“Also,” I add, “my parents gave Mr. King permission to use the footage of my unholy event in his rotten show.”
Sterling offers me a consoling frown, but I can tell that she still doesn’t agree that this is a bad thing for the town. Abigail, though, has the intelligence to be horrified on my behalf.
She says, “I guess you’ll be making nice with the Kings, then.”
It’s just like Abigail to find the friendly solution to a problem. Of course she’s right. If I want to keep my face away from public view, I need to cozy up to Mr. King.
Heath finally jogs down the driveway and joins our jolly band. Then we’re off. The sun suffers beneath the trees, giving way to a clear, dark sky. Perfect for a night at the track.
The Chevelle may be a beautiful ride, but it’s not the most comfortable. It rocks us back and forth as we make the slow climb through the wooded dirt road. By the time we park, my back’s sore from a stubborn spring in the seat and I smell like leather conditioner. It won’t matter for long. The sky is lit with floodlights and headlights, I smell smoke and exhaust and dirt, and the air is warm on my skin. This is a perfect night.
“A little pre-race courage?” I ask, swirling the bottle of vodka.
Sterling and Heath decline, but Abigail snatches the bottle and takes a double shot. Sterling pins me with an accusing look, as though I shouldn’t have offered my vodka to Abigail when I knew she was nervous, but I’m not her mother. I reach for the bottle before she can take a third hit.
“Leave some for the rest of us,” I tease, taking my own healthy swig before tossing the bottle into the Chevelle.
By the time we make it into the bleachers, my head’s gone a little fuzzy and I feel warm all over. Sterling and Heath wind up to the top and pick a spot near the end. I like it. It’s good to control the way in and out and we can see the entire track from here—a single paved loop lined with concrete median barriers on the bleacher side. The pavement was originally laid in the 1950s by Mr. Wawheece’s father as a gift to his son. The story is that Mr. Wawheece once held dreams of escaping Sticks as a professional racecar driver and he practiced on this track from dawn till dusk. But one day, when the rain was a little too light and his tires a little too bald, he flipped and barely walked away with his life. He hasn’t run the track since.
It still sits on Wawheece land and the town maintains it just well enough to keep it functional, but Mr. Wawheece has mostly lost interest in this piece of his kingdom.
I lean backward over the rails, letting my fuzzy head get a little fuzzier while the stars swim above. A hand lands on my knee, holding me steady. I don’t much care whose it is. I lean farther back until I can see the tips of the pine trees spearing the sky.
“Candy,” Sterling whines. “Stop it.”
The hand on my knee tightens. Long, strong fingers. Heath.
I relent, lifting my head so quickly the world spins beneath my feet. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. The air is sharp with sugar and smoke, and right now, surrounded by all the bad habits