by Angel Lawson
“Only for homework.”
“Holy shit,” she repeats again. “What kind of crazy house was that?”
I’d never had to explain my life to anyone before. Not really. The other homeschool kids online didn’t ask. We all had a reason for being there. I feel Katie watching me expectantly and I say, “I was home-schooled and my mom was pretty strict. She didn’t want a lot of outside influences.”
“Influences like TV?”
I shrug. “We watched the news, but mostly I just read.”
“Huh. Well, look it up when you get a chance. There’s like this whole thing. I get the feeling the boys tolerate it for Sierra’s sake, but she’s a true believer.”
“Okay.” A believer in the supernatural? Is she a witch?
“Whelp,” she says holding up the bleach, “I guess duty calls. Or maybe doodie. Get it?” She winks and makes a face.
“I don’t want to get it.”
“Nope. No, you don’t. Bye girl, see you later.”
It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a new friend—someone outside my mother’s approved and curated list—that I’m not exactly sure what to make of Katie. I definitely don’t know what to make of what she said about Sierra, but it kind of makes sense. I’m aware that people get into TV shows and movies. I had a Harry Potter phase myself and when I was in school, One Direction was big. I guess I vaguely recall some girls talking about the show, but I’d never been allowed to watch anything scary—Mom worried it would trigger my anxiety.
I walk down the pathway toward 119, considering that maybe Katie’s just friendly to everyone like that, but it felt nice to have someone to just…talk to. About normal stuff like work and boys, I hadn’t had that in so long. Well, I kind of had it with Sara but I’m not sure that counted.
As the rooms pass by I feel my nerves increase. Leelee probably thought he’d be finished by now but I can see the room and the door is wide open. Maybe I should come back later.
Or maybe I should stop being a wimp.
What can this boy do to me? We’re in a public place. He’s not my friend or classmate. We’ve never spoken. And who cares if he’s the stereotypical jock? Katie said he may not be that bright. Why am I scared of a big, dumb guy?
Because, my brain bully whispers, he may be mean. He could hurt you. He may make fun of you. Something, anything he says may send you down a spiral.
“Shut up,” I say aloud, like my therapist taught me. I straighten my back, determined, and I clutch the linens to my chest.
I step into the doorway of the room and see tools spread around the floor. The bed is together but slanted to one side—the mattress leaning against the wall. Jake’s on his knees, halfway under the bed. He grunts from exertion, muttering a few curse words under his breath.
As usual, I’m a ghost in the room. Blended into the walls until I make myself known. I don’t this time, not while he’s working. I look at his long, tan legs and scuffed-up tennis shoes. He has on a black T-shirt and I see the Wayward Sun logo on the back. The hem is inched up and his back is as tan as his legs.
He grunts again as the bed lifts to a level position and he eases himself from underneath. His hair is a mess, sticking up at his forehead. He runs a hand through it and I see the tattoo, similar to the others. I haven’t said a word but his eyes flick toward me and his eyebrows raise in surprise.
“Hey,” he says, dropping a few tools in the box near the foot of the bed.
“I, uh, I have linens for the bed.” I hold them up as evidence, like I need a reason to exist. “I’ll come back later.”
“I’m almost done,” he replies. “Just give me a second to put the mattress on the springs and you’ll be set to go.”
His voice is deep, smooth, and as much as I want to flee I also find myself wanting to hear it more. Unfortunately, he doesn’t say anything, just moving a few more tools before going to the mattress leaning against the wall. It’s big and unwieldy and even with his long arms he struggles to line it up, and the lamp on the bedside table wobbles precariously.
“Here, let me help,” I say, dropping the linens on the small desk in the corner.
“I can get it,” he says.
“I’m sure you can, if you also want to take out that lamp.”
He peers around the thick, padded mattress and grimaces. “Okay, you get the end and just help me line it up.”
I nod and find myself needing to squeeze past him to get to the end of the bed. He holds his hands high, like he’s making an effort not to touch me. I appreciate it, especially after the altercation with the backpacker. The image of his dirty hands on mine flashes in my mind. I swallow, willing it away.
