop shouted, “Stay away from the windows!”

I spin around. “Why?”

“Because the whole street is filled with new vans and people.”

I was in shock and he looked beyond disgusted.

Pop held out the remote and muted the TV just as I plopped down next to him and stared at the screen. The news was broadcasting from our front yard. I recognized a couple of the neighbors huddled out on the sidewalk.

Pop said, “Somehow, the bloody media got wind of your mom’s mysterious death. That’s what they’re calling it on the news.” He motioned angrily at the muted television set. “And as you can see, they’re having a bloody field day.”

We heard a loud crash outside and a horn blared.

Startled, I jump up off the couch. “So, what now? We can never leave the house again?”

“Oh for the love of Pete!” Pop said, and threw up his hands. He stood up and we both ran over to the window. I pulled the vertical shades aside just a little and he peer between the blinds. There had to be over fifty people on our front lawn. It looked like a scene from a movie.

“Dang!” I can’t believe this. This is all about Mom?”

“Believe it or not,” Pop said, pulling me away from the window.

I blink at him. “What can we do?”

We hear sirens and loud voice.

“I’ve had enough!” He tightened his robe belt and rushed down the hallway to the den. “I’m calling the cops and put a stop to this!”

I stood in the doorway and watched him.

Just as he was about to hit 9-1-1, the doorbell rang.

He pushed by me and said, “I’ll get that and give whoever is there a piece of my mind!” He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked down at what he was wearing, and then turned on his heal and started up the stairs. He paused on the steps and held up a big hand.

“I’ll see who keeps ringing the bell.”

Pop shouts, “NO WAIT!”

I stopped in my tracks.

The bell rang again.

I throw up my hands. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just peek through the hole and see who it is.”

I went to the door and peered out the peephole. A large uniformed policeman in a wool navy blue p-coat, police cap with fur earflaps, and a big gun on his hip was standing on our stoop. I looked over my shoulder and shouted, “Pop! The police are already here.”

Pop looked over the upstairs railing. “Cookie…just open it a crack and tell him to hold on, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Uh-uh. I scrunched up my face and shook my head side to side. No way, I’m not opening the door with all those people out there.

The doorbell rang, yet again and I looked up. Pop disappeared.

“Uh! Just a sec,” I yelled timidly, and looked down at my nightshirt. I needed something to cover up with.

I yanked open the coat closet door and Mom’s binoculars swung on the hook on the inside of the door. Pop’s leather flight jacket was the first thing I found. I put it on, zipped it up to my chin, and pushed up the thick leather sleeves. The jacket was heavy and felt nice and snuggly. I glanced down and wigged my sock clad toes. Pop’s jacket was big on me it covered my knees, but I needed some shoes there was snow on the ground outside. My new snow boots, I’d bought for our trip to Austria and wore home, was next to our luggage, still piled by the stairs. I slipped them on and memories so vivid flashed through my mind. I had to put my hand on the wall to keep from passing out.

The sound of voices on the porch brought me back to the present. I peaked out peephole. The cop had his back to me. He was talking to a blond lady with a microphone in her hand. I wished Pop would hurry up.

There was a sharp rap on the door and I started. I tucked my sleep-tangled hair behind my ears, unlocked the door then twisted the handle and opened it just a crack. The icy winter air cooled air flushed my face. The officer has his back to me talking to a lady with a microphone. I opened the door wider.

“Um, excuse me sir?”

The officer turned his head and held up a finger at me. His face looked very familiar. Oh my God…it’s Officer O’Dell…what’s Josh’s dad doing here?

The crowd noticed me and immediately rushed toward the door.

I stood there like a deer in headlights as cameras flashed and reporter shouted questions at me.

“Miss Blakely. Is it true your mother’s body was never really found?”

“Where were you when Special Agent Sheahan-Blakely allegedly disappeared?”

“Do you know how she died?”

I jumped back and shut the door. I peek out the hole. Officer O’Dell had his black leather gloved hands held up high, holding back crowd. I could hear his muffled shouts.

“Everyone…please…step back away from the porch!”

Officer O’Dell stood there like a human barrier, completely blocking my view of the mob. The crowd immediately got quiet and he tapped on the door.

“Hello? Cookie Blakely?”

I opened the door a crack and looked at Josh’s dad.

He smiled and said. “Cookie, remember me?”

I nodded my head. “Uh… sure…you’re Josh’s dad.” Josh looks just like his father. In Middle School, Josh was almost as tall as his dad however he was only a third his weight.

