“Did you remodel? Everything looks so new.”
She nodded, taking one of my bags to the bed and setting it on the purple-and-gray plaid quilt. “We did.” The rest of her answer lingered in the air, unsaid. The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Mason’s eyes brightened. “Oh! That’s the pizza! C’mon!”
I followed her to the living room, watched her tip the delivery boy, thank him by name, and then carry two boxes to the kitchen.
We padded to the dining table, and I watched as Mrs. Mason opened the boxes, breathing in the amazing smells of grease and spices just as I did.
“Plates!” she said, jogging to the kitchen. “Here you are.” She set one in front of me, pulling out a slice and taking a bite while encouraging me with her free hand to sit across from her. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m starving.”
I looked over my choices. One pizza was half-cheese, half-pepperoni. The other was half-supreme, half-sausage.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” she said, chewing. “I guessed.”
I took a slice of each, piled them on my plate, and looked up at Mrs. Mason.
“Attagirl,” she said.
I bit the tip off the pepperoni slice first, humming as the melted cheese overwhelmed my senses. I hadn’t had delivery pizza in years. My eyes closed, and my body instantly relaxed. “That’s good,” I said.
Mrs. Mason nodded, giggled, and took another slice.
My enjoyment didn’t last long, as the thought of Mama eating alone—if she was eating at all—infiltrated my mind. Suddenly the pizza tasted like guilt instead of satisfaction.
“It’s okay, Catherine. You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling. It’s normal.”
I looked down. “It’s normal to feel trapped even when you’re free?”
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “It’s part of the process. It takes people years to navigate something like this. The guilt, the uncertainty, regret . . . the loss. But it’s okay. Try to live in the right now and take it one second at a time. And in this second, you’re allowed to enjoy your pizza and feel relaxed here with me. Being happy away from the Juniper doesn’t mean you love your mother any less.”
I took another bite, trying to digest her words as I did my food. “It’s hard to relax. My mind is still going through lists of things that need to be done before the morning.”
“Also normal. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with the process.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the Christmas tree glistening in the living room. “That’s pretty.”
“Did you have a tree at home?”
I shook my head. “Not since Dad died. He use to do all that. Put up the tree and the lights. They never really looked right on the Juniper anyway. But I like to look out my window at the neighbors’.”
Mrs. Mason checked her watch. “Well, you’re in for a treat.” She whispered a countdown and then pointed to the ceiling. The lights outside flashed on, and two blobs in the front yard began to inflate. Seconds later, a huge, glowing snowman and Santa Claus were standing upright on the lawn, swaying in the wind.
“Wow,” I said flatly.
Mrs. Mason clapped and giggled. “I know, right? Completely ridiculous.”
The corner of my mouth turned up. “It’s pretty great.”
The doorbell chimed again, and Mrs. Mason struggled to keep a smile on her face. “Stay here.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Catherine
In her sweatshirt, gray lounge pants, and bare feet, Mrs. Mason slowly approached the door, peering out before twisting the bolt lock and pulling on the knob. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Elliott said, entering when Mrs. Mason stepped aside.
He took off his coat as Mrs. Mason locked the door.
He held up a piece of paper, different from the letter he’d received from Mrs. Mason rescinding his suspension. “I wanted you to be the first to know. I got the official news today.”
I stood, and Elliott wrapped his arms around me while Mrs. Mason put his coat in the closet. “What is it?” I looked down. It was an envelope from Baylor. “You got in?” I asked, excited.
“Not officially. They’ve offered a full athletic scholarship,” he said, not even half as excited as he should’ve been. “They’ll need a verbal commitment if I decide to go.”
“What do you mean if you decide to go?” I asked.
“To where?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“You’re going! It’s Baylor!” I exclaimed, hugging Elliott. When I pulled back, he only offered a small smile.
“What did you do?” he asked, guilt weighing down his features.
I pressed my cheek against his T-shirt, breathing him in. He smelled like his aunt’s house: savory from her cooking, and clean: bath soap and laundry detergent.
