Exposure Point: A gripping small town mystery. (The Candidates Book 1) Page 6

  Just as the nausea subsided a little, Mom appeared.

  “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks. What time is it?”

  “Just past midnight.” She walked over to my bed. “You must have picked up my bug. Sorry, lamb.” She leaned over to feel my forehead, then suddenly frowned. “Or is this… you don’t think this has anything to do with the truck crash? The chemicals?” she asked, leaning over me, concern all over her face. “What were the symptoms they told you to look out for?”

  “Uh….” I tried to think. I wish I had paid more attention to what Ms. Michaels said. All of yesterday seemed fuzzy.

  I took a breath. Even talking was difficult. “I think they said anything unusual?”

  “Well, normally this would be unusual,” she began, “except for my stomach flu. You have the same symptoms as I had before I started vomiting.”

  “Yeah.” I considered this for a moment, breathing shallowly as I tried to make my head stop swimming. “I’m fine. Don’t call the health centre.”

  I’d prefer it if Cole wasn’t aware of my imminent vomiting and possible diarrhea.

  Mom thought for a moment, uncertain.

  “They said it was unlikely to be toxic to us,” I added. “If I get worse, we’ll go in the morning, okay?”

  “Okay,” she finally agreed.

  “Can you get me some water… and a bowl?”

  While she was downstairs, I had to launch myself to the bathroom to be sick. After I’d emptied my stomach, I lay there panting with my cheek pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl. Normally this would be gross, but right now it was totally appropriate.

  “Let’s get you back to bed.” Mom helped me up and back into my room.

  A few hours later, I woke again, scratching at my stomach. I pulled back my tank to see an ugly rash all over my skin. I didn’t think Mom had a rash, but I didn’t call out to her. The thought of having to go to the health centre like this was beyond awful. What if Cole was still there and saw me like this? Instead, I chugged back more water and hoped for the best.

  As soon as I woke in the morning, I checked the rash. It was gone, and I no longer felt as if I might actually be on fire. I pushed off the covers and sat up. Moving slowly, my whole body still achy and sore—as if I’d spent a week at a dance workshop—I huffed my way over to Mom’s bedroom and leaned against the door. She was in her bathrobe, standing in front of the full-length mirror inspecting her face.

  “Looking for new wrinkles?” I teased, my voice still a little raspy.

  “You caught me,” Mom said, then broke away from the mirror to put a diagnostic hand on my forehand. “How are you feeling, lamb? Your temperature feels normal,” she said with relief.

  “Much better. I think I’m fine now.”

  She nodded. “Last night I called the hotline to double-check.”

  My eyes went wide. “The health centre line? Mom! Who did you talk to?”

  “Your symptoms were not consistent with the kind of chemical exposure they’re worried about. And when I told them about my stomach bug, they said that was the most likely explanation. You had the same twenty-four-hour thing I had.”

  Minus the diarrhea. Thank you, Universe.

  “I should probably stay home today anyway,” I said quickly. There was no way I was risking stomach flu part two showing up while I was on campus.

  “The school is closed. They need to clean up after the truck crash and to make sure all residual smoke and chemicals have disappeared.”

  “Are you working today?”

  Mom sighed. “If you’re sure you’re okay, then yes.” Her phone beeped. “That’s them now. Short-staffed,” she said, reading the message. She started texting a response as she walked over to her bathroom. The shower started, but Mom popped her head around the door. She had a smile on her face. “Oh, lamb. The doctor’s office messaged. They can fit you in on Friday. For your foot.”

  “But… but I said I was going to call them. And it hasn’t been a month yet.”

  “I know, but your foot looked so good yesterday I gave them a call and asked them to let me know if they had a cancellation. They get so busy, it might have been weeks before they could see you.”

  That’s what I’d been hoping for.

  Mom raised her eyebrows, then frowned. “The sooner you get the all-clear, the sooner you can get back to proper training, and then re-auditioning.”

  “Yeah, I know….”