“Do you mind if I come inside? The media hounds are about to eat me alive.”

“Okay.”

I let go of the door and stepped back out of the way.

He stomped the snow off his boots and came inside, and shut the door and locked it. This visual pulls me be back to present.

I open my eyes and look around my room. Did I fall asleep just now or was I just drifting. I blink and picture Josh O'Dell’s handsome face and buffed body. “I need to call Josh.”

I sit up stretching and my stomach tightens with hunger. I sniff the air. Something smells heavenly. Fresh baked yeast rolls and roasted chicken. I’m ravenous, but first I want to get those binoculars and call Josh. Pop will yell when dinner’s ready.

I slide out of the window seat, and then creep down the stairs. Until I figure out what to do about this stalker dude, I don’t want to have to explain to Pop why I want the binoculars. I pause on the bottom step and crook my head toward the kitchen. Pop is in the kitchen singing an Irish ballad at the top of his lungs.

Back up in my window seat, I hang Mom’s night vision binoculars around my neck and watch for any suspicious cars while I comb the knots out of my damp hair. It’s late August and the Irish Oak’s leaves are so thick it’s just about impossible to see the street below. I notice a pair of headlight beams and drop my comb.

I stand up, balancing inside the window seat and press the binoculars to my eyes, but that doesn’t help, the foliage is too thick and it’s too dark and shadowy.

I sit back down. Am I obsessing too much about this? Char and Sean have told me that I have a habit of making something out of nothing. Maybe I should just block the old weird guy out of my mind, forget that I saw him. I don’t want to lie awake at night worrying if he’s out there or worse have nightmares about him.

“COOKIE! SOUPS ON!”

I replace the lens covers and tuck the binoculars in my underwear drawer. Then I erase all of the messages on my cell phone from Sean and feel like the weight of the world is lifted off my shoulders.

Smiling, I jam my hair in a scrunchy and float down the stairs. Now I just have to figure out what to do when I see him at school. I pause. Uh, that’s going to be awkward. Oh well, I’ll cross the bridge when I come to it.

I push through the kitchen door and sniff the air. “Yum-o! Do I smell your legendary thirteen egg pound cake with raspberry glaze?”

Pop taps the side of his nose. “Aye, Missy. You have an excellent sniffer.” He gestures at the saucepan on the stove and set a clear glass bowl filled with ruby red liquid in the refrigerator to cool.

“Aye, I was taught by the best.” I run my finger around the edged of the pan, and then lick my finger. “Mmm, perfect amount of sweetness and tartness.” I inspect the golden cake that weighs as much as my head cooling on a silver rack. I pat Pop on the belly. “There goes your diet.”

“Diet schmiet,” he says, in defiance and pops a plump sugar coated raspberry into his mouth.

I go over and kiss him on the cheek, and then peer into the oven at a big fat roasting chicken sprinkled with garlic & rosemary spices and smothered with and a variety of veggies. I almost faint from the aroma. I shut the oven door and frown at him. “What? Dinner not ready yet?”

“Not quite. You can help me with the final touches.” He leads me over to the kitchen sink. “Plus it’s been a busy week and we haven’t had a chance to talk much.”

“True.” I wash my hands thoroughly and dry them on the proper hand towel. “Shall I set the table sir?”

“That would be lovely my dear.” He smiles at me then turns off the oven and slides out the chicken. “How’s the Mustang running?”

“Great except for the AC and the convertible top.” I explain the problems I had with both while loading up a wooden tray with salad bowls, plates, silverware, and napkins and carry it over to the breakfast nook, and layout placemats and freshly ironed white linen napkins.

“I’ll make an appointment with Zavallas Garage to take her in this weekend.”

“Awesome.”

Our house has a formal dining room off the kitchen. Pop insisted we eat dinner in the formal dining room, “like civilized folk” when Mom was home on one of her work sabbaticals. He’d set the big maple dining table with the best linen and Great-Grandma’s dishware that was handed down for like, a century to the daughters. I’d make a centerpiece with roses from Mom’s garden. Pop always helped Mom with her chair and she’d say that she felt like the Queen of England. When it was just the two of them, Pop would prepare a romantic dinner. On special occasions, he’d hire a duet or a violinist. On their tenth anniversary, he set up a large white tent in the backyard and hired five string musicians from some philharmonic orchestra. There were so many people at the party, they poured out into the street. More times than I can count, I would find them slow dancing, even when there was no music playing. Nowadays, we always eat in the breakfast nook. I should insist we eat in the dining room.