“Catherine,” he said, holding me at arm’s length.
“Catherine made a deal to keep what happened with Owen off your record. You’re lucky Dr. Augustine wasn’t there today,” Mrs. Mason said.
“So I’m not suspended?” he asked.
“Did you read the letter?” Mrs. Mason asked, raising an eyebrow. “In-house suspension, my office, and anger management sessions. That’s the deal.”
“In return for what?” He looked to me.
“Telling her about the Juniper. About how Mama’s sick, how I have no supervision, and that I’ve been taking care of myself. Hopefully it won’t mess with your scholarship.”
Elliott watched me for a while and then looked to Mrs. Mason.
“Your counseling will begin next week and will continue through break. Hungry?” she asked.
Elliott noticed the pizza. “Always,” he said, sitting down.
Mrs. Mason popped back into the kitchen to get a third plate and set it in front of Elliott.
“Sorry for just showing up,” Elliott said between bites. “I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“Understandable,” Mrs. Mason said, sitting across from us. “And considerate. But no apology needed. I actually feel better having you here. I’d forgotten how comforting it is having a man in the house.”
“Happy to help,” Elliott said.
“We also have an alarm system,” she said to me. “I’ll get you the code later.”
“We?” I asked.
Mrs. Mason smiled. “You and me. You live here now.”
I smiled. She was trying so hard to make me feel comfortable. “The alarm must be new.”
“We got it after . . .” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing.
The memories from that night replayed in my mind so vividly that I had to shake the humiliation and fear away. I closed my eyes and nodded, trying to forget for the thousandth time.
“After what?” Elliott asked.
“After the Masons came home to find my mother in their house.”
“What?” Elliott said.
“It was after the first time I reported her to DHS, about six months after Mr. Calhoun passed,” Mrs. Mason said.
“So . . . was she just walking around or what?” Elliott asked.
Mrs. Mason paled. “She was hiding under our bed.”
“Your . . . bed?” Elliott asked, looking to me for confirmation.
I nodded, sinking down in my seat.
“That’s kind of crazy,” Elliott said.
“She wasn’t going to hurt us. She was just confused,” Mrs. Mason said.
“She was lying on her side in a ball, whimpering. Don’t defend her,” I said. “Please don’t.”
“Did she get arrested?” Elliott asked.
“They didn’t press charges,” I said.
“And I’m still not sure if you’ve forgiven me,” Mrs. Mason said.
“I don’t blame you. I don’t blame anyone.”
“Well?” Mrs. Mason asked, looking at Elliott. “Are you going to tell us?”
“What?” Elliott’s eyes danced between me and our counselor.
“What Owen said to you.”
Elliott shifted in his seat
. “I figured he had told you already.”
“No,” Mrs. Mason said matter-of-factly. “Owen spent the afternoon in the emergency room.”
“Oh. How . . . how is he?”
“From what I understand, the swelling has gone down a bit. His right orbital bone is fractured. You’re lucky your aunt and uncle visited the hospital and talked his parents out of pressing charges, despite Detective Thompson pressuring them to.”
“He’s the lucky one.” Elliott sniffed. “I pulled most of my punches.”
Mrs. Mason arched an eyebrow.
“What did he say to you, Elliott?” I asked. “For you to beat him like that?” I needed there to be a reason. A good one. I needed to hear him say that he’d been provoked, and everything around us wasn’t breaking him, too. Elliott was my anchor to normal, and without that, I was afraid I’d blow away to the same place Mama had lived since Dad died.
He looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It kind of does,” Mrs. Mason said. She planted her foot on her chair, her knee between her chest and the edge of the table. It was planned, like everything else she did, to make her seem more approachable.
“He said . . .” He took a deep breath, and then the words spewed from his mouth. “He called me a gut-eater, and then he said Catherine was a whore, and probably pregnant with my papoose.”
Mrs. Mason’s mouth hung open.
Elliott tried to look me in the eyes but failed. “Sorry.”
