by Erica Waters
“All right” is all I say.
“All right.”
“Where are you taking me anyway?”
“It’s a surprise.” He smiles that eye-crinkling smile and glances at me again.
“Looks like we’re heading for the springs.”
“Maybe so.”
The dirt road that winds up to the springs is lined with oak trees with more Spanish moss than leaves. The road’s always getting washed out when the river floods, so it’s full of potholes big enough to rip off an exhaust pipe. When we pull into the parking lot, there’s only one other car.
We head down toward the water. There’s no stairs here like at the bigger, more popular springs. This place isn’t well known, so it’s pretty quiet, except on the weekends in the summer.
I stumble over a root, and Cedar catches my arm to keep me from falling. He runs his fingers down my forearm until they reach my hand, where he laces his fingers in mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers are rough and callused and still cool from the truck’s AC.
I start to pull my hand away but then realize I don’t want to. Mama would say he’s being too forward, but I think touch just comes to him by instinct, like how he hugged Kenneth at the funeral. And I like the way his skin feels against mine—comfortable, easy. He’s not asking anything of me. And it’s reassuring after the week I’ve had.
“Thanks,” I say, and Cedar smiles. He doesn’t let go of my hand until we reach a sandy spot where there’s a picnic table. Then he climbs up on the tabletop and pats the space beside him.
Side by side, we look out over the water, which is a deep blue, and glittering with the late afternoon sun. Springs are about the only natural feature our part of Florida can really brag about. The water’s so clear you could drink it, and ice cold, which means it’s about the only place around here you won’t find alligators. There aren’t any manatees either; you’ve got to go a little farther south for them. But that means the tourists don’t flock here, don’t fill up the banks with their sun chairs, don’t clog the shallows with their floatie-wearing kids. This place, Little Spring, is just for the locals, and we love it the way it deserves to be loved. I spent all the summers of my childhood here, swimming in the shallow parts, away from the sharp, slippery rocks that warn you you’re about to plunge into the cold, dark caves at the bottom of the springs.
It’s still the most beautiful place I know, though I can’t come here without thinking about Jesse, how he used to pull me through the cold water, closer and closer to the caves. I would scream, but I was never scared. He always stopped before we got close enough for him to throw me in. But Jesse always dived straight into the deepest water the moment we got here. He always seemed so fearless. Maybe that’s why I felt safe with him, even when he was pretending to drag me to my death.
That’s Jesse, though. He’s always made me feel safe, even when he wasn’t acting like himself. That’s why the thought that he could do this monstrous thing—bash in Jim’s head with a hammer—is too horrible to believe. If Jesse could kill Jim, he’s not the person I thought he was. Everything else I know and believe about him stops being true. Doesn’t it?
Cedar leans toward me, bumping my shoulder with his. “Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout?” He’s got those green eyes locked onto my face, and they flit toward my mouth.
I look away, my mind spinning with a sudden panic. “My daddy,” I lie, because I don’t feel like talking about Jesse. I can’t talk about Jesse. “We came here a lot when I was a kid. He loved it here.”
“He died when you were younger, right?” Cedar clears his throat nervously.
I nod. “Car accident. I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry,” Cedar says, and he sounds it. I hear more than sympathy in those two words. There’s fear, too, and knowing. But he doesn’t offer up any stories of his own.
I take a deep breath. “Thanks. You want to start playing?” I was trying to avoid talking about Jesse, but I don’t want to talk about Daddy either.
“All right.” His mandolin is out of its case and in his hands before I have even finished opening the clasps on my fiddle case.
“Eager,” I say, teasing.
He cocks one eyebrow at me. “Always.”
I laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is this song I’m about to play,” he says. And then his fingers are flying over the strings and my heart is filling up, bigger and bigger, until I can’t keep the grin off my face anymore. Cedar plays with this perfect blend of deliberateness and abandon, like he’s bound to the music but as free as it’s possible to be.
