Crystal Grader
Tag Cavello
Copyright 2015 by Tag Cavello
For My Little Shark-Tech Girl.
I love you to pieces, as I damned well should.
Part One: The Carrot
Afterword
PART ONE: The Carrot
1
The girl, whose name was Crystal Genesio, would remember the night she jumped in front of the speeding car as being warmer than usual for the time of year. She would also remember the crunching leaves beneath her boots as she and her friend approached the road where the chaos began. The dry scent of their death, carried on a light breeze, floated ghost-like amongst the black branches of their birth—this she remembered too, even on the hottest summer days in the big city where she worked. In her hand was a carton of eggs. In her eyes, a sparkle that shined only for the things they wished to possess, and for the chance that someone might dare deny them. No one did on that Halloween night in 2004, when Crystal was just eleven years old. And she noted that—as always—the passenger seat of the speeding car, as it came up over the hill, had been empty. Devoid of the perfect girl. Of course it was devoid! After all, there was but one girl in the entire world who deserved to sit there.
***
“Is he a farmer too?” Lucy Sommer asked.
They were making their way along the fringe of a wooded area. On their right, a field of winter wheat swayed to and fro in the night breeze, one of many on the outskirts of tiny Monroeville, Ohio. Above them hung a full moon that lit the landscape from end to end.
“Well?” Lucy pressed.
“Yes, he’s a farmer,” Crystal replied, not knowing in the slightest what the writer did in his spare time.
“Good for him. I like it out here.”
Crystal spared a glance at her friend, a mousy girl with brown hair and round glasses whom she had taken under her wing as a study partner to improve her grades, which at the time had been flagging in the arena of Cs and Ds like the dying flowers of an inept gardener. And as with most of her endeavors, Crystal had gotten what she’d come for. She was today, early in her first year of junior high, a steady B student. As for Lucy…
“I’m not letting you marry a farm boy when you grow up,” Crystal told her. “Forget it.”
“Oh no no,” the other laughed, “I didn’t say that.”
“Good.”
Crystal looked at her boots—a pair of brown hikers—wary of the many things there were to trip over on a walk through the woods. One step up over a fallen limb, another step around an old tractor wheel gone to rust. Nothing at all problematic for a girl on the cheerleading squad. The rest of her consisted of a blue sleeveless top and brown short-shorts, with a bowed ribbon tied in the wild shock of black hair sprouting from her head.
“Where’s the house?” Lucy wanted to know.
“Top of the hill. See it?”
Slowing her pace, Crystal pointed through the trees. Her other hand tightened around the egg carton. Fifty yards away was the back porch of the house they had come to decorate. A single orange light flickered above a row of crooked wooden floorboards. A pumpkin, uncarved, rested on the step.
“Sweet,” Crystal said, stepping behind a tree. “Everything looks quiet. Lots of shadows too.” Her lips curled into a grin. “By the time we’re done here this guy’s gonna think it’s Easter instead of Halloween.”
“Yeah,” Lucy came back with, looking doubtful. “I mean all we’re gonna do is throw eggs at his back door, right?”
“Right. Unless you brought cherry bombs.”
“No way.” The girl’s glasses took on a curious shine. “You love his books, right?”
“Every single one of them.”
“And this is how you want to tell him about it?”
Lucy had been asking this question, in one form or another, since first hearing the idea during a kitchen study session at Crystal’s house over a week ago. Dodging around the truth of the matter was easy enough—like jumping over old tree limbs and rusty tractor wheels. She’d repeatedly fobbed her friend off with excuses ranging from holiday trickery to revenge stories encompassing sleep-deprived nights under bedroom reading lamps. Tonight though, standing under a full moon with the crisp leaves swirling about her bare legs, and her lungs feasting on the cool autumn air, the true motive behind this mission seemed more willing to stand in the open.
“I mean to tell him a lot of things, Lucy. I figure this is a great way to get his attention.”
The other shook her head. “Getting someone’s attention has never been a problem for you.”
“It won’t be a problem tonight either, believe me.”
“Yeah but why not just go to a book signing or a lecture?” The doubtful eyes came alight. “In fact he’s going to be at our school this week! Tuesday. There.” Problem solved, Lucy’s face seemed to say, now let’s go home.
