Siren Song

By Shawn Lucas

The first two weeks of Spring as a high school freshman changed Wendy Walker's life. Her best friend, Sarah, had to deal with the constant fighting of her parents, she and Sarah became the obsessive target of Edward Krakow, a potentially dangerous bully at school, and Wendy's estranged father entered back into her life. Meanwhile, a malicious spirit has been awakened and haunts the thoughts of all of the men in her town.

When the situation with Eddie builds to a disastrous conclusion and the unthinkable happens to Sarah, Wendy devotes her life to helping her friend. Four years later, Wendy is a freshman in college and has returned home for school vacation. She dedicates her time to healing the wounds of the past and discovering the truth about Sarah. Her trip home offers some answers. It also raises more questions and Wendy uncovers a dark secret that has plagued her town for decades, a secret that threatens to cost Wendy her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Lucas
• Release date: Jul 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476270531

Shawn Lucas

Born 1976 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I lived the first decade or so of my life there and often considered the place home long after leaving. When we moved to Erie for the better life the smaller town promised, like most teenagers, I failed to see that promise. Nevertheless, I graduated from Mercyhurst Preparatory School with a healthy dose of curiosity, a mean rebellious streak, and not much else. I attended the University of Pittsburgh for a semester, thinking that going back home for college might provide a safe landing spot. While there, I met a girl. She was younger than me. Besides, she lived a great distance away (in the exotic land of Massachusetts). It would never work. Well, my healthy dose of curiosity and rebellious streak still very much alive, I packed my things into an old military duffel bag, got on a Greyhound bus, and moved to the exotic land of Massachusetts. We have been married for 11 years, have three beautiful boys, a dog, two cats, five fish, a mortgage, and a car payment. According to a Time magazine article that I recently read, we're living the American dream. No offense to all of the other places that I've lived, but I just prefer to call it home. My former students used to joke with me, "You've worked everywhere" when I started another story with the line, "I once worked..." I have been fortunate enough to have worked as a stadium vendor in a minor league baseball stadium, a middle and high school teacher, and now as an adjunct at several local Community Colleges. I have also been unfortunate enough to work in food service, a Yankee Candle warehouse, and briefly in a DSS sponsored program. I suppose that I should not denigrate those last two as they helped me greatly in my dream of becoming a published writer. I used my time at those places to write when the muses saw fit to allow me to write. Mostly, I worked on the novel "Siren Song", though I did finish a few short stories in that time, too. I enjoy writing. I like to put the stories that the voices in my head tell me down on paper for others to read. Currently, I have the novel Siren Song published on Kindle. I am also working on collecting some of those short stories into a collection and a novella entitled "Under the Mushroom Cloud: A Post Apocalyptic Love Story".

Book preview

Introduction

The title above is a bit of a misnomer. While this book represents your first impression of these characters and stories, it actually is the culmination of nearly a decade of on again/off again writing as family, school, and work has allowed. One of the pieces of advice that I always remembered and took to heart came from Stephen King who said, you write books one word at a time. For approximately 10 years, I wrote those words one at a time. I leave it to you to determine if the time and energy has produced a good story or not, but I have enjoyed almost all of it. It hasn't always been easy and some days I wondered if this day would ever come.

I became inspired, though, by an Amazon.com/Penguin new author competition and started writing furiously. I missed that deadline, but my pace was enough to push me to finish a couple of months later. More life got in the way. It took me about a year and a half to finish typing and doing a first edit for spelling and clarity. Around this time, I also learned about Amazon Kindle Direct publishing service. I like the idea of publishing the novel by myself at first and seeing if it might lead to something later.

Now for some notes about the story itself. For lack of a better setting, I have set the story in my current hometown of Orange, Massachusetts and much of it takes place in an area very close to my own house. The actual setting of the story is a generic small town in America. I have lived and worked in small towns and found them to have their charms. However, behind those charms, in dark corners and sometimes in the bright light of day, there often exists stories of absolute heart-breaking tragedy. These stories are my inspiration and I wanted to tell some version of those stories. I employ a healthy dose of poetic license through story. There is no Atlantic Gardens in Orange and, as far as I know, there is no group of drug abusers that live near the train tracks in town. There are schools where I placed Sarah's, but they are elementary schools and not Catholic. St. Francis High is a mix of memory and fiction gleaned from my own high school experiences. I tried to design the text so that the external voice being heard by the men in the town would be easy to distinguish from internal monologues. This font did not translate to the Kindle, so I have had to take other measures. The voice now has double parenthetical notation. If you want to see the original font, you will just have to purchase the paperback when available.

