Stop … judging me! Everyone was judging her. Even Zoe, who’d gone so far yesterday as to suggest that Stacey wasn’t “doing it right” if she was getting dizzy all the time. Calvin hadn’t said anything in a week, but Stacey wasn’t so dumb as to think he’d stop watching her so easily. She couldn’t afford for her parents to start taking notice of anything and start snooping into her life.
Stacey waved her hand as she fled the suffocating room. “I’m fine.”
While the microwave zapped the meat, Stacey rummaged through the baker’s rack where her mother kept her cookbooks. She found international recipes, holiday menus, recipes for cookies and cakes, clippings from epicurean magazines, grocery-store recipe cards, quickfix meals, books for poultry, beef, pasta, and fondues, everything fancy and nothing—nothing—that would keep the fat from growing on her body. No wonder she’d been a blimp for so many years.
Just bake the chicken. How hard could it be? She could throw a few potatoes in the microwave, and Renee and the parents could load them up with whatever junk they wanted. Some steamed broccoli would make the meal enough for anybody.
She arranged the chicken in a baking dish and sprinkled it with lemon juice and pepper. No butter. No salt. Just water to keep it moist.
This was good. This would work. She could even invite Calvin over Saturday night, and he’d see that there was nothing for him to worry about.
While supper cooked, Stacey brought her computer to the dining room table and searched the Internet for low-calorie recipes. She bookmarked websites and sent page after page to their wireless printer, so she could start a binder of recipes. Later she could do a drawing for the cover—herself holding a tray with steaming plates of food. “Stacey’s Favorite Blimp-free Recipes.”
She left her computer and stuck little red potatoes in the microwave. Broccoli went in a pot with some water. As everything cooked, she polished the dining room table and set it with their nicest casual dinnerware.
Daddy dragged himself home before she was ready. After working a double shift, he was sure to grumble like a bear for his supper, practically inhale the meal, then fall into his chair to watch television and be comatose in ten minutes. All good.
Stacey quickly dressed each plate with a sprig of parsley and lit the tall centerpiece candles. She brought the veggies to the table in bowls, the chicken on a platter, still steaming in her pale lemon-pepper sauce.
Scowling, Daddy settled at the head of the table. “What’s this?”
“Stacey cooked dinner.” Mom adjusted her silverware as she sat. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Are we all on a diet now?”
“Hush, Stan. It looks delicious.”
They passed the food around. Stacey watched Daddy cut his chicken and shove a bite into his mouth. Mom got up to fetch sour cream and butter from the fridge. And a jar of bacon bits. They loaded junk onto her carefully prepared feast.
Renee complained that the chicken was tasteless.
Mom sprinkled salt on everything. She made suggestions on how Stacey could enhance the flavor next time. Cream-of-whatever soup, fruit sauces, Italian, Mexican, blah, blah, blah.
Stacey forced down half of her four-ounce piece of chicken along with two broccoli florets. She made the rest look like crumbs on her plate. Maybe one hundred calories? Not counting the lemon juice … She couldn’t calculate because it was impossible to tell exactly how much was on her chicken. Fish next time. Or no meat at all. Except that Calvin would want meat.
“Is there anything for dessert?” Daddy asked. “Some sugar-free Jell-O, maybe?”
Mom’s breath hissed sharply through her nose. “Stan.”
“What? There’s always room for Jell-O.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to lose a few pounds,” Mom grumbled.
Stacey wadded up her napkin in her lap. She couldn’t look at anyone at the table. This wouldn’t be as easy as she thought.
“I’ll make a run for ice cream if you’ll pay,” Renee said.
Daddy laughed without humor. “That ain’t gonna work, little girl. You’re on car restriction, remember?”
The voices of her family members clawed at Stacey’s skull. She got up and collected the plates. No way would she bring Calvin into this mess of a family. Although maybe he’d understand her better if he saw what she’d had to put up with for so long.
Stacey rinsed the plates and set them in the dishwasher, then cleaned the kitchen so nothing remained of the fiasco meal.
And no one thanked her.
