To 707: You don't think I'd kill Chip off before we find out What Happened in Florida? now, do you? :) But if it helps you cope, pray away!

Chapter 18

One Unheard Message

"Have a good rehearsal, honey?"

Fern's father had picked her up from MCM on Friday evening, and she was delighted and relieved to see his car pull up to the curb for a change, to see him behind the wheel upon opening the door.

"It was great," she said to him. "Everything went smoothly. Very, very smoothly. I couldn't be more prepared if I tried."

"Attagirl!"

Fern relaxed in the passenger seat, silently congratulating herself on a job well done on all accounts. She was pleased with one account in particular, the final step in her carefully-executed escape plan preparations, which she had completed before leaving her dressing room five minutes ago.

Most of the cast were relegated to two large backstage rooms for makeup and costume changes, separated like boys and girls locker rooms, only these rooms housed makeup tables and mirrors, hanger rods and wooden cubby holes for storing street clothes and personal effects, and several changing stalls made of tall, thick curtains, alternating in MCM's school colors of royal blue and gold. The curtains were not much, but they allowed the Players a small amount of dignity. Fern, on the other hand, was one of two Players who got a private dressing room, with Buster being the other. Her room was much smaller, but it had an old and sturdy makeup table as well as a small loveseat, shabby and brown, which, owing to the fact that Buster's room lacked extra furniture, seemed to be a prop shoved in there because there was nowhere else to keep it. She also had her own storage space, handmade and wooden, with a rod up top and two shelves below it. That was where she had left her final items, her boots at the bottom and her bag on the next shelf up, beside her small stack of clothes consisting of a neatly-folded denim jacket, black thermal top, and thin plum scarf. Easy access, freedom at her fingertips.

Fern had thought about this as she sat on the loveseat to re-tie her sneaker. Something bothered her. Perhaps it was too easy. The clothes were harmless, inconspicuous, but the bag could be seen as mysterious and inviting. She did not know if a cleaning crew or a school faculty member would come through here between now and tomorrow afternoon. How could she be certain that they would not, and how could she be certain that they would not be tempted to look inside the bag? And could she be sure that the mini Maglite and lock pick kit, complete with thrift-store butter knife and a CTA card salvaged from the trash after her father's trip to Chicago would not raise enough alarm for someone to report it to the powers that be. MCM had a zero-tolerance policy against anything that could be perceived as a weapon. Fern found this policy a tad murky and hypocritical, especially for a building filled with scissors and shop tools and prop swords, knives, and guns, but the fact of the matter was that her pouch filled with pointy things could well be perceived as weapons by someone who was sensitive and tattletale-y enough. She felt a flutter of fear at the thought, but she had not come this far to back out now.

She reserved the option to bail out for tomorrow, when she assessed just how vigilant the chaperones were being. From what she had cleverly managed to coax out of George, who was on the Autumn Ball committee, she knew there would be a total of seven, including Principal Brooks, who liked to patrol the hallways during the ball. Everything beyond this evening depended on just how well guarded the hallways would be.

Fern could resolve the problem of her exposed bag, however; she just needed to think. Where could she hide it and easily retrieve it? Under the loveseat cushion? Not inconspicuous enough. What if it created a lump someone wanted to smooth out? She cast around the room until her eyes came to rest on the drop ceiling. Perfect. She snatched her bag from the shelf and climbed the arm of the loveseat, then she stepped onto her makeup table, minding the items she had strategically left on top of it. Rising to tiptoe, she pushed up one of the ceiling's tiles, which gave with ease, and she placed the bag just inside, making sure it was close enough to reach in an instant. This would add a few more seconds onto her escape, but it just might be worth it in the end. Fern sat and slid off the table just as there was a knock on the door.

"Yes?" she said casually.

Sue Ellen peered in. "Ready?" she said cheerfully.

There had been a noticeable uptick in Sue Ellen's cheer since Arthur had asked her to the Autumn Ball, but Fern had not bothered to point this out, nor had she posed her suspicion that Arthur had an ulterior motive for asking her. Fern would not be able to go to the ball with Buster, but that did not mean she had to burst her friend's bubble and prevent her from enjoying the dance with her dream date.

"I think they're going to turn the lights off on us if we don't hurry."