Pop says something and I blink out of the memory.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked you how’s school?”

“Fine. Crazy.”

I pause and stare out the plate glass window. The backyard is dark and spooky looking. The dim yellow street lights make it even eerier.

I ask, “What do you want to drink?”

“Just ice water. I’m drinking coffee.” He picks up his mug and sips loudly.

I quickly set places for two and I lean over the table. My eyes dart around to the corners of the backyard as if I expect someone to be lurking out there. I pick up the empty tray. “Um, Pop? Why aren’t the lights on out back?”

“I took your advice about conserving electricity,” he says, coming over. He sets a basket of hot yeast rolls on the nook’s table and a stick of butter in the crystal butter dish that belonged to his mother, my Grandma Blakely. Then he points out the window. “I had the security company out today. They attached movement sensor lights on the garage and the backyard lights. That way they only come on when you walk out there. The outside lights in the front are still on timers.”

I continue staring outside the window and mumble, “Really.”

When I got home the night of my surprise party and found every light off it sort of freaked me out. That’s why I haven’t bugged him about his light fetish since. So how do I say I want the lights back on again––especially with the creepy man following me around––without making him suspicious.

Pop takes the empty tray from me and sets it on the counter next to the sink. He sees me still starting out the window and says, “What? You aren’t happy?”

“Well, gee wiz Pop,” I say, fetching the pitcher of ice water out of the fridge and a carton of milk. “I don’t like all of the lights off. Don’t you think it makes it too dark out there.”

Pop takes the hand mixer and the electric knife out of the drawer and plugs them in a socket on the island. He turns on the knife and slices the pepper roasted chicken. I cross to the other side of the sink, take three goblets out of the cabinet and set them on the island’s tile counter. I pour two waters and myself a glass of cold milk and carry them over to the table.

I go over and watch him place thick slices of steaming chicken breast on a platter. “Is it too much trouble to have the security company back out?” My mouth is watering. I pick off a piece of crusty skin and eat it. Oh my gosh!

“Nay,” he says. “That’s the beauty of technology. The rep from A-One Security said they can adjust each light to our hearts desire.”

He leaves the kitchen and returns with an instruction pamphlet from A-One Security and hands it to me. I nod, wipe my fingers on my pants, and perch on a stool with the pamphlet. “Cool beans. This is great.”

“You just tell me what you want love and I’ll have them fine-tune the system to your liking.” He winks at me, and then flips on the mixer’s whirring motor and mashes the pre-boiled Irish potatoes.

I thumb through the pages look at the illustrations showing all the different ways to rig security lighting until Pop sets our salad bowls on our dinner plates with a clatter. I jump and almost drop the pamphlet.

He calls, “Get it while it’s hot!”

Which means help him set the food on the table.

I put the pamphlet down, hop off the stool and he passes me a bowl of steaming fluffy potatoes. I put them on the table and sit down. I turn and look at my reflection in the glass. Lately, I jump at the least little noise, freak out about some old guy I could easily out run, obsess about a work van, and hide in the bushes from nerdy Jimmy Beal. I need to stop cowering like a wimpy wimp-wimp and grow a pair.

I look over at Pop. “You know what. I’ve changed my mind. It’s okay Pop, don’t bother changing the lights.”

“It’s really no problem,” he says, setting the other dishes on the table. He removes his apron, hangs it on a hook, and sits down across from me.

I smile. “Well, then, maybe we could compromise. Leave the cute solar lights on, but lights that use electricity leave on a sensor.”

“Consider it done!”

We high-five then Pop tucks a napkin in his lap and we hold hands across the table. We quickly say grace, crossing our chests like good Catholics. I pour oil and vinegar on my salad and dig in.

“Oh, man, I was starving!” I say around a mouthful. Pop knows I detest the food in the cafeteria so I eat a big breakfast and come home famished. When you have a father whose one of the World’s best chefs you get spoiled eating awesome cuisine. I moan, “Mmm, as yummy as usual.”

“Thank you. I aim to please.”

Pop frowns and picks up a yeast roll. He points the butter knife at me. “You know you should pack a lunch, Missy.” He offers me the roll.

“What and be called a brown bagger? Thanks.” I laugh at my little joke and accept the buttered roll. I chew and smile at him across the table.

