“Would you like to sit down?” She patted the grass.
He shrugged and sat beside her, staring for a moment. Then he let his gaze drift across the street, to the steps of the church.
“Where’d you come from?” she said.
“Where?”
She smiled and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. “Where.”
Roland pointed to the church. “I was sitting on the steps. Thought you were hurt.”
She smiled again and started messing with her skirt, tugging it over her white tennis shoes and mismatched socks. “I’m okay. Just a little klutzy.”
“You looked a little angry.” He couldn’t believe he just pried into her business. He should go. Why was he sitting in the grass next to a total stranger anyway?
“It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I mean before you crashed with the biker, you looked angry about something.” Why didn’t he just shut up? He should go. He didn’t even know her. He hated when people pried into his business.
She stared at her shoes. “Yeah, I was. My mom made me mad. There’s a camping trip coming up, and she said I couldn’t go. We have something else going on at the same time.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah. I really wanted to go. All my friends are going.” A pause. “Do you like camping?”
Roland nodded. Camping reminded him of Mama and the family trips they used to take, back when everyone in the family seemed to like each other. But they had a big camper, so it wasn’t the same as tent camping. “Maybe you can get your friends together and go another time.”
She nodded. “That’s a good idea. I just hate to miss this one. Everyone goes. It’s in the forest. There’s a big bonfire.” She smiled at the leaves overhead.
“Sounds fun.”
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence awhile, gazing off in their own directions. Then she turned to him. “So, why were you sitting all alone on the steps?”
“Trying to think.”
She kept staring, prying with her eyes, probably noticing the Band-Aid. And it didn’t bother him at all. He even wanted to tell her.
“My brother’s pretty controlling. And he never talks when he’s angry. He just fights.”
“Hmm.” She turned away for a moment, then back. “By fights, I don’t know if you mean he beats you up . . .” She paused. “. . . or if you mean he argues with you. But if he beats you up, you could try talking to him on the phone. You know, then he can’t touch you. But if you mean he argues, you could try writing a letter.” She smiled, looking proud of her idea, then her eyes popped open wide. “Oh, I know someone who can help you.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?” He hoped he hadn’t sounded condescending, but she couldn’t possibly know anyone who could help him.
“Her name is Elizabeth. Her husband and her son both had bad tempers, and once they turned on each other. Her son was older, a man by then. And the men both gathered up friends and went against each other. Elizabeth rode out to the battlefield—”
“Uh, battlefield?”
“. . . on a donkey—”
“Donkey?” He couldn’t help but snicker. Was she serious?
“She stopped in the middle of the battlefield, and both her husband and son ran to her, not wanting her to get hurt. When they reached her, she asked them to make peace and come home.”
He smiled, deciding to go along with her. “Okay. Did they?”
“Well, yes. She brought peace to her family, and she can bring peace to yours. She’s a saint.”
“Oh, I get it. She’s not a real person.”
Her eyebrows drew together, forming a crease between them. “She’s real.”
“I mean . . . she’s not alive.”
Her eyebrows slanted. “She’s alive. There are no dead people in Heaven.”
“I mean . . .” Unable to find the right words, he looked away.
“I don’t know if you pray, but she’s close to God. I’m sure He’ll listen to her prayers for you. Saint Elizabeth. Don’t forget.”
“Okay.” He faced her again, staring unabashedly. He probably wouldn’t see her again, and he didn’t want to forget her face, her sparkling green eyes, her rosebud lips . . . Of course, she was about his age . . . so she probably—Roland swallowed—went to his school.
A queasy feeling slithered into his gut. By talking to her, he was adding to the rumors at school. At least he hadn’t told her his name, but maybe she already knew.
She held his gaze for a moment but then blushed and lowered her head.
He lowered his head. He shouldn’t have been staring at her like that. She’d think he liked her.
“I’m glad you’re okay.” He stood up. “See ya.”
“Oh.” She blinked a few times and frowned.
He offered his hand. She placed hers, thin and warm, into his.
He pulled her up. She stood as tall as he did and so close. Heat rose up his neck.
He turned and jogged away.
Chapter 11
Peter kept one ear open for sounds of Roland as he sat hunched over his transmitter, soldering a resister. He nodded at his work. The solder joint looked clean and smooth. All the other components tested fine, so the transmitter should be about ready to roll.
As he set the soldering iron down, something tapped his bedroom window.
Roland!
Peter jumped up and the light over his desk went out, leaving him in utter darkness. He hadn’t bothered with the overhead light when he’d first sat down. The desk lamp provided all he needed, but he’d rigged it to switch on and off from pressure on the seat of the chair — one of last year’s projects.
He stumbled blind through the junk in his room, toward the light switch by the door. Halfway to his goal, his foot got tangled up in . . . something . . . but his body kept going. He flung his hands out and inadvertently smacked the rocker switch on the wall. Light blinded him.
“Cool,” he said, lying on the floor, gazing up at the overhead light.
He pushed himself up and freed his foot from . . . He squinted at the unfamiliar brown and black, Southwestern style blanket sprawled out on the floor. Oh, yeah, Roland’s blanket.
