The Devil You Know

by Trish Doller

  “Sit up.” He positions himself behind me on the chair so I’m between his legs with my back against his chest as we inhale chili dogs with ketchup like we haven’t eaten for days. We share a can of Coke and a secret smile over our gluttony, and after I finish licking the last of the chili off my fingertips, Noah kisses me. It’s the kind of kiss that makes me want to roll beneath him. Feel the weight of him pressing down against me. It scares me because for all the talking we did at the river, he’s still a stranger. But this wanting is burning me up, and I don’t know what to do about it.

  “We could go back to my campsite.” His voice is low and shivery beside my ear, and a rash of goose bumps spreads across the backs of my thighs.

  I glance across the fire to check on Justin and Gabrielle, but they have been replaced by Matt and Lindsey, who have moved from Jell-O shots and flirty smiles to full-on making out. And it hits me that my presence at this party doesn’t affect Justin at all. He doesn’t care what I’m eating or who I’m kissing. And checking out my ass isn’t the same as wanting me back. I’ve ensnared myself in my own stupid, imaginary drama. I look at Noah. “Let’s go.”

  “Hey, Sparkles!” Jason calls with a liquid tongue as we leave. “Wait.”

  Maybe he means to apologize but I don’t answer and I don’t look back. With Noah’s fingers threaded through mine we practically run to his campsite, where my dress—that he brought here before our walk—billows softly from a thin clothesline strung between tall oaks. I’m already half-mad for him and seeing the way he hung the dress with such care sends me completely over the edge.

  “This is me.” Noah releases my hand to unzip the flap on one of two dome tents, and we duck through the entrance. He switches on a small battery-operated lantern and pulls me down with him onto a double-size air mattress covered by a green sleeping bag and an old grandmotherly-looking quilt. We kiss each other the same way we ate the chili dogs. Hungry. Fast. His hand burrows beneath my shirt, as my own hands slide up his broad, warm back. His hip bones press into mine, and when his hand covers my breast, I don’t push it away.

  There are no sweet words whispered in the dark. No words at all. Just mouths and hands and peeled-back layers until we’re clothed in nothing but the scent of the river that clings to our skin. It’s only then I realize I’m on the brink of having sex with a stranger and that we need to have a conversation about protection. Or maybe about the fact that I’m not sure I want to do this. “Noah, wait. Stop.”

  “Right.” He breathes the word against my neck. “Condoms. We need condoms.” He sits up and looks around as if he’s a little disoriented. I understand, because I’ve been feeling upside-down since I met him. “I have condoms.”

  “No, I mean—” I sit up and pull my knees against my chest. “I can’t do this.”

  “Oh.”

  “I like you. I really, really do, but I barely even know you. Maybe you and Matt hook up with girls at every campground, and that’s okay. It’s totally not my business.” I know I’m babbling, but I can’t stop myself. “But I feel completely out of control around you and it scares me, and I’m not sure I’m the kind of girl who can just do this.”

  He snatches his boxer shorts off the tent floor with a frustrated snap. “I just don’t—” He blows out a breath, unzips the entrance flap, and steps outside. “I need some air.”

  Chapter 5

  I get dressed and wait a few minutes, wondering if Noah is coming back—and whether I want to be here when he does. The last time I turned Justin down for sex, he got all sulky and accused me of being a tease. He claimed he was only joking, but it made me feel unnecessarily guilty and we ended up fighting. I might be able to forgive Noah’s past, but not respecting my right to say no is a deal breaker.

  Except I am distracted by a copy of John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley—a whitened seam from multiple readings running down its faded orange spine—lying facedown beside the air mattress. I have too many favorite books to commit to a short list, but if I had one, this book would be on it. The Grapes of Wrath put me off Steinbeck after reading it for American Lit, but Mr. Dean bet me five dollars that Travels with Charley would win me back.

  I pick up Noah’s copy to see what page he’s on. Beneath the book is a brown leather wallet, which is infinitely more irresistible than Steinbeck. Inside there’s some cash, a debit card, a Maine driver’s license, and a student ID from the University of Maine. But, even more interesting to a word nerd like me, is that Noah Thomas MacNeal, age twenty-two, has two library cards—one from Oakland and one from a library called Jesup in Bar Harbor, Maine. I don’t know why, but this knowledge makes me smile.