“Get it?” I ask after swallowing.

He just stares at me and shakes his head.

I spread my hands. “Okay, picture the football team walking by a bunch of freshman girls playing volleyball. The point out the girl with big breast and a great figure. One of the guys says, “Nice, but she doesn’t have a pretty face. But hey, that's nothing a brown bag can't handle.” A ‘brown bagger’ is a woman with a good body but an ugly face.”

“That’s just mean.”

“It’s slang.”

We grow silent and I begin forking chicken and veggies into my mouth with gusto. I have so many thoughts going through my head I don’t know what else to say to Pop. Should I tell him about Sean? No, not yet. It’ll spoil my good mood. I’m surprised by how good I feel about being single again. I think about how in chick flicks the dumped girls always pig out after breakups and boohoo themselves to sleep. I laugh. I doubt I’ll be crying myself to sleep tonight. Plus after I do all my homework, I’ll be too zonked. I steal a look at Pop and then slide my eyes to the chef clock. It’s 7:30. The perfect time to call Josh would be after dinnertime, around eight or eight-thirty. I take a bite, chew and wash it down with milk.

Pop is watching at me.

I put down my glass. “What?”

“You looked at the clock. Are you meeting Sean tonight?”

I shake my head. “No way. I need to call Josh O'Dell. We have a class together...long story.” I say, and go back to my dinner.

Pop cuts his chicken and raises his a busy red eyebrow at me. “So…do you like your teachers this year?”

“Yes…I guess.” I shrug, and scoop up another forkful of chicken and potatoes then lower my fork.

“Do you think you’ll make good grades?”

“Ask me in a week or so after I’ve taken a few tests.”

“You haven’t mentioned swim team.”

Chewing, I bob my head side to side. I hold up my finger and pick up my glass and wash the food down with more milk. I wipe my mouth. “Another long story,” I say at last.

“I’d like to hear it.”

“Fine.”

I take smaller bites and give him a Reader’s Digest version of the nutso try-outs and my remarkable chat with Coach Thompson. “She said I was automatically on the team and gave me an app for a scholarship.”

Pop beams at me. “Your mum would be so pleased that you didn’t stop swimming.” He sounds so emotional.

“Did you know that Sean’s father started an women’s athletic scholarship in Mom’s name?”

He just smiles and nods his head, his green eyes grow moist.

Touched my his undying love for Mom, I raise my eyebrows and lean across my plate and say, “Hey, don’t go all misty on me yet. I have to see what the requirements are and fill out the paperwork.”

“It will be wonderful that she will live on through the Eva Blakely Foundation.”

I smile and roll my eyes. “Yeah, it would be weird if I didn’t win one.”

“Love, you and I are supposed to be part of the award ceremony when they pass them out to the recipients.”

“Pop, how’s that going to work? Coach Thompson wants me to apply for one.”

Pop blots his eyes with his linen napkin. Then he says almost breathlessly, “Awe, Love, relatives and close friends aren't eligible.”

“Really? Huh. I guess Coach didn’t know that. Neither did Sean…”I go quiet afraid if keep talking it will lead to what Sean said about Mom. I really don’t want to go there right now. I look down at my plate and blink back tears of frustration.

“Don’t worry,” Pop says, and re-spreads his napkin in his lap. “You and I can research the Internet for other scholarships and grants. Check with your Career Counselor, what’s her name?”

I stare at the pool of butter in the center of my mashed potato mountain, shocked by the wave of disappointment making my heart ache. Sean led me to believe I had a chance... Not really. He just wanted to take advantage of me. Grrr! What a jerk! “Er, right. Mrs. Everett is helping me. Anyway, I’m happy to be a part of the swim team again.”

I push my emotions aside and devour my food as if there’s no tomorrow. I’m going to need every calorie if I plan to improve my lap time. I wonder if that blonde twit (Sean seems to be interested in) made the team. I don’t think she came from New Orleans or Mississippi. I didn’t detect a southern accent. She sounded more like a Valley Girl. That reminds me…

“Pop, did you know that a ton of people moved to the DC area because of Katrina?”

He frowns and spears a tomato chunk and green arugula covered with Roquefort dressing. “Now that you mention it I do. Just this morning, I heard something on the news about several states dealing with the influx of Katrina refuges from the Gulf Coast.” He looks concerned while he chews and swallow the salad.