Watching his brow contract with concentration as he leans over his mandolin, playing fast enough to impress Ricky Skaggs or one of those other old famous bluegrass mandolin guys, I try not to fantasize about what else he might do with those hands.
I am getting pulled in, sucked in like a swimmer caught in a tide pool. I might still be able to scream and kick my way out, but I’m not sure I want to.
He looks up and catches sight of me, and I swear I must look like a cartoon with enormous eyes and giant red hearts hovering over my head. Twitterpated, to quote Bambi. His eyes search my face and he leans toward me, and for a moment I think he’s leaning in to kiss me, but he whispers, “Your turn.” I’m relieved and disappointed at once.
I shake myself a little and then pull my fiddle up, its solid weight under my chin like a life preserver yanking me out of my own foolishness. Drawing the bow across the strings settles me even more, and I remember why I was interested in Cedar in the first place—and it sure wasn’t for his cowboy charm. It was this music—this music I’ve been longing for, music that sent Daddy’s messages swirling on the forest wind, that found me even in an open mic night in Kellyville.
I close my eyes and pull all my concentration into the fiddle. Cedar’s playing again too, and we sound pretty good for just a mandolin and a fiddle, our instruments weaving and dancing like they’ve been playing together since they were slabs of wood. This is what I wanted—to play like this, to get wrapped up in music I love with someone else.
I open my eyes on the last note, and Cedar’s staring at me, and I can see the little red hearts hovering over his head, too, unbelievable as that seems. I’m about to speak when someone starts clapping.
Eleven
We both whip our heads around, but it’s only Kenneth. “What’re you doing here?” Cedar says with a laugh, a cool cowboy again.
“Rose told me you’d be here. I brought my guitar.” The head of a black cloth case sticks up over one of Kenneth’s shoulders. “I didn’t realize what I was walking in on though.”
“That’s all right. Isn’t it, Shady?” Cedar asks uncertainly.
I give a resigned shrug, and Kenneth sits on the bench near my feet and unzips his case. He’s got a Martin made of light-blond wood. It looks new.
“I gotta audition for this band?” Kenneth asks, squinting up at me, sun in his eyes, the afternoon light making his red hair blaze.
“Yeah, show us what you got,” I say. I don’t want to treat him any differently than usual—I hated how people did that to me after Daddy died, like I was suddenly breakable. And the way Kenneth handled himself at the funeral was actually kind of impressive.
“I’ll play ‘Rolling in My Sweet Baby’s Arms’ for you two lovebirds,” he says. And then he’s playing and singing, and I can see his “A Boy Named Sue” performance wasn’t just because of the Vicodin—he’s got one of those naturally drunk and raucous-sounding voices, like Roy Acuff.
“See, I’m not so bad,” he says once he finishes with a G-run flourish.
“You sound better when you’re not stoned,” I say.
Kenneth shakes his head and gingerly touches a yellowing bruise under his eye. “That was a stupid night.”
“I’m sorry Jesse beat you up like that.” Jesse’s anger, Jesse’s strength—they’ve taken on a whole new meaning since his arrest.
“I
left my phone in the truck,” Cedar says. “I’m going to go get it and let y’all talk.”
We watch Cedar sprint away. Kenneth looks back at me. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I can’t believe I spent my last night with Dad like that.”
“Kenneth,” I say, my voice careful, “you don’t believe Frank, do you? That Jesse killed Jim?” I just need one person who knows Jesse to say he didn’t do it.
Kenneth looks away for a long moment and then meets my eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say. He was arrested. The police think he did it. And I don’t really know Jesse all that well. I just bought pills from him a few times. Do you think your brother could have killed my dad? You know him better than I do.”
Kenneth’s gazing at me, his face open and vulnerable. He really barely even had a dad—Jim wasn’t much of one to him after the divorce. And now whatever hope he had of a relationship with Jim is gone forever. But Mama told me to stand by Jesse, no matter what. And I know Jesse would stand by me.
“No, Jesse has his problems, but he’s not a killer,” I say as firmly as I can. “The police are going to figure it out.”
