Chapter Eight: Girl on a Swing

“I’m not sure I follow.” I looked at Calla Wiley with some confusion.

Calla smiled. “Well, I guess I mean that Mark Twain is a great writer, and can’t quite help reflecting the biases of his age. I’m certainly not going to hold it against him. Your friend seems to think being male constitutes being macho, which is quite out of date.”

“Ohhhh,” I replied knowingly and brilliantly.

“In other words, he’s entertaining but I wouldn’t want to live with him.”

“Got it.” I smiled. “I did live with him, in college, and it’s not pretty.”

“Sometime we’ll have to exchange room-mate horror stories. I could tell you things about Bianca that would turn your hair white!” Calla giggled.

“Does that mean you’ll see me again?” I pounced.

She kind of tilted her eyes to one side and I could see a slight blush on her cheeks.

“Well… Maybe we’ll run into each other and have coffee.”

“Or you’ll call me again?”

“Maybe,” She smiled, shrugging.

“Or, we could try something really radical. Unprecedented, even. You could give your number to me, and then I could call you.”

Calla looked up at me, and her grey eyes drew me in. I could see that she was going to acquiesce. It was there, bright and sparkling in her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Hey, there you are!” A bouncy blonde appeared at her elbow, her hair plaited with braids and beads. “My parents finally showed up, they want to say hi.”

“Bianca,” Calla said, turning to her friend in a daze, “Have you met Diggory Franklin?”

“The lawyer? He actually came?” Bianca turned to me and shook hands vigorously. “Nice to meet you, dude. Do you mind if I steal Calla?”

I barely blinked, and they were off through the crowd.

“Oh, come on!” I said.


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I weaved through the small groups of art-aficionados, trying to spot either Calla or Bianca. Everyone was clustered around, chatting and sipping wine. I couldn’t sort out which way they had gone. The buzz of conversations made it impossible to just start yelling and hope they’d find me. I tried shouting once, and all I got for my efforts was the stare-down from some wealthy dowager.

“Dude, do you have epilepsy or something?” Matt the Pimp appeared at my elbow, smiling as I waved my arms at people to move out of the way.

“Dude, you have an Ivy League education. Why do you always say ‘dude,’ huh?”

“Someone’s having a bad day. Did you miss your nap? Do you want a cookie?”

“Not now! I’m trying to find Calla.”

“She disappeared again? The girl must have trained with Houdini.”

“Do you actually know who that is, or are you repeating something you’ve heard someone else say?”

“Couldn’t pull it off?”

“No. But then, I know you. In history class you once put ‘Babe-raham Lincoln’ as the answer to a question about the first president.”

“So I spelled it wrong! That teacher couldn’t take a joke.”

“Matt. George Washington.”

“The dude on the dollar? No way. Lincoln is on the penny because he was first. One cent, first. Right?”

I started walking away, shaking my head.

Matt rushed to keep up, talking over the crowd. He was persistent, I’ll give him that.

“Anyway, Digger, I came over to tell you: Daphne is off in twenty minutes, and I’m taking her home. You can come and meet her roomie, Petra, or you can stay here chasing the Elusive Femme. It’s up to you.”

I turned back to him. “Matt, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested in Barbie Two. I’m looking for Calla, I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Dude, Petra! Who’s Barbie?” Matt called out to me as I wandered away through the crowd.

I went from room to room. It didn’t help that every room of the gallery had white walls and bright lights, and was filled with posh people looking at pictures. I lost track of which room I had found Calla in, and which way I had seen her go. None of the pictures made good landmarks, so I couldn’t tell if I had been somewhere before if I got turned around wandering through a crowd of people.

Okay, part of that problem might have been four glasses of wine earlier in the evening, but only part of it.

I began to think that Matt the Pimp had been right. Which was a sign of how low my morale was at that point, Matt was rarely a person known for his wisdom. But, maybe I was trying too hard to find a connection with a girl I barely knew, and who had been a major pain in the ass over the last two days. Her behaviour was erratic, and circumstances seemed to conspire to keep us apart.

“Either she’s crazy or I am,” I mumbled to myself.

And then I saw it. Something familiar and comforting in a world of chaos, and it brought hope with it. I found the photo of Calla. The lonely girl on a swing that I felt I had so much in common with.

I pushed through the mass of people, which was finally starting to thin out as the evening waned. I didn’t want someone else to get there first. I stood before the photograph, staring at hope. There was a tiny piece of paper taped to the frame.

I pulled it off carefully and unfolded the little scrap. I found a telephone number and a smiley face written inside.


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