"Yes," Fern said, noting how self-satisfied she sounded. "I'm definitely ready. Let's go."

"We need to make a quick stop before going home," her father continued. "I hope you're okay with pizza for dinner."

"Sounds great, Dad."

Her mother had already left Elwood City for the Franklin Expo earlier today, and Fern anticipated a house cleansed of Doria Walter's presence, if only for a couple of days, where she, Fern, could just be and do whatever she wanted, have dinner and talk with someone who saw her as a person rather than a puppet. It did sound great.

"I could rent a movie for after if you want, just like old times?"

"Um…maybe not tonight. I probably should go to bed early."

Fern wanted an hour or so for her new favorite pastime, reading the excerpts Omar had sent her, parts of Lucas Olsen's latest unintentionally hilarious masterpiece. When she had read his work for Wordsmith peer critiques, detached or otherwise abusive parental figures and budget cuts—space budget cuts, as Allison referred to them—had been the prevailing plot points. This work was no different in substance; it was just under a new title. Lucas, it seemed, was a one-trick pony, stuck on a creative plateau and unable to ascend to new heights. That, or he had issues and this was some sort of therapy fiction for him, which happened a lot with inexperienced writers, according to Stephanie Bachman. They wrote what they knew and only what they knew because they could not get past it. It was almost as if her insults wrote themselves. Fern had held back her harshest sentiments for Lucas during her short time with the writers' group, choosing instead to compliment his setting descriptions, something she genuinely found competent. If she rejoined the Wordsmiths after The Music Man, she would hold back nothing. Such a tempting prospect…

"I get you," her father said. "Tomorrow's a pretty big day. Are you nervous about it?"

"No," she said, and she meant it. Thus far, everything had gone off without a hitch. "I think everything is going to be just—oh, no…"

There was something she had missed after all. Her green notebook, the one containing all the work she had done on Danger Girl, was still in her gray bag, which was currently stuck in her dressing room ceiling. Part of her original plan had been only for her bag to contain her flashlight and lock pick kit, to have the lightest possible load on her journey. But she had barely given her manuscript any thought over the past few days between planning her escape and laughing at Lucas. It should be on her desk at home right now, but it had slipped her mind.

"'Oh, no' what? What's wrong, Fernie?"

"It's nothing," Fern said, regaining her composure. "I just left a book I wanted to read this weekend in my locker. It's not the end of the world, though. I'll just renew it Wednesday."

It was not that big of a deal, just to leave it inside her bag. What was a couple of ounces when she had run with every schoolbook she possessed on her back for weeks? It irked her that she had missed this one tiny detail, but if that was the only mistake she made in her plan this weekend, she would be happy. Her plan had to make her happy. She had little else.

Buster was nearly home. He was hitching a ride with Arthur again in Mrs. Read's car, only Ladonna was not with them this evening. She had left school for Virginia around lunchtime today, and her absence felt odd. Before they were a thing, he probably would not have stressed over it, but it weighed on him now. Thankfully, Arthur stepped in to interrupt his moping.

"Mom, can Buster stay over tomorrow night?" he said out of nowhere, calling to his mother from the backseat.

"Sure," Mrs. Read said, "as long as it's okay with Mrs. Baxter."

It was something they had not discussed even once, a sleepover tomorrow night, and Buster shot Arthur a questioning look.

"Will you please call her after dinner? Thanks!"

"I don't remember—" Buster began.

"Look, I need a favor," Arthur whispered. "Sue Ellen asked me to go to the movies after the ball tomorrow and…well, I panicked and said I couldn't because I'm already going to the movies with you. Then you're spending the night, just in case she wanted to do something after that. I don't think I'm ready for anything beyond a dance as friends, but I also don't want to lie to her, so would you please just come over after I get home from the ball?"

Buster had not told Arthur he would not be gaming at home all day but attending the ball with Muffy instead. He did not wish to explain it to his best friend because he was already struggling to explain it to himself. He just hoped Ladonna would understand when all was said and done and he whisked her away on an incredible fun-filled date. She would want to know where he had gotten the money, and Buster did not think he could lie to her. The goal was to impress her so much that she could not get mad. Hopefully it would all work out.