“You okay?” Jake asks after a moment, and I realize I’d stopped moving right in front of him.
“Yeah, sorry.” I look up at him. God, he’s tall and his hands aren’t dirty, they’re just big. His jaw tenses and my hip brushes against his but I keep moving to the end of the bed like he asked.
“Count of three,” he says, spreading his arms across the length of the bed. I get a good look at his tattoo and make out the word, “blood.” “One…two…three.”
He bites down on his lower lip when he lifts the mattress and I move quickly to keep it from knocking over the lamp or falling off the other side. The springs bounce and he still has to grab for the lamp with his hand to make sure it doesn’t topple. He smiles at me, clearly proud of his success, and my stomach flip-flops and I look away, but not before I note how great his smile really is.
Katie is right. He is hot.
“Awesome, thanks. Ms. Nye would ream me for breaking another lamp.”
“You’ve broken one before?”
He scoffs. “No. Not me, but George is a spaz. She doesn’t even let him work in the rooms anymore.”
George…Sierra mentioned him this morning. Something about broken cups.
“Well, I can vouch for your efforts,” I say, moving back over for the linens. He tosses the rest of the tools in the box, clearing the floor. I rip open the packaging, pulling out the fitted sheet. One side falls to the floor but Jake catches it, lifting it before it hits. He doesn’t say a word, just walks to the opposite side of the bed and eases the elastic over the end. I do the same and quickly we’ve started on the flat, top sheet.
Once the comforter is spread and the pillows are fluffed I say, “Thank you. You didn’t have to help.”
“No problem.” His hands are on his hips and I feel his eyes on me. I can’t remember the last time a boy looked and spoke to me—excluding my run-ins with Dexter.
I turn away from him, using the excuse to gather the trash. His voice is quiet but curious, when he asks, “So, why’d you stop coming to the fence to watch the sunset?”
Heat runs up my neck. It’s a stupid physical response but the one I get when anyone notices anything about me. It means I can’t fade into the walls and disappear at will. When I don’t reply, he adds, “Did I scare you off?”
“Uh, no. Not exactly.” Although he had. Just the mere fact he’d noticed me sent me running.
“I heard about the guy in the street. I’m sorry about that, especially if I had something to do with it.”
“No. I shouldn’t have gone out there. I knew better.”
He frowns. “Better than what?”
“Better than to go out by myself.”
“In Lee Vines? Usually at that time of day the only thing you’re likely to run into is a raccoon.” He leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. The line of muscle defining his forearm is disturbingly distracting. “But if you want the yard at sunrise, you can have it.”
I clench the wrapper in my hands. “That’s not fair. You were there first.”
A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. It’s friendly but it makes me incredibly nervous. “How about we share the sunset, we can just keep quiet, you know. No talking or acknowledging each other.”
“You don’t think that’s weird?”
He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “You’re not the only one that doesn’t want to be noticed out there, Starlee.”
The fact that he knows my name stops me; not just because it surprises me but because it’s jarring to hear my name roll off his lips while also admitting he may have secrets, too.
“Thank you,” I say, but add quickly, “for helping with the sheets.”
He holds my gaze for a beat. “You’re welcome.”
The moment, all of it, is nice, so nice that I can’t help but feel the familiar wave of panic skitter up my limbs like ants. Without another word I bolt from the room, knowing I’m being rude, but it’s the longest conversation I’ve had with a boy in a long time. A very handsome boy, offering to hang out with me in the quiet, early mornings. It’s too much, and I leave before I do something or say something stupid that will ruin the moment.
8
The office is closed and we’re sitting across from one another at the breakfast table when the heavy footsteps climb the steps. I stiffen at the sound but Leelee simply rises from her seat at the knock on the door like it’s no big deal.
“Sheriff Reed,” she says in a friendly voice once the door opens. I see the brown uniform and the wide brim of his hat through the window. “I thought you may stop by.”