“You’re sorry? After what he called you?” I opened my mouth to say more but couldn’t. I covered my eyes with my hand instead. “Elliott.” My bottom lip trembled. It wasn’t fair that he was a target at all, but for someone to say something that disgusting because it seemed like the easiest way to hurt him—Elliott, the kindest person I knew—it made me feel sick to my stomach.
“I have no words, Elliott, except that I’m so sorry that happened to you, and I’m going to make sure nothing like that is uttered in our school again,” Mrs. Mason said.
“I can’t believe Owen said something so horrible. I can’t believe he—”
“Ask anyone in that classroom, because he yelled it,” Elliott said.
“I didn’t mean that I don’t believe you,” I said. “I believe you. It’s just that, of all the people I know, Owen’s the last person I would think was capable of saying something like that to another human being.”
Mrs. Mason narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be asking Coach Peckham why he didn’t reveal that part.”
Elliott closed his eyes. “There’s more.”
“More?” I said.
“I need to tell you everything. Minka is in that class.”
“Oh no,” I said.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Elliott finally confessed. “She accused me of doing something to Presley. She asked me in front of everyone if I raped her. She said I probably threw her body in a ditch in White Eagle. So I—I told her to shut up, or she was going to end up missing next.”
I covered my mouth as Mrs. Mason gasped.
“I know!” Elliott said, standing. Shame darkened his face. “I know it was stupid. I didn’t mean it. But after weeks of that crap, I’d finally just had enough!”
“Now is a good time to tell me in detail exactly what’s been going on,” Mrs. Mason said.
I stood next to Elliott, prepared to defend him no matter what, the way he had done for me. “The accusations. The racial slurs. They’ve been shoving him in the halls. Throwing things at him,” I said, watching Elliott get angrier after every disclosure. “But what you said, Elliott, it sounds like an admission of guilt. That’s why Owen yelled at you. He worships Minka, and you threatened her.”
“In front of an entire classroom. This isn’t good,” Mrs. Mason said.
“It just came out.” Elliott groaned. He laced his fingers together on top of his head, pacing.
“Why didn’t either of you come to me earlier? By the time Catherine told me what was going on, it was too late,” Mrs. Mason said.
“I thought I could handle it,” Elliott said. “I thought once they found Presley or couldn’t prove it was me, they’d let it go. But it’s gotten worse.”
Someone knocked on the door, and we froze.
“Stay calm,” she said, standing and walking to the door. When she opened it, she immediately crossed her arms over her middle and took a step back. “Milo.”
Mr. Mason stepped in, taking one look at Elliott and then turning to his wife. “What is he doing here?” he whispered, his lips barely moving.
“He came to see Catherine. She’ll be staying here awhile.”
“Are you insane?” Mr. Mason said. He tried to keep his voice low but failed.
“We can hear you,” Elliott said.
Mr. Mason continued, “The Brubakers went to the hospital after the Youngbloods left. They’re trying to talk Owen’s parents into pressing charges. If they do, they’ll be looking for Elliott.”
“Who will be looking for Elliott?” Mrs. Mason asked.
I stood, taking Elliott’s hand in mine. He squeezed, his palm damp. He was scared, too.
Mr. Mason looked at us, sympathy weighing down his face. “The police. They’ll take this opportunity to question him further on Presley’s disappearance. They have no other leads. They’re going after him, and then”—he looked to me—“they might come after Catherine.”
“No,” Elliott said, stepping in front of me as if Mr. Mason was there to take me. His fingers dug into mine. “We didn’t do anything! How many times do we have to say it?”
Mrs. Mason sat at the table, her palms flat against the dark wood. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and then nodded. “Okay. Nothing has happened yet. Let’s not worry until there is something to worry about.”
“Becca, he shouldn’t be here,” Mr. Mason snapped.
Mrs. Mason looked up at her husband. “And neither should you.”
Mr. Mason fidgeted, clearly hurt by her reply. He had lost weight since the first day of school, biceps beginning to bud from his arms, the flab beneath his shirt nearly gone. He wore clothes that reminded me more of Coach Peckham than the usual short-sleeved button-downs and boring ties Mr. Mason was known for.
