Everybody's Daughter by Marsha Qualey Read Free Book Online

but tonight I’m out of here.”
    That afternoon Beamer was explaining to the new clerk for the third time how to clean the bait tanks’ aeration system when the phone rang. She patted the puzzled boy on his arm. “It’s only hard the first time. We can do it together after we close the store. Why don’t you go help my mother with the display, and I’ll get the phone.” He relaxed and nodded, then joined Mrs. Flynn, who was struggling with a pop-up tent in the store’s camping section.
    “I’m coming!” Beamer shouted to the insistent phone. She picked up the receiver hurriedly, and the swaying phone cord knocked over a cup of coffee. Brown liquid spread across a newspaper.
    Dammit, thought Beamer. “Lakeside Bait and Tackle,” she said cheerlessly into the phone, while unraveling paper towels from a roll and wiping up coffee.
    “Good afternoon, Lakeside Bait and Tackle. Can you tell me what’s the best bait for catching a cagey sixteen-year-old girl?”
    Beamer laughed. “Hello, Andy.” She tossed the sodden clump of towels into the trash, then hooked her ankle around the leg of a tall counter stool and pulled it closer. She sat down.
    “So, what do I use?” he demanded.
    “Chocolates have been known to work.”
    “You’re the expert.”
    “Have you decided what you want to do tonight? I’m leaning toward food and a movie.”
    “That’s why I’m calling. I’ve got a problem, Bea.”
    “Oh, no, Andy, don’t tell me you have to babysit. Not tonight. Your parents could find someone else.”
    “It’s not my family. Henry called this morning.” Beamer sighed and chewed on her lip. Henry Altman was Andy’s studio arts instructor and his favorite teacher. Andy seldom refused his requests for assistance in the studio.
    “It’s the kiln.”
    “Oh, the kiln,” Beamer said tonelessly. “What’s wrong with it?”
    “The thermostat is goofy. It heats up okay but doesn’t always hold steady. It needs to be checked every fifteen minutes. We’re firing all the freshman class term projects. The firing takes several hours. I’m at the school now.”
    “So?”
    “So I need to stay here and watch the kiln.”
    “Why you?”
    “Bea, I’m surprised you’re being so tough about this. One night.”
    “Andy, it has been a lousy week. And in a few hours the Woodies will begin streaming in with their meatless casseroles for potluck dinner. Then they’ll sing songs and play games and hassle me about tomorrow’s newspaper article. I don’t want to be here. I want to be with you. Can you get someone else to babysit the kiln?”
    “No one else can do it. Henry will be here at midnight, but until then, it’s me.”
    “May I come keep you company? I’ll bring supper.” Beamer pinched the phone cord between her fingers. I sound so desperate, she thought. Well, I feel that way.
    “If you want to.”
    “How do I get in?”
    “I’ll prop open the back door, the one that opens onto the courtyard. My car is parked right there.”
    “I’ll be there by seven.”
    *
    The school door opened noisily. Beamer blinked as the fluorescent light flooded out. She stepped in and, kicking away the slab of wood Andy had used to prop the door, let it close behind her.
    Her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she looked around the large room. There were a dozen long bare tables, their once-smooth blond surfaces mottled and chiseled from years of use. Several empty, paint-splattered easels lined one wall. Beamer wrinkled her nose. The lingering smell of paints, cleaners, and other art materials was strong.
    Toxic, she thought. I wonder if artists tend to die young?
    The pottery studio was behind a partition in the rear of the room, and she walked toward it. “Andy?” she called.
    “I’m here.”
    She found him crouching by the kiln. He rose and dusted his hands on his pants. “Thermostat won’t stay steady.”
    “Too hot or too cold?”
    “Fluctuates. Mostly too hot. There are some nice things in the kiln.