As with most authors, I take inspiration from other authors and there are subtle tributes to the following throughout the story; Stephen King, Joss Whedon, James Patterson, and J. K. Rowling. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy this story and that I can continue to entertain you with some of my others. You can find me on Facebook (www.facebook.com/shawnmlucas76) and Twitter (@scmucas2001). Praise and constructive criticism will be accepted. Random internet hatred will be ignored and deleted. Now, without further ado...

Prologue

Wendy.

Wendy was sitting at her computer desk when she heard it. She had a paper due for her Philosophy class. There was a blank Microsoft Word document on the computer monitor. The cursor blinked in the top left-hand corner of the screen.

Wendy. Why?

The voice was barely audible above the hum of her computer fan. She must’ve fallen asleep while in the middle of writing her paper. First, she knew for a fact that she had written at least a page and a half of the paper. Second, she was pretty sure that she had just spent the last hour having a discussion about Nietzsche with her goldfish, Pedro. Normally that wouldn’t give her pause. She often talked to Petey when she was under stress. This time, though, the fish had some thoughtful insights that he added to the conversation. Therefore, she quickly reasoned, I must be dreaming.

Wendy.

The voice grew louder. It was coming from behind her. Even though she knew she was still dreaming, it piqued her curiosity. She stood up from her chair, stubbing her toe. Shit! Why? The voice grew even louder. There was a sense of urgency behind that question. Shit, she thought, that hurt. She curled and uncurled her toes to make sure that it wasn’t broken. Her toe throbbed in protest, but she could tell that she hadn’t broken anything.

Why did you, Wendy?

Stubbing her toe made her realize that she wasn’t asleep. This realization was followed by the obvious question. What the hell was going on?

Wendy.

The voice was at a normal conversational volume. She could now tell that it was coming from the bathroom she shared with one of her roommates on the first floor of the house. She thought that she might have recognized it, but that was impossible. The person that she wanted to match to the voice was…gone. Slowly, Wendy tried to walk to the bathroom. Her whole body had suddenly grown numb with fear. Her legs didn’t want to listen to her brain’s command to walk.

She made it to the bathroom doorway through sheer force of will. Afraid to enter, to see what might greet her, she leaned against the door jamb. She reached around, fumbling along the wall for the light switch. Her fingers brushed against it. She paused for a moment, and then flipped the switch. Bright, fluorescent light pushed the shadows into the corners of her room.

Wendy. Look at me.

Impossible or not, Wendy knew to whom the voice belonged. Morbid curiosity enveloped her. What would she look like? Wendy peered around the door frame into the bathroom. She saw nothing. There was no ghost of the past in there. She exhaled. She had been holding her breath without even knowing.

Oh man, Wendy. You’re cracking. You need to sleep. She thought as she walked to the sink to brush her teeth. Hallucinating about

Wendy. Over here! Look at me!

The voice was back. It was coming from behind the mirror. Don’t look Wendy. You don’t want to see. Despite her warning to herself, Wendy looked up. Her fears were confirmed. It was not her reflection that looked back from inside the looking glass. It was a ghost from the past. It was her. It was—

Wendy. Why did you let me die?

Monday, March 20

Chapter 1

Her name was Sarah MacLachlan. Yep, just like the singer. It was a coincidence, of course. She still thought it was cool. The real Sarah McLachlan was so extremely talented. Little Sarah—that was her daddy’s name for her—was just another confused 14-year old girl getting ready for school. Sarah turned off the water. She stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around her body, she walked into her bedroom. She paused in front of the full length mirror on her closet door to model a few poses. God, I hate my body, she thought in the self-loathing way of most teenagers.

She was short. How this happened is always a constant source of conversation at the various family functions throughout the years. Both of her parents were over six feet tall, yet she could barely pass for five in heels. She took off the towel, hanging it on the bed post to dry. Then there were her boobs. Many of the girls in her class had only started to develop, but little Sarah already had full-fledged tits. All of her clothes were bought in the petite section of the Sears down in the local strip mall. She fished her bra from the pile of clothes on her bed. Not the bra, though. Not the over the shoulder boulder holder. That was bought in women’s lingerie. It was only slightly awkward.