"You wouldn't be in this predicament if you hadn't tried to get back at Francine," Buster whispered back.

"That's not why I did it."

"Sure, buddy. And half of America's most influential celebrities aren't secret alien reptiles…"

"Just help me?"

"Okay," Buster mouthed, flashing Arthur a thumbs up, then, more audibly, "I'm picking the movie, though."

Buster entered the condo and found his mother in the kitchen, taking one of her from-scratch chicken pot pies with extra peas out of the freezer. Although she had turned briefly to greet him with a smile, she looked lost in thought as she prepared the pie for the oven, lining a baking sheet with foil. She also looked extremely well dressed. Fridays were supposed to be casual, according to his mother, but underneath her apron, her creamy silk blouse and autumnal orange pencil skirt screamed "special occasion". She sometimes dressed extra nice when she had important meetings or special guests visiting the Times, so this was not completely out of the ordinary. However, Buster could not help but have a secret hope. Unlike last week, she had not offered him Sugar Bowl money, had not told him not to rush, which meant she likely would not be meeting his father for coffee tonight. But what if they had met up for lunch this afternoon instead? He knew he had promised Ladonna he would keep his expectations in check, but what was the harm in fantasizing, just a teensy bit?

Buster was about to tell his mother about Arthur's Francine/Sue Ellen blunder and warn her of the impending call from Mrs. Read, but she spun around immediately after closing the oven door.

"Pop quiz, hotshot," she said with a serious look. "You reheat a plate of last-night's spaghetti in the microwave, but it explodes, coating the interior with sauce. What do you do? What do you do?"

"Uh…" Buster said, wondering if he was about to be in trouble, "clean the microwave immediately with warm water and a mild and non-abrasive detergent?"

His mother's face immediately brightened with a smile. "Ding-ding-ding! I've taught you well!"

Buster relaxed and joked with her. "Cool," he said. "What do I win?"

"How about Boston cream pie for dessert?"

"Awesome, but something tells me you were going to serve that anyway. What's the occasion?"

"Well, it's not every weekend a mom sees her Boo-Boo off to his first school dance. I wanted to spoil you one more time before you leave for Ladonna's tomorrow."

Buster had not told his mother about Muffy either. He shuddered to think what her opinion might be.

"Yeah, Ladonna's… Listen, Mom… Mrs. Read is going to call you later about spending the night at Arthur's. He needs me to get him out of a jam. So, can I go?"

His mother thought for a moment, likely processing the words "needs me to get him out of a jam" above all else, then, fleetingly, curiously, her eyes lit up, as if a solution to a problem she had been searching for had just presented itself.

"Sweetie," she said happily, "yes, you may. In fact, I think it's a wonderful idea. You and Arthur don't spend nearly as much time together as you used to. You boys have any special plans?"

"Um, movies, Arthur said?" offered Buster.

"Great. I'll run out and grab some cash from the ATM tomorrow morning, maybe extra in case you two want pizza or ice cream, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

"No problem. Now, go wash up and tell me about Arthur's jam while I make us a salad…"

Buster left for the bathroom, certain of two facts: His mother had definitely met his father for lunch today, and she was happy to keep her son occupied tomorrow night so she could see him again after the ball. And Buster was more than okay with it. He was stoked.

"And then she said, 'I'm moving out, Brett. I should've done it a long time ago and saved myself the headaches. I swear, first thing tomorrow I'm looking for a place. It'll be expensive, but it's worth it if it'll save my sanity.' She won't do it, though. This is about the fifth or sixth time she's threatened to move out of Mom and Dad's, and it hasn't happened yet."

It was after nightfall. Catherine stood inside the stall, lovingly brushing Axel's mane while Brett, who had traveled up from the boarding side of Tarver via golfcart to let off steam before leaving work, stood outside the gate, recalling his aggravating phone conversation with his younger sister, who still lived at home.

"I said, 'Alicia, honey, there's no way you're moving out. What would you complain about if you did?'"

Catherine could have burst into loud, cackling laughter, but she held it in, careful not to startle her favorite horse. "You are so bad," she told Brett gleefully.

"I know," he said. "I'm not letting her live with me if she does. I've been trying to get Aaron to shack up for months, and I think I'm finally starting to wear him down. Maybe we can get a bigger apartment, or stay in my studio and save for a starter—you wanna get that?"

