Crystal Grader by Tag Cavello (read my book txt) 📕

“Stop,” Powell said.

Crystal looked up from the pages of her manuscript, which were fanned out between her fingers like a poker hand.

“How old did you say this girl is again?” he wanted to know.

Before she could answer a mahogany clock on the wall struck the bottom of the hour—3:30. Crystal thought that the clock went perfectly well with the rest of Powell’s living room. At school Mr. Lowry often talked about a recent re-emergence of late nineteenth century style in a lot of American homes, and it was in plain evidence here. Wooden furniture surrounded a fireplace hearth made of brick. The walls were half-paneled with imitation oak. The ceiling was coffered.

“She’s twelve,” Crystal said, sitting up in her chair.

Powell took a swallow from his can of Coke. “And you’ve got her smoking cigarettes in her bedroom? Wouldn’t that bother her parents?”

“No,” Crystal grimaced, liking the author’s condescending tone less and less. “She keeps that a secret.”

“Right. Crystal, you can’t keep a smoking habit secret, especially if you do it indoors.”

“She doesn’t—“

“You smoke,” Powell observed casually.

It irritated the hell out of Crystal.

“Look I’m not cutting out the cigarettes,” she said, slapping the papers on her knee. “It’s part of who she is.”

“I didn’t say to cut them out. But you can’t have her smoking in her bedroom, unless the parents already know about it and don’t mind, which would be a tough sell to your readers.”

“My mom knows I smoke.”

“In the house?”

“I don’t smoke in the…” She trailed off.

“You were saying?” Powell asked with a smile.

“Oh shut up.” The manuscript slapped her knee again. “Fine! She doesn’t smoke indoors. What about the rest of it? Any good, or does that one character flaw bring the whole house down?”

He answered one question with another. “Did you come here for constructive criticism or to be told how great you are? Look…” He leaned forward, folding his hands over the coffee table between them. “I like your character. She’s very interesting.”

Crystal rolled her eyes. “Interesting. Shit, the kiss of death.”

“Okay, let me try again. She’s cool. And a cool cat like that would never parade her vices in front of her parents. Is she you, by the way?”

“I think so,” Crystal answered. “I changed her a little bit over the weekend so I could meet your deadline. Made her younger.” She shrugged. “But yeah, she’s me.”

I guess that means I’m cool too. Right, Mister Powell?

“When did you start smoking?” he asked.

“Just this year.”

“Because?”

“I look up to the heroines who do it in movies and books. Old movies. You know they don’t let anybody smoke on screen anymore. I think the latest I could find was Samantha Mathis in Pump Up The Volume.”

“One of my favorites,” Powell said with an appreciative nod. “Came out in the summer of 1990. Post Madonna, pre Nirvana. I don’t think any of us really knew what we wanted to watch or listen to. The writer, Allan Moyle, realized that.” He smiled into the fireplace, which was crackling pleasantly. “I think he did anyway. We were all somewhere in between. It’s where that movie gets its excellent soundtrack.”

“Your heroines smoke,” Crystal said, wondering if perhaps this was his weakness, his own vice, when it came to women. If so, the job of seducing him would be easy. She’d just light up whenever they were together.

“Yes,” Powell agreed. “Writers often use tobacco as a reflection of confidence. And I’m like you—I think yesterday’s heroines are awesome. Jean Harlow, Irene Dunne, Joan Fontaine.”

“Um…”

He laughed. “My yesterdays go a little further back than yours, but you get the point.

“You’re only forty, Mister Powell.”

“Ha! The dear girl, to use the word only in front of that number.”

“What? Forty’s nothing. And you look thirty.”

“Now now. Careful with all that sugar.”

She uncrossed her legs. “Speaking of sugar, do you want me to cook you anything? It’s the least I can do as payment for the lesson. And for carrying me out of a burning gymnasium.”

“I don’t think I have much in the kitchen,” Powell lamented.

He didn’t. After a rudimentary inspection of his cupboards—which were painted a rustic farm-house white—Crystal found herself standing next to the stove with a can of corn in one hand and a bag of kidney beans in the other. It wasn’t going to cut it. Appalled, she looked up at Powell.

“What do you eat here, Mister?”

“I order out most of the time. Or drive to Vansons.”

“Vansons is okay but you ought to use these appliances once in awhile. Tell you what,” she tempted, careful to watch his reaction, “you teach me how to write and I’ll cook for you, every time I come over. How does that sound?”

He frowned at the empty burners. “I don’t know, Crystal. People will get some funny ideas in their heads if they find out you’re coming back here all by yourself.”

Her eyes narrowed. Oh did that remark sting.

“There’s nothing funny about it,” she said tightly. Then, after seeing confusion surface in his eyes: “I mean…it’s just extra schooling. Higher learning. I’ll make sure my mom knows. You can even send me home with progress reports.”

“Progress reports,” he repeated, smiling a little.

“Sure! My other teachers hand them out all the time.”

Liar.

The author’s next words made her think she’d spoken the word out loud. “I’ll have to think about it, Crystal. Okay?”

“Ohh,” she pouted. The corn and beans dropped on top of the stove. “What if I hold my breath until you say yes?”

“Isn’t that a trifle juvenile?”

“Yes. But if it works I’m willing to go for it.”

Crystal felt her heart begin to speed up with excitement. For some reason that look had come back to his face—the one with the wide eyes and the open mouth. She was getting close again, or so she deduced. Flirting with some weakness of his. What was it? Where was it?