  “Your injury was such a shock, lamb, such a terrible accident. I can’t wait to put it behind us and move on.” Mom disappeared into the bathroom and I went back to my bedroom, my heart thumping in my chest.

  I couldn’t avoid the thoughts in my own head anymore.

  I couldn’t ignore the fear and dread that rose every time I thought about dance, and I couldn’t live in the land of denial I’d been happily residing in for the last year.

  Because when I thought back, there were signs.

  I’d started pulling away from dance-related events, and even stopped hanging out with the nicer girls in class. I’d avoided making plans for anything dance related that wasn’t compulsory. I’d stopped browsing through websites of dance companies and looking at endless dance clips online. I’d buried myself in technical work because it didn’t require passion or creativity. It was a way to avoid reality. The reality that I didn’t want to think or talk about my exciting future in dance because I didn’t want that anymore.

  I didn’t want to be a dancer.

  And it was going to break Mom’s heart.

  I turned to face myself in the mirror. I stared into my eyes, searching for an answer. My shoulders were turning to concrete, and my stomach felt like a bag of snakes. When I stared at myself, it was if a stranger was staring back. The old Callie had gone, or at least she was disappearing. Evaporating into the night without so much as a warning.

  Who was I if I wasn’t a dancer? And what if dancing was the only thing I was good at? Everyone else seemed to think so—what if they were right?

  Dance Barbie couldn’t suddenly become Lawyer Barbie, or Doctor Barbie. She didn’t have the right clothes.

  My stomach churned. I needed to do something. I needed to make something happen. I pushed the hair out of my eyes, then yanked open the drawer of my desk and grabbed the pair of scissors. I pulled down the front section of my hair, combed it with my fingers for a couple of seconds, and then snipped. A couple of large chunks of hair fell to the floor, and then smaller pieces floated down around me like indoor snowflakes.

  There.

  I put down the scissors, my hands shaking a little.

  Now I had bangs.

  brooke

  Brooke Masters sat at her dressing table and eyed herself in the mirror. She adjusted herself in her seat, sitting tall, and lifted her chin. Here, looking at her reflection, her best side was clearly the right, but in selfies she thought it could be the left. She turned her head back and forth for a moment, trying to decide which was her best angle, then picked up her phone to test her theory.

  She saw that she’d been tagged in twenty photos. Her fingers moved quickly across her phone as she checked each image. Her friends knew to only post the best pics, but you couldn’t be too careful. Once or twice someone had tried a passive-aggressive power move—posting an unflattering picture of her—but they’d soon regretted it.

  She knew some of them called her Brooke the Bitch behind her back, but she didn’t care. She even liked it, because it was a sign of respect. They’d never dare say anything to her face, and it was obviously just jealousy. Her older sister had taught her that. People would be jealous of them, the Masters girls. Her sister used to tell her all sorts of things, but that was before Brooke’s braces came off and she got the bump in her nose removed and officially became the prettier one. Her sister stopped sharing life hacks after that.

  After giving her official seal of approval by liking and commenting on each photo, Brooke lifted her phone high above her
head. Yes, she could get a better angle on the left, she decided. She made sure she had only lipstick and mascara sitting on her dresser in the shot instead of the vast array of make-up she actually used, then took a selfie. She paused for a moment, thinking of a caption, then typed in Sometimes getting ready is the best part of the night. It was even kind of true. She added a few hashtags, including #BestofBrooke, her personal brand, then placed her phone on the dressing table. She leaned closer to her reflection in the mirror and smoothed one finger over her carefully sculpted eyebrows. She dropped her hand to run it through her hair, then raised a chunk to inspect the ends. They were looking a little frayed. She had a salon and spa day in the city booked for next weekend, but could she wait that long?

  “Mom,” she hollered. “Call Jasper and find out if he can squeeze me in any earlier.”

  She’d been going to Jasper at his exclusive salon in the city since she was ten. She wouldn’t let anyone else even go near her hair.

  “Brooke, honey,” her mother called from downstairs. “Amanda is here.”

  Riding the pulse of unease in her stomach, she replied casually, “Send her up.”