Catherine was ignoring her phone, which rang in her pocket. She often got scam calls around this time of day, and she figured tonight was no different. She shrugged and checked the number. She did not recognize it, so she declined it. "It's just Hank from the IRS, or whatever," she said with an eye roll. She put her phone away and stepped out of the stall, then drew a peppermint for Axel from her front pocket. "Go on. What did Alicia say?"

"She hung up on me! Can you believe it?"

As Catherine chuckled, her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Hank from the IRS must have left a voicemail. That was rare.

"Anyway, I'll shut up so you don't have to stand out here and freeze your ass off. Goodnight. And goodnight, Axel!"

Catherine hugged Brett before he departed then fed the peppermint to Axel, giving his soft nose a few more gentle strokes before telling him goodnight as well. It was not late, but it was dark and cold, and she was dusty from head to toe. A hot shower was calling her name.

Upon drying off, Catherine checked her phone. Chip usually checked in with a text around this time of night, whenever he took a bathroom break, and she wanted to make sure she could respond in a timely manner. But there was nothing new in this week's string of messages.

How are you doing?

Yahtzee?

What do you want for dinner?

Yahtzee?

Want to hear the most ironic thing ever? Jimmy and Mrs. Jimmy are going at it, and I can totally hear them through the wall.

Catherine had responded to this text with: That IS the most ironic thing ever!

You want to listen?

Catherine had replied with: NO! Are you going to complain?

I should but I'm not up for a war with my neighbors. I like living here.

Yahtzee?

Yahtzee?

Yahtzee?

"Why does he call it that?" she muttered to herself before tossing her phone onto her bed and changing into her pajamas, a worn but comfy pair of red sweatpants and a white Tarver tee.

It was not just Yahtzee, not always. Sometimes it was not Yahtzee at all. Chip once texted her with: I'll massage your feet if you massage mine. Catherine had agreed, expecting another euphemism, but Chip had actually shown up after work and given her the most gloriously relaxing foot rub anyone could ask for. She had returned the favor, and Chip had all but passed out on her sofa until she had shaken him awake around four in the morning and made him leave. He had been groggy and unhappy about it, but he understood that it was not safe for him to stay any later.

A few minutes passed, and something felt off. Catherine grabbed her phone again and checked the time. Chip should have had a break by now. His shift had begun almost three hours ago. Had he forgotten? She did not think that was possible. He never forgot. Maybe he was slammed. It was Friday.

Or maybe I should take the initiative.

It wasn't that she never wanted to. She did sometimes, it was just that Chip usually beat her to it. How must that make her look? Like she was cold? Like she was playing hard to get? Like she was forgetting her commitment to give more in their relationship?

It's a text. Stop overthinking this and say something to him.

Hope you're killing it tonight. She paused, then: Yahtzee later, if you're not too tired? ;)

Or a foot rub? No—just leave it there. We'll see how he responds.

After several minutes, she got nothing. Should she ask him if he was mad? He had never been angry with her, but there was a first time for everything. Catherine's eyes flitted to the top of her screen, where the voicemail tape icon still loomed. While she waited, she decided to listen and get a quick laugh. At least the stupid icon would disappear once she did.

Catherine pressed and held the number 1. Her voicemail feature engaged and played her only unheard message:

"This message is for Catherine Frensky. Miss Frensky, this is Trevor Gillespie with The Waterfront Hotel regarding an urgent matter. Please give me a call back at 814-555-4878 at your earliest convenience. Thank you."

Gooseflesh sprang all over her body as Catherine returned to her call log and dialed the number. There were three rings before someone picked up.

"Waterfront Hotel, this is Trevor—"

"Hello, Trevor? This is Catherine Frensky."

"Yes. Thanks for returning my call. I tried to reach you earlier because you are listed as the sole emergency contact for Charles Crosswire. I'm sorry I have to tell you this, but there has been an accident here at the hotel."

Catherine sat down on the bed, her legs unable to support her. She could barely breathe. Panicked, she cut Trevor off before he could continue, but instead of asking what had happened, she asked, surprising herself, "What did he do?"

To be continued…