Title: Let the White Dove Sing
Author: Vivi Dahlin (aka Jennifer)
Rating: Starts out G/PG but will be bumped up to an R-rating around chapter 6 due to language and violence.
Summary: It began easily enough: God said join the choir, so she did. But when Joan finds a new best friend there, she also uncovers a terrifying secret, the likes of which she has never confronted before. And with this secret comes deadly consequences.
Author's Note: Just a warning… this starts out pretty light, but it will take a much darker turn later on. I will be changing the rating by chapter 6, so keep an eye out for a switch to the other ratings section. Also, the story has been completed, but I ran out of time to revise before school started, which means I'll probably post one chapter every few days, or whatever, to give myself time to look it over and do any necessary tweaking. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
To K.C., the best muse a writer could ask for; to the "Girardis" – I love and miss you all; and to Dorothy – pal, without you this story would be a whole lot more depressing. Thanks for your input.
"Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is a day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay
It's Independence Day"
-- Martina McBride, "Independence Day"
RUTHIE
Helen Girardi stood back and squinted at the painting. If you tilted your head just enough to the right, the splotches of color and erratic brush strokes morphed together into an odd resemblance of a chicken. Wearing a fedora. And knitting.
She moved to the next easel and immediately felt an urge to step back and shield her eyes. Her students had gotten liberal with the neon paints for this assignment, and the artwork she was studying now was such a chaos of bright pinks, yellows and greens, that she felt mildly seasick. Luckily class was not in session just yet, so her aversion to this particular piece went unobserved. Feeling guilty nonetheless, Helen devoted a few extra seconds to analyzing the painting and trying to find a deeper meaning beneath the loud, abrasive palette. The assignment had been to create art that hid a secret.
"Knock, knock."
Breaking the somewhat hypnotic effect the painting was starting to have, Helen turned towards the voice. In the doorway that led to the hall, which would be noisy with students in about twenty minutes, a small blonde girl was clutching an armload of papers and looking misplaced. Her mane of thick silky hair was in a loose updo that might have started out tidy when she left the house, but had since fallen into gossamer strands about her shoulders. It gave her an attractive and breezy sort of air, but combined with her tweedy skirt suit and pumps, she appeared too mature for her age. Like she had expected to attend a business meeting today, rather than high school. The only part of her outfit that seemed youthful enough was its mixture of fresh pastel colors, springtime shades, including those cotton candy pink shoes which Helen found quite adorable. Compared to the Attack of the Killer Neon monstrosity, it was like looking at an Impressionist painting of sunrise.
Helen got the strange urge she should be capturing the girl on canvas. But it dawned on her she hadn't even spoken to the poor thing yet. "Yes," she said quickly, rounding one of the tables that separated her from the doorway, "yes? May I help you?"
"I hope so." The girl flashed a dimpled-cheek smile. "I'm a little lost. Could you direct me to the office?"
"Oh." Helen returned the friendly smile. "Sure. You go down this hall, take a right, keep going till you reach the second hall on the left, then it's about five doors..." Helen thought she saw a spark of terror in the girl's wide eyes. She smiled again. "Or I could just show you."
"That would be-" The girl relaxed her grip on the papers and flitted her hand out in a gesture that seemed to sweep away the rest of her sentence. "Thank you."
"Let me guess, it's your first day," Helen said, easing the door shut as they passed into the hall.
"Uh-huh. But I was here last week, in the office and everything, took the whole tour of campus."
Helen caught the girl's sheepish expression when they turned the corner.
"I'm a loser when it comes to directions. I couldn't find my way out of a wet paper bag, I swear. I'll probably be back at your door tomorrow morning."
Helen chuckled. The girl had an animated way of speaking, playing with each word till it came out just so. Her voice was tinged in southern, Helen thought, and sounded like it should be coming from an eleven-year-old.
"Well, I'm Helen Girardi, the art teacher here. You can stop by my door any time you like."
"I'm Ruthie—well, Ruth Anne." Ruthie thrust out her hand, stopping her heels mid-clickity-clack. "Ruth Anne Snow. Call me Ruthie."
Of all the reactions Helen had elicited from a student, being offered a handshake had never been one of them. She liked this Snow kid. She liked her a lot.
