Somewhere In-Between by Donna Milner

reminds you of Levi Johnny?” Ian’s eyes narrow into a
V
. “Is it because he’s Native?”
    No. No of course not. She couldn’t blame an entire race, any more than she could blame every teenage boy, every hockey player. And yet, Ian’s accusation rang true. Because yes, she wants,
needs
, someone, something to blame, otherwise she is condemned to spend the rest of her life reliving every detail, all the mistakes, the little missteps and wrong choices that were made that night, including Ian’s. And hers.
    Would her world, her family, still be intact if she hadn’t rummaged through her purse to answer her cell phone while she was driving to the opening performance of
Grease
, Darla’s high-school play that evening?
    Already anxious because Ian was late on their daughter’s big night, she had looked down at her cell phone’s call display expecting it to be him, but saw only the ‘undisclosed number’ message. Letting the car slow to a crawl she had flipped open the phone and held it to her ear. Nothing but static. She was about to close it when she heard an angry male voice demand: “Do you know where your husband is?” She braked with a jerk, pulled to the highway shoulder and stared down at the illuminated face.
Call ended
. The sound of her windshield wipers filled the silence.
    â€œSome kook,” she said out loud, then pressed the speed dial for Ian’s office. After one ring a recorded message announced office hours. She tried his cell phone and got the same response. That meant nothing, she told herself as she pulled back onto the rain-soaked highway. Like herself, Ian might be on his way to the school right now. He refused to answer his cell phone while driving. Probably delayed by an anxious client, she reasoned, even as the hot stone of suspicion thudded into her stomach.
    Inside the school she stood on the top landing of the amphitheatre cradling the cellophane-wrapped yellow rose she had brought for Darla. The building was new, a modern open institution. Still, as she scanned the audience below, Julie imagined she could detect the universal high-school odour of metallic lockers, sweaty gym shoes and chalk dust. Seeing no sign of Ian’s salt-and-pepper hair, she headed down the centre aisle toward two empty seats at the end of the second row. She took the aisle seat, placed her coat on the other to indicate it was saved, and smiled ‘hello’ at the couple sitting next to it. She didn’t know their names but the faces were familiar. Being a realtor in a town of less than ten thousand meant most were. While she waited for the play to begin she glanced around, exchanging greetings with waves and smiles. This was one of the many things she loved about living in a small town; no matter where you went you saw friendly faces.
    By the time the lights dimmed Ian was still a no-show. Feeling the guilt of hoarding a seat while others stood on the top landing, she removed her coat and arranged it on her lap with her purse and Darla’s rose while the first off-key notes of the school orchestra pierced the darkness.
    During the opening scenes she had to restrain herself from turning around every few minutes to survey the audience for Ian, but the moment the Rizzo character, the ringleader of the Pink Ladies of Rydell High, appeared on stage Julie’s attention was riveted. If she hadn’t heard Darla and her best friend, Kajul Sandhu, rehearsing their roles in the family room week after week, she might not have recognized her daughter.
    For the last few months Darla had let her hair grow for the part. Now it was pulled back and tied up with a pink chiffon scarf. The satin ‘Pink Ladies’ jockey jacket, rolled-up blue jeans, saddle oxfords and bobbie-socks, along with the heavy greasepaint make-up and exaggerated gum chewing, made the transformation to the ’50s wannabe-tough girl startling. When her daughter sang “Look