Smiling, Crystal drew in her deepest breath—Haaaaah!—and held it.

“Stop that,” Powell said at once. “Come on.”

She ignored the command, keeping her smile intact. Five seconds passed. Ten. The author smiled back, and for just a moment his eyes dropped to her chest. That chest was hurting now (fifteen seconds had gone by) but the fascination in Powell’s scrutiny made the pain easier to bear. It seemed she’d found a secret passage into his psyche. Could it be the one that led to the second part, the second piece?

Suddenly she winced. “Nn!”

Twenty seconds now, give or take. Her time was almost up. Cheering lungs or no, she needed to breathe. But Powell…

“All right!” he almost shouted.

“Gah!” Crystal gasped, triumphant. “Atta boy. I knew I could make you roll over.”

“You looked ready to pass out on the floor. Listen kid…I don’t know about this. People are going to talk.”

“If they do we tell them the truth. You’re giving me writing lessons.”

“I had the Today Show here last year. Good Morning America.”

“I saw the interviews.”

This was an understatement of the truth. She had, in fact, recorded them both on her VCR, and still watched them repeatedly.

“How do you think press like that would react if they find out I’m taking an eleven year-old girl into my home during the week for after school specials?”

“I’ll be twelve in a couple more months. And Mister Powell”—she took a step forward, which caused him to step back—“every writer takes on a student from time to time. Am I right?”

He wouldn’t look at her; his eyes seemed to have found something interesting under the refrigerator. That was okay. Crystal didn’t take it as defiance. If anything, Powell was making this task easier than she’d anticipated. Caving in without a fight.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “Maybe.”

“Look at what Anthony Boucher did for Philip K. Dick. And then there’s Robert McKee.”

“Robert McKee doesn’t invite people into his home.” He shook his head; Crystal could almost see the cobwebs clear. His eyes regained their focus…and looked straight through her, causing her knees to tremor. “Okay. Come by twice a week for one hour. Mondays and Fridays.”

“Make it Mondays and Thursdays and you’re on. What’s your favorite food?” she asked, before he could blurt out anything ridiculous about bargains and compromises coming too soon in their relationship.

“Goulash. With tomatoes and beef.”

“Hungarian. Not a problem.” She gave him a wink. “Buy some groceries for Thursday.”

“I will.”

“Goodbye, Mister Powell. And thank you for the education.”

He smiled down at her, letting his shoulders drop. It was a good sign; she liked him better relaxed.

“You’re welcome, Crystal. Take care getting home.”

***

It was a long walk from Powell’s farm to Eagle View Drive. Nevertheless, Crystal did not feel compelled to rush. Though her mom did not get off work until five, she still wanted to be prepared for questions should they arise. Indeed, Hannah had not looked especially convinced by anything when she’d had to walk home alone at 2:30. Extended cheerleading practice was a hard story to swallow when it was only Monday—and there was no way Crystal could feed it to her twice a week. If she wanted to keep seeing Powell she was going to need to get far more creative.

So she kept her gait casual on the way back to North Main Street, letting her eyes wander. The afternoon had turned gray and crisp. Branches clawed at each other in a light breeze. Leaf piles waited to be bagged. On the other side of the street, a woman was hanging a Happy Thanksgiving decoration in her porch window while a little boy watched with eager eyes. November. Crystal decided on the spot that her mother was right—it did rev her heart, at least a little. It was a kind of sorrow, just the way Robert Frost had once said, but a pleasant sorrow, rife with lonesome 2AM rains in the streets and giggled 2PM secrets in quiet bedroom reading nooks.

Her own bedroom contained such a nook, and today she would use it. After letting herself in with her house-key she ran upstairs. Hannah’s bedroom door was closed. Crystal knocked.

“Hannah? I’m home.”

“Yay!” she heard the younger girl cry.

The door flew open. For a moment it was like seeing the sun again. Hannah’s face, all yellow hair and blue eyes, positively shined out at the walls.

“Is Mom home yet?” Crystal asked, wishing for a pair of shades.

“No. Wanna play Monopoly?”

“Not now.”

“Pleaaaase?”

“Hannah I’ve got things to do.”

“Well what do I do then?” she pouted.

“Don’t you have homework?”

“It’s done!”

“Well mine isn’t.”

“Fine, just go!”

And she slammed the door hard enough to make the pictures in the hall shake. Pleased to have that situation out of the way, Crystal turned on her heel. She closed the door of her own bedroom with a soft click, went straight to the bookshelf, and plucked out a copy of The Girl and the Grotto. On the cover stood a barefooted girl with long black hair; she was gazing out at a body of blue water framed with palm trees and jagged rocks. Beneath the girl’s feet was the author’s name—Jarett Powell.

“Breath-holding,” Crystal said to herself, bemused. “Come on, that can’t be it.”

She sat down in the nook. Her fingers flipped through the pages to chapter twelve, wherein she knew that a rather dramatic underwater scene took place. It described the heroine’s second visit to the grotto, which she’d discovered while on a team building trip to an island with her colleagues. Fascinated by its beauty, she made up her mind to return to the grotto alone, this time with a bikini bathing suit.

***

The sun’s rays searched beneath the surface, caressing the rocks, the plant-life. But no sign of a true resting place could be discovered. The bottom was lost behind a screen of chalky blue.

It didn’t bother Marina. Though she was a small woman, her lungs were strong. A good, deep breath could usually sustain her for two minutes. That had to be long enough. On this island the water didn’t get