“So is GHS crowed with refuges as well?” Pop asks as he prepares another bite of salad and after putting it in his mouth, and then he gets up and takes the horseradish out of the refrigerator.

I look at him. “Big time! You wouldn’t believe how many new people are at GHS this year.”

“I guess that ties in with what the local TV anchor reported this morning about the Washington teacher’s union. They’re demanding a pay raise for the teachers because of the over crowed classrooms.”

The phone in the kitchen rings and I look over and notice the Washington Times newspaper sitting on the counter below the wall phone. I need to get my head out of my butt and keep up with current events.

Pop sets the horseradish on the table, answers it on the second ring and listens. “Sorry, you have the wrong number.” He settles back in his seat unscrews the jar and says, “They asked for somebody named Ivan Brody. ”He shovels a spoonful of horseradish on his plate and I wrinkle my nose. I never acquired a taste for the stuff.

“Never heard of him,” I mumble and shovel another delicious fork full into my mouth.

Pop picks up his fork and knife and goes back to his food.

Trying to be PC and sound informed, I say, “The black to white ratio at GHS is way up and the teachers are freaking. “They’re talking about doubling security because of all the unrest.”

Pop casts concerning looks my way while I tell him about the food court incident between the Football team and the table full of black students. And the two girls fighting in the shower. “Ms. Fergus––a Marine / teacher––was called out of class to break it up.”

Pop frowns and his bushy red eyebrows meet over the bridge of his nose. “Are they all disruptive?”

“Not everybody, it seems to be just a handful that hang together and try to act all badly.”

“You watch your self love,” he says, pointing with his silverware. “Don’t offer to take anybody home in your Mustang.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” I know that driving in the wrong neighborhoods around DC can get you killed.

I segue to my unexpected switch to a much harder science class. “The teacher teaching the course is new and so is the course. It’s called Crime Science. It’s in the amazing new science wing. You’ve got to see it!”

Pop holds up the basket of yeast rolls and I help myself to yet another one.

“Thanks. They just melt in your mouth.” I split the roll in two. “Anyway, I was freaking out until I saw that Josh O'Dell was in the class.”

“Why?”

I look at Pop and spread butter on the roll. “I didn’t think I would know anybody… and what if I flunk it? I might not graduate on time.” That would really suck.

“So, who’s your teacher?”

“Mr. Dolph Jackson,” I say around a mouthful. “He’s a retired homicide detective from New Orleans.”

We chat about my classes and the completion of Phase 2.

Pop says, “It sounds incredible. When do I get a tour?”

“Oh, if you wanna go, Parent’s Night is next Tuesday.”

“Parent Night. Tuesday. Huh––” He hesitates and looks thoughtful as he enjoys his meal.

I nibble on the roll and wait for the stream excuses. Last year after mom died, whenever the two of us showed up at Georgetown High for a school function or a swim meet, it would somehow leak to the press and cause a media frenzy in the parking lot. Principal Bishop actually complained to Pop about the added expense for security. Reporters from all over the planet wanted to interview the widower and daughter of the mysterious Eva Sheahan-Blakely. They went ape when they found out who her husband was. He hates having people scream questions at us and shove microphones our faces. Before that, he didn’t mind being somewhat of a celebrity because of his former career as a world renowned chef. He was even on daytime TV shows and do interviews and write articles for food magazines…

“What time?” Pop picks up his glass and sips some water.

I swallow hard and feel the wad of dough move down my gullet. “Eight o’clock until ten. We can stay the whole time, or not.”

“I’d really like for you to go, but it’s your call, no pressure,” I say nonchalantly, and polish off my milk and put down the empty glass. “I do think you’d enjoy meeting Mr. Jackson though.”

Pop smiles over the top of his water glass, and then set it down next to his plate. “I’d love to see the new additions and meet all of your teachers.” he says, at last.

I smile. “Okay, cool. Just so you know…it’s not mandatory you go like when I was a kid and you had to come and met with my teachers to see if I was up to par in reading and stuff.”

Still. I’ll be shocked if he actually comes.

I’m truly proud when he accompanies me, I just hope everything has cooled down with the reporters. Although it seems like the old man in the Fedora hat and trench coat is determined to follow me around. But I’m not going to mention him to Pop until I talk to Josh. Instead, I tell him all about Mr. Jackson that he was shot up and lost a leg, that he let me switch seats, and what he went through in New Orleans with his family. Anyway, some of the black students aren’t too keen about their new surroundings so Mr. Jackson––being an Afro-American––had a little talk with us about “brotherly love” and how we all need to just “get along”.”