  She and Amanda had bonded immediately, both recognising the similarities in each other, but Brooke had already started wondering whether she’d been too hasty in accepting Amanda into her inner circle. It might have been more sensible to keep her distant, ostracize her even, maybe.

  Amanda appeared in her doorway. “Brookie.” Her smile was wide but didn’t look genuine. “How’s it going?”

  Brooke returned a big fake smile. “Hey.” In the mirror, she narrowed her eyes. Even the way she called her Brookie. It sounded kind of cute, but it somehow seemed like she was mocking her.

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” Amanda said casually, her eyes flitting over Brooke’s jeans, boots, and shirt. But she didn’t wait for an answer, instead shrugging as she moved away, roaming around Brooke’s room in a way that seemed judgemental. Brooke looked down at her outfit, thinking about how she could respond. If anyone else had said something like that, she’d make them live to regret it, but Amanda….

  Brooke looked over at her, now lounging on the bed as if this was her room, scrolling through her phone. Amanda could be a problem, and she needed to be careful of her. She could already tell.

  7

  There was a pop-up Truck Crash Survival party at The Hill tonight, and I wanted to go.

  I needed to get out of my head as well as my bedroom.

  I’d only been to a few school parties before—training generally got in the way of socializing—and never at The Hill. But everything I looked at—the huge poster of Misty Copeland hanging on my wall along with other photographs of epic dance silhouettes, the multiple pairs of ballet shoes stacked in my closet, the bookshelf displaying my trophies and awards, and the framed picture of Mom and me at my first dance competition—were all reminders of the life I didn’t want.

  I wandered over to my bedroom window. Isaac’s bedroom faced mine, separated by only the driveway below. We’d first met this way, the day Mom and I moved in five years ago. Almost immediately, we’d started chatting over the gap between our houses. Then we started walking to school together, and then it didn’t matter that I barely knew anyone else; I had Isaac. With him, I was half of a pair, and it had been enough.

  But it wasn’t anymore.

  He’d sent me a brief message about the truck crash and promised to call soon, but if it hadn’t hit home before, it was now painfully obvious now that he’d left Montrose.

  I looked at my phone. I couldn’t sit here alone, festering and worrying about my life. And there was no way I was rocking up to a party on my own, but Gabby had just posted online that she and Steph were getting ready together, so maybe they’d let me hang with them? They were the only people I could ask.

  I tried to summon some confidence. What was the worst that could happen? I imagined Gabby sitting with a group of friends, showing them my message and laughing at my lame attempts to tag along. Hanging around like some loser even though I’d left school. I put down my phone. But even if that were true, I still didn’t want to stay at home. And Gabby was super nice. She wouldn’t do that. I inhaled a deep breath.

  Hey Gabby. You going to The Hill tonight?

  I dropped my phone as if it was hot and turned away, as if that might have any sort of impact. After a minute, I turned back to eye it. After two, I picked it up again to make sure I hadn’t accidentally turned it off. After five minutes, I’d started to pull at my hair. And then it beeped.

  Hey C! Yep. Going with Steph. You want a ride?

  I exhaled in relief. Thank you, Gabby.

  Awesome, thanks!

  Pick you up in twenty.

  OK.

  I was still in my towel. I had to get moving.

  ***

  When we arrived, the back part of The Hill was already in party mode. There were lanterns and blankets everywhere, and someone had put fairy lights in the trees. With the light mist that had started settling down around the trees, it looked awesome.

  “I’m gonna go say hello to Taylor,” Gabby said, immediately bounding off.

  “Taylor?” I said to Steph. “That’s new, right?”

  “Yeah,” Steph said, setting up the lawn chairs she’d brought. “They seem pretty into each other.” She stretched languidly before sitting down. “Speaking of new.” Steph circled the air near my head.

  “Oh, uh, yeah.” My cheeks warmed as I lifted my hand to my hair and tugged at the bits that clumped together, trying to smooth them down. What had I been thinking? Everyone knew you couldn’t cut your own hair. Especially bangs.