"It's nice to meet you, Ruthie." Helen clasped Ruthie's hand, more of a light press than a shake, before continuing past the open classrooms waiting to be filled by sleepy, incredibly bored teenagers. "What grade are you in?"
"In?" Ruthie puzzled over that one for a moment, then burst into giggles that echoed in the empty hall. She quickly covered her mouth, continuing to snicker behind her well-manicured fingers. The stack of papers had settled into the crook of her arm and she took Helen by the elbow companionably. "Honey, I'm not a student. I'm the new music teacher."
Helen did a double-take. "You're kidding."
"Nope." Ruthie shook her head, unable to conceal a grin. "It's the voice, right? That always throws people off. That, and my height. There's only so much these things can do for a girl," she said, displaying the high heel on her shoe by jutting her foot out briefly, then falling back into step.
It was all making sense to Helen now. The hair, the outfit, the handshaking. She suddenly became keenly aware of the height difference between herself and Ruthie. It hadn't been important before; she had noted that Ruthie was slight for a high schooler, something she chocked up to puberty or lack of, guessing Ruthie as a freshman. But now the gap between them felt unnaturally vast, exaggerated by the fact that Ruthie's pumps and Helen's flats didn't bring them much closer in size.
"I'm sorry," Helen blurted, feeling foolish. "But you're so... diminutive. And you look-- well, so young. I'm sorry."
"Oh, diminutive. I like that one." Ruthie tilted her head thoughtfully. "I usually get 'tiny' or 'little.' Or just plain 'short.'" She crinkled her nose with distaste. "It only gets irritating when people are rude though. Other than that, it's kind of nice being mistaken for someone half my age."
Helen was tempted to ask what half of Ruthie's age would be. Even after spotting the wedding ring on her hand, it was hard to believe she could be any older than fifteen or sixteen. But harping on that risked falling into the rude category, and Helen couldn't tolerate rudeness. So she changed the subject.
"Did you just move to Arcadia?"
Ruthie nodded. "From New York. My husband is a cop; he transferred to the department here."
"No kidding," Helen said, delight evident in her tone. "My husband's a cop too. Will Girardi. Now that I think of it, he mentioned a new guy named Snow the other day."
Ruthie made a sound that was half-singing, half-squealing, as if she was preparing to turn her next phrase into a song. She was definitely the new music teacher. "That is too cool!"
"I know. Small world, right?"
As if to back that statement up, by the time they reached the office, they had discovered that not only were they both G.R.I.T.S., an acronym meaning Girls Raised in the South, which Ruthie promptly dubbed them as, but they also had family members back in Texas who lived within "spitting distance" of one another. Maiden names were divulged, as were alma maters and ex-places of employment. They were both mothers too, Helen with her three, and Ruthie bursting with pride for her daughter and son, ages five and two, respectively. They had become old friends in a matter of minutes.
Which is why, before they parted ways, Helen needing to get back to her classroom because the bell was ringing, and Ruthie anxious to speak with Price and get settled in for her first day, Helen tossed out the idea: "Why don't you come by my house for dinner sometime this week, bring your family? I'd like to meet your husband. And kids. And you can meet mine." She added the last bit with a playful roll of the eyes, like Ruthie was in for quite the treat.
Ruthie laughed and didn't answer right away. Or maybe Helen just imagined the pause, because after shifting her armload of papers from left to right and back again, Ruthie accepted. "That's so nice of you. I would love that. I'll talk to my husband about it, I'm sure he'd be happy to meet y'all." She scrunched her shoulders and gazed upwards in an impish way, a habit she seemed to have, one that was childlike and probably acquired from years of being smaller than everyone else. "Our families are practically twins, after all."
Joan leaned towards the mirror until her forehead was almost touching it. Arcadia and summer were having trouble ending their rendezvous and had reunited for one last fling, a smattering of Indian summer that meant lots of perspiring for those who hadn't listened to the weather forecast and dressed accordingly. And Joan wasn't big on meteorology. Hence, all the sweating. And the gigantic zit square in the middle of her forehead, red and eye-catching like the cherry on top a police cruiser. Sweating always made her break out.
She gave the blemish a couple futile pokes, irritating it till it was even more noticeable, then dropped her hands to her side and groaned. "Oh, my God."
"You rang?"
