Page 35 of Licks

“Jimmy has piercings. All the cool kids are doing it.”

He mock-snarled. “Unless you want to wake up with a tarantula in your bed, I suggest you back away.”

I gave him my best sleazy eyes. “Just one poke. It’ll feel so good.”

He hissed in a sharp breath, my unspoken that’s what she said joke hitting its mark. A mark I should avoid. This addictive flirting was getting away from me again. Being with him was too intoxicating, too novel. I couldn’t rein myself in.

August, however, said, “I’ll pass,” and averted his eyes. He shoved his badge back in his pocket and studied the hallway, newfound stiffness in his stance.

So much for my levity.

Ignoring my growing discomfort, I followed his lead and read the community posters on the scuffed-up walls. Each advertisement listed classes, from poetry tutorials to tai chi. Piano still echoed from somewhere, stopping and starting, along with a commanding female voice. Up a set of stairs was a glass case that held photos and pottery.

Pretending August’s distracted state wasn’t distracting me, I pushed past him, led by the sporadic music, but the glass case drew my focus. Most stored photos were yellowed, filled with legwarmer-clad girls and mullet-haired boys. Eighties and nineties styles. Some looked even older, bell bottoms and peace symbols dating them. I wondered for the millionth how teenage Mary Hamilton had hung out in a place like this.

I abruptly muted that thought. She wasn’t why I was here. She was a lead and nothing more, a path that could end at my father’s door.

I scanned the faces in each photo, searching for her. If she was in here, he might be as well. One showed actors in a low-budget play, another framed a handsome man playing guitar, which reminded me of the silent presence at my back. I stayed focused on the photos, assessing if any men had one eye slightly rounder than the other or a freckled lip. Not that my attributes were necessarily DNA linked, but I was working with limited resources.

Next was a picture of three girls doing a jazz lunge, arms wide, legwarmers on, hair flying as though they’d finished a wild spin. My eyes skimmed past the photo but snapped back.

Two girls looked familiar, the middle one in particular. The one with the wide smile and bright eyes. Holy shit. “That’s my mother…and I think my aunt.”

August moved to my side and bent forward to study the picture that had me gawking. “You sure?”

The smile—no, my mother’s joyous glow—wasn’t familiar, but her narrow features and long face were unmistakable. My aunt was less recognizable. I’d never met her, but I’d found a few photos when packing my mother’s belongings. They resembled each other, my Aunt Sarah only a year younger than my mother. A recluse who’d moved to the East Coast.

Aunt Sarah used to send me a yearly birthday card. The only family member who’d gone out of her way to show she cared. One card a year for eleven years. Until my mother had gotten into a fight with her.

I’d overheard a phone conversation shortly after receiving her last card. Just the end, but it had been enough: Mary hissing into the phone, telling her sister not to call again. That as far as she was concerned she was an only child. The birthday cards had ceased after that. I hadn’t realized how much they’d meant to me until they’d stopped.

It was likely another reason I hadn’t felt I’d deserved August’s friendship. No one had stuck around in my life, not my aunt or my grandparents. I’d believed I hadn’t been worth loving.

I couldn’t be sure it was Aunt Sarah in the photo, but the resemblance between the two girls was too distinct to ignore.

“I’m pretty sure it’s them.” I nearly plastered my face against the glass.

“Your mother looks so happy,” he said quietly, as though to himself. Then louder, “How did a woman who danced and listened to Depeche Mode become cold and rigid?”

He took the words right out of my mouth. His arm brushing mine stole the breath from my lungs. I wanted to slide my arm under his, link our elbows, but he still seemed distant. Dissecting his strange vibes was as appealing as analyzing Mary Hamilton’s descent into Frost Queen.

I scanned the case for other photos of her, unsuccessfully. “This confirms she danced here, at least. Probably often. They wouldn’t have immortalized her picture if it had been just a few times.” I straightened and glanced down the narrow hall. The piano had stopped. Young girls filed from a room, ballet slippers on their feet. Parents waited on a couple benches. “It’s time to do some recon.”

I marched toward the classroom, August following. Chatter from excited girls echoed off the ceiling. A boy left the room in tights, twirling toward his father, who clapped and beamed. The warmth filling the hall was a contrast to the Tenderloin’s filth and stench outside. Flowers blooming in a barren field. We waited for the kids to leave.

August stayed quiet, hands shoved in his pockets. He leaned on the wall, away from me.

I chewed my cheek.

An older woman sporting a prim bun exited last, her slender frame accentuated in her leotard, pink tights, and black skirt. She was pushing seventy with a body a thirty-year-old would covet. I glanced at August, unsure how to approach her.

As teens, he and I would perform different roles when investigating. He’d use his smarts to lead us to potential suspects, and I’d play the part of school reporter or Navy SEAL or international spy. Tonight he hung back, broody stance in place, letting me lead the way. Considering our strange reunion, it shouldn’t be surprising, but I wasn’t sure what role to play.

Unwilling to let the moment slip by, I stepped into the ballet instructor’s path. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find information on a girl who took dance classes in the late eighties. Have you worked here long?”

She studied August, a slow perusal that had me wanting to send out a cougar alert. To me, she said, “I’ve been here since the center opened, but I’m in a rush. Come back next week, same time, and I can answer your questions.”

Nope. No way. A week wouldn’t cut it. That suitcase didn’t land in my lap the day before my birthday only for my search to lose steam now. I motioned to August. “My friend here isn’t feeling well. I told him not to order the refried beans, but he’s stubborn as a mule and can’t resist them. If he doesn’t find a bathroom soon, well…it might get ugly. If you don’t mind showing us the way, I can ask you a few questions as we walk?”