Sh’yeah right.

Sarah. Her mother yelled up the stairs. I’m leaving for work. Hurry up and get ready so you’re not late for school.

Don’t worry, Mom. Sarah replied. I’m getting dressed right now.

Sarah heard Mom ascend the stairs and walk down the hall. There was knock on her door. Sarah didn’t even have time to answer before the door opened.

Mom! Sarah yelled, grabbing at the towel to cover her nakedness.

Oh, for crying out loud, Sarah. I honestly don’t even know what you’re worried about. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. You’re not even dressed yet? I don’t want to hear that you got a tardy. The irritation was evident in Mom’s voice. She picked up Sarah’s pajamas from the floor. After putting them in the hamper, she seemed to scan the bedroom for anything else that was amiss. Unable to find anything, she turned back to her daughter. I’m leaving because I trust you. I don’t want to hear you got a tardy. Mom punctuated this statement with a patented Mom look.

"All right, Mother. Sarah returned the look with one of her own. Just go."

We’ll talk about that attitude later. I don’t want to hear you got a tardy. Mom said as Sarah was pushing her out the door. Sarah pushed the whole of her tiny body into the door to shut it. She leaned against the door, sighing. Mom was right. Not about the tardy thing, though she was right about that, too. She was always right about everything. It really annoyed the hell out of Sarah.

Mom was right that Sarah shouldn’t be ashamed of her body. Of course, it was easy for Mom. Mom was a one-time child model and more recently an actress, model, and local celebrity. The former Tina Mullins was runner up in the Miss Teen Western Massachusetts pageant twice, winning the competition at the age of sixteen. She still held several local commercial accounts even now at the age of 34. You’ll never see me on the cover of Vogue or Cosmo, but when the boys down at Len’s Watch Repair need a pretty face to put in their print ad, your dear old mom is the first name on their list. Dad had been a second-team all-state quarterback in high school his junior and senior year. He had even led the team—a team that hadn’t had a winning record in thirty-two years—to the state division finals in his senior year. A non-contact leg injury in that very game sidelined Mike MacLachlan from the promising college and possibly professional career that had awaited him his whole life. But that, as they say folks, is an entirely different story. Even though he hadn’t played in nearly fifteen years, Dad still kept in shape by working out and running daily.

The point of it all was that her parents’ good looks had been inherited by their one and only child. No, her mother would say to her when she was feeling ugly, your pedigree of beauty should read pure-breed hottie. It never made her feel completely better. It always made her giggle, even thinking about it now made her smile. Your mom was not supposed to call you a hottie.

Sarah finished putting on her school uniform. She glimpsed the clock out of the corner of her eye. The neon green numbers read 6:54. Well, if Mom didn’t want to hear about her getting a tardy, then Mom just wasn’t going to hear about it. Not from Sarah’s mouth, anyways. She went downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed a granola bar for breakfast, and then headed out the front door for school.

A beautiful first day of spring greeted her. There had been speculation over the weekend—even as late as yesterday—that it might snow this morning. She had been so distraught over the possibility that she called up her best friend Wendy. Snow, Wendy. She had whined over the phone. If it snows, I think I’m going to kill myself. Luckily for Sarah, there wasn’t any sign of snow to be found. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, coloring the whole world in vibrant colors.

On the way down the front steps, Sarah adjusted the shoulder straps on her bra, trying subconsciously to make them smaller. She was only slightly disappointed when she looked down and they were still there in their full glory. She sighed heavily, a sigh of someone who is fighting a losing battle but refuses to give up the fight. Obviously the bra’s claim of More support was a false one.

At school, they had gathered quite a cult following among the boys. In fact, some of the more obscene boys had adopted a new nickname in their honor, as in Hey, Tits, has Playboy called yet? Once she had overheard a conversation between Eddie Krakow and his friends where Eddie had said, Man, I’d tittie fuck that little bitch, but I’d probably lose my dick in there. They had all had quite a laugh at that one. But when she told on him, the principal made Eddie apologize to Sarah in front of all of his friends. He did so, red-faced with shame and through clenched teeth, as his cronies fingered each other in the ribs and tried to hold in their wicked laughter. His father had given him a red ass to match when he found out what had happened. There hadn’t been any more trouble from Eddie since then.

