He'd waved to one of the girls on the drill team, which was already in the midst of its practice session on the next field. "Holy shit," Mark whispered to himself. He started to turn away, then heard Linda calling his name. Looking up, he saw her waving to him.
"Hi," he said as he walked over to where she was standing with three other girls and two boys. "I was sort of looking for you."
"Cheerleading practice," Linda told him. "And then I have to go over to the library. Want to wait for me?"
Mark shook his head. "Can't," he said. "Mom needs me to help her with the unpacking." He hesitated. "Do you practice every day?"
Linda smiled and shook her head. "Just three days a week, and once during the evening before a game." Their eyes met for a moment, and then, feeling himself reddening, Mark turned away.
"Well, see you tomorrow, I guess," he mumbled.
He didn't see Linda smiling after him, nor did he see JeffLaConner, who had paused on the football field for a moment, staring speculatively in his direction.
Instead of going directly home, Mark decided to walk down Colorado Street to the shopping district, look around for a few minutes, then cut back over to Telluride Drive. He walked slowly, gazing at each of the houses as he passed, his mind already framing the ornate Victorian-style buildings in the lens of his camera. Almost every one of them, he decided, was worth a picture.
Calendar shots, that's what they looked like.
He filed the idea away, wondering what you did to sell pictures for calendars.
A quarter of an hour later he came to the small collection of buildings, all facing on a little square, that served as Silverdale's downtown section. Like the rest of the town, the commercial area looked like something out of another century. It was a series of free-standing buildings, most of them of wood-frame construction in a style that reminded Mark of a western movie. Wooden sidewalks, raised above the narrow, bricked street by a couple of steps, connected the buildings, and there was a large parking lot laid out behind the Safeway store. The street itself seemed only to be used by pedestrians and a couple of dogs that lay sunning themselves in the middle of the road. Mark stopped to scratch one of the dogs. When he looked up, he saw a camera shop, the nameSpaldings emblazoned in bright blue letters over the door. The shop was small, tucked into the narrow space between the drugstore and the hardware store.
It was then the idea came to him.
If he had a job after school, there was no way his father could insist that he go out for sports.
Straightening up, he tucked his shirt neatly into his jeans, then walked into the camera store. From behind the counter a friendly-looking man with gray hair and wire-framed glasses smiled genially at him.
"What can I do for you?" the man asked.
"Are you Mr. Spalding?" Mark asked.
The man nodded. "None other. And who might you be?"
"Mark Tanner," Mark replied. "I just moved here, and I was wondering if maybe you needed some help. Just part-time, after school and maybe on weekends."
Henry Spalding's brows arched skeptically. For a moment Mark was certain he was going to be turned down flat. Then, to his surprise, Spalding cocked his head thoughtfully. "Well, actually, I've been thinking about some help. Ski season is coming, and that always brings some people around. Then there's Christmas, and whatnot." His gaze sharpened slightly. "But it's evenings I'd need."
Mark thought quickly. What difference did it make? If he was working in the evenings, he'd have to do his studying in the afternoons. "That's okay," he said. "That would be perfect."
Spalding disappeared into the tiny office at the back of the store and returned with a crumpled and stained job-application form. "Well, why don't you fill this out, and then we can talk," he said, handing the application to Mark. As Mark fished a pen out of the bottom of his book bag, Spalding regarded him speculatively. "What team are you on?" he asked. "You look kind of small for football. Tennis, maybe? Or baseball?"
Mark shook his head, not looking up from the form. "I'm not on any of the teams," he said. "I'm… well, I guess I'm a lot better at photography than I am at sports."
Suddenly Mr. Spalding's hand appeared in Mark's line of sight, pulling the application back.
"Not on any team?" he heard the man asking, and looked up to see Spalding gazing quizzically at him.
"N-No," Mark stammered. "Why?"
"Why, because it makes all the difference in the world," Spalding told him. "This is Silverdale, son. Here, we support our teams. And that includes making sure they get first pick of the part-time jobs." Then, seeing the look of disappointment in Mark's eyes, he tried to soften the blow. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll give the school a call tomorrow and sort of see what's what. Maybe nobody on the teams will want the job here. And if they don't, then you can surely have it yourself."
Mark bit his lip and managed to thank Henry Spalding before he picked up his book bag and backed out of the little shop. But as he started home, he knew that there would be no job for him at Spalding's camera shop.
After all, he'd overheard one of the boys in his photography class talking that morning about looking for a job until baseball season started.
As he turned onto Telluride Drive, Mark began to wonder if maybe he wasn't wrong about Silverdale after all. A week ago it had all seemed so exciting.
Now it didn't seem exciting at all.
Chapter Six
Sharon Tanner stood at the kitchen sink, her lips pursed, her brows pulled together in a worried frown. Though there were four steaks sizzling on the grill behind her, she had forgotten them for the moment, for she was watching Mark, who was seated cross-legged on the lawn near the garage, staring blankly at the rabbit hutch. Though she'd been watching him closely for only a few minutes, she'd been vaguely aware of his presence in the backyard for at least half an hour. That in itself wasn't unusual; Mark usually spent at least an hour a day taking care of the rabbits, petting them, checking them, or just playing with them, letting them run free in the yard forChivas to chase, confident that the dog would bring them back unharmed.
But today something was different. Instead of frolicking around Mark and sniffing eagerly at the hutch,Chivas was sprawled out on the ground beside his master. The dog's forelegs were stretched out in front of him and his massive head rested quietly on his paws. Behind him, his tail lay limply on the ground, and though he looked as if be might be asleep, Sharon could see even from the kitchen that his eyes were open and staring up at Mark's face.
Chivas, too, apparently sensed that something was wrong. And now that she thought about it, Sharon realized that it wasn't only today. All week, it seemed in retrospect, Mark had grown quieter and quieter, spending more and more time by himself, wandering around in the hills withChivas after school, or just sitting by himself in the backyard, staring at the rabbits in their cage. But she was almost certain he wasn't seeing the rabbits at all. No, something else was on his mind, something he hadn't been willing to talk about. When Kelly came into the kitchen, demanding to know when dinner was going to be ready, Sharon made up her mind.
"In a few minutes, honey," she told the little girl. "How'd you like to take care of the steaks for me?"
Kelly's eyes glittered with pleasure, and she instantly picked up the large fork from the counter by the grill and stabbed experimentally at one of the thick T-bones that were just barely beginning to brown. "Is it time to turn them?"
"Every four minutes," Sharon replied, glancing at the meat and deciding she had at least fifteen minutes in which to talk with her son. Leaving Kelly alone in the kitchen, she went out into the yard and dropped down on the lawn next to Mark. As if sensing that help for his master had arrived,Chivas sat up, his tail wagging, his big trusting eyes fixed on her expectantly.