He started to walk out but stopped by the tree, peering down at the presents. All were green, red, and silver foil but one: a small rectangle wrapped in the same shade of purple that was painted on the walls in my room. “Becca . . .”
“You should go, Milo.”
Mr. Mason pointed at Elliott. “He’s staying?” When Mrs. Mason opened her mouth to argue, he stopped her. “He’s a suspect, Becca. He shouldn’t be left alone. He shouldn’t have any moment unaccounted for.”
“Then I’ll follow him,” Mrs. Mason said.
Mr. Mason looked at Elliott and sighed. “I’ll do it. I don’t want you girls driving back here alone at night. Not with Presley still missing. And not after you’ve pissed off Mrs. Calhoun. No offense, Catherine.”
I shook my head and shrugged.
Elliott turned to me. “He’s probably right. If the cops stopped me on the way home, Mr. Mason could tell them where I’ve been at least.”
“You’ll see her in the morning at school. My office. Eight o’clock,” Mrs. Mason said.
Elliott nodded, then bent down to kiss my forehead, letting his lips linger for a while. “See you in the morning.”
He hugged me tight and then grabbed his jacket from the closet, his keys off the table, and then passed through the open door Mr. Mason was holding.
Mr. Mason’s eyes were full of conflict when he met his wife’s gaze. “The back door is locked? The windows?” She nodded, and he sighed. “This was reckless, Becca. I wish you’d talked to me first.”
She folded her arms across her middle. “I would’ve done it anyway.”
He breathed out a laugh. “I know. Be sure to lock the door when I leave. Enable the alarm.”
Mrs. Mason nodded, closing the door behind her husband and twisting the
bolt lock.
She pressed a few buttons on a white, square display and then looked over her shoulder. “I need a four-digit number. Something you’re familiar with.”
I thought about it for a moment.
She pressed the code and then another button. It beeped twice. “You just press in your code and then hit this button to both arm and disarm the alarm when you’re leaving or coming home. This one to arm if you’re staying home. Get in the habit of arming it every time you walk in the door. I won’t always be here.”
“Okay, Mrs. Mason. I will.”
“Becca,” she said with a tired smile. She stretched and then rubbed the back of her neck, looking down at the nearly empty pizza boxes.
“I’ll get it.” I went to the table, gathering the plates, and took them to the kitchen, rinsing the dishes and breaking down the boxes.
Mrs. Mason watched me with a smile, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were heavy and red. Being watched by her was like being watched by Elliott, so different from feeling eyes on me at the Juniper.
“Thank you,” she said when I finished.
We walked together toward the hallway, Mrs. Mason pausing to turn off lights on the way. She left the Christmas tree plugged in, the soft white glowing brighter.
“Isn’t it funny how lights seem so much more beautiful in the dark?” she asked.
“Like the stars,” I said. “I use to stare out my bedroom window, down at the lights that lined our street. The city stopped replacing the bulbs when they burned out, and it bothered me until I realized I could see the stars better.”
“Always making the best of your circumstances,” Mrs. Mason said. “Good night, Catherine.”
“Night,” I said, watching her go toward her bedroom.
Her door opened and closed, and then I found myself standing in the hallway alone, waiting for the house to breathe, for its eyes to open and watch me like the Juniper did at night. But there was only the faint aroma of Mrs. Mason’s apple cinnamon–scented plug-ins and the glow of the Christmas tree.
I closed my bedroom door behind me. One article at a time, I unpacked my clothes. At the bottom of the last bag was my music box.
It seemed old and dusty when I placed the aging pink-and-white cube on the shiny dresser of my new room. All my things—including me—seemed worn now that they were inside the Masons’ charming home. I undressed and showered, attempting to scrub the secrets from my skin. Mama being alone and afraid forced its way into my thoughts, and worry for Elliott made the center of my chest feel heavy. Six months ago, the only thing that held value was my loyalty to Mama and the Juniper. How had I so quickly and completely changed my mind?
All the Little Lights Page 32