He’s lying to her. But he can’t tell her the truth. Not if he wants her to stay with him.
They are standing there, in the middle of this bleak room, crappy tiles and a wall full of small employee lockers, old movie posters covering every available surface, a ratty couch. But it’s just them, and she’s looking at him, listening, facing him, both of her hands in both of his, close enough that all he has to do is lean forward a few inches to kiss her. Her eyes are welled up with tears, and he knows his are the same.
“I’m sorry, Deanne. I can’t do anything about my family. It is what it is. I’m not my stepfather, I’m not my brother, but they’re part of my life, and that’s going to follow me around.”
She lets go of one of his hands, wipes her eyes. Takes a deep, shuddering breath, reaches out and touches her thumb to his lips. “You know, Jessup, for a seventeen-year-old boy, you’re not so dumb.”
“Thanks?” He has a crooked smile on his face and he does lean forward a few inches now. Their noses touch, their lips gentle, the air between them disappearing. They are like that for a few seconds before they hear the door opening.
BUTTER WITH THAT?
Deanne is at the ticket window. He’s behind the concession stand with Julia, a sophomore who has a crush on Jessup. She’s okay, not a girl he’d be interested in even if he and Deanne weren’t dating—nice, but he likes girls who challenge him—but Deanne teases him about it anyway, thinks it’s funny to ask Jessup if he wants to butter Julia’s popcorn.
There is a slow but constant stream of customers, always three or four people in line. Large Sprite and small popcorn, medium popcorn and a large water, small Coke and a Butterfinger, two kids’ deals with Sprites a large popcorn large Coke M&Ms and nachos, two large Diet Cokes a medium Coke a medium Sprite three medium popcorns a grape slushy and you’ll bring the pizza into the movie theater for us?
When there are gaps between customers at the ticket counter, he sees Deanne looking over at him, and he smiles back. A few times, when she doesn’t notice, he catches teenage boys, college students, even a few grown men, looking at her in admiration.
She is beautiful, but the funny thing is, if he had to describe her, even though a lot of the guys on the team would say the coach’s daughter is hot, Jessup would say she looks healthy. She’s fit, the muscular leanness you get from running cross-country and distance meets in track and field, and she comes by her athleticism honestly: aside from Coach Diggins, Mrs. Diggins was a D-I cross-country runner, runs half marathons and triathlons now for fun. He knows it’s desperately unhip to think of his girlfriend as “healthy” instead of “hot” or “sexy,” but he doesn’t care. She is hot and sexy, but she’s . . . wholesome.
She sees him staring, gives him a wink that feels decidedly unwholesome, and he’s got a hot flashback to the pickup truck, her skin on his skin, the way she held him as he slid inside of her.
“I said no butter.”
Jessup looks blankly at the woman in front of him. He apologizes and gets back to work.
DIGGINS
It’s quarter to six when Coach Diggins walks in. They are in a lull between shows. There are fourteen screens at the movie theater, and Jessup’s expecting things to pick up soon. Saturday night and all. He’s glad Norma has him and Deanne scheduled to go off at eight o’clock. Four more teenagers are working now, getting ready for the rush. Jessup has just put a new scoop into the popcorn machine when he sees Coach Diggins stop by the ticket booth, say something to Deanne. Diggins looks around the open lobby. He sees Jessup watching, acknowledges him, but he’s searching for someone else first. Deanne points out Norma. Coach and Norma talk for a minute or two, Norma looking at Jessup and then waving him over. He tells Julia to keep an eye on the popcorn, not to let it burn.
“Your coach says he needs to talk to you,” Norma says.
“I’ve got popcorn going.” He feels silly as soon as he says it, so he adds, “But Julia’s watching it.” Feels sillier.
Diggins is solid. Serious. His jacket is zipped up and there’s a fine gloss of water on it. Rain or snow?
Jessup is trying to keep his heart rate down.
Norma is clearly hoping to hover, but Diggins excuses her with a polite, but firm, “if you can give us a few minutes.”
She heads behind the counter, clearly torn between the competing instincts of nosiness and compliance.
Diggins walks the two of them over to the corner, out of the way. He’s the kind of man who looks you directly in the eye. No shiftiness. No looking away from that. Jessup meets the stare.
“You have anything you need to tell me?” Diggins says. “Because I got a heads-up call from Chief Harris.”
Jessup’s never met Chief Harris, but he knows the man. He seemed plenty comfortable in front of a microphone in the days after Ricky and David John were arrested. Was quick to say that they were investigating what happened in the alley as a hate crime, but not so quick to say that Ricky was defending himself, that Liveson was the one to start it, hitting Ricky in the face with a beer bottle. Chief Harris is black.
Jessup asks, “What did he say?” Diggins narrows his eyes at Jessup, and after a beat, Jessup adds, “Sir.”
“You sassing me?” Diggins’s Mississippi comes through. Angry.
All Jessup feels is tired.
X’S AND O’S
What do you want me to tell you?” Jessup says. What he really wants to say is, what’s the point? Diggins has had his mind made up from the jump. Otherwise, why wouldn’t Jessup be a captain?