It wasn’t like she was really that bothered by the younger boys. Sure their barbs stung, but they were temporary wounds. Like the sting of a bee, the redness went away in only minutes. Hell, teenage boys were supposed to act that way. They had all sorts of new hormones raging through their bodies. The teenage years were enough to cloud even the sanest mind. Add the madness of the current world into the mix and it’s a wonder that there aren’t more schoolyard shootings on the front page of the paper.

What really creeped her out was that when she entered a room, she got stared at by all of them. Middle-aged men, old enough to be her father, stared. Old men, who probably couldn’t get it up anymore, stared. The leering lecherous looks she sensed from these men—men who should know better, men who probably had daughters and granddaughters the same age at her—nagged at her like a clothes iron left on all day. Like that iron, they had the potential to burn. These memories were burned into her mind’s eye like a demented cattle brand. What’s the big deal? She wanted to scream at them—all of them. They’re just breasts. You know? Boobs, hooters, tits, cans, melons, jugs, gazongas. Every woman has them; they are necessary to feed our babies. Then maybe it would be over. They would get what they wanted and she could forget about it. Truth is, deep down, she knew that it would never be over. Because after that they would want to see them, then they would want to touch them, lick them, use them for the warmth and comfort once provided by their mother. When she couldn’t provide that, they would move onto unmentionable things that she dared not even think about in her dreams. Just the thought of them now made her shiver despite the warmth of the morning sun.

* * * * *

He had been waiting patiently—even though the goddamn bus was now fifteen minutes late—at the bus stop when somebody bumped him from behind. He had a brief notion to teach the pain in the ass a little lesson about manners. He wheeled around quickly to face the pain in the ass. She was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll face of a little girl. She wore the white cotton blouse and green and blue checkered plaid skirt of all the girls at St. Francis High School. He quickly placed her age as early teens, probably thirteen or fourteen. She was stunningly beautiful, even at a young age. Her beauty combined with her unexpected presence on a relatively uneventful Monday morning struck him momentarily speechless.

Sarah saw the initial hatred in his eyes. His pupils flared to twice their size so that the green irises showed only as a penumbra behind those dark circles. He opened his mouth as if to deliver a royal tongue lashing to her. She couldn’t blame him. After all, if she was paying attention to where she was going, she wouldn’t have bumped into him. She cringed in anticipation of the verbal hurricane she was about to endure. It never came.

I’m sorry.

The apology spilled from her mouth as habit. She clapped her right hand over her mouth. She wasn’t going to say anymore to him. Her mother told her to never—under any circumstances—talk to strangers.

He seemed to accept the apology. His mouth still agape, the pupils of his eyes slowly returned to their normal size. He shut his bug catcher—as her mother would have called it—and composed himself fully.

Not supposed to talk to strangers, huh? He said.

She shook her head emphatically.

That’s okay. My name is Michael. And you are—

Sarah.

She spat the name out between the opened fingers of her hand. Her face creased into a worried look. It wrinkled the corners of her eyes into crow’s feet; it carved prominent worry lines on her once smooth forehead. She looked twenty years older. He knew then, without even having met the woman, that he was looking at a scaled down model of Sarah’s mother.

((She looks so much like her mother.))

Michael didn’t flinch as the woman's voice intruded into his thoughts again. It happened from time to time. Like a song, one of those earworms that gets stuck in your head, her voice gently buzzed in the back of his conscious. Not exactly like her, though. Sarah struggled with some aspect of her appearance. Some part of her that didn’t quite measure up to the ideal that Mom had set. While that specifically didn’t make her any different from any other teenager, he knew that she was different. She wasn’t troubled with zits or her weight. Those concerns didn’t touch this young lady.

See, now we aren’t strangers anymore. You should watch where you are going, Little Sarah. The worried look eased into one of confusion.

How—

—did you know that was my daddy’s name for me? The unspoken question hung thickly in the still spring morning. That was a silly thought. She hadn’t told him. He couldn’t possibly know that. Stop being silly, Sarah.

I know I should have looked where I was going.