But it only made Crystal laugh. “Lucy when I see something I want—I mean really want—I don’t share it. Not a chance.”
“I know that about you. But—“
“Shh!”
A shaggy white dog was trotting across the area at the bottom of the hill. Its ears were pricked up as its nose searched for a scent. Damn. The first complication of the crack.
“Of course there’s going to be a dog,” Lucy said, as if reading the expression on Crystal’s face. “This is a farmhouse.”
“Yeah well I didn’t bring any steak to make friends with it. Did you?”
“As a matter of fact…”
A small box of treats slipped from the inside of Lucy’s coat.
“Oh you covert bitch,” Crystal exclaimed. “High five.”
Their hands clapped in mid-air, and it was hard not to notice the expression of joy that came over Lucy’s face at the thought of having pleased her friend—hard not to notice, yet very easy for Crystal to understand. They’d been hanging out together for less than a year, which meant there was still a lot of work to be done with this girl. Brilliant but unconfident, enterprising yet skittish, all of it described Lucy to a T. Crystal wasn’t certain she could handle the job—but then, something had to be given in return for those study sessions.
“Of course it may not take the treats,” Lucy pointed out. “It may just bite our hands off instead.”
“It didn’t look like a very mean dog.”
“Nope. Can you whistle?”
“Open the box first.”
Once one of the treats was in her friend’s hand, Crystal pursed her lips and whistled as loud as she could. Instantly the dog appeared back in their field of view. Its tail searched the sky for a few seconds, in need of another beacon.
Crystal whistled again. “Here boy!”
Now the dog saw them. Barking furiously, it charged.
“Hold it,” Lucy commanded after seeing Crystal flinch. “Don’t run.” She held the treat out. “Hey fella. Here ya go. Look at this!”
Still barking, the dog burst through the first line of trees. A scream rose in Crystal’s throat. They’d messed up in royal spades. Whatever kind of dog this was, it couldn’t be bought off with biscuits and pretty music. Oh no. Trained animals knew better than to fall for such tricks. They also knew, and were doubtless quite happy to demonstrate, how to tear out an interloper’s throat.
The eggs dropped from Crystal’s hand. Her lungs filled with a gasp, their last ever. The dog snarled, opened its jaws—
And skidded to a stop on the dry leaves.
“That’s a good boy,” Lucy told it, proffering the treat. “What’s your name? Huh? What’s your name?”
A series of high, happy yips came back by way of reply. Raising its front paws off the ground, the dog snatched the treat from Lucy’s grasp.
“Wow,” was all Crystal could think to say.
“You were right. It’s not mean at all.” A second treat disappeared from Lucy’s hand almost as fast as she could get it out of the box. “In fact, he’s quite a sweetheart,” she giggled. Then, at the dog: “Are you a he? Hmm?”
More happy barking. The snarl had become a big, bounding smile. To Crystal’s untrained eye the dog looked to be of the sheep-herding variety, about sixty pounds—only fifteen less than what she’d last seen on her bathroom scale. She began to wish she hadn’t called it, that she’d thought of a different way to reach the writer’s porch. Nothing about dogs in general bothered her much, but this one was maybe a little too big to play with.
“Can you make him stop?” she asked Lucy as her eyes searched the farmhouse for movement.
The fourth treat of the evening dangled from the other girl’s fingers, prompting their new friend to stand on his hind legs for the next bite. This he managed by stretching his neck out, wetting Lucy’s knuckles with his nose in the process.
“You are such a good dog!” she cooed.
“His name is Chubby.”
Both girls screamed at the strong, deep male voice that came from the shadows.
A flashlight popped on, illuminating the flora around them. Crystal held her breath. Blinded, she had no idea who the owner of the light might be. Chubby trotted past her, his tail cranking. Footsteps crunched in the leaves, and before long, a man appeared. The man. At the sight of his face, Crystal’s heart began to dance to a brand new rhythm, though the beat was just as fast.
“Oh gosh,” she plumed. “Oh wow.”
“Ladies?” the writer—whose name Crystal had no trouble remembering as Jarett Powell—asked. “Can you tell me why you’re sneaking around my property with a bunch of eggs? Now please. I’d like to get the bullshit behind us and in the dust as soon as possible.”
2
“Will you please get the fuck out of my way?”