He got to his feet. With a smooth bowling swing, he snagged the blanket and tossed it into the closet. Then he started toward the window but stopped. He’d need to find his rope ladder.
Peter backtracked to the closet and pulled boxes down from the overhead shelf. Clothes, Power Rangers, Star Trek junk, Legos, more clothes. Where would he have put the ladder? Scratching his head, he scanned the room.
“Maybe I should clean— No, wait . . .” He hadn’t used it since the Fourth of July. It had been nearly two in the morning when he returned home, so he rolled it up and shoved it under the bed.
Peter dropped down by the bed and lifted the hanging sheet. The rope ladder lay in a tangled heap against the wall.
“Good. Right where I left it.”
Like an expert at rapid deployment, he dragged the ladder across the room, pushed up the window, and popped out the screen. Then he secured the upper ends of the ladder to the hooks under the sill and made ready to toss it down.
A warm breeze blew by him, rattling papers on the desk.
He stuck his head out the window. “Roland?”
Clouds covered the moon and stars. Light from the front stoop shone on the trembling leaves of the tree outside his window. Darkness shrouded the rest of the yard.
“Roland?” he called louder and listened.
Leaves rustled in the wind.
Was Roland that impatient? He gave him all of one minute and then left? Where would he go? He didn’t seem to have many options.
Peter shrugged and pulled his head back into the room. Maybe Roland would come back later. He’d need somewhere to sleep. His gaze flitted about the room. Yeah. Where could he possibly sleep here? With a deep breath, he decided to clean.
Thirty minutes later, he had a sleeping
bag rolled out on a cleared area of the floor, a sign warning people not to open his closet, and a mountain of dirty clothes in the hallway. The room looked good.
His job complete, he snatched his notebook with instructions for making a tracking device and plopped down on his bed. As he settled back against the wall, something clanked in one of the boxes by the window.
He got up to check it out. Nearing the window, something flew through it, cracked him in the head and landed at his feet. A stick.
“Peter.” The voice came from outside.
Peter stuck his head out the window.
Roland—visible only by the yellow stripes on his otherwise black clothing—stood in the shadows.
“Hey, you came back.”
“Are you going to let me up?”
“Oh, yeah.” He gave the ladder a shove. It rolled off the sill and spun into the darkness below, coming to stop with a double tap against the house. “I was beginning to doubt you’d come back.”
Roland climbed, scraping the house with every step. “Where else am I going to go?” He swung his leg over the windowsill and climbed into the room. His windblown hair stood up in front, making the bloody Band-Aid on his forehead stand out.
“I heard you throw something at the window half an hour ago. Why’d you leave?” Peter yanked the rope ladder up and let it fall on the floor under the window.
“Half an hour ago? I just got here.”
They both peered out the window.
“Look, someone’s out there!” Roland ducked his head and fell to his knees. “Shut out the light.”
Peter dashed across the room, smacked the light switch, and stumbled back. “What’d you see?”
“I don’t know. Seemed like someone standing by the back of the garage.”
“The garage is totally dark and the tree blocks most of it. How could you see anything?” A little bit of light fell on the front of it, but darkness hid the rest.
“Maybe I have better vision than you.”
“Maybe you’re more paranoid than me.” Peter yanked the blind down and went back to hit the light switch. “Do your brothers drive? Think they’re out hunting you?”
Roland was standing, arms folded across his chest, when the light came on. “They don’t have a car.”
Peter grinned. “Maybe they’re on horseback.”
Roland’s eyes narrowed then one of them twitched. He went to the desk.
Stooping to unplug the soldering iron, Peter tried to figure out what held Roland’s attention. Earlier, he hadn’t seemed all that interested in the transmitter, so it was probably the old box from his uncle, on the back of the desk. “You never did tell me what happened, like where you got the cut. You and your brothers get in a fight?”
Roland’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer.
“So, where’d you go? What’cha been up to? Did you go back home?”
“No.” His eyes turned grayer and distant. Then, sure enough, he reached for the old, wooden box.
Peter tensed and fought the impulse to snatch it back. Why should it bother him? What difference did it make if Roland seemed obsessively interested in it? Maybe it reminded him of something. “I tried to get it open earlier.”
Roland ran his thumb over the lock.
“I tried a thin piece of wire, but it only bent,” Peter said. “And I had a narrow file but not narrow enough. What I need is a lock-pick set.”
Roland shook his head, still staring at the box.
“So, are you just gonna lay low until your dad gets back?”
Roland jerked his face to him. “How do you know my father’s gone?”
“Well . . . I don’t know. Weren’t those your brothers on the horses?”
Roland maintained a suspicious gaze.
Par-a-noid. “One of ‘em said your dad was coming back in a few days. Right? Remember?”
Roland nodded, his expression softening. Then he resumed his examination of the box, turning it around and running his thumb along the designs.
Peter sighed. Talking to Roland was like talking to a wall. “So, where’s your mom? Is she out of town with your dad?” As the words came out, something pulled at his thoughts, and he knew he shouldn’t have asked. He’d heard a rumor about Roland’s mother at school. But what was it?
Roland set the box down and shot a narrow-eyed, venomous look. “No.”