Chapter 11
All his life Calvin had seen these trenches in the field, defining the contours of the land toward a borderline of trees three-quarters of a mile away. As familiar as the lines of his own hands. This year, though, they were all his doing.
Calvin hooked his thumbs into his pockets and pushed his shoulders back to stretch. “I wouldn’t have had time for much riding anyway.”
Stacey slipped her hand around his forearm and tugged him away from the tractor that had been his “ride” for all of spring break. “Come over here,” she said.
“What?” Calvin took two steps then planted his feet.
Stacey gave up trying to make him move. “I’m sorry, that machine makes me nervous.”
“It’s not even running.”
“I know. It’s just—” She shook her hands and flinched like she’d seen a bug. “It’s big, and it smells … dirty.”
Calvin snorted. “It’s a tractor! And I still need to hose it off before supper.” All his muscles hurt a little more at the thought. “At least I’m done. I can rest tomorrow after church.” He grinned at her. “Want to help me clean the tractor?”
Her glossy pink lips parted in shock. She didn’t have to answer. Her textured sweater looked like it would unravel at the smallest snag, her jeans were creased, and her stark white sneakers with glittery laces were already dangerously close to a mud puddle. “Um, I suppose you can’t leave it that way.”
“Nope. Tell you what. Go wait for me on the porch—this won’t take long.”
Calvin watched Stacey walk away, her steps delicate as she crossed the gravel driveway, as if she might get dirty along the way. He wiped his brow with his forearm and turned to find the hose.
What is she doing with me, anyway?
Could his appearance be any different from hers? Could his life be any different?
His hands still felt the vibration from hours gripping the steering wheel of the tractor. Heat rose from his chest, and sweat stained his T-shirt. A layer of dust covered his work boots. While Stacey couldn’t stand to get a tiny stain on her sneakers.
He was too tired to be thinking about anything deep. He’d work himself into a dark mood again, and not be able to keep up the happy game he’d been playing this week whenever he saw Stacey.
Calvin uncoiled the heavy-duty hose attached to the spigot next to the workshop. He dragged it to the tractor, then went back to turn the water on.
Love her through it, the websites said. Gently encourage, don’t argue.
It felt like lying. And he couldn’t do much more of it before he cracked.
Too tired, too tired. Stop thinking about it.
Calvin hosed the tractor from the top down, focusing the spray behind the wheels and in the tire treads and all around the seed hoppers where dirt from the field got trapped and would turn to rock-hard clay if left alone. He huffed and sighed with the work, but his mind sought to rest with the simplicity of the task. Still the problem kept sneaking back, like a recurring dream, each time he closed his eyes for more than a blink. How was he supposed to keep doing this? He wasn’t even certain Stacey was anorexic, but how could he even ask the question if he was supposed to treat her like glass?
He was soaked when he finally coiled up the hose and stowed it in a plastic bin next to the workshop. His clothing clung to him, and water dripped from his hair. Without so much as shaking his head, he snuck around the far side of the house and peeked onto the front porch. Stacey sat in a rocker, her
phone in her hand and earbuds tucked into her ears. Her back was angled toward him.
Calvin grabbed the porch railing, eased himself up the side, and swung his feet carefully to the porch. Stacey continued gently rocking, waving a finger in the air to the beat of whatever song played on her smartphone. Oblivious. Four steps, and he stood beside the rocker. He leaned slightly forward, then rattled his head like a dog coming in from the rain.
Stacey squealed and rocketed out of the chair. She spun to face him, weaved toward the railing, then looked down with disgust at her clothing. “Calvin!”
“It’s just water.” He laughed, but the glazed look she gave him robbed him of the humor.
Stacey brushed droplets off her sweater, but her hand trembled with each swipe, as if she couldn’t quite see where the water had fallen. She pulled the earbuds out and tucked her phone into her purse. It was like watching an old lady perform the simple task.
Calvin took a step closer to her, reached out to touch her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I’m wet! Are-are you sure that was just w-w-water?”
“Yeah. Well, maybe a bit a sweat mixed in.”