She felt more ashamed than the situation would normally warrant. She was, after all, to never—under any circumstances—talk to strangers. But, they weren’t really strangers anymore. His name was Michael. Just like her daddy. His voice was so kind, too, so soothing. She felt a need to explain herself.

I was just thinking about— She shifted her gaze down; her embarrassment painting her cheeks bright scarlet. —weird stuff. I just wasn’t paying attention.

She looked down to the ground, inadvertently drawing his attention to her breasts. Hot blood flushed her face red. She couldn’t understand why she should be so embarrassed. A simple apology should have cleared the air. She should have been on her way to school by now.

She’s unhappy with her breasts. He understood why. They seemed entirely out of place on the girl’s otherwise QP doll-like body. He could only imagine the lustful looks that she received from men twice and even three times her age.

Don’t worry about it, Little Sarah. I think about weird stuff all the time. I suppose that all grown-ups do.

Her face lit up at being called a grown-up. He was happy to see an expressive smile cross her features, touching every inch of her face. The smile was brief, though, replaced by the worried Mom look-a-like.

I should be getting to school. She said. I’m late already as it is. My mom will kill me if she finds out that I was late. It was nice meeting you, Michael.

If it makes you feel any better, I’ll probably be late for work, also. But meeting you will most definitely be one of the brightest parts of my day.

Sarah giggled. This time the smile stayed as she walked off to school. She could feel his eyes on her as she walked away. She didn’t let it bother her. Men were always staring at her. This time, though, it was different. There was more. When she felt him staring at her, she didn’t feel hunted. She felt protected.

Chapter 2

Mike arrived late for work. The bus pulled up five minutes after his encounter with Sarah. Leslie, his assistant, met him in the elevator. He had phoned ahead from the bus to tell her that he was on the way.

Hey, Genius. Glad you could finally make it. Leslie said.

She handed him a coffee as the elevator doors closed. The nickname always made him smile. She knew that part of her job as his assistant was stroking his sizable ego before a shoot. She didn’t mind. It was actually one of the more enjoyable parts of the job for her.

Hey, Babe. How’s my favorite girl? He said in between sips of coffee.

Every thing's set up. The model’s here. Very pretty lady. Drinking coffee, socializing, y’know, like she’s been there before. Don’s up there, too.

Who?

Don. Of Donnie’s Used Cars. He’s really nervous. Here’s a card. I have two of them. He’s really nervous.

Mike looked down at the card. It read Donnie’s Previously Loved Vehicles alongside the standard business card fare. He smiled. Maybe this would turn out to be an interesting shoot after all.

He thought you weren’t going to show. Leslie continued. I tried to calm him down. Offered him a drink, a little early bird special, right? Hell, I even offered him a tranquilizer.

Don’t worry about him. You did a good job. I’ll settle him down. When was the last time that I told you that you are the best damn assistant in the free world?

That was the reason she stroked him so hard. He always returned the favor. The elevator doors opened. Don—of Donnie’s Used Cars—was pacing on the set, gesturing and talking to himself. Mike made his way over to introduce himself. Leslie went back to setting the final touches on the shoot.

Good morning. Mike said.

He offered his hand in greeting. Don—of Donnie’s Used Cars—jumped out of his skin. He stared down at Mike’s hand. By the look on Don’s face, it was as if Mike was speaking in some ancient African dialect.

Good morning. Mike said again, slower this time. I’m Michael. You and I spoke on the phone. I’m the photographer.

The word sparked recognition in Don’s face. You’re the photographer. You’re here finally. I’m Don—of Donnie’s Used Cars.

Don handed him another business card. Mike absentmindedly put it in his jacket pocket.

We spoke on the phone. Don said. Did you bring the other proofs?

Yeah, the proofs. Ask Leslie. I think she’ll know where they are.

Mike answered the question as an afterthought. The model entered. He stared as she walked. She was in her early thirties, a little older than the models he usually photographed. Still, she was very pretty. Leslie hadn’t lied about that. That wasn’t why he stared. She looked very familiar. He couldn’t figure out why. He went over to talk to her, ignoring Don’s demands for the proofs.

Chapter 3

Sarah got to school a half an hour late. She missed homeroom and the first twenty minutes of English. On her way to class, she checked in with the office receptionist so that she wouldn’t be marked absent for the day.

Name? The man at the office said.