Unprepared for the reply and startled by the face that had appeared over her shoulder in the mirror, Joan drew a sharp breath and kicked out her leg, the sturdy toe of her boot meeting the back of her open locker with a clang that brought stares from passersby. She had to grab the locker door in both hands to keep from falling right into the cubbyhole where her textbooks, broken eraserless pencils, forgotten candy, and some unidentified gummy substance mingled in the deep dark corners.
"Whoa," she cried, trying to regain balance. She whirled around, her long hair fanning out behind her and swinging to the opposite side, cruising over her shoulder without halting, like it meant to keep going and twist itself completely around her face. "What," she huffed, flinging away the hair, "is your problem? You scared me to death."
It was Goth God, with his blue and purple spiky hair bluer and purpler and spikier than ever. Despite the heat, he was wearing his usual cacophony of gear that looked like Marilyn Manson's closet had thrown up on him. Just the sight of his thick leggings made Joan itchy and twitchy in her own too-warm clothes. He stared at her blandly. A fluorescent green smiley face sticker adorned one of the silver studs on his leather jacket, an absurd contrast.
"Don't exaggerate, Joan."
"I--" She was about to say she never exaggerated, but she couldn't stand there and lie directly into the face of the Almighty. Even if he did have on black lipstick and lots of pretty earrings. "Look, I'm a little cranky from the heat right now, okay? And this friggin' boulder isn't helping matters either." She pointed at the zit. "Could we not get into any long, metaphorical conversations? Just tell me what I'm supposed to do this time, and as long as it doesn't require putting on a turtleneck or bringing my blood to an actual boil-" She pinched her index finger and thumb together in the air, trapping that word for a moment to make an impression about how strongly she meant it "- a boil... I will do it." She took a breath, feeling woozy.
Goth God blinked and handed Joan the flier he had been holding. "Join the choir," he said. "And for the record, you've done most of the talking so far."
Joan looked at the paper, at God, at the paper again. Choir auditions begin this Tuesday, it read. Anyone may participate, see Mrs. Snow for details. Joan narrowed her eyes at the name Mrs. Snow, connecting it with the heat, sensing mockery in its timing. She held the flier up for God, like he hadn't already seen it. "The choir? What is with you and music? I joined the band, I was in the zombie musical, and now I need to be in choir? I don't even know who Mrs. Snow is. Did you make her up just to annoy me?"
"She's new. You'll like her," God replied. He gazed disinterestedly into the distance behind Joan and jutted his chin towards whatever was there.
Her shoulders drooped with the effort it took to turn around and look. She had to scan the hall for a moment, letting her eyes find the same path God's were traveling. When they did, she saw a blonde woman standing on tiptoe in front of a bulletin board, her dainty pink heels slipping off the backs of her feet as she tried to reach an empty spot where she could staple one of many papers that resembled what Joan was holding.
"If you hurry, you can help her."
"And who's gonna help me?" Joan asked wearily, but only half serious. She faced Goth God, her lower lip verging on a pout. "You could at least hide this zit for me, since I'm about to do your bidding and all."
With a wry smile, Goth God reached into what might have been a pocket or just another hole in the fabric of his shredded... pants. Skirt? Joan couldn't tell. In any case, he retrieved something and fiddled with it, using his jagged black fingernails to peel away its backing. He motioned to Joan, and when she bent forward, he stuck the something to her forehead. Curious, she swiveled and caught her reflection in the mirror on the back of her locker door. "Oh, ha ha, very funny," she called to God, ignoring his backward wave as she glared at the yellow smiley face sticker on her brow.
In the time it took to slam her locker shut, remember she needed books, open the locker back up, and shut it again once she had grabbed her satchel, she forgot about the sticker. But not about Mrs. Snow. Joan gave the stink-eye to the woman's back as she walked towards the bulletin board, but her expression became one of concern when an inconsiderate jock nearly mowed Mrs. Snow down. He didn't even stop to apologize and help pick up the cascade of papers that fluttered to the ground in his wake. Mrs. Snow had managed to hold onto the stapler, and she was clutching it to her chest as if it might yet fly away as she stood observing the mess, her face ashen. "Thanks a lot," she murmured, crouching gingerly, uncomfortably, in her skirt and heels.