  “Needed a change.”

  Steph shrugged and dropped her gaze to her phone. I took a seat, feeling a little like the lame cousin who someone’s Mom insisted they bring to a party. But at least I wasn’t at home.

  I checked my phone even though I was painfully aware there were no new messages.

  “Who are you messaging?” Steph asked.

  “Oh. Um… Isaac.”

  “Already blowing you off, huh?” Steph said.

  I eyed her—she was more perceptive than she seemed.

  “He’s busy with his program.”

  “What’s he studying again?”

  “Neuroscience.”

  “Huh. Brainy.” Steph said. “What about your dance friends? Have they deserted you?”

  “Dance was—” I looked at the sky, struggling to find a way to describe the dance world. “—kind of solitary. I was never really close with any of them. And the more advanced I got, the less friendly it seemed. The whole thing was intense. The girls could be pretty—”

  “You know you’re talking about dance in the past tense, right?” Steph said, nodding at my moonboot. “How serious is that injury? Everyone says you’re going off to be a dancer once it comes off, but are you really?”

  Oh, wow.

  “Um….”

  “It’s okay, Callie. I mean, I don’t care.” Steph shrugged and shifted in her seat, reaching back into a stretch before going back to her phone. “You do you,” she finished under her breath.

  Even with all the yawning and seeming bored, Steph definitely noticed stuff.

  “What are you doing next year?” I asked. “College, or…?”

  “I’m not totally sure.” She shrugged and fiddled with her phone.

  I eyed her for a moment. She didn’t have her whole life figured out either, but she wasn’t having some sort of identity crisis like I was.

  She sat up. “But I do want to travel. I want to go to Burning Man, I want to go heli skiing in Aspen, and I want to bungee jump in New Zealand. After I’ve had fun, then I can settle down and be boring.”

  “And your parents are okay with that?”

  The smile dropped off Steph’s face. “They want me to take over the family business. I think they’ll give me a pass to travel first, but then….” She raised her shoulders again.

  “Why do they
think they know what we should be doing?” I said, my voice suddenly hard.

  “I know, right? They think they know what’s best, but how could they? We’re not the same as them.”

  Gabby came bouncing back with a rosy glow to her cheeks. “Time for predictions,” she said, flopping into the chair next to Steph and pulling a blanket over her knees.

  “Predictions?” I asked.

  “We check out the class and say what we think is going to happen this year. You know, hook–ups, dropouts, break-ups, makeovers, etc.,” Steph said.

  “Okay, I’m in,” I said, looking out across the clearing.

  Off to one side, Harvey Foster sat with his band, OZ. Harvey had his head down as he strummed his acoustic guitar, seeming to ignore the people around him. I didn’t know Harvey, really, except for being my lab partner for an environmental project a couple of years ago. Neither of us was interested, so we put off doing it until the night before it was due, then bribed Isaac with a week of free meals to help us get it done in time.

  A few feet away from Harvey was Amanda. She was smiling at Liam, one of our two best hockey players, tilting her head and flicking her hair, apparently not bothered that his current girlfriend, Nikki, was only a few feet away, eyeing them with a pinched expression. Amanda caught my gaze and lifted her chin, then waved in a way that could have been sarcastic. Uncertainly, I waved back.

  “I think Amanda might turn out to be another Brooke,” Steph said, noticing this. “Nice if she needs you for something but otherwise a total beeyatch.”

  “I predict Nikki and Liam are going to break up. Look at him.” Gabby pointed to Liam, now tickling Amanda while Nikki looked on, miserable. “Apparently the fact that Nikki is pretty much perfect isn’t enough for him.”

  “Yeah, he’s going to cheat on her one too many times.” Steph nodded. “Oh wow,” she said, her voice changing. “Randall showed up.” She pointed to a tree about fifty feet away.

  We all watched as Randall Clark sat down. He was wearing large headphones and, as usual, was by himself.

  Gabby shuddered. “I don’t even want to make a prediction about him; he’s so creepy. He pretty much stalked me for a while last year.”