Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

Pop, listening to this, looked like a dog trying to figure out what the hell its master was saying.

Brittany gave up her first smile of the night. Small but easily discernible.

“Cool,” she said.

Shortly after that, the band got started — two guitars, keyboards, bass, and drums, five guys in black stocking caps, dark sunglasses, black jeans, and matching jackets. This, apparently, was their version of “dress-up” night.

They were excellent, nailing every cover song while giving it something of their own, and the dance floor filled up right away. Soon only Krista and her father remained at their table.

“Cops don’t dance,” Pop advised her, with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, I do.”

“You’re a chief. You make your own rules.”

“I bet you danced with Mom.”

“She was chief of the household.”

“Don’t be so old.”

“I try not to be. Starts with maintaining my dignity and never dancing in public.”

They both laughed a little. The size of the hall, and the band restraining themselves, meant conversations like this were possible.

Pop was looking past her. “Look who found a date.”

She glanced where his eyes indicated. Jerry, in a black sport coat, skinny tie, and black jeans, working hard at his hipster persona, was guiding a young woman toward the dance floor. Krista didn’t know her, but recognized the girl as a waitress from a local Italian restaurant — a slender brunette in a dark green sweaterdress, lots of nice leg showing.

“Young,” Krista said.

“Well, maybe he was confused.”

“How so?”

“When he heard it was a high school reunion, he stopped by there and made a date.”

That made her smile. One of her favorite things about her father was the way he could deliver a deadpan joke.

“You mind if I sit?” a female voice said, pleasant, polite. Alto. Well enunciated.

Krista turned her head and next to her, leaning in just a little, was the lovely face of Astrid Lund, those ice-blue eyes almost spookily beautiful.

“Sure,” Krista said, with a smile so awkward it felt it might fall off her face.

Astrid settled herself and her probable five-thousand-dollar dress where Jessy had been sitting. She smiled across at Pop.

“Mr. Larson,” she said. “Been ages. You look good.”

“Thanks, Astrid,” he said. “You don’t look bad, yourself.”

Her smile turned sad. “I was talking to somebody earlier, I forget who, and they said Mrs. Larson has passed away. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” Krista and Pop said, overlapping.

“She was my third-grade teacher,” Astrid said. “My favorite teacher ever. I think a lot of us felt that way.”

They both smiled and thanked her for that.

“Could we talk?” Astrid said to Krista.

Pop started to get up. “I can go...”

“No,” Astrid said, gesturing him back down. “Please stay... It’ll just be silly girl talk you can ignore.”

Pop got back in his chair and turned it some, to watch the band, as if he were really interested. Maybe he was, in some oddly sociological way. In the meantime, Astrid and Krista conversed in low tones, or anyway as low as possible with a rock band playing in the same room.

“I wanted to apologize,” Astrid said, “about last night.”

Krista frowned. “Apologize...? Why? What for?”

Astrid sighed, perfect eyebrows flicking up and down. “Well, I understand you were there with Jerry Ward. And after he rushed up and monopolized me for a while, you slipped out, I heard. I felt terrible about it.”

Krista couldn’t resist. “As bad as you did when you went after him back in high school?”

Astrid flushed. Actually flushed, and with that Nordic complexion of hers, her cheeks seemed to flame. “I was awful to you back then. I don’t know what I was trying to prove, and I’m not going to indulge in cheap self-psychoanalysis.” A sigh. “I owe apologies to half a dozen women in this room, and maybe I’ll get around to that... but I wanted to start here. With you.”

“Why?”

“We were such good friends, once upon a time. I remember how... this was so very long ago... in first and second grade, we were BFFs, and then in third grade, they split us up. I was in your mom’s class, but you were made to be in the other third-grade class.”

“I remember,” Krista said. “There was a section that was half third grade and half fourth, and I got stuck there.”

Of course, it wasn’t an effort to split the girls up — it was just that Krista couldn’t be in a class taught by her mother.

“But the next year,” Astrid was saying, “we were back together. All through middle school, and high school, too... most of high school. Till I got between you and Jerry, anyway.”

“Maybe you did me a favor.”

“Aren’t you... back with him?”

Krista shook her head. “No. He’s here with some girl who just reached puberty. My escort is my father.”

Pop didn’t react to that, apparently fascinated by the Cover Band, currently playing “Monkey Wrench.”

Astrid frowned just a little; judging by the smoothness of her skin, she didn’t do that much. “I hope I wasn’t the cause of—”

“You weren’t. Jerry being an ass was the cause.”

That made Astrid smile. She nodded. “Okay. Good. Listen, I wonder how you might feel about me doing a piece on you. About you. For WLG — TV, not radio.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Astrid flipped a hand. “You’re the youngest female police chief in the nation. I haven’t checked it thoroughly, but you may be the youngest, period. Plus, Galena with its tourist trade is unique, and a place people in Chicago know of, even if they haven’t been here. Would you, please? Let us bring a camera crew here?”

“Well... sure. I guess.”

The reporter smiled big. “I’m staying at my folks’ place. They’re in Florida. Are you going to the class brunch tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” Krista admitted.

“Me either,” Astrid said. “Maybe you could stop over first thing in the morning — say eight? And we can talk over coffee. It’s still the same address.”

How many times, from grade school through GHS, had Krista been in that house? She had a sudden pang for their lost friendship.

“I’ll be there,” she told Astrid.

“Great!”

After they’d exchanged cell numbers, Krista sighed and smiled. “You really seem to be going places.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “I’d like to. It’s a rough business. I’ve been promised a co-anchor spot this fall, and if I do well there... who can say?”

“Where do you hope to wind up?”

Astrid shrugged, the blonde hair shimmering. “A network, or one of the cable news outlets. Certainly something national. At my age, I need to get moving.”

“Your age?”

“They turn them out young these days. And as big a market as Chicago is, there’s still something small-time about it. Office politics, you know. And it’s a scary town, too.”

“Scary how?”

“Well, all the clichés are true. Crooked politicians, mob stuff. And a reporter who does investigative reporting, the way I’ve been doing, building a reputation on it? Let’s just say when the phone rings, and it’s a political call? They aren’t always looking for donations.”

“You don’t mean... threats?”

“Oh yes. Even death threats.”

“Death threats?”

“Comes with the job,” Astrid said matter-of-factly. She leaned in. “Say, maybe you could help me with something for a story. Being law enforcement and all.”

“Well... I’ll try to.”

“Is there a statute of limitations on sexually oriented crimes?”

Krista, blindsided, glanced at her father; but he was still wrapped up in the band, who were playing “Makes Me Wonder.”