Hefting the bag onto her shoulder, Joan quickened her pace and knelt to gather several of the fliers.
Mrs. Snow glanced up at her with surprise and gratitude. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, blowing a wisp of hair from her face, only to have it adhere to the beads of moisture at her temple. Her eyes flicked upward to Joan's hairline and she smiled.
"Sure," Joan replied, her attention elsewhere. When she finally looked at Mrs. Snow, she thought maybe God was getting senile. This was the choir lady? But she was so pretty and bright-eyed, not a bit similar to the usual dull and, sorry to say, plain faculty in the music department. She looked better suited for head cheerleader.
"Are you Mrs. Snow?" Joan pointed to the name in swirly rose-colored text on the flier.
"I'm she. But I prefer Ruthie. Mrs. Snow sounds so…" - Ruthie made a face, sticking her tongue out as if she might croak - "old lady. Like I'm my mother-in-law. Mr. Price insisted on it for these." She lowered her voice confidentially. "But he didn't say a thing about what the students actually had to call me."
Ah, another soldier in the upheaval of Price. Maybe God had been right about her being likeable. Joan got to her feet, lending a hand to Ruthie, who seemed determined to avoid a wardrobe malfunction, because she kept a tight hold on the hem of her knee-length skirt and didn't let it budge an inch. She thanked Joan again and tried to straighten out her disheveled papers. Joan noticed she was sporting a pink smiley face sticker on the lapel of her blazer. God was quite the social butterfly this afternoon.
"I see you met Go-" Hearing what was about to come out of her own mouth, Joan tried to backtrack but only succeeded in drawing out the vowel and sounding like she was in a dentist chair having a tooth drilled. "Oooth."
There was a silence, which consisted of Ruthie knitting her brow in wonderment, like she thought maybe Joan was a crazy person or a giant about to squish her.
"Goth boy," Joan blurted, "I see you met Goth boy."
"Huh?"
Joan waggled her finger at the sticker. "The guy with the smileys. Goth boy, I call him that," she said, chuckling nervously.
"Oh him!" Ruthie's confusion vanished, and she laughed too. "Yes, we met. He seemed... lovely. Are you friends?"
"Uhh." Joan started to say no, but decided against that. "We're more like… like-" She stopped, wondering why Ruthie kept eyeing her forehead. Was the zit that bad? Or wait, was the zit, like, falling off? Joan grabbed at the thing that had slid down between her eyebrows and was preparing for descent on the bridge of her nose. She felt like an utter moron when she realized it was God's little practical joke -- the sticker. "Yeah, friends," she muttered, transferring the yellow face to her bag strap. It fell off and stuck to the floor. "Actually, he's the one that was telling me about the choir."
"Were you interested in joining?" Ruthie's smile was hopeful.
"Um, yeah." Joan nodded slowly. "It sounds fun."
"Have you had any previous singing experience?"
"I sing in the shower," Joan said, teasing. "And I played a queen in the school musical last winter."
"Nice."
"Well, okay, a zombie queen."
Ruthie's eyes twinkled, an amused shade of olive green. She rifled through her stack of papers until she found the sign-up sheet, passing it to Joan. "That'll do. Anyone is welcome in choir, even the undead."
Joan fished around in her bag and found a pen, signed the sheet, and gave it back to Ruthie. It might not be so bad, this choir thing, since Ruthie was directing it. She was on the perky side, but in a refreshing, charming sort of way. Grace would probably want to smother her with a pillow; Joan, on the other hand, liked that she could at least make a decent joke, a quality most Arcadia teachers severely lacked. That had to count for something.
"Girardi. You're Helen's girl then," Ruthie commented, reading Joan's name off the short list. "I met her earlier this morning. She said she had a daughter and son here."
"Yeah, school with your mom and your brother: fun-o-rama." But Joan withheld any sarcasm, her mood amiable. Maybe it was all the grinning stickers or maybe the heat had just sent her over the edge -- whatever was responsible, she was in a much healthier frame of mind than before. And she liked it.
"I'll bet. She's great though, your mom," Ruthie said. "And she spoke highly of you. I'm really glad you joined my group."
"Me too," Joan said, and meant it.
This time God had finally gotten a clue, she thought. This time he had finally given her an easy task, something she could handle. Now, if only he would fix the heat, life would be swell.