Mr Quentin left Lori home in his yellow Ford convertible. Baskerville, accustomed to riding shotgun, made enough noise to waken the dead when unexpectedly relegated to the back seat.
“Do you mind?” Mr Quentin retrieved him and plonked him on Lori’s lap. “Best get used to it now,” he said, with a sugary smile. “He’s going to be your co-star, after all.”
The yorkie glared at her with baleful orange eyes. Lori sat very still, trying not to move a muscle all the way home.
Perry’s roadster was already parked in next door’s drive when they arrived. But there was no sign of Perry. Probably inside with Tracey. Probably trying to placate her for the fact that she’d lost the part of Dorothy. Lori allowed herself a little rush of pleasure at the memory of Tracey’s face when the announcement had been made. Tracey was used to getting what she wanted. Not like Lori, who hardly ever did. But this time she had. Yah, boo, sucks to Tracey Barnes.
Extricating herself gingerly, sliding out from under Baskerville so as not to provoke him, she thanked the music teacher for the ride.
“My pleasure. Now don’t forget. It’s read-though Monday. Straight after school. Don’t be late.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Quentin. I’ll make sure she gets there on time.”
Lori’s heart did a little jig in her chest. It was Perry. He’d come up behind her and as she turned towards him, he favoured her with the grin that always turned her knees to jello. Was it her imagination or was there something more friendly than usual in the smile? He’d started the clapping after all...
A sudden commotion back of the house developed into physical form as the Morrison dog, a mangy mongrel of indeterminate ancestry known simply as ‘thing’, came barrelling round the corner, woofing and wagging its tail. Baskerville immediately began jumping up and down like a mop-head on springs, defending his territory, yapping ferociously. As if in sympathy, and to add to the din, every dog in the neighbourhood began to bark.
At which point, the front door opened and Marge came out, dressed for work. She flinched as the noise hit her.
“What in tarnation...?” she said, and then, seeing Mr Quentin, she raised her voice and shouted over her shoulder. “Junior. Get out here. Pronto.”
Junior emerged from the far end of the hallway, with his baseball cap on back to front and a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich clutched in his grubby hand.
“Wha...?” he said, spraying crumbs in all directions.
“Take that animal round the back and tie him up before I put my toe in his backside,” shouted Marge, raising her voice another decibel to make herself heard over the racket.
Grumbling, Junior collared the dog and dragged him back the way he’d come. Baskerville, after a few yips of triumph, subsided onto the seat. One by one, the other canine choristers quietened down.
“Hello, Mr Quentin,” said Marge. “To what do we owe this honour?”
“He gave me a lift home,” said Lori, her face bright red with embarrassment.
“That was good of you,” said Marge. “I was just about to call out the cops.” She turned to Lori. “You better get your skates on,” she said. “You’re due at the diner at six.”
Lori looked blank. Marge made a fist and banged her lightly on the forehead.
“Hello. Anybody home? Saturday job. This is Saturday, right?” She turned back to the others. “Lori’s got a job washing dishes in the diner,” she announced, as though this was something to be proud of. “Following in the family tradition.”
Lori’s face got even redder. Like tell everybody. Dishwashing. How glamorous.
“I forgot,” she said. “I had other things on my mind.”
“Like what?” said Marge.
“Lori got the lead in the school musical, Mrs Morrison” said Perry. “She sang up a storm at the audition.”
“Yes indeed,” said Mr Quentin, “A voice in a million. I hope you realise you’ve got yourself a star a your hands?”
“Our Lori?” said Marge, trying not to sound astounded, failing miserably.
“Our Lori?” echoed Junior, reappearing round the side of the house, talking through a mouthful of sandwich. “Lori’s gotta voice like a corncrake.”
“Thanks again for the lift, Mr Quentin.” Lori, mortified, pushed past her mom and into the house. Sometimes she wondered whether she’d been adopted? Left on a doorstep by a wealthy industrialist’s disgraced daughter? Surely she couldn’t have been born into this family for real?
“Can I give you a ride downtown, Mrs Morrison?” she heard Mr Quentin say, as she stumped up the stairs. “I’m going right past the diner.”
“Thanks Mr Quentin.” Marge jumped in, taking Baskerville by surprise, scooping him up and depositing him in the back seat before he could object.