As if he’s said it out loud, Diggins nods. “I know what you’re thinking, but if you tell the truth, I’ll stand behind you. I want to know what happened: did you have anything to do with Kevin Corson’s accident?”
“What did Chief Harris say?” Jessup is surprised at the words coming out of his mouth. David John has always been big on respecting teachers and coaches. When Jessup was younger, the one time Jessup mouthed off to a coach—he can’t remember what it was over, just that it was the week before David John and Ricky were arrested—his stepfather marched over from the bleachers and demanded the coach pull him from the game and sit him. Even then, even though he was small at the time, he was one of the better players, and David John said that meant he had more responsibility, that he had to set an example for the other players. You could disagree—you could even argue respectfully—but no mouthing off. There’s a difference, and you know it, his stepfather said.
He’s not sure if he’s mouthing off now, just that he doesn’t understand what Coach Diggins wants of him.
But what Diggins wants is the truth.
Jessup tells him something close to it. Runs through most of the night, mostly sticking to the facts.
“And you didn’t see him again after the Kilton Valley boys walked out of the house?”
“No, sir.”
“And you went straight home after you left the party?”
Jessup barely hesitates, but he knows his eyes flicker, a quick glance at Deanne. “Yes, sir.” He can’t tell if Diggins notices him looking at his daughter. “Look, sir, I’m sorry about what happened to Corson, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong.
BALANCE
Diggins asks him a few more questions, treads lightly on the question of alcohol at the party, of who was drinking, who wasn’t, and then sighs.
“Look, Jessup, I know you don’t think I’ve been fair to you.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe it’s not fair. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken what happened with your brother and your dad into account, but I was trying to do what’s best for the team.”
There’s a part of Jessup that falls on his knees and grabs Diggins’s hands, cries, but what about me, what about me? But there’s a bigger part of him that knows that he has to sta
nd there and face him like a man.
“I understand, sir,” he lies.
Diggins gives him a curt nod. “Okay. If it comes to it, I’ll say you’re a good kid. Never gave me any trouble. But you’ve got to understand, there’s a lot of moving pieces. And if you aren’t telling me the truth—if you’re lying to me, about anything—I will hang you out to dry.” His voice is suddenly very cold. It’s the voice of somebody who stayed in the NFL through sheer force of will, who played as a pro because he was willing to do whatever it took to win. The voice of a man who understands what it means to drown and who isn’t going to let Jessup pull him under. “You understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” Jessup says. He wonders what would happen if he said the word to Coach Diggins. If Diggins stood in front of him, wagging his finger, telling him to say the word.
Diggins leaves, stopping to chat briefly with his daughter. When he’s gone, Deanne stares at Jessup. He can’t read the map of her face.
PUNCHING OUT
He’s off a minute or two before Deanne. Punches out, changes back into his long-sleeved shirt, goes to the bathroom. By the time he’s done, she’s ready to go.
They don’t say much as they walk to the parking lot. It’s a couple of degrees warmer than the night before, and there’s a light mist hanging in the air. Just damp enough to make things feel miserable, to slick the pavement. Jessup is cold with just the hoodie, wishes he had his jacket. Did Earl burn it?
Deanne unlocks her car. It’s a small SUV, a Honda CRV that is about four years old, a hand-me-down from her mother, and she keeps it surprisingly neat for a teenager. When Jessup rides in Wyatt’s truck, he always jokes that you’d need a shovel to clean out the cab properly. Plus, Wyatt’s truck always smells like dirty socks. Sometimes Jessup thinks Kaylee is a saint for putting up with him. Sometimes Jessup wonders why Wyatt is his best friend, if Wyatt really is as close as a brother.
“Do you want me to just drive you home?” she says, starting up the car.
The words hurt. He tries not to show it. “Oh. Okay. I guess.”
But she doesn’t put the car in drive. Just sits there, windshield wipers making a lazy, intermittent circuit. The radio is on. Pop music. Something he doesn’t recognize. He shuts it off.
“Deanne?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was kind of bitchy.”
“It’s okay.”
“No. I’m . . . I’m just scared.”
“Yeah,” he says.
Her phone dings with a text. She smiles wryly. “Brooke is at the State Street Diner with Stanley. Again. Said she’s got a big booth.”
The phone dings again. The smile disappears.
“What?”
“She wants to know if you’re coming.”
“Oh.” He’s glad she doesn’t read him the text verbatim. Pretty sure it’s not an innocent question, that Brooke hopes the answer is no.
A car pulls into the spot next to them. An older couple, midforties, gets out. They are talking seriously about something, neither one of them seeming to notice Jessup and Deanne sitting in the CRV. The windshield wipers sweep back and forth. The thin film of moisture slowly settles on the glass, waiting for the next heartbeat of the wipers.
Deanne thumbs her phone. “I’m saying we’re not going to make it.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t really want to go to a diner with Brooke and Megan and their boyfriends,” she says with a laugh. “I mean, not really.”
“Yeah. Me either.”
“I don’t really want to take you home, either. Want to go somewhere?”
He reaches for her hand. She slides her fingers between his.