  I place the wallet back in its hiding place and go out to fetch my dress off the clothesline. The fabric is stiff from drying, and it doesn’t smell much better than I do, but I put it on over Lindsey’s shorts. I’m folding Noah’s T-shirt when he comes back through the flap dressed in only boxers and unlaced boots, and trailed by an Australian cattle dog with a patchwork muzzle.

  “Hi,” I say, watching his face for an expression I can recognize.

  “Hey.”

  “Trading one bitch for another?” I say it like a joke—even if I’m not sure it is—and Noah’s serious mouth curves into a smile. He lowers himself to sit on the air mattress beside me. “I guess I owe you another apology,” he says. “I thought you were into it, so you kind of took me by surprise when you put on the brakes and—I shouldn’t have stomped off like an asshole.”

  The dog rests her head on my knee—I know she’s a she because the name Molly is engraved on the bone-shaped tag on her collar—and I stroke the soft fur between her pointy ears. “Apology accepted,” I say. “And just so you know, I was totally into it until—well, until I wasn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just got cold feet, and I appreciate you stopping when I asked.”

  “Why wouldn’t I stop? I’m not a complete Neanderthal.”

  “You’re not even a little bit.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says. “But if it’s any consolation, I don’t make a habit of picking up random girls at campgrounds. I saw you walking down the road in that dress looking like you owned the world, and I just wanted to know you. I still do, but we’re gonna have to do it with our clothes on because you make me crazy, too.”

  I lean over and kiss his cheek, then gather up the grandma quilt. “So where have you been hiding this sweet girl?”

  “She’s been crashed out in Matt’s tent,” he says, reaching down to scratch the dog’s cheek, and I’d swear to God she is smiling at him. “Her name is Molly, and I picked her up last summer at a farm stand up in Maine. They were selling blueberries and puppies. I stopped for the berries, and ended up with the best damn dog in the world.”

  “She’s beautiful.” I take the quilt outside to spread it beside the fire pit. Molly follows.

  “More importantly, she’s brilliant,” Noah says, and I like that he prefers brains over beauty, even if he’s talking about his dog. A few moments later he emerges from the tent, this time with all his clothes on. “Come morning, I’ll show you everything she can do.”

  He stacks some firewood in the pit. The fire catches, and we lie on the ground with our faces tilted skyward. Molly settles warm against my side. Flare-ups of laughter tell me the party is still going strong down the way, but this is so much better.

  “Is your name really Arcadia?” Noah asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea.” I tell him about Mom’s baby name book and my theory about her wanting an adventurous life for me. “But new baby name books say it means unspoiled paradise, so maybe that blows my theory all to hell.”

  “Or maybe it means your mom looked at you and saw something unspoiled and perfect.”

  It sounds like a really smooth pickup line, but it causes an unexpected sadness to catch in my chest, and the stars turn into a Van Gogh sky as my eyes sting with tears. I blink until they re
cede. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

  Noah inches closer to me and shifts his arm so I can rest my head against his chest. He doesn’t smell like citrus or a pine forest or any of those things boys smell like in books. There’s only the faint scent of sweat and a stronger note of wood smoke that makes me want to climb inside his skin. He smells like someone real, and his heart travels through bone and blood, skin and cotton, to beat against my cheek. “Maybe,” he says, “you should.”

  I’m afraid talking about my mom will make me cry, because that still happens once in a while, so I ask if his tattoos hurt and he tells me they didn’t. Then I ask if he’s sick of that question. “That one and the one wanting to know what they all mean.”

  “Do they mean anything?”

  “Not really,” he says. “I’ve always been a big fan of old-school Sailor Jerry-style ink, but the only reason I got this one”—he points to a schooner riding the crest of a wave—“was to cover up a shitty stick-and-poke tattoo I did myself. Then I just kept getting more.”

