After getting the other kids started, Tomas explained the job he was giving Mike and me. He unrolled a piece of prepared canvas, ten feet by five, on which he had chalked outlines of stones to create a wall. He showed us the finished version of pieces that would cover the ends of the horse and how to use varying shades of gray and brown paint to make the stones look three-dimensional.
Mike and I poured our paint and set to work. We talked little and about nothing important, but both the small talk and the silences were comfortable between us, as they were on the boat. I enjoyed the rhythm of our work, dipping and brushing, dipping and brushing. Mike began to sing to himself, snatches of songs. I giggled when a rock song wavered into a religious hymn, then shifted back into hard rock.
The music stopped. "Is something funny?"
"No," I said, but couldn't keep from smiling.
"You're laughing at my voice."
"No, just at you," I told him. "Uh, that didn't come out right."
"No, it didn't," he agreed.
I glanced up and saw his eyes sparkling.
"It's just funny the way you sing, mixing up all your songs. My friend in kindergarten used to sing like that when he finger-painted."
"So am I your friend?"
The question caught me off guard. "Sure."
He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice. "Maybe you'd like to think about it some more."
I didn't want to think about him any more than I already was. I focused on my brush strokes. Mike was silent for a while, then started singing again.
Tomas stopped by to see how we were doing.
"Looks great!" he said. "When you're finished, take it to the drying room next door. You'll see clothesline there. Hang it up securely."
About three-thirty Mike and I carried our canvas to the next room. We lined it up along a rope, each of us attaching an end with a clothespin. Standing on opposite sides of our painted wall, we continued to work our way toward the middle of the ten-foot piece, clipping it every six inches. I made slower progress, having to climb up on a stool each time to reach the high clothesline. Mike waited for me at the center.
"Do you know how many freckles you got yesterday?" he asked when I had attached the last clothespin.
"One point six million."
He laughed.
Aware of being eye level with him, feeling self-conscious, I surveyed the painted rocks, which were on my side of the canvas. "We did a good job."
"Sometimes you look at me, Jenny, and sometimes you don't. Why?"
"You expect girls to look at you all the time?"
He smiled a lopsided smile. "No. But it's as if sometimes you're afraid to meet my eyes."
"I'm not," I assured him, and stared at his neck. It was strong with a little hollow at the base of his throat.
"Higher," he said.
I gazed at his mouth.
"Higher."
But when I found the courage to look up, he was looking down, gazing at my lips, his lashes long and dark, almost hiding the shimmer of his eyes. His face moved slowly closer to mine. He tilted his head. If I wanted to bail out, it had to be now. I held still. Feeling the nearness of him, I waited breathlessly.
His lips touched mine.
How could a touch so soft, so barely there, be so wonderful? He wasn't even holding me. It was just his mouth against mine, light as a whisper.
"Hey, you guys. What have you been working on?"
We both pulled back. Shawna entered the room.
"Walker's going to keep my group till five," she said, "but we're taking fifteen. Let's see what you've done."
"A wall," Mike said quietly.
"This side," I mumbled, stepping down from the stool. I fought the urge to touch my hand to my lips. Had his kiss felt as incredible to Liza? What had made it that magic?
Shawna ducked under the rope.
How had my kiss felt to him?
Shawna studied the canvas, then me. "You sure did get a lot of sun this weekend, Jenny," she said, smiling. "You white people ought to be more careful."
Mike flashed a sly smile over the top of the clothesline.
Shawna caught it.
"What?" she asked. "Did I miss something?"
"I didn't say anything," Mike replied.
Shawna got a knowing look on her face. "Come on, girl," she said to me. "Take a break. I need some air."
I knew I was going to be interrogated but decided I could handle that better than one more moment alone with Mike. I did not want to fall for him-fall farther than I already had.
Shawna and I took the back exit of the building, climbed to the top of the outside stairwell, and sprawled on the grass.
"Okay, Reds, what's going on between you two?"
"You two who?" I asked.
"Don't play dumb. You and Mike."
"Nothing."
"Un-hunh."
"Really, nothing!"
"That's the fastest fading sunburn I've ever seen," she remarked.
I plucked at the grass.
"Did he kiss you?" she persisted. "Is that what you were doing when I barged in?"
"Why would you even think something like that?" I replied.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, smiling. "Maybe it's those glances you keep stealing at each other during rehearsal, or maybe the way Mike murmured, 'A wall,' as if he was still feeling your kiss on his lips." She eyed me. "Whoa! There it is again, that mysterious recurring sunburn."
I bit my lip.
"Why are you fighting this?" she asked.
Because he was Liza's boyfriend and had lied about it. Because I knew I couldn't compete. Because it was scary, the spell he cast on me, the way I felt when he was near.
"He lives in Trenton," I told Shawna. "I live in New York."
"So what's that-an hour and a half by car, less by train? Ever heard of Greyhound? Amtrak? E-mail? I think you're making excuses."
I didn't deny it.
"But I'll play along," she said. "This afternoon, at least," she added with a grin, then mercifully changed the subject.
When she returned to rehearsal I went downstairs to see what Tomas wanted me to do next. Mike must have cleaned up our paints. He and Paul were in the corner of the room, Mike measuring a board, Paul standing a foot away, running his finger up and down the length of a saw. Keri sat nearby, chipping at her fingernails, looking bored.
Brian had come downstairs and was talking with Tomas. I watched them a moment, feeling proud of Tomas, the way he was managing everything and earning people's respect.
"Hey, Jen," Tomas called, "would you bring over a hammer? There's one in the toolbox right behind you."
I nodded and knelt down to unfasten the latches of the metal box. Lifting the lid, seeing that the hammer's handle was buried beneath other tools, I reached for its head, trying to extract it. I pulled back in surprise. The steel felt ice cold. Reaching down to grasp it again, I saw the metal glimmering blue. I touched it and cold traveled up my arm, as if my veins had been injected with ice. My shoulders and neck grew numb, my head light, so light I had to close my eyes.
Then I jerked and was free of the floating feeling, but I wasn't at Stoddard anymore. I stood breathless, as if I'd been running fast. Clutching my side, I opened my mouth trying to breathe silently, afraid to make the slightest noise. I could see little in the darkness that surrounded me, but I smelled the creek and heard its black water lapping against the pilings. I knew I was in terrible danger.
Soft footsteps hurried across the structure above me. I looked up and listened, trying to judge the direction the person was heading. My direction, I thought, panicking, no matter what, it would be my direction.
Step by step I moved forward in the darkness, hating the feel of the swampy ooze but knowing I had to keep on. About twenty feet behind me I heard the muffled thud of feet landing on wet ground.