Free Snapshots by Pamela Browning Page A

Mom and Dad from finding out what had transpired that night. Finally I understood the dire looks that had passed between my parents when we’d all sat around the dining-room table the night Martine and I had asked permission to stay at the hotel. “Stuff happens” is the way Dad had put it, and now I understood what kind of stuff he meant.
    On the way home in the limo, Martine lay with her head cradled in my lap. Beside me, Rick dabbed silently at the cut on his forehead, which was still bleeding. We sped away from downtown Columbia, leaving its bright lights and nightlife behind. Commercial buildings gave way to residential neighborhoods, and soon we reached the suburbs with their neat houses and quiet streets. Before long I spotted a white H on a blue road sign. We were near the hospital where Mom had gone to have her broken foot X-rayed some years ago.
    â€œShould we stop by the emergency room? See if you need stitches?” I asked Rick.
    â€œNo,” he said. “It’s nothing much.”
    Martine groaned. She’d be feeling the aftereffects tomorrow morning, I was sure. Part of me sympathized with what she’d done—I’d wanted to go to the party on the sixth floor, too. Still, I was furious with her for getting Rick and me in such a mess.
    As we climbed out of the limo in front of our house, a gentle breeze soughed through the oak trees. I curved my arm around Martine’s shoulders while Rick tipped the driver. Above us a myriad of stars spun through the sky, gleaming points of white. You think the stars will always be there, yet they blaze into life and then drift away, eventually burning themselves out. Like people, I thought. Like us.
    â€œYou sure you kids are going to be all right?” our driver asked. He’d waited patiently outside the hotel, expressed concern about Rick’s cut and given him a handkerchief with which to blot up the blood.
    Rick’s gesture encompassed the cul-de-sac. “We all live here. We’re okay. Thanks, man.”
    The driver nodded but didn’t leave until we’d gone into the house.
    Only the dignified ticking of the grandfather clock punctuated the silence inside. Mom and Dad had left a night-light burning in the hall as they always did when Martine and I were out in the evening.
    I peeked into the garage to check on the Lincoln. It was in its usual spot, so I hurried back to the hall, where Martine was leaning with her forehead against the wall and Rick was awkwardly patting her shoulder.
    â€œWait here,” I whispered.
    I made my way up the stairs as quietly as I could. My parents’ bedroom door was open and the room was dark, the red digital display of the alarm clock glowing beside the bed. A board creaked under my light footsteps.
    â€œMartine?” my mother said sleepily.
    â€œTrista,” I corrected her. I stopped at the door. Dad was snoring; nothing ever woke him, but Mom was a light sleeper.
    â€œDid you enjoy the dance, honey?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful. Have a good time at Alec’s party. You can tell us all about the prom tomorrow morning. Dad’s going to cook one of his belly-buster breakfasts, so be sure to invite Rick.” Every once in a while, Dad outdid himself on Sunday morning—eggs, ham, grits and flaky batter biscuits made from scratch the way his mother taught him.
    â€œThat’s good. G’night, Mom.” I moved toward our room.
    â€œHave fun, Trissy.” I heard her roll over and sigh.
    After a minute or so, I tiptoed back downstairs. By this time, Martine and Rick had moved to the kitchen, Martine pale and sitting in a chair, Rick’s cut still bleeding a good bit.
    â€œGo on up and get into bed,” I directed Martine. “If she hears you, Mom will assume we’re changing clothes for Alec’s party. Dad’s not going to wake up—he’s dead to the world.”
    â€œWhat about the