  I run my fingertips along his arm, but it doesn’t feel any different covered with ink. Not that I thought it would. My fingers reach Noah’s wrist, and I touch the circle of wooden beads around it. “What’s this?”

  “It’s called a mala,” he says. “A string of Buddhist prayer beads.”

  “Are you Buddhist?”

  Most everyone around High Springs is some form of Christian, mostly Southern Baptist. Mom was Methodist so we were all Methodist, but we’re not much of anything anymore. Sometimes I worry about Daniel Boone missing out on Sunday school and the beauty of the church filled with redemption and white lilies on Easter morning, and I know Mom would want me to take him. But going to church is just too hard without her.

  I don’t know any non-Christians.

  “I’m agnostic, I guess, but I got it from a punk-rock Buddhist monk back home who thought meditation might help me get my shit together,” Noah explains. “I suck at meditating because when things get quiet, my brain tends to dredge up random song lyrics and all the stupid shit I’ve ever done, but I keep the mala as a reminder that nothing is permanent. Anger passes. Stupidity is usually temporary. And even the best things in life can’t last forever.”

  “Does it work?” I ask, wondering if something like that would make getting from one day to the next any easier.

  His laugh is quiet, and I can feel his lips against my temple as he answers. “Most of the time it’s just a string of beads.”

  Noah laces his fingers with mine, and we don’t talk. In the quiet, the noise of the party drifts our way a couple of times. The forest undergrowth crackles around us. A faraway plane tricks me into thinking it’s a shooting star. My eyes get heavy, and I’m on the edge of sleep when Molly’s head perks up, her ears like little radar receivers, at the sound of a sharp, strange birdcall. At least it’s no bird I’ve ever heard around here. Noah whistles back a matching call.

  “Matt,” he explains, as his cousin and Lindsey emerge from the darkness into the firelight. Noah lifts his head. “Hey, guys.”

  “Don’t you two just look all cozy?” Matt says.

  “Don’t we just?” Noah replies, making no move to change position.

  Matt adds a fat log to the fire, sending up a burst of orange sparks, as Lindsey parks herself on the corner of the quilt near my feet. Even though I’d rather stay right here with my head against Noah’s shoulder, I sit up to make more room for her.

  Lindsey and I used to spend whole recess periods back in elementary school drawing elaborate chalk cities on the blacktop, but when we got to middle school I joined the soccer team while she hung out with the smart kids. Now we’re friendly enough that it’s not weird to be wearing her shorts, but we don’t have much in common anymore.

  “How was the party?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Park rangers will probably be around shortly to bust things up because some old people in an RV complained about the music being too loud.”

  “Typical.”

  Matt finishes stoking the fire, and the blanket gets even more crowded. In the firelight his skin turns golden, and even after a swim in the river his hair looks clean and soft. He catches me checking him out and smirks as I look away.

  “Cadie, this is my cousin, Matt,” Noah says. “Matt, this is—”

  “The infamous Arcadia Wells,” Matt interrupts. “I know. We’ve met. At the ranger station, if you want to get technical about it.”

  “Wait. Is she—” I can almost see the lightbulb switch on over Noah’s head as he realizes it wasn’t Lindsey who invited Matt to the campfire party. “Oh, shit. Sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to poach.”

  “Poach?” My eyebrows practically climb up into my hairline. “Seriously? Like, I’m an endangered white rhino instead of a person? Pretty sure I’m capable of choosing for myself, instead of waiting around for you guys to decide who gets me. So that’s not what you meant by poach, right?”

  In the awkward silence that follows, I wonder if I’m overreacting. My mother nurtured strong opinions in me, and sometimes I think they push people away. But why should I have to change who I am so someone else will like me? Why should anyone have to do that? And why shouldn’t I call boys out on their bullshit?

  Noah’s pinkie finger brushes against mine on the blanket. “I’m sorry, Cadie.”

  The soulful sound of my name coming from his mouth makes me want to forgive him on the spot. I don’t want to be mad tonight. I’m away from home, free from every little responsibility that holds me down, and sitting beside me is a guy I want to kiss again very soon. I reach my arm into the cooler and fish out a couple of icy cans. “Who wants a beer?”