Crystal’s hand slammed on the horn button—which was already broken—in effort to communicate to the traffic in front of Greenhills Plaza that she was late for work.
No one paid her the time of day. It wasn’t like they could. Cars were backed up in either direction for two kilometers around the little red Hyundai Getz that she drove. The temperature outside shimmered at thirty-two Celsius. People stood everywhere on the sidewalks, waiting for a taxi cab, or a bus, or a Jeep to take them to the next crowded place. Manila at two o’clock in the afternoon—hot, cramped, and in a rush while rarely seeming to go anywhere—never changed. That went double in front of places like Greenhills, one of the city’s most popular malls.
“It’s green!” Crystal shouted, staring at the nearest traffic light. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you people? Fuck it.”
She gunned the motor just as the light went yellow and the car in front of her crossed. Immediately a Filipino traffic officer dressed in blue stepped in front of the Getz with his hand raised. Crystal’s foot hit the brake, but it was too late. The cop was motioning for her to pull over.
“Goddammit!”
Spinning the wheel, Crystal got the car over to the curb and lowered the window.
“Your license please, Miss,” the cop said.
“The light was yellow.”
“Your license please, Miss,” the cop demanded.
She handed it to him. He looked it over, then showed her a sheet with a list of violations on it. A gloved finger hovered over one—reckless operation by a red girl—before tapping the two thousand peso fine typed next to it.
“I don’t think so,” Crystal told him.
“Yes ma’am. I will confiscate your license and you can pay this fine at the Gilmore traffic center.”
“Or,” Crystal tempted, “I can just give you one hundred pesos right now and we can forget this ever happened.” She let her smile widen. “What do you say?”
The cop smiled back. “Two hundred, ma’am.”
Crystal reached into her bag. She knew that the man might have taken fifty had she offered it straight away, but in Manila it was best (and this she had learned after three years living here) for foreigners to spread the butter a little more thickly when it came time to pass out sandwiches to anyone carrying a badge. The cop told her to wait for a moment, shielded the window with his body, then took the money.
After this his voice lost all officiousness.
“Salamat!” he called out. The license went back into Crystal’s hand. “Drive safe, ma’am! Ingat!”
“Walang anuman!” Crystal said back, waving. But once the window was rolled up and the car was moving again: “Now go fuck yourself!”
***
Nobody at the call center noticed she was late.
Except her boss.
Crystal hurried into the wing of her account, where rows of computer monitors flickered in front of the talking heads of myriad tech support agents. The whole area was drab and cheerless, decorated with the ugliest color scheme Crystal had ever been nauseated by. Blue carpet lay underfoot; fluffy orange partitions divided the cubicles. Her own computer was located in the quality assurance section. Here, too, sat several busy people, most female. Some were coaching agents on their conduct, while others worked on quarterly reports, or spread-sheets, or presentations for new ideas that would likely never see the light of day. Fresh method did not whisk often amongst the throng.
Still, faces smiled at her as she passed. All but one in fact.
“Crystal, may I see you in my office after your class?”
Of course the account manager, a tall individual who had changed his name from Robert to Roberta after deciding he liked life better as a woman than a man, just happened to be idling in the exact wrong place today—which was to say, right next to Crystal’s cubicle.
“Sure, no problem,” Crystal told him—her—trying to sound cheerful.
Nothing by any stretch stood further from the truth. She stooped to turn on her computer, hit her head on the desk while standing back up. Pencils rolled, coffee cups jingled.
Cries of Oy! Oy! Oy! rang out from all around.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Crystal had to assure them, rubbing the back of her skull.
“Late for class again is not fine,” Roberta put in curtly, but turned on his heel and pranced off without waiting for an excuse.
Now all the faces which had been smiling earlier looked sympathetic. Even DoDo Garcia, who sometimes went drinking with Roberta, provided a commiserative furl of the brow.
“Go,” she pleaded. “They’re waiting for you.”
Crystal went.
Five minutes later she was in front of her class in training room Alaska. That name fit it well, as the air conditioner pumped weather that made her want to don a snow suit and go skiing. Goose-pimples rose on her arms as she greeted everyone. Thirty pairs of Filipino eyes followed her across the room. Their contempt was near palpable. This particular batch for English grammar had not been going well so