Tears of a Clown Read online

whoever you are!”

  The two-legged terror races up and, in one swift movement, grabs her neck with his left hand and hoists her up in the air.

  “Augh!” she emits, choking, trying to fight him off. “Let go of me!”

  “Come on, cheerleader. Let’s see you do a split.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Do a split!”

  “I...I can’t. Please, I’m not wearing anything under this.”

  The Clown thrusts his face towards hers.

  “Even better.”

  A young female coach, fresh from exercising outside, is in the barren hallway walking towards the girls’ locker room. Soaking with sweat, she is wiping her forehead with a towel. She tugs the large metal handle on the locker room door and is curious to find it locked.

  From around her neck, she removes a lanyard containing a whistle and a set of keys. After a brief search through the keys, she produces one, sticks it in the keyhole, opens the door, and enters the locker room.

  To her surprise, the lights are still out and almost half of the candles are still lit.

  “What the hell’s going on in here?” she asks. “Who lit all these candles? And why are the lights turned off?”

  Walking towards the nearby keyplate on a wall, she uses another key and toggles an internal switch. The large fluorescent lights hum and flicker on. She shakes her head.

  “Damn pranksters. Look at this mess.”

  Walking to the nearby candles, she blows them out.

  “This is a fire hazard,” she utters. “I’m surprised the alarms didn’t go off.”

  Turning towards a long row of lockers, she approaches a tall one and, turning the combination on its lock, opens it. Rifling through its contents, she takes out a pair of jeans and a school-colored tank top.

  As she prepares to take off her current sweat-soaked shirt, she hears the sound of water dripping from the rear. Curious, she shuts the locker and walks towards the dripping sound. A few candles she hadn’t noticed before are still lit. But that wasn’t as bad as what hey eyes fell upon. Screaming, she holds her face in astonishment when she beholds at the sight way across on the other side of the room. Ellen, sitting propped up like a flaccid manikin in a corner in a pool of blood between the floor and the wall, is split from her crotch to her sternum.

  Laurel Canyon, a pretty but conservative 17-year-old wallflower brunette in a lab coat, is busy brewing up some concoction alone in a large windowless Chemistry lab. No one else is in the workshop. Beakers, flasks, scales, and other tools of the trade are scattered throughout the rectangular room. Along each wall are posters of the table of elements, muscles of the human body, landmarks and discoveries in Chemistry and notable scientists in the field beginning with Antoine Lavoisier, often called the father of modern Chemistry.

  Eyeing her experiment carefully, she slowly pours the glowing liquid from one flask to another, the contents dangerously resembling toxic green lava emptying from a volcano down a mountainside. Suddenly, the receiving flask explodes and shatters. Stunned, the young Marie Curie stomps her foot.

  “Dang. I’ll never get this right.”

  Sheriff Henry Torrance, mid 30’s, casually handsome in his slightly awkward boyish way, having entered quietly, is standing unnoticed behind her.

  “One day you will,” he speaks, startling her.

  “Oh!” she yells. “Torrance, you scared me!”

  “Sorry, Laurel. Didn’t mean to. What happened here?”

  “What are you doing here?” she counters.

  “I’m still conducting interviews for the sheriff’s office over yesterday’s murder.”

  “Wasn’t that awful?” Laurel laments. “Ellen was hella nice, too.”

  Just then, the young chemist’s exploded compound on the table throws out a few bubbles.

  “Oops!” she apologizes. “The electrical attraction between these two isotopes was supposed to hold their ions in place. Instead, these damned colliding particles caused a rapidly cascading ionization. See?”

  Torrance scratches his head in confusion. “Okay…”

  “It resulted in plasma, Torrance! Look!”

  “Ah! There you go. Plasma!”

  “You didn’t understand a word I just said, Sheriff.”

  “Interim sheriff,” he corrects her. “Laurel, you might not only be the smartest person in this school, but in this whole damn town. I don’t know what you just said, but maybe you can use some of that nuclear cocktail stuff and burn off the rest of the wax in the girls’ locker room.”

  “Please, don’t remind me about it. It’s been giving me nightmares. Anyway, the custodian’s taking care of that.”

  “Was Ellen a close friend of yours?”

  “Not really. I don’t really have close friends. You know, my head’s always in the books.”

  “Well, I was just checking out the school. If you see or hear anything, call the station.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “You know, you shouldn’t be down here by yourself.”