Her head snapped up. “Eww!”
He caught her hand and held it gently. “Come on. It’s just water from the hose splashing.”
“And dirt from the tractor with it, I’m sure.”
“I don’t see any dirt. Stace, come on. It was just a little prank.”
She sighed and turned to look toward the street. “It’s okay.” She slanted a wicked glance at him. “I’ll get you back sometime.”
Calvin forced a grin. “Go for it. But I’ll be watching and ready.”
Stacey leaned into the railing, and the sunlight caught in her white hair, lighting up tiny wayward strands like fiber optics. The pretty contours of her face glowed. Her jade-colored eyes reflected both the sun and the patchy green grass in the front yard. Like a painting. Like a model in a magazine photograph. Something caught in Calvin’s chest, warming and choking him at the same time. He set his hand on the railing and inched it forward until his fingertips touched and entwined with hers. They stood like that for a while.
“It’s quiet here,” Stacey said. “All the time we’ve been standing here, not one car has passed by. All I can hear are the people moving around inside.”
Calvin grunted softly in agreement. “Pretty loud inside, though. Bet that’s pretty different for you, from where you used to live.”
“We were in a subdivision. It wasn’t too bad. Lawn mowers and neighbors coming and going.”
“I thought your dad moved you outta there because of the crime.”
He sensed her stiffening. “My dad’s a cop. He could deal with any sort of crime Rocky Mount could dish out. But he wanted a place away from, like … prying neighbors and stuff.”
Prying neighbors? She’d moved to a small town where everyone was in everyone else’s business. There was something more to this story. Calvin tried to remember all that Stacey had told him about living in Rocky Mount. It wasn’t a huge city, like Raleigh or Charlotte. Calvin had been there plenty of times, for school field trips and helping his mother sell her baked and canned goods at the farmer’s market. He hadn’t gone into the neighborhoods, though. Hadn’t driven the streets himself. He had no clue what it would be like to live there. Though what he’d seen didn’t strike him as dangerous.
Did Stacey find Stiles County dull, like her best friend Zoe did? Was that one of the things that drew the two girls together, despite how different they were in so many other ways?
“Calvin, supper’s on,” Peyton called from somewhere inside the house.
Peyton, another person who was itching to get out of Stiles County. She was using her wedding as a stepping stone to do it.
Calvin shrugged off that thought and took Stacey’s hand to go in. “Wait for me in the dining room. I’m going upstairs to dry off and change clothes.”
She tilted her head in a smug way. “Yes, please.”
A soft chorus of amens echoed Dad’s suppertime prayer. Hands reached for bowls of vegetables and the platter of fried catfish on the table. Older family members loaded the plates of the younger ones, keeping Calvin busy. Zachary fussed that he was old enough to have Pepsi to drink with his meal rather than milk. Emily blew noisy spit bubbles and pounded the tray of her highchair.
Wearing fresh clothes but with his hair still damp, Calvin sat crowded between Peyton and Stacey. Under the table, he pressed his knee against Stacey’s. She glanced sideways at him, and her perfectly shaped lips tightened in a smile just for him.
Calvin smiled back, though his heart wanted to plead with her. Prove to me there’s nothing I need to worry about!
Peyton passed a salad bowl to Calvin. Using the tongs, he took his portion, then handed the bowl and tongs to Stacey and watched her deftly sift through the radishes, onions, croutons, and carrots. Only lettuce landed on her plate.
She took the smallest piece of fish from the platter and some asparagus. No fried potatoes. No dressing for her salad. She cut her food into little pieces and followed each tiny portion she ate by wiping her napkin across her lips. So precise. So weird. So … not right.
Smile. Pretend to listen to conversation. Calvin shoveled food into his mouth.
“What’s the hurry, Calvin? You’re eating like you need to catch a train,” Mom said.
“Hungry.” True. Although the idea of catching a train to get out of this awkward nightmare sounded good. He nudged Stacey’s knee again. Please. Please eat.
Mom waved a fork at him. “Slow down. It’s better for the digestion.”