“Oh my lands, that’s terrible,” Pop says, looking saddened. “Poor man lost his wife and baby?”

“Yeah, it was so sad to hear him talk about it in class…but he was trying to get us to understand what the people living in the Gulf Coast went through…”

Pop ads, “Still going through. Does he have family here?”

I shrug. “Um, don’t know. I guess you can ask him on Tuesday.”

“He sounds like he’s going to be a fine teacher. ”

I push what’s left of my dinner around with my fork down, and then put it down on my plate and sit back. I’m stuffed.

“Yeah. I feel bad for the kids who don’t want to be at Georgetown, but I hope they eventually realize that GHS is a great school full of really nice—non-racist—people.”

Pop smiles. “Dessert?”

I nod yes and pat my stomach. “Amazing, I still have just enough room.”

We both slide out of the bench seat and start clearing off the table.

“Oh, and guess what…Mr. Jackson is friends with the O’Dells. He and Josh’s dad know each other. Officer O’Dell actually went to New Orleans and helped out with the aftermath of hurricane Katrina.”

“Wow. It’s a small world. After watching the coverage on TV, I can only imagine what they had to deal with in person.”

“Yeah, talk about your horror stories.”

I take the rest of the stuff off the table and set the leftovers on the island for Pop to deal with.

I turn and look at Pop. “Hey, maybe we could have Mr. Jackson and the O’Dells over for dinner.”

“Sure.” He shakes his head yes and finishes carving the chicken and puts the carcass in a zip lock bag for soup.

“We could have them over for another cook-out. Josh really liked your burgers. He ate at least two and they are what each a half pound of beef. And two helpings of birthday cake.”

“Teenage boys eat a lot more than teenage girls.” Pop chuckles. “Yeah, I really enjoyed talking to Wayne and Barbara at your birthday party. We’d lost touch. Wayne said he’s running for Chief of Police next year and he asked for my vote.”

“Really,” I say, while rinsing off the dirty pots and pans and load them in the dishwasher. “That’s very cool. If I was old enough I would vote for him too.”

“I’ll call and invite them over for next weekend. Good for you?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, and stand in front of the sink, waiting for the hot water so I can wet the sponge and wipe everything down.

He turns on his mixer to make fresh whipped cream for the cake.

The whirring of an engine kicks on in the corner of my mind as well. Hum, good thinking Cookie. We can talk about our assignment and see if he’ll help Josh and me with the details. If so, I should be able to ace this class. The idea of doing my own investigation started right after Agent Werthoust called, but I’m just realizing now it is meant to be. I picture the notes stuck to my cork board. The signs are out there if you look for them. Pop turns off the mixer and says something but I miss it. I turn off the faucet and look over my shoulder. “What?”

“I said that I noticed that Joshua has grown into a handsome lad indeed.” He winks at me and I feel my face warm and ring out the sponge and move around the kitchen. “I’d say that Josh is a great catch if you weren’t already with––”

He catches himself and goes over and puts on a fresh pot of coffee. After that, he takes out plastic containers and starts storing the leftovers.

I rinse the sponge again and wipe off the stove wondering if Josh said anything about me to him. Just how long were those two sneaking around putting my surprise birthday party together? I picture Josh’s face in the Safeway and smiling inwardly as I wipe off the table’s surface with the damp sponge. I finish and put the sponge next to the sink thinking, Sean who?

I dry my hands and go over to Pop to help with dessert. “After dessert I need to get my butt upstairs and get to work.”

He says, “Okay, but enlighten me about the crime science assignment you’ve deliberately evaded telling me about.”

I lean over the counter and stick my finger in the whip cream. Pop slaps my hand away. “Ouch! Why do you want to know, it’s just homework.”

He smile mischievously. “I’m just taking interest in your school work so I know what to talk to your teachers about.”

I stand up straighter and tuck my hair behind my ears. “Well,” it’s rather complicated because it’s an “advanced” class.”

I put quotations around ‘advanced’ to remind him that this is not just an ordinary science class. “You need to understand the difference just incase I blow it and have to go to summer school to make up my science credits.”

Pop nods his head. “Got it. So, what sort of crime do you have in mind?”

“I’m not really sure, I have to talk to Josh about it. But from what I gather, we—we meaning Josh and me—have to start putting together either (I count off on my fingers) a made up crime scene...or find one on the internet that was never solved.”