He wipes his boots on the mat and enters the house. I haven’t moved an inch from the table where my organic salad from Epic sits before me. Leelee doesn’t cook. We just order from the restaurant every day and bring it home.
“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” he says, “But I wanted to follow up on the situation the other day.”
His eyes skim over me, they’re kind and not accusing, but I can’t help but feel guilty, like the whole thing was my fault. It’s irrational, but anxiety is irrational (or so my therapist told me) and it bubbles in my chest.
“This is my granddaughter, Starlee.” She gestures to a chair and Sheriff Reed pulls it out and sits.
“I heard you witnessed the fight yesterday?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Exactly?”
I want to forget it, but this man is trying to do his job. I take a deep breath and tell him what happened on the street the day before.
“The backpacker, his name is Henry Dugan. We found him in the system for a few other muggings and robberies. Tom told me he found a knife. Did he use it on you?”
I nod. “Yes. He was trying to make me come back to the house so I could give him money.”
“And what happened with the boy? How did the fight start?”
“I’m not even sure. One minute that guy was threatening me and then next, the boy, uh, Dexter, had him on the ground. It happened so fast.”
“Henry denies he had a knife and that the boy attacked him for no reason.” The sheriff’s expression is neutral when he says this.
“No. That’s not true. He had the knife. I saw it. I’m not sure what would have happened if Dexter hadn’t come out.”
Leelee gives me a small, encouraging smile. I know she’s friends with Sierra, and Dexter is a member of the community. I’m telling the truth and even though he helped me, I have the feeling he’s a dangerous person. A dangerous person that came to my rescue.
Life, real life, outside books, is confusing.
The sheriff asks me a few more questions and I answer them as best as I can. When he’s finished, he stands and shakes my hand and my grandmother’s.
“What happens next?” Leelee asks.
He rubs his chin. “Dugan’s locked up for now. Can’t make bail and he doesn’t seem to have any kin coming to his aid. He’ll stay in the county lock-up until he has a trial. Not sure how the DA will proceed, but I’ll keep you posted on any changes.”
“Thank you,” Leelee says. I offer a weak smile. I just want this to be over.
When he’s gone, my grandmother returns to the table and says, “I didn’t know your first few days would be so exciting.”
“Neither did I.” I push my salad around with my fork.
“I’m assuming you haven’t told your mother.”
I shake my head.
“Good. The truth is, life gets messy. Sometimes we meet bad people and in the same moment we meet someone good. It’s life. Real life, and as much as I wish that hadn’t happened to you, I’m glad that you survived.”
Survive. I think about that word. Survivor. It’s the opposite of victim. One of those is familiar. The other isn’t and I’m not sure how to feel.
The following morning, I wake at my normal time, just before dawn. A quick glance out the window reveals Jake sitting on the rooftop, looking toward the mountains. The idea of going out there is scary. I’m scared but I want to go, and the backyard with someone else around seems like the safest bet.
Even if that someone is a handsome football player with a deadly smile.
I tug my hoodie on, zipping it up under my chin. It’s still cool in the mornings—maybe it stays this way all summer. I step over the flower bed and down the darkened side of the house. The trashcan is still upside down and I use my hands to help me get up.
The metal can creaks beneath me, the surface feeling a little weak under my full weight. Jake looks down at me, his lips forming the whisper of a smile, but he doesn’t break the silence. I appreciate this and the knot of apprehension vanishes as I see the first streaks of orange spread across the sky.
We spend the whole sunrise like this, quietly watching the distance, and when it’s over Jake doesn’t look my way, he just leans against the house and opens his book.
I hop down and head back into the house, feeling content with the start of the day.
My contentment is short-lived as I’m met with the disappointing fact we’re out of bagels.
“Add it to the list,” Leelee says from her stool. She’s been fighting with her laptop for days now. Something with her booking system isn’t working. “And go down to the Wayward Sun for me. Sam’s Special; cream, two sugars. I’d get it myself but I’m waiting on my computer guy to show up to fix this.”
