Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand (4 page)

“Holy cow.”

“So... yeah...” I shrug, helplessly.

“What's the story?”

I repeat the events of the morning and she stops me right when I describe confronting my mother.

“You told her that your long lost brother was at the door and she didn't try to go talk to him? She just said, 'Yeah, that's who it was', and kept on with the pottery?”

“You know how my mom is with pottery.”

“Are you
kidding
me? Your mom has problems, you know that?”

“Something really bad must've happened between them.”

“Give me your phone.” Kailie snatches it from my fingers and taps the keys with one hand as she talks. “Listen, he's her kid. How can anything be so bad that you don't ever want to see your kid again?”

“When's the last time your parents saw Kirsten?”

“And went up and talked to her? Not for months, but they know where she is, what she does, whom she's with. They care. They just don't know how to breach the distance, but they want to.”

I don't buy this. Kailie's dad seems to want nothing to do with his daughter who went astray and had the audacity to get pregnant in high school.

“Maybe it's the religion,” I say. “I mean, what do you know about the Mormons?”

“That their token male is super hot and totally unattainable.” She's referring to Carson, driver of the MAV and the only teenage Mormon guy in town. “And I just texted him.”

“What? Why?”

“To get his opinion.”

“Hang on. I don't want to tell the whole town about this.”

“It's Carson. He's not gonna blab, and his dad's the Mormon Bishop or whatever. Their leader. He may have inside information.”

I take my phone back. “I can't believe you'd use this as an excuse to hit on a guy.”

“I'm not hitting on him. It's Carson. I don't think he even believes in holding hands.”

My phone beeps and I look at Carson’s reply:
Hey, Kailie. I'll be right over.

“He's coming over,” I say.

“What? No. Not good. Give me your phone.”

I hold it out of her reach. “What did you think was gonna happen?”

“I thought he'd go find the missionary or talk to his dad or something. I didn't tell him to come over.”

I key through my sent messages to see what she did say.
Missionary this morning told Madison he's her brother. What's the deal? -Kailie

“Give me your phone,” she orders.

But it's too late. The doorbell rings downstairs. Montrose Bar and Grille is only a few businesses over, and clearly Carson was there, rather than at his house.

“Great...” Kailie buries her face in a pillow.

There comes the whooshing sound of the front door opening, and then voices talking. The front door closes with a slam that lets me know, Carson did not come in. Footsteps on the stairs make Kailie shrink away from the door and wince when her father appears in it. “Who called the Mormon?”

“Me,” I say. “I texted from my phone. I didn't ask him to come over.”

“All right, listen,” he says to his daughter, “you're supposed to be doing your homework, not socializing. Don't think I'm unaware of the fact that you are about to fail chemistry. And Madison, maybe you’d better move on to work or wherever you're supposed to be right now.” The words are a suggestion, but the tone is a command. I get up to go, with an apologetic glance at my friend, who only peers at her father.

I wait until Mr. Beale gets a good head start and then head downstairs, where I find not Mr., but Mrs. Beale, sitting on the couch with the phone pressed to her ear. “Listen, you want me to present this to the Municipal Council, we're going to have to make some changes.” She waves at me like a state official acknowledging my presence, which is essentially what she is. Both she and her husband have seats on the Municipal Council.

Her curt greeting is a relief to me. She can be every bit as intense as her husband. The one time she helped me with my math homework, back when I was ten, she traumatized me so badly that to this day I can't do a math problem without hearing her scream, “You don't like story problems? You think the universe spits out equations at you?
All real math is story problems!!”

I slip out the front door.

“Hey.” Carson – stepping away from where he's leaned against the side of the house – makes me almost jump out of my skin. “Sorry,” he says. He's tall with broad shoulders, dark hair, and eyes the color of a stormy sea.

“Hey,” I tell him. “Was Mr. Beale a jerk to you?”

“Well, I probably shouldn't have stood there holding these.” He hands me a navy blue paperback with gold leaf that reads
The Book of Mormon
and a card with a picture of a smiling little girl holding her own copy of the book. Under her picture is a toll free number and a website.

“Thanks, but I-”

“No, I know you weren't asking for information on how to become one of us. The website is where you can find out more information and stuff like that. So tell me what happened this morning?”

“I really don't want the whole town to know.” It's a vain hope. Pelican Bluffs is small, and I'm certain that some of its worst gossips can read minds.

“Fair enough. You don't have to tell me.”

“Elder Britton is legit, right? He's a real missionary?”

“Yeah. Far as I know.”

“And do you recruit missionaries from, like, prisons or anything like that?”

“No.” He laughs. “You have to meet certain standards before you can become a missionary, and if you've landed yourself in prison, you've got a ways to go. Listen, the thing is, we all call each other brothers and sisters in the Church. That's part of our belief, that we're all God's children, so was it that or did he say he's your actual brother?”

“My mom told me that he is my actual brother.”

“Okay... so did they call my dad or... what did they do? The missionaries and your mom?”

Even though I didn't want to retell it, this story is getting tangled, so I do, explaining that Elder Britton and my mother never did actually talk to one another. “The missionaries said they were calling someone and... yeah.” I shrug.

“Well, sheesh, okay. Anything I can do, let me know.” Carson and I, like just about everyone else in our class, have known each other since kindergarten, which doesn't mean that we actually know each other. I can't remember the last time I had a conversation with him, but somehow his phone number is in my cellphone. Now that I think about it, that was probably Kailie's doing.

“Thanks.”

“You don't have to read the book or anything,” he nods to the navy blue paperback. “It was just something I grabbed on my way out of the restaurant.”