Kenneth doesn’t look convinced, but all he does is sigh. “I know I’m supposed to be angry and out for blood or whatever. But all I feel is sad. I feel so damn sad he’s gone. I don’t want to see Jesse get charged for it if he’s really innocent. I’m sorry he’s in jail.”
I gaze back at him for a moment, stunned, and the tiniest bit lighter. “You’re a good guy, Kenneth. You should stop trying to hide it all the time.”
Kenneth looks down at his hands in his lap. His brow furrows as he turns his hands over and stares at his palms like he doesn’t recognize them. Unease starts to spread through my chest, but then his face clears and he’s his usual, goofy-looking self again. “You’re just mad ’cause I kept howling at your girlfriend.”
I laugh and slug his shoulder, already dismissing my moment of disquiet.
Cedar saunters back over. “Kenneth, me and Shady’s going to play ‘Blackberry Rag.’ You think you can keep up?”
“Boy, I’ll turn you into jam,” Kenneth says.
I laugh and bring my fiddle up, ready to play again.
We speed through the rag so fast, our fingers are all fumbling on the strings, struggling to keep up. I’m almost panting by the end. I haven’t felt this excited about music in so long. Haven’t felt happy about it in ages. “Another!” I yell.
“Let’s play ‘Salty Dog,’” Kenneth says, and it takes all I have not to roll my eyes. I see exactly what kind of musician Kenneth is. “Come on, it’s funny.”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh.
We play until the sun has almost set and the sky is shot with pink and red, until the buzz of mosquitoes and the drone of cicadas have joined our song. Kenneth says he’d better get home before his stepdad does, and takes off at a trot, leaving Cedar and me sitting here, holding our instruments but not playing, just staring at the spring, watching its surface darken with the sky.
“I should get home too,” I say, smacking away a mosquito. “Honey will be wondering where I am.” Having both Jim and Jesse gone has been hard on her. She’s used to having a house full of people to dote on her.
Cedar nods, and we go back to looking at the water, neither of us moving to leave. There’s a single pale star shining high in the dark-blue sky. The cicadas have amped up their electric singing, as if we were the opening act and they’re ready to have the stage to themselves. But I’m still full of the music, the strings still vibrating from my fingertips to my heart.
“Shady,” Cedar says, turning to look at me. I meet his eyes and almost wish I hadn’t, because I’m getting pulled in again, drawn almost against my own will. “I like you. I know you’ve got a lot going on with your family right now, and I don’t really know what’s between you and Sarah.” He blushes ever so slightly. “I don’t want to make things more complicated. But I want to tell you I like you, and there’s no rush at all, and no pressure. But . . .” His lips quirk into a smile. “But I really wanna kiss you right now.” His ever-so-slight blush deepens. “Is that awful?”
All the air leaves my lungs, and I just stare at Cedar, taking in every detail of his face. He’s not the one I’ve been longing for, but all the same, I really wanna kiss him too.
“So kiss me,” I say, and he smiles, not the sly kind, but a new kind of smile I haven’t seen yet, shy and sweet and wondering.
He leans in and cups my cheek with one hand, his face inches from mine and his eyes searching, questioning. I fill the space between us, and then our lips are touching. I can feel the prickliness of his stubble against my face, and I’m breathing in the smell of him—and he doesn’t smell like cloves or starlight or any of the other nonsense boys smell like in romance novels—he just smells like a boy, but it’s nice.
We kiss with only our lips at first, soft and sweet, and then he opens his mouth wider, and his tongue is in my mouth, and then his hands are in my hair, and I’m worried our instruments are going to go crashing to the dirt because it’s like we’ve been caught up in a wind, and that wind’s going to carry us wherever it’s already going. I wrap my arms around him and feel the hard muscles of his back, the broadness of his shoulders. I run one hand up the back of his neck, across the short, sharp hair at his nape, fresh from the barber’s shears. He shivers and kisses me harder, and it’s like we’re not two separate bodies anymore but a collection of atoms trying with all their might to join into one great big giant atom.