“Sorry.” Peter raised his hands in a gesture of apology and went to his bed. He picked up the notebook with the instructions for making a tracking device, flopped down, and banged his back against the wall. “You’re kind of hard to talk to.”
Roland gave him the look of a lost dog caught in a rainstorm.
Peter tossed the notebook. “So, you’re probably hungry. I’ll go get us some food.”
Chapter 12
Peter left the room, the door swung partially shut, and Roland found himself reaching for the old box. For its age, it was in excellent shape. Solid. Significant. He ran his thumb over the carvings. The more he looked at it, the stronger the feeling in him grew. This box had a mystery that needed solving, a story that needed telling.
He shook the box, and something inside slid. It needed to be opened but not with haste, rather with caution, respect. Could the contents be as old as the box itself? Older?
Roland examined the lock again.
The door flew open, and Roland jumped.
Peter backed into the room carrying a tray, but he had seen Roland scoot off the bed and return the box to his desk. His eyes narrowed for a split second, but then he smiled. “That box is pretty cool, huh?”
Roland’s face heated. He stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and nodded.
Using his forearm, Peter cleared junk off his dresser. He set the tray down and grabbed slices of bread and ham. “Wanna sandwich? I found some leftover ham and a couple pieces of cherry pie, some root beer. You like root beer?” “Yeah, sure.” Roland approached.
Peter slapped the sandwich he just made into Roland’s hand.
Roland took a bite but couldn’t stop himself from saying, “That box of yours . . .” before he took another bite.
Peter finished making a second sandwich and tore into it. “Yeah?” he said with his mouth full.
“It looks like a 16th or 17th century, chip-carved box, maybe European. The lock’s in good shape. Too bad you don’t have the key. I’d like to know what’s inside.”
Peter laughed. “You sound like an antique dealer.”
Roland shrugged.
“How do you know all that? And what’s a chip-carved box?”
“That is.” Roland took another bite and chewed, gazing at the box. After a swig of root beer, he said, “Someone used a chip knife to make all those triangular cuts and patterns.”
Peter sat on the bed and said, with his mouth full, “So, how much do you think it’s worth?”
Shrugging, Roland considered it. Papa had Roland researching something similar from an estate he managed not too long ago, so he had a good idea. “Several thousand.”
Peter gasped, grabbed his throat, coughed a few times, and then swallowed hard. “Several thousand? You gotta be kidding me. For a little box?”
Roland nodded.
“How do you know that?”
“Papa— I mean, my father collects and sometimes works with antiques.”
“Yeah?” Grinning and with his eyes lit up, Peter leaned forward. “Your father’s an antique dealer, huh? In town?”
Papa, an antique dealer? Roland fought back a laugh, picturing Papa staying put in a shop. “No, he’s an archaeologist. He just loves old stuff.” Polishing off the sandwich and still hungry, he glanced at the tray. “So the box was your grandfather’s, huh? What do you know about it? Where’d he get it?”
Peter handed Roland a plate of cherry pie. “Man, you sound more interested in it than me. You saw the note. You know what I know.”
“Tell me about your grandfather. Where’s he from?” Having no fork, Ro
land lifted the plate and gave Peter a nod.
Peter returned to the cluttered dresser and shoved things around while he spoke. “Well, before California, he lived in Nebraska. Before that, Germany maybe. Yeah, I think he’s from Germany. I’m German on my dad’s side. Can’t you tell? Germany, the land of poets and thinkers.” He turned around, grinning, a fork and a spoon in his hands.
Roland smirked. “Which are you, the poet or the thinker?”
After wiping the fork on his jeans, he handed it to Roland. “Why, I’m a thinker, of course. Can’t you tell by looking around?” He sauntered through his room, waving a hand, indicating open boxes of various electronic junk. “I’m working on rebuilding an old transistor CRT television, you know, a cathode ray tube. I got this old 1948 radio working.” He leaned over one of the boxes. “And this . . . What was this? Oh, yeah.” He straightened. “Well, it’s disassembled now, but it’s going to be a two-way radio.” He shuffled to the desk. “But my latest project is this transmitter and receiver. I need to test them out, but I’m sure they’ll work. I’m pretty good with electronic things.”
“A transmitter and receiver? Just get yourself a cell phone.” Roland wiped the fork on his shirt—Peter’s shirt, really—and cut into the pie.
“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, where’s your cell phone?”
“I . . . had one. It got ruined.” He did not want to explain the cell-phone wars that made Papa take away their phones.
Peter sat on the bed and stared at Roland a moment before saying, “So, what’re your origins? Who’re your ancestors?”
Roland didn’t respond right away. It wasn’t a question he liked answering. It always led to more questions, especially ones about his pale skin—which apparently interested a few kids at school. Ready to change the subject, he said, “I’m Welsh and English on my father’s side, Mexican and Spanish on my mother’s.”
Peter rubbed his chin. “I see the Mexican in your brothers, but you—”
“Think your uncle has a key to the box?”
“What? Oh. The box. Yeah, he’s gonna send it.” Peter gave a lopsided grin. “You’re new to school, but you’ve lived around here for a while, right?”
Roland West, Loner Page 7