  Laurel picks up a flask of bubbling acid. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “You sure you want to know?”

  Shaking his head, he turns and exits, promptly tripping over a small wooden footstool sitting in the aisle. Seconds later, Principal Thurston Parks, a trim, graying, modestly handsome man in his late 40’s, enters. Seeing Laurel, he walks straight over to her.

  “Hi, Laurel. I thought I’d find you here.”

  “Hi, Principal Parks.”

  “I have some good news for you so I thought I’d bring it in person.”

  He hands her a sheet of paper. She peruses it.

  “Sunland Chemicals has an opening in their R&D division,” he explains.

  The youngster’s brown eyes light up. “Sunland? I might not qualify. Aren’t I too young?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Laurel. You’re the brightest student this school’s produced. Anyway, it’s a scholarship slash internship…”

  He rubs her shoulders.

  “…and with my help you’ll go far.”

  Visibly bothered, Laurel pulls away.

  “Um, Principal Parks,” she stutters, “I have unfinished business here.”

  “I didn’t mean anything suggestive, Laurel. Just proud of you. You’re a beacon of light and strength in Century City. You know how everyone’s been on edge lately.”

  “Okay.”

  “When you’re ready to talk, just stop by my office.”

  “Thanks.”

  Principal Parks exits. Laurel studies the paper again.

  Two of Century City High’s finest seniors, All-American quarterback Chip Atwater and his cheerleader girlfriend, Beverly Tan, are strolling down picturesque Somerset Street at a casual pace. It is a gorgeous day with nary a cloud in the sky. Beset on both sides by pristine homes and flavorful landscaping, the street looks like it was modeled after a page from House Beautiful.

  Chip, wearing a purple and orange CCHS varsity jacket and blue jeans, is tossing a football up and down in the air. Hollywood-handsome with his blond hair, blue eyes and cleft chin, he could easily pass as Tom Brady’s young brother. Beverly, attired in black & white leggings and a yellow shirt, is applying facial powder using a mirror app on her smartphone to help get it just right. Almost as if culled from a Norman Rockwell cover, they appear to be the perfect couple. Chip finally breaks the silence.

  “They said she died quickly.”

  “What is it with you guys and violence?” his girlfriend asks. “It’s like some crazy fetish.”

  “It’s part of life, Bev. Get used to it.”

  “Hopefully, I’ll get hired by some modeling agency, make some big bucks, and leave this dump of a town once and for all. Century City’s changed so much over the years.”

  “I know. It’s like all the nuts in the state got dumped here.”

  Walking further, they see their lanky, bespectacled compadre Bel
l about 100 feet away riding his old bicycle on the sidewalk towards them.

  “Case in point,” Chip moans.

  Bell, Century City’s nerdy black Jughead, pulls up in front of them. At 20 years old, this opposite of cool should’ve graduated three years ago if he only had a brain. Wearing light brown corduroy pants, a vertically-striped green & orange sweater, and hand-painted sneakers, he is a classic mall standout. A smartphone playing squeaky hip hop is attached to his handlebars.

  “Hey, Chip, Bev,” he greets them.

  “What’s up, Bell?” Chip asks, trying his best to stifle the disappointment in his voice.

  Bell reaches into the basket of flowers attached to the front of his bike, produces a yellow rose, and offers it to Beverly.

  “A yellow rose for a yellow rose,” he snickers.

  Beverly rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

  “Oh, come on,” Bell jokes. “Just trying to take your mind off of what’s been going on.”

  “Behold,” she extols, “the fungus among us has a conscience after all!”

  She pockets her smartphone and takes the rose. It squirts a liquid the color of blood in her face which makes her shriek. Bell falls into a paroxysm of laughter. Chip sniggles silently. Beverly, of course, if not amused.

  “Bastard!” she rants.

  Bell takes out a handkerchief and offers it to her. “Sorry, Bev. Wrong rose.”

  She snatches the cloth from his hand and wipes her face. Some of the blood gets absorbed, but the cloth leaves patches of white residue on her face. Chip & Bell laugh at her misfortune. Beverly looks in her mirror, sees the residue, and punches Bell. He flies off his bike into the bushes.

  She then storms off giving them the finger. “I don’t want to see either of you again!”

  “Damn, girl,” Bell moans, checking his mouth for blood.