“A cold case…”

“Right. We have to come up with our solution to solve it and figure out how to prevent the crime from happening in the first place. It is going to take a lot of work and tons of research yadayada.”

The coffee pot gurgles and Pop goes over and pours us a cup of joe.

We settle at the bar with our cake and coffee and he studies my face for a few minuets. “What are you leaving out Lassie?”

I place my hands on the counter, weave my fingers together and narrow my eyes. “Honestly?” I have a feel he’s going to blow a gasket so I literally brace myself and grab the edge of the counter.

He lowers his coffee and gives me the one eyebrow raised look. “As you say… Duh!”

“Now, Pop, please don’t get mad. What I want to do is conduct our own investigate on what happened to Mom in Austria.”

He looks calm but skeptical.

I make a puppy dog face. “I really want to do this Pop. Why else would God put me in a Crime Science course?” I figure I can’t lose when I toss in the God card.

He sets his coffee cup down with a thump. “Cookie…I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. The bloody FBI and every other law institute has been running an investigation for months and they’ve gotten nowhere. What makes you think there’s anything else to scrutinize? I have to say let sleeping dogs—”

I hold up my hands, cutting him off mid proverb.

“Just hear me out, okay? I admit that I don’t have a clue where to begin an investigation, but I’m hoping with Josh O’Dell’s brain cells and my determination we’ll uncover something the FBI might’ve missed. All I know is that this is something I have to do.”

He just sits there so I go on. There’s no turning back now.

“I got the idea after I talked to Agent Werthoust. Pop, it sounded like they’re treating Mom’s case as if it’s a crime investigation––not an accidental or natural death—like we’ve been led to believe.”

I sit forward and put my elbows on the table.

“Oh Pop, think about it! Mom died almost nine months ago. What is the real reason why the FBI won’t will tell us what actually happened to her. Up until a few days ago, I assumed she died naturally––didn’t you?”

“Still, Sweetheart, I don’t know if it’s good for you to be dwelling on this. You’re back on your feet and just starting your senior year…”

“Just treat my investigation as homework.” I finish my cake and run my finger around cleaning up the whip cream, crumbs and sauce goo.

“But I’m afraid if you start dredging up sad feelings you could have a relapse.”

“I’ll be fine,” I insist. while wiping my sticky hands off on my napkin and scoot off the bench. “Pop, I’m seventeen, it’s time to stop babying me okay.” I go over to the sink to wash off my dish and look up at the chef wall clock. Great, it’s eight-fifteen. I add my dishes to the growing load in the dishwasher and say, “You and I were there in Austria with Mom therefore we’ll be looking at the whole thing from an up close and personal point of view.” I look at Pop and he pulls his head back, sits back and picks up his cup by the handle, pinky out. “If we put our heads together––”

“Oh, so you think I’m gonna help?”

I go over and stand next to the table looking at him.

“Yes.” I nod my head enthusiastically. “And if I know you, you won’t be able to resist helping. Plus you love to research on the Internet.” I wave my hands for emphasis, thinking at least he didn’t say no––that’s a start.

“Nine months have passed and they’re just now digging in? Harump, there must be something fishy going on with the investigation.”

Pop says this more at his coffee cup than me.

I cross my arms. “My thoughts exactly. In less than 24 hours after we last saw Mom, Agent Werthoust comes to our suite and tells us she had died while on the job. That it was an accident of some sort. They never gave us any details and we never were allowed to physically see her again. Think about it Pop, the IA lost one of their own. They should’ve turned over every stone before throwing in the towel.”

I ponder my own words wondering where they are coming from.

“I’d love to know why Werthoust didn’t treat an incident of this level like a crime scene from the start,” Pop mutters, and slides out of the bench. He tops off his coffee, puts the pot down, and then adds cream and sugar. “Well Nancy Drew, where are you going to start?”

“Well, there’s a possibility Mom might’ve been…killed.” I can’t bring myself to say ‘murdered’ because it sounds so horrible. Also deep down inside I truly believe there’s a (slim) chance she’s alive. “And there’s a possibility she is being held captive somewhere. I’m just saying we have to keep all options open.”

Pop shakes his head and stirs his java with a spoon. “That’s just it love, we don’t know anything about the Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely except that she was my wife and your mum—as strange as that sounds...”

When ever I hear Mom called ‘Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely’, it sounds so odd.