She told him, thinking of how this man was just as much a stranger as Michael had been to her. Yet it was socially acceptable for her to talk to this stranger. The world became an increasingly strange place as you got older. Since it was obvious that he wasn’t going to extend her the same courtesy, she read his name off the gold-plated nameplate on his desk. The name stamped in black, indented letters read Jared Self. Jared (Undoubtedly a flamer, her Uncle John would say) looked at her disapprovingly as he filled out the tardy slip.

Why were you late, young lady? He said.

Jared spoke in a heavy lisp. His movements were stereotypically feminine. Her Uncle John would not approve. He would have quickly stamped the word Fag across Jared’s forehead. She didn’t like Uncle John very much, but she would have to agree with him on this one. Sarah mumbled something about missing the bus, an obvious lie that she didn’t bother dressing as the truth. He sighed in exasperation. Sarah thought that perhaps Jared should not be working with teenagers. Shaking his head, he finished filling out the slip. He paused only momentarily before writing Missed bus.

Thank you, Jared. You do a fine job.

The comment dripped with obvious teenage sarcasm. She pulled the slip from Jared’s hand. He made a show of closing the service window. She considered flipping him off, but thought better of it. No need to get into more trouble.

She was embarrassed again when she got to her English class and Mr. Gamache, the teacher, also made a spectacle out of her being late. So glad you could join us, Sarah, or something like that he had said. Screw you, she had wanted to reply, but then again, you’d probably enjoy that. She heard it said in the lunch line one day and was looking for the perfect opportunity to use it herself. If ever she was going to use it, she would have then. The morning soured her mood considerably. She swallowed the insult before it rolled off the tip of her tongue and she couldn’t take it back.

Sorry. She muttered and made her way to her seat.

Even though there was just over a half-hour left in class, English went by way too slow. It was her opinion that English at 8:15 in the morning is just another of life’s cruel, unfunny jokes. The teacher droned on about Romeo-this and Juliet-that but she received most of it as just blah, blah, blah. Sarah felt a lot like Charlie Brown in English class.

She passed the time by daydreaming about the man she had met. Michael was his name, just like her father. She doodled on her notebook. Little hearts like the candy ones handed out on Valentine’s Day containing phrases such as I love Michael, Michael and Sarah, and Mrs. Michael. She didn’t know his last name, so it was the best she could do on that last one.

Miss MacLachlan, perhaps you can reread the passage that we have been discussing for the rest of the class. Refresh our brains as it seems that we have forgotten. Mr. Gamache said.

How did he do that? She hadn’t been paying attention. Every teacher called on you when you weren’t paying attention. She would bet, though, that half the class hadn’t been paying attention. Mr. Gamache had the uncanny knack of calling on the one person in class who not only wasn’t paying attention, but also engaged in some thought that they would find embarrassing if anyone else were privy to the information. She had seen it happen to so many of her classmates. He would take that big teacher spotlight and turn it right on you. Everyone in class would turn to look. That light was so bright and it felt like everyone in class could see right into your thoughts. Now it was happening to her. They could all read what she had written on her notebook. Sarah blushed deeply, doodling over the hearts and making them unreadable.

She stalled against that spotlight, looking over at Brad’s desk. Brad sat next to her. She was trying to see what page the class was discussing. Brad didn’t even have his book on his desk. She looked at Mr. Gamache. He was watching her with a mixture of skepticism, impatience, and despair. She rolled her eyes towards Brad. How was that fair? She shrugged, throwing her hands into the air. Sure, she hadn’t been paying attention, but this guy doesn’t even have his book out. She looked back at Mr. Gamache. His facial expression bordered on anger. He cleared his throat.

Miss MacLachlan. We’re waiting. Mr. Gamache said.

I—uh—I don’t know what page we’re reading, Mr. Gamache.

Mr. Gamache, apparently satisfied that he had embarrassed Sarah enough for one morning, relented. He called on another student, one of the few that had been paying attention. Sarah slumped down in her chair, exhaling deeply. She had been holding her breath without even knowing.

Thanks for nothing, Brad. She muttered.

Brad flipped her off. She glared at him. He made kissing noises while pointing to her notebook. Who’s Michael? He mouthed the words. Her embarrassment, which had been momentarily forgotten, returned. The bell