My phone rings, jolting me back to reality. The ringtone is loud in the still twilight of the open springs, the sound echoing across the water. Cedar laughs against my mouth. “Better answer that.”
Honestly, my first thought is that it’s my daddy calling me from the grave, telling me to get away from that boy before his hands start wandering. But more likely it’s my mama. I break away from Cedar and fish around in my bag until I find the phone.
It’s a number I don’t recognize, but I answer anyway. An automated voice comes on telling me I’m receiving a call from an inmate in a correctional facility. My heart starts to race.
I set up my phone so Jesse could call me from the detention center days ago, even though I figured he wouldn’t want to talk to me. When the voice asks if I’ll accept the call, I practically shout, “Yes.” Then there are some mechanical clicks on the line, followed by a hollow space.
“Hey, it’s me,” Jesse says, his voice gravelly and tired.
“Oh my God, Jesse.” Relief floods me at the sound of my brother’s voice. “Jesse,” I say again, a lump rising to my throat.
Cedar’s eyes get big, and I turn away from him, a twinge of guilt in my stomach. Jesse’s in jail and I’m kissing a boy at the springs.
“Are you okay?” I jump down from the table and start pacing by the edge of the water.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m calling to see if you and Honey are doing all right.”
“We’re fine too. But are you really okay? Are you safe?” I want to cling to the sound of his voice.
Jesse laughs. “I’m about to be a convicted felon, but otherwise I’m all right.”
“Why do you say that? You’re innocent,” I say, but my voice wavers so much I might as well have added, right?
“If my own sister doesn’t believe me, why should a judge?” Jesse says, sounding hurt.
“I do believe you. It’s just . . .” I rub my eyes. How can I explain what’s happening inside my head, my heart? “Anyway, you’re only seventeen, so even if they charge you, you’ll only go to juvie.”
“They want to charge me as an adult. The world thinks I’m trash, Shady. I already have a record. My public defender is a joke. There’s no way I make it out of this without going to prison.”
The thought of Jesse in prison—locked away behind bars with dangerous men—turns my will to iron. “I’m going to make sure you go free.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I walk
away from Cedar, down around the side of the spring, so he can’t hear. “I’m going to find out the truth.”
“No, you need to stay the fuck out of this. You’re forgetting that someone literally smashed in Jim’s head with a hammer.”
I pause, screwing up my courage. “Aunt Ena told me Daddy’s fiddle’s still out there, that it wasn’t really destroyed when he died.” The challenge hangs in the air.
“That fiddle can’t help anyone,” Jesse says coldly, no trace of surprise in his voice.
“Wait, you knew. All this time you knew what happened to the fiddle. You knew it wasn’t lost.” If he lied about the fiddle, what else might he be lying about?
A man’s voice in the background says something I can’t hear. There’s a sound like someone scuffling for the phone. “Just give me a fucking minute,” Jesse growls at the voice, making me jump. “Shady,” he says to me, fast and low, “you’ve got to leave it alone. Just leave it be.”
“I heard it in the woods, Jesse. It’s been calling to me.”
There’s a long silence. When he speaks again, his voice cracks with fear. “I knew there was something weird going on with you. I shouldn’t have—”
“You shouldn’t have lied to me.”
“I don’t have time for this. Just promise me you’ll leave it alone.”
I squat down at the spring’s edge and trail my fingers in the cold water. A shock runs up my arm, like the night when I was little and held the elderly ghost’s hand. “Don’t you want to know what really happened to Jim?”
“It’s not worth it.”
“Your life’s not worth it? If we know—”
Jesse’s voice cuts across my question. “Promise me you’re not going to mess around with the fiddle. It’s not safe.” When I don’t answer, he starts swearing. “Promise me, right now, or I make a full confession saying I killed Jim and I planned it for weeks.”
“What?” I bite out, splashing the water, startling an inch-long fish. It darts away like a stream of melted silver. “You can’t do that.”