“Don’t mind if I do. Anything to take the weight off the bunions.”
Upstairs in her bedroom, Lori winced at this further evidence of her mother’s lack of sophistication. Bunions. To Mr Quentin. How could she? She moved to the window, watching the car drive off and Perry turn and disappear up next door’s path. This time she didn’t knock. And he didn’t look up. Lori wasn’t surprised. Bunions. Good grief.
She sat down on the bed. The face in the Dreamcatcher grinned at her and a voice in her head said...
“Don’t worry, babe. You’ll be out of here soon. Dorothy is just the first step. You’re on your way. Soon you’ll never have to listen to anyone discussing the state of their feet or see anyone talking through a mouthful of peanut butter again. You’ll be rich and famous. You can shuck this family off like a snake shucks its skin.”
Downstairs Junior came in and slammed the door.
“Hey Dad,” he shouted. “Guess what. Lori got the lead in the school musical."
“Our Lori?” Ted didn’t even bother to conceal his disbelief. “Must be some mistake. Lori can’t sing to save her life.”
Lori closed her eyes.
“Get me out of here,” she said to the voice. “I don’t care what it takes, just get me out of here.”
A vision swam onto the back of her eyelids. A vision in a snakeskin jacket. Quickly she snapped open her eyes again, overcome by a sudden feeling of dread. Where had he come from this dream made flesh? And how come she could suddenly sing?
“Who are you?” she whispered into the empty room.
“I’m your guardian angel,” said the voice in her head. “What’s the matter? You don’t believe in magic?”
“Lori,” the peanut eating pest, shouting from downstairs, shook her out of her reverie. In a shouting competition, Junior could shout for America. “If you don’t come down right now Dad says he’s gonna feed your food to the dog.”
Lori sat up, staring at the Dreamcatcher, daring it to say something straight to her face. But it just swung there. An innocent looking charm slung on a leather thong.
“Suits me,” she shouted back. “I’m late. I’ve got to go to work. Anyway, I’m not hungry.”
And strangely enough, though she hadn’t eaten all day, she found she wasn’t.
Miguel Coyote was parked two blocks along from the Morrison house. He was deep in conversation with Barney McGee, the town wino who, for some reason, was carrying a rake. Mr Quentin said nothing. He didn’t want to alarm Marge Morrison. Poor woman had enough on her plate with that husband of hers without having to worry about someone hassling her daughter.
Mr Quentin doubted that there was anything it. With the best will in the world he couldn’t imagine that the boy, who, even though he was a biker, was undoubtedly handsome in an ethnic kind of way, could have the slightest sexual interest in Lori. Voice or not, she was about as appealing as a boiled potato.
Perfect to play Dorothy of course. Plump verging on fat. In pigtails and a blue pinafore, she’d be a dead ringer for Judy Garland in the original movie. He was glad he hadn’t had to give the part to Tracey Barnes. Totally the wrong image. Far too glamorous. And she was a difficult girl. Temperamental. Now if the boy on the bike had been stalking her...?
No, he couldn’t really imagine that anyone would be interested in Lori for THAT. But if not THAT, then what? And there was no accounting for taste. Some people LIKED fat girls. Chubby Chasers, they were called, apparently. Also one heard and read such distressing stories these days. Quite gruesome some of them. Mr Quentin blamed television. Such a corrosive influence. It put ideas in people’s heads. Perhaps he SHOULD say something to Mrs Morrison? Warn her, at least?
He looked across at Lori’s mom, who was twisted round, leaning over the back of the seat, busily tickling Baskerville behind the ears.
As they swept past Barney and the biker, Marge still turned away and so not noticing them, the boy looked up and fixed Mr Quentin with his cold blue stare. The teacher shivered. There was something frightening in that stare. As though the eyes were too old for the face that framed them.
On second thoughts, Mr Quentin decided, it was probably better if he mentioned something to Rube Watson. He didn’t own a mobile phone himself, thought them the Devil’s own invention, otherwise he would have rung as soon as he dropped Marge at the diner. But as he drew into the car-park and deposited her in front of the swing doors, he determined to give the Sheriff a quick call just as soon as ever he got home.