GARDEN
He’s glad it’s November. In July they’d have to find somewhere to hide, but in November it’s full dark by eight fifteen, been dark for a while. “Hey,” he says, “daylight saving tonight. We get an extra hour tomorrow.” He’s still holding her hand. She’s comfortable behind the wheel, but she’s only had her license for two months, so she drives carefully. Nothing like riding with Wyatt or any other guy he knows. He thinks teenage boys are idiots. Even if the snow from the day before is gone, the roads are wet; she only grazes the speed limit.
They go to the bird sanctuary. It’s about a mile from campus, but it’s still part of Cortaca University. Before last weekend, when he and Deanne went there for a walk, he’d only ever been there on field trips in elementary school, but it’s cool. The Lab of Ornithology is supposed to be world-class, and the sanctuary is 220 acres—it doesn’t escape Jessup that it’s almost the same size as the acreage the Blessed Church of the White America sits on—and littered with trails. More important, it’s also littered with pullouts. It’s not as private as the parking lot by the reservoir, but there aren’t any streetlights, so it’s private enough.
She turns off the car and climbs into the back without saying anything. Jessup isn’t dumb enough to hesitate. He follows her into the backseat, and before he’s even settled she’s on him with an urgency that he hadn’t expected.
She kisses him hard, her teeth hitting his, her tongue darting into his mouth. He’s pressed back against the door, and she’s straddling one of his legs, pressing against his thigh. They stay with kissing for a few minutes, long enough that the windows start to fog. He’s got his hand up her shirt and then pulls it over her head, works at her bra for a few seconds before she sits up, pushes his hand out of the way, and takes it off herself. He wants to reach up and turn on the interior light, marvel at the way she looks, stare at her body, give praise for this miracle, but instead he pulls her toward him so that he can kiss her breast, her nipple in his mouth. After a minute, she pulls at the hem of his shirt, peels it off him, skin on skin, her mouth on his. He slips his hand past her waistband, can’t believe she gives him this. As his fingers touch her, she makes a sound that is both a gulp and a squeak, her nails raking the back of his neck, and then grabs his hair and holds him against her.
EDEN
She works off her pants and then the two of them clumsily roll over. It’s both funny and urgent, the two of them laughing and smiling and gasping and hurrying, their bodies too big for the cramped space of the backseat. He’s got his hand between her legs, and she’s squirming and trying to undo the button of his jeans, so he helps her, kicking off his sneakers, his jeans, his underwear, until both of them are naked. She gets a condom and gives it to him. He unwraps it, puts it on. He hesitates for a beat, staring into her eyes, but she puts her hands on his hips, pulls him into her.
He can’t stop himself from letting out something close to a whimper. Doesn’t understand how there can be anything better than this, even with the awkwardness of the backseat, with the air inside the car starting to chill in the November night. He keeps most of his weight on his arms, aware of how much bigger he is than her, but the sounds she makes are close enough to discomfort that he asks her if she’s okay.
“Yeah, this is good,” she says. “You?”
“Yeah.”
She has one of her legs down off the seat, the other wrapped up over his hip and across his ass. She kisses his neck, rocks her body with his.
He doesn’t know why it is that he stops, but he does. The warmth of her body under and around him is almost overwhelming.
She kisses him and then looks at him, her nose touching his. “Are you okay?”
“Deanne,” he says. It’s as if he is flying, the heat enough to make him feel like he’s about to touch the sun. His voice is quiet. Everything is quiet.
He says what he’s been thinking.
She says it back like all she’s ever done is wait for this moment.
SERPENT
Jessup is half asleep. The car is cool, the windows wet on the outside from the gentle mist, fogged up on the inside from the heat of their bodies. He knows they’ll have to get up, get dressed, turn on the m
otor in a few minutes so they can run the heater, but for now, all he wants to do is lie there. The smallness of the backseat just means they are closer together.
The sound of Deanne’s phone is jarring. A trill interrupting the quiet. But she doesn’t move.
After five or six rings, the phone goes silent. She nuzzles against him, whispers in his ear. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” He’s earnest, wants to kiss her, but she laughs so he pretends to pout. “You do realize that laughter is not the correct response to somebody telling you that they love you,” he says.
“Sorry,” she says. “I don’t know why I’m laughing. I love—”
Her phone rings again, and with a sigh, she sits up and reaches into the front seat, grabs it off the console. “Crap. Sorry. It’s my dad. I can ignore one call, but not two.”
She answers, holds the phone up to her ear with one hand, scratches gently at Jessup’s chest with the other.
“No,” she says. “I told you I was meeting Megan and Brooke at the State Street Diner. I just got here. I’m still in the car. I’m about—” Her hand stops moving on his chest. She sits up straight. “What do you—Dad!”
She tosses her phone into the front seat and starts scrambling for her clothes. Jessup realizes that Coach Diggins has been tracking Deanne’s phone at almost the exact moment that Deanne hisses, “He’s here. Get dressed!”
As the headlights sweep over them, Jessup sees the fear in Deanne’s eyes, assumes that he has the same look in his.
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