“You keep a stash of these at the restaurant?”

“Yeah, back in the office, and no, we don't usually give them out to customers, but every now and then someone asks.” He shrugs.

“Hope Mr. Beale wasn't too rude to you.”

“No ruder than he is to anyone else.” Carson is completely unfazed. “You all right, though?”

“I guess. I don't know. Does this mean I'm Mormon?”

“No. You'd know if you were. You'd remember being baptized when you were eight.”

“So what happens now with my brother?”

“I have no idea. My dad and the mission president will figure that out. They may even need to call Salt Lake, since this is an unusual situation. You happen to know how much longer he'll be on his mission?”

“A week?”

“Oh, then you'll get to the bottom of this soon enough. Sorry I can't be more help.”

“Well if your dad tells you anything-”

“He won't. He's a priesthood leader. Clergy. He can't talk about other people's business to anyone else. It's confidential.”

“Oh.”

“But you can reach him at the restaurant if you ever feel like you need to talk to him.”

“Thanks.”

Carson and I say our goodbyes and I head back to work. He heads back to the Montrose Grille.

W
hen I return to the library, Siraj doesn't bat an eye. There are only three people browsing the shelves and one on one of the computers. I sit down behind the circulation desk and tuck my purse down by my feet.

“Scan these in?” says Siraj, placing a stack of books by my elbow. He's got the phone pressed to his ear and a distracted look that tells me he's deep in conversation. “Mmm, right,” he says. “Hang on, I'm going to transfer to the phone in the conference room.”

I grab the scanner and run each book under it so that the computer records that they are here in the Pelican Bluffs branch of the library. Three of the books were requested by other borrowers, so I leave each of them a message to let them know that the book is now available to them.

The door opens and in strides Alex Katsumoto, jaw set, hands bunched into fists. He glares around and I fight the urge to duck under the circulation desk for cover. Instead I get to my feet. “Can I help you?”

His gaze jerks over to me and he looks me up and down as if to say, “Why are
you
talking to me?”

“O-kay.” I sit down again. “If you want help with something, let me know.”

He spies something on the desk that draws him over, like a metal to magnet. I look around to see what it could be. There's the stack of books I've just scanned in, the telephone,
The
Book of Mormon,
and a phone book.

Alex rests his hands on the counter and looks at the phone book, then stares at me as if daring me to hand it over. He doesn't deign to talk and his whole body is tense. If someone came up behind him right now, I have no doubt he'd spin around and punch them, so it's probably not a good idea to give him something as heavy as a phone book, but since I wouldn't be able to defend myself from him if he decided to punch me, phone book or no, I heft the heavy volume onto the counter in front of him and say, “Just leave it there when you're done.”

He continues to stare, as if unsure whether or not he can really have the phone book. Tension stretches so tight the very air rings with it.

“Um.” I cast about and pull the little pass along card out of
The
Book of Mormon
. “Here, you can have this too. See the pretty picture?”

He glances down at it, looks up at me, then with a lightning quick motion, snatches a pair of scissors from the pencil cup and snips the smiling girl's head off. Then he slams the scissors down on the counter hard enough that I wonder if he made a dent.

“Fine,” I say to him. “If you want to be a jerk, go ahead. I was just trying to be funny.” I shove the phone book at him. “And you're welcome.”

He grabs it with one hand, pulls it towards himself and flips it open.

I grab the cart with all the books that need to be reshelved and escape with it across the room. The cart is only a quarter of the way full, but it's the first excuse I can think of to get away.

Reshelving doesn't take as long as I'd hoped, even doing it the hard way, chasing down every slot for each book in the order they sit on the cart, as opposed to finding the books for each section as I work systematically across the library. But when I peer back at the circulation desk, I can see that I've taken long enough. Alex is gone.

“Something wrong?” Siraj asks when I return to my seat. “With Alex, I mean?”

“His mom got picked up by Officer Li.”

“I was afraid of that.” He frowns at the exit where Alex would have left. “I'd have tried to help him but I was busy arguing with a City Councilor about an initiative to keep this library open.”

“Was it Mrs. Beale, by any chance?”

“Yeah. Talked her into it in the end. If you can convince the Beales, you can convince the Council. Last time I had to do this was to get your salary approved. Much easier that time.” The Beales have two of the five Municipal Council seats, and another of the Councilors is Megan Romero, who runs the art gallery they own. This means they have a voting bloc that can pass or push aside just about anything. “Being Kailie's friend has its perks, you know?” he says.

“I did not know-”

“Of course you didn't. I'm not saying you did or should care.” He wipes away my concerns with a dismissive gesture.

“But I guess I should stay her friend then, huh?”

His mouth twitches at the corner and he doesn't answer that.

I sit down and return my attention to scanning books.

T
hat evening, Mom is still out in the shed at eight-thirty, when Mr. Montrose comes by. “I tried to call her,” he says. The porch light makes his skin look sallow and his eyes bruised with exhaustion. “How late does she usually work?”

“She usually comes in as soon as the sun goes down.” Mom's a real stickler for working in natural sunlight whenever possible.

“Does she let people interrupt her?”

“Not really.”

“Fine, I'll do it. You can pretend to put up a fight if you need to. May I come in?”

I show him the way through the kitchen and point to the shed, visible because of the orange, incandescent light spilling out between the cracks in the boards. “Sharon,” he calls out.

Now that I'm in the backyard, I realize her wheel isn't running. She never does painting or glazing of any kind under artificial light. For a moment, I wonder if she's okay.