  After I distribute a round, the mood seems to click back to normal and we sit for a while, discussing the guys’ plan to end their camping trip at Flamingo. According to Matt, the residents were relocated after Hurricane Wilma and the town became part of Everglades National Park.

  “There are streets with no houses,” he explains. “Just the concrete pads where the houses once stood.”

  I smile. “Sounds like the perfect kind of creepy.”

  “Exactly,” he says, smiling back as if we’re together on some inside joke. “But I also think we should go to Disney World.”

  Noah casts a skeptical eye at him. “You were the one who said we should stick to camping and skip the tourist stuff.”

  “Yeah, but it’ll be fun,” Matt insists. He drops his arm around Lindsey’s shoulder. “Especially if we convince a couple of pretty girls to go with us.”

  Lindsey giggles, her eyes shining with hope, and I’m not sure if she’s more excited about the idea of spending more time with Matt or going to the Magic Kingdom.

  The first time my parents took me to Disney World, I was six. My memories are pretty vague, except that my dad spent the extra money for tickets to Epcot Center just because the only Disney character I wanted to meet was Mulan and she was at Epcot. And I remember getting sick after riding the teacups. Our class went to Disney at the end of seventh grade, too, but now that I think about it, Lindsey didn’t go.

  “Dude,” Noah says, his voice low. “I thought we weren’t.”

  There’s something in his tone that leaves me wondering if they’re still talking about Disney World, and the air feels thick with whatever is not being said, but Matt laughs it away. “Cadie might like the teacup ride.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I say. “Last time I rode those things, I puked orange soda all over my mom’s legs.”

  “I think …” Noah gets to his feet and offers me a hand up. “Maybe we should talk about this in the morning.”

  I say good night to Matt and Lindsey as Noah stalks off toward his tent, leaving Molly and a very confused me to catch up. “So what was that about?” I ask, when we’re zipped up inside.

  “Every summer since I moved to Maine, Matt and I have done a trip,” he says. “One year we hiked the two-hundred-and-eighty-one-mile section of the Appalachian Tr
ail that runs up through Maine. Another year we paddled the coastline from Kittery to Calais. This is probably our last summer, so we agreed it was just going to be us, you know?”

  I nod. “It’s a good plan.”

  “It was,” Noah says. “Until I met you, and I thought about how cool it would be if you came with us. But I wasn’t going to ask because of the agreement. Only now he’s invited Lindsey to go to Disney World?”

  “Maybe he really likes her.”

  “He likes you.”

  “Now you’re just being crazy,” I say. “Matt doesn’t even know me. And besides, if I was going to run off to Disney World with a stranger, it would be you.”

  He smiles as he reaches for me, and I can feel the warmth of his hands through the thin fabric of my dress. He kisses me dizzy, then whispers in my ear, “Want to run off with me?”

  The whole idea is insane, but part of me wants to say yes. The part of me that can picture holding his free hand while he drives. Kissing at red lights in one-intersection towns. Sleeping on an air mattress with an Australian cattle dog named Molly. The part of me that’s been waiting for an adventure my whole life.

  “Ask me again tomorrow.” I lie down on his mattress, and Noah spoons up behind me as his dog curls against my stomach. I smile. What’s more likely to happen tomorrow is, I’ll go home and spend the day with Daniel Boone and a basket of dirty laundry. But tonight … this imperfectly perfect night will be pressed in my memory the way Mom pressed flowers between the pages of the dusty old dictionary.

  “I shouldn’t,” he says, his voice heavy with sleep. “But I will.”

  The morning sky is the kind Daniel Boone calls “sheepy”—pale blue pasture filled with pink and purple puffs that look like a close-together flock of sheep—when I wake up needing to use the bathroom. Also, feeling shy because I’ve never woken up with a guy after an entire night together. Justin would sometimes fall asleep with me on my bed, but only just until his curfew. I have no idea what time it is as I wiggle out from under Noah’s arm and push my feet into my boots. Molly follows me to the entrance flap, but when I whisper that I’ll be right back, she hops up on the mattress beside Noah.