Unlucky Catkill Court (part 1.05)

Wednesday, Feb. 5, a tad bit later

The walk to Franklin High takes maybe three minutes. The only days it ever takes longer are snow days, and then the superintendent closes school, so it wouldn’t matter.

Brooke is certain the walk will be a long three minutes. She stands on the sidewalk in front of the Fukui house, almost leaning on the bushes, and checks her watch, trying to ignore the rustling of backpacks and huge winter coats and Toby’s yelling.

Her watch strikes six-fifty exactly, and Brooke looks up, hoping her cheeks aren’t flaking in the cold and that her hair looks okay.

A girl steps out into the intersection between Catkill Street and its eponymous court, just as she does every day at six-fifty. She looks impeccable too, like always. Her strong profile, with her angular nose and harsh jaw is accented by feather-light contouring makeup. And she walks like a model, long black military coat almost flaring behind her. To top it all off—literally—she wears a sky blue hijab, a single bright article of clothing that draws the eye.

Brooke wishes she had that girl’s confidence. She wishes she could even work up the courage to talk to her.

“Oh, is she the girl?”

A curse word almost passes through Brooke’s lips, and she whirls around to find Toby standing behind her, arms crossed and eyes trained on the girl crossing the street.

“What girl?” Brooke asks.

“I thought you-” Toby pauses to bite his lip, still looking at the girl crossing the street. He’s perplexed, frowning at some internal debate that Brooke can’t quite figure out. “Nevermind,” he says, shaking his head. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”

With an awkward, uncomfortable giggle, Brooke adjusts her backpack and swings her oboe case over one shoulder. “Okay then. I’ll forget you said anything.”

There’s no way Brooke is going to forget Toby asked anything. She’s going to never speak to him again and instead ask some of the orchestra members if they can be her accompanist. Or she would, if she was brave enough to talk to any of them. She only has Toby because Willow handled the negotiating.

In the heavy emptiness that would usually follow a touchy subject at dinnertime, Brooke and Toby trudge up the sidewalk to Catkill Street. They turn right, following the girl in the blue hijab, and are soon out of sight.

Minutes pass, long minutes during which nothing happens outside, and only the faint movement of shadows behind curtains and the occasional, almost imperceptible thud betray signs of life. A breeze tickles the naked trees and pushes a few crackling leaves into the McCraes’ tiny yard, and then finally, a car pulls into the cul de sac.

It is more impressive than Vera’s car, without a doubt. If any of the kids who normally crowd around the de la Rosa driveway in the morning were to see it, they would gawp until their jaws couldn’t close anymore. After all, Vera cannot afford a sports car. The only person in the neighborhood who might drive a sports car is Mr. Morandi, but only because no one knows anything about him, and therefore he might be some kind of rich man in hiding.

Even more impressive is the woman who steps out of the car. She dresses like the cliche work-out mom, decked out in purple and black leggings and a violet windbreaker. But unlike the ladies in athletic shoe commercials, she is loaded with muscle. There is a hint aesthetic bodybuilding that peeks through by her calves, but it is nothing compared to her power.

With a terrible frown and clenched fists, she marches up to the L’Enfant house and pounds on the snow white door.

Monsieur L’Enfant answers before she is done pounding. He is just as cross as the woman before him, but only half so intimidating. He is lean, bordering on gangly, and he has purple bags under his eyes and fatigue in his shoulders while his visitor bursts with youth and vigor. Her black hair borders on brown, and his blonde hair borders on grey, though he isn’t particularly wizened.

“I see you repainted,” the woman says, resting her fists on her hips. “I think I liked the grey better.”

“Why are you here, Ms. Avila?” Monsieur L’Enfant asks. He looks her straight in the eye, arms crossed and mouth pursed in bored, objective curiosity.

Ms. Avila lets her mouth fall open, offended. “Oh, so you’re back to calling me Miss Avila now? Why, Ambroisin, I didn’t think you even remembered my maiden name. I’m here to warn you.”

If Monsieur L’Enfant is ruffled, he doesn’t show it. “About?” he prompts.

“I’m filing a suit against you. I want custody of Quinton, and you can be sure I’ll get it.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Monsieur L’Enfant’s voice is dry, as if he doesn’t really care who has custody. “Quinton hasn’t seen you in years, and he didn’t like you much when you were around. You moved out of state first as well. You won’t be able to claim him unless I’m dead or in prison.”

“You’re a criminal, and we both know it,” Ms. Avila says, as saccharine as her buffness allows her to be. Then she smiles a heroic, dazzling white smile, and slams Monsieur L’Enfant’s door in his face.