I sit down across from Pop. “Wow, you’re right, there’s so much we don’t know about Mom. What she was like on the job. Who did she know. Where did she go? What did she do…?”

Pop looks sad.

He says softly, “Don’t do this Love, you’re too close to the fire.”

After a moment of staring at each other across the table, our green eyes mirroring each other’s strife, I refuse to let him talk me out of this or forbid me to do it. My insides twist in knots. “Pop, I don’t have a choice. I have to know.” I say. The raw emotion is so intense, I hardly recognize my own voice.

The two of us go quiet. The only sound is the ticking second hand on the chef clock above the sink.

To prove they’re point, or to get their way, people might bet money, flip a coin or arm wrestle. Some might beat their chest or settle things with a dual. Pop and I have always had a war of wills. I know him and he knows me. He understands that I am a true Blakely and that makes us alike in many ways, particularly our stubbornness. Deep in thought, I turn my head and stare at my reflection on the dark window. The girl I see is determined and unstoppable.

Pop sips his coffee and then sets it down.

I look at him.

Looking defeated, he puts his heavy elbows on the table and rests his chin on his big Irish hand. “You’re determined to do this, aren’t you?”

I nod slowly and repeat, “I have to Pop. You feel it too don’t you?”

“Feel what?”

He asks as if he don’t know what I mean. I know he does, he’s just afraid to admit it.

I smile and spread my hands. “Mom…she’s everywhere!

I slide off the bench and twirl around slowly, acting like I can see her. I touch my ear. “Sometimes, I hear Mom’s voice so clearly in my head I turn around half-expecting her to be stand there.”

Pop looks at me as if I’m losing it. He usually cuts me off when I go on too long talking about this—mainly because we usually get all emotional and wind up upsetting each other. This time I’m determined to say what’s on my mind.

Pop gives me another worried look and I sit back down.

“I don’t know about you, but I still dream about Mom almost every night. Some of my dreams are so vivid I wake up and see her in my room. It’s as if she is watching over me and I feel serene, and loved. I told Dr. Carol all this and she says it’s a good thing.”

I reach over and capture one his big hands in both of mine and he looks at me with sad eyes.

“Pop, please help me do this.” I squeeze then let go of his hand. “I’m doing okay now…really.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Dammit Pop, we deserve to know what happened to Mom! And somehow, someway, I’m going to at least try to find out the truth.”

“It’s my fault,” he says finally.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

He jabs a finger at me. “You being so pigheaded. You’re a Blakely through and through!”

“Yep, the Blakely gene pool seems to be swimming in stubborn.”

“So, what do you want me to do boss?” Pop scoots off his bench and picks up his empty cup and cake dish. He leaves his fork resting on his folded white linen napkin.

I get up, lean my back on the counter and cross my arms. “First you have to actually commit to helping me with my assignment.” I say this because I’ve heard his excuses before… I’m too busy with this and that. Can we talk about it later…

“Do I have a choice?” he asks, making a fresh pot of coffee.

I shake my head. “Nope, because I think you want to know as badly as I do what really happened Christmas Eve morning.”

I turn to watch him add water to the coffee maker and instinctively add the right amount of dark ground grains. Geez, how does he drink so much caffeine, I still feel jittery from the cup I had with dessert. Guess it’s an acquired thing like drinking beer.

“Am I right?”

“It’s all I think about,” he says, lifting off the cover the crystal, pedestal cake holder.

“Well think about this.”

He sets the cover aside and pauses to listen to what I have to say.

I hold up my hand to count off on my fingers. “First of all, I have to talk to Josh about this and see if he’s cool with it. If so, you, me, Mr. Jackson, Josh, and hopefully his dad will put our heads together—and I’ll bet big money we uncover evidence the FBI missed or purposefully overlooked.” I lean over and pick up a cake crumb and eat it. “Do you seriously think Agent Werthoust or anybody involved in their so called investigation will ever tell us anything?”

“Hell no,” Pop says, pounding the counter top with his fist, making the silver cake knife rattle. “Just be careful,” he says picking up the knife to slice another helping. “If they find out we’re sticking our noses where they don’t belong they will probably through us both in the clinker.”

“Cross my heart.” I say, as a yawn, sharp enough to draw tears, puts me in its grips. I smile weakly and say, “I better get started on my homework.”

“You better call Josh,” Pop says, placing a hand on my shoulder. He kisses me on the forehead. “He may have other ideas.”