Page 15 of Home to Christmas Island
Alistair’s eyes fall back to me and he looks almost shocked. I get the distinct sense that he’s trying not to get swept up in Alba’s laughter either, which is still bursting out of her as she continues to roll around in the snow. But of course, he’s hiding it well with that signature frown.
How did you know we were here? I snap at him, getting to my feet. What, are you stalking me or something?
No, I have better things to do with my time, I’m afraid, he says without missing a beat. However, I did get a call that a car had parked at the school after hours.
Figures. You can’t do anything in Cape Breton without everyone finding out.
Alistair goes on, I assumed—wrongly—that it was a bunch of teenagers coming to spray paint the side of the gym again, he pauses, as his eyes dart back and forth between Alba and I. But this is much, much worse. Why are you both in that snowbank?
Because I was trying to prove a point, I say, as I straighten my jacket back into place. I can feel that my hair is a tangled rat's nest, and it makes me want to throttle Alba all over again. I make a desperate attempt to try and smooth it down with the back of my hand, but it’s not as subtle as I hope, because I see Alistair’s eyes dart up to my hair.
About something reckless, no doubt, he says, seemingly unable to pull his gaze away from my hair. You look like something the cat dragged in. His accent is so rich when he says this, it almost sends a shiver up my spine.
Almost.
Before I can acknowledge that particular comment, Alba pipes up, still on the ground but pointing towards the shed, She was trying to prove that she could still climb up onto that roof.
We have a silent conversation with our eyes—mine screaming, Traitor, you absolute traitor, I will kill you for this! Her eyes reply with a smugness that radiates towards me in crashing waves, That’s what you get for being so stubborn.
So, Alistair says, clapping his hands together and interrupting the silent conversation between Alba and I, We won’t be doing that, will we? I thought you were a little speed demon; didn’t realize you had a thing for heights too. I can’t tell if his tone is serious or mocking. It might be both.
Yeah, well, I’m not afraid of heights or speed, I say in the haughtiest tone I can muster with my hair looking like this. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly skilled at quippy comebacks—normally I rely on my charm to get me out of these situations. But it’s like I can barely string together any coherent thoughts around this guy, let alone spit out a complete, rational sentence. And I don’t particularly want to dwell on why exactly that is.
Am I free to go, officer? Alba asks, finally standing up from the snowbank and intentionally not looking at me.
Alistair snorts at the title, but nods his head. Of course, Miss Landry, I can see you were only doing some bystander intervention work here tonight. You’re cleared of all charges. His tone is definitely sarcastic now, and Alba laughs a deep belly laugh.
Again, I feel that pang in my chest. Maybe these two really are friends. Something about that leaves the taste of betrayal in my mouth.
Alba saunters off to her car, giving me a look over her shoulder that I can read instantly: Find your own ride home. I feel an immediate sense of panic. If she leaves me here with this stupid, sarcastic, jackass cop I will pummel her into a snowbank—again.
I start to walk as fast as I can without running towards her car, but Alistair stops me by stepping into my path and tilting his head to try and catch my eye.
You, on the other hand, Little Miss Quick, are not free to go, he says, and I know he’s half serious. Alba has practically jogged to her car and is already reversing out of the parking lot.
Well, it looks like I’m in need of a ride anyway, I say, giving my cousin the middle finger as she speeds off. I turn to Alistair, and in my most sickly-sweet tone I ask, What can I do for you, officer?
He glances at me with that perceptive look again, his head tilting to the side, and I get the distinct sense he sees through all of my feigned bravado.
Were you really going to climb up there? He gestures to the roof of the shed.
Well of course not, I would never do such a thing, I say, adding quickly, I mean, you don’t have any proof, do you? I feel pleased with myself for that one rational thought at least, but it doesn’t last long.
Well, actually I do. I have an eyewitness—your cousin—who told me that was your intention.
Seriously, Alba, an eyewitness? I scoff, but he doesn’t even acknowledge what I’ve said and keeps barrelling on.
The motive and means are clear. You admitted to me the other day this was something you did when you were growing up. That it’s currently pitch black outside provides the perfect opportunity for a crime, he pauses, and I’m sure he sees the wheels turning in my head as I try to figure out any sort of reply. I realize my mouth is hanging open and I snap it shut. He sighs, then asks, So why, ‘Just Florence,’ were you going to climb up onto the roof?
I never admitted that’s what I was doing, so I can’t answer that, I say as sweetly as I can. I’m certain the face I’m making isn’t sweet at all.
He exhales—very loudly, I might add—and rubs a gloved hand through his hair. It somehow looks better after he’s tousled it.
Okay, hypothetically speaking, if you were going to climb up there, how exactly would you do that?
I bite my lip as I weigh my options. He’s probably got a reason for asking me that’s not only his never-ending curiosity.
Well, I mean, what do I know? I haven’t done that in about fifteen years. But if I were to do it, I sigh and walk over to the dumpster. He visibly tenses at this. Relax, I’m not actually going to climb up there. I can’t help but huff in annoyance at this.
