Cobalt Blue Summer

Chapter 1

I believe every life has at least one major turning point, an event or a decision which directs the course that particular life will take. My life has a clearly defined turning point, one event which set into motion a series of decisions that sent me spiraling along a path I could never have predicted. Was I predestined for this path? I don't know. I do know that these events are not always random. Sometimes we are led to a situation though we may never know who led us to be there or why. I consider myself to be one of the lucky ones, but some might disagree.

That fateful, life-altering day near the end of my freshman year in high school began so ordinarily yet in an instant morphed into something straight out of a TV crime-drama. It seemed that one moment I was nondescript-teen-girl-with-the-hot-friend and the next I was Jessie, fifteen-year-old murder witness. It's odd the things we remember from the important moments of our lives. I remember the way the cold glare cast by the fluorescent lighting in the police station colored my interrogator's face a pasty white, for some reason at the time, reminding me of the shade of my abs when I'd tried on a swimsuit the day before in a fitting room at the local mall. The officer's persistent, prodding questions pushed me to what felt like the edge of my sanity.

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"I told you," I snapped. "I can't remember his face. I see the shoes, the baggy jeans, the t-shirt, the silver chain, then nothing. Blank, empty nothing. No race, no eye color, nothing." Hoping to get my point across to Her Denseness, as I had less-than-affectionately nicknamed my inquisitor, I paused to enunciate my final words slowly and clearly. "You can ask me a million times. I still won't remember his face." But, I knew something had been familiar about that face, those features that had vanished from my memory yet hovered in the shadows of my mind just out of reach.

I plopped my elbows onto the table in front of me and massaged my aching forehead and burning eyes with my fingertips. Apparently wearied by my ineptitude, the sketch artist leaned back in her chair. I struggled to picture the killer. Brief, disjointed images flashed through my mind. I studied the faceless sketch and tried to pinpoint even the tiniest inaccuracy with the image. "His hair isn't right. The bangs separated more coming to little points above his eyes like he was sweaty or something," I explained. The sketch artist made the adjustment. "Yeah, that's more like it," I confirmed.

"Eye color?" she prompted as if catching me off-guard would jar my memory.

I dipped my chin to look at my hands which now lay clasped together on the tabletop and shook my head. I sensed by the slight but rapid swinging of my mom's foot that she had reached the limit of her patience. Since tonight's murder outside the gate to Vista View High School, the police had urged me to describe what I had witnessed.

The evening started when my friend, Miranda, gave me a ride to the Interact meeting at the high school. Miranda arrived late because she spent too long perfecting her hair, make-up, and clothes in anticipation of seeing Todd, the latest guy to catch her eye. By the time we arrived at the school, all of our usual parking spots along the street closest to the meeting room were taken.

"Let's park in the senior lot," I suggested as Miranda continued to search the street for a spot large enough to squeeze her Beemer into.

Miranda sighed then accelerated toward the senior lot. "Oh well, no choice I guess, but my hair will be a disaster after tromping across campus in this wind. All that time wasted," she complained, taking the corner a bit too quickly. She glanced in her mirror to check for a police car and slowed to turn into the senior lot.

I laughed, "Miranda you couldn't look bad even if you walked through a wind tunnel. You'll have Todd's attention in no time. Anyway, aren't guys supposed to like that sexy windblown look?" When Miranda turned on the charm, giggling and batting her long eyelashes at him, Todd wouldn't know what hit him. It always seemed to work that way with Miranda. I often wondered if it was the perfectly timed toss of her long blonde hair, the sweet green eyes, or the long, thin legs that had the guys tripping over their own feet to get to her. Whatever the reason, it really made no difference to me. Miranda was a cool friend, not the back-stabbing-only-nice-to-your-face type so many of the other girls were.