I don’t move right away when she asks, frozen in my spot with the idea of going down there. Sierra is nice and all, but Dexter…I’d hoped not to come face-to-face with him any time soon, if ever.
Leelee glances up at me. “Something wrong?”
There’s no way I can verbalize my apprehension. I know it’s irrational. “Sure, I’ll be right back. Want anything else? Pastry? Muffin?”
“No thanks, sweetie,” she replies, followed by a string of expletives. She looks up from the computer, eyes wide. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Technology makes me curse, too.”
I leave her stabbing at buttons on the keyboard and walk down the sidewalk. I haven’t been this way since the other morning and I keep my eyes averted from the spot where the fight occurred. Instead I focus on the house ahead, eyeing the tall, rusted, old vacancy sign. I wonder if Sierra had any idea she’d be housing a bunch of boys when she bought it. Every building in Lee Vines seems to have more than one function. Lodge, restaurant, shop, housing. I pass a handful of customers on the outdoor seating in the front yard and climb the steps. The music that greets me today is Led Zeppelin, one of my mother’s favorites, and I take a deep breath, one that’s intended to steel my nerves. Instead, I get the strong whiff of something sugary and amazing and my mouth waters.
The line is extra-long, and I take a minute to look at the décor—the song on the wall, the black car painting, and remember what Katie said about Sierra’s obsession with the TV show Supernatural. I have vague recollections of conversations at the middle school lunch table about brothers named Sam and Dean, and the specials on the board make a lot more sense. Even with the crowd it doesn’t take long for the line to progress, and Sierra smiles when she sees me.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Better, thanks.” I glance into the kitchen, looking for one of the boys, but only hear the clang of pots and smell butter and pastry. A small
pebble of disappointment settles in my gut. “What are you baking? It smells awesome.”
“It’s pie day.” She nods toward a row of freshly baked pies on a shelf behind her. They’re labeled with their flavor; apple, cherry, and a strawberry-raspberry combination. “The second and fourth Tuesday of the month is pie day."
“Oh, okay.”
“Would you like a piece? To go with your coffee?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll try the combination.”
She smiles and grabs me a piece, leveling it into a to-go container. “That’s a new one Dexter’s been working on. I think you’ll like it.”
“Dexter bakes?” I blurt out in surprise.
She laughs, handing over my coffee. “When he’s not punching stuff, yes. He’s pretty good at it.”
She shifts her attention to the customer behind me and before I can react, I’m back out on the curb, walking to the registration office. I push open the door with my hip and say, “Did you know that kid, the psycho from the fight, bakes pies?”
I hear a snort, followed by cackling laughter. I turn and see two boys sitting in the office—one behind Leelee’s computer. The other is sprawled across the couch, feet tapping together.
Crap.
“She called Dexter a psycho,” the one at the computer says. His eyes dart quickly at Leelee. “I like her.”
“Starlee, I’d like to introduce you to our computer specialist, Charlie.” The kid next to her smiles and waves. “That’s his brother, George.”
George gives me a quick head nod.
“Uh, sorry about the psycho comment,” I say, sliding Leelee her coffee.
“No way, you nailed it,” Charlie says. “He is a psycho.”
“That is not true,” my grandmother says. “Be nice.”
“Oh, he can be,” George says, “but he also bakes a hell of a pie, so it balances out.”
I move behind the counter, easing past the boy who smells like sunscreen and soap. Slyly, I hope, I check them both out, seeing the resemblance. They’re both about the same height and I can’t tell who is older. Charlie wears glasses and his fingers fly over the computer as he enters in a string of code I don’t understand. George lays on the couch, long legs dangling over the edge. His light brown hair tumbles in his eyes and when he brushes it out of the way, it’s in an easy, fluid move that I suspect he does a dozen times a day. Our eyes meet because he’s not making any effort to hide his interest in my embarrassing arrival. My cheeks burn and I look away.