“She’s right,” Stacey said, and followed the statement by gracefully raising a single piece of asparagus to her mouth.
Why am I suddenly grossed out by that?
Too tired. All this thinking … He should just say good night and go up to bed. Escape this mess.
A warm, furry body bumped Calvin’s leg. Someone had forgotten to put Scamp outside before supper, and the dog had wormed his way under the table. And then, within minutes, the nice part of their family dinner disappeared. Jacob complained that he was finished eating and wanted to watch cartoons. Zach argued that the TV tonight was his and Dad’s for the rest of baseball season. Emily managed to get the top off her sippy cup and splashed her apple juice onto Peyton’s jeans. Peyton’s protest—since she was going to see Ryan tonight—set the baby to wailing.
Stacey nudged Calvin’s knee. “Want to go somewhere after supper? Maybe watch the stars come out?”
He’d probably fall asleep in her car.
Scamp bumped Calvin’s legs again.
“Dog, what—?” Calvin leaned back to look under the table.
Scamp chewed something twice and swallowed. The dog’s eyes widened, and he dashed away as Dad and Mom both hollered for him to get out. Zachary jumped up from the table to open the back door for the dog.
Calvin straightened and locked gazes with Stacey. She blinked and lowered her eyes, unable to pull off innocence. Her plate was nearly empty. Calvin guessed most of it had gone into the dog’s stomach.
Be cool. Don’t argue. Love her through it.
He stared down at his own empty plate. The food churned in his gut, stirred up by the realization of what Stacey had done.
Chapter 12
Stacey stroked a charcoal stick across the newsprint paper attached to her drawing board. Pleased with the line, she smudged it with her pinky finger, softening the edges to make a shadow. The muscles in her forearm burned from holding her arm up, and her hand trembled against the paper. She lowered her arm to let the blood flow back and used the time to study the model seated on a stool in the middle of the studio.
The male model was shirtless, but wore a sheet draped over one shoulder, belted with a drapery cord so it looked like a toga. His biceps were impressive, but his bushy chest hair grossed Stacey out. Some old farmer. And though he was supposed to be sitting still, his mouth and jaw kept moving like he was
chewing something. Stacey envisioned a Styrofoam cup filled with tobacco spit sitting on the bench seat of the man’s battered pickup truck. Yuck.
“What … are you doing?” the teacher barked behind her.
Stacey jumped and dropped her charcoal stick. It broke at her feet.
Mrs. Chandler touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Stacey. I wasn’t talking to you.” The teacher swung around and confronted Noah Dickerson, whose easel stood to Stacey’s right. “This is a figure drawing class, not drawing for comic books.”
Resisting the urge to peek at Noah’s drawing, Stacey squatted to pick up the shards of her charcoal stick.
“I’m a comic book artist. This is what I do.” A dark-haired, angel-faced troublemaker, Noah could charm most any girl right out of her sneakers. Except, maybe, Mrs. Chandler.
“You are not a comic book artist.” The teacher’s voice reflected neither anger nor amusement. She sounded bored. “You are a high school student in a figure drawing class. Take advantage of the model, Noah. You don’t get opportunities to study the human form every day.”
“He’s a geezer in a sheet. No offense, but that’s not very inspiring.”
“You’re wasting your time and talent.”
Her concentration ruined and her charcoal in intolerable tiny pieces, Stacey gave up and stole a glance at Noah’s drawing. He had deftly sketched the outline of a warrior, sitting in the same position as the model. He’d added a dragon-crested helm and a two-handed sword in a scabbard at the man’s hip. Creative, if slightly out of proportion; Noah’s drawing was way more exciting than Stacey’s.
“I’m wasting my time and talent if I don’t follow my heart.” Noah made anarchy sound so noble.
Mrs. Chandler drew a long, audible breath. “I’m not going to argue with you. If you cannot follow simple procedure—”
“Procedure? Aren’t we free to express ourselves in art?”
A long silence followed. Students in the circle around the model slowed their sketching motions to stare. Zoe moved away from her easel to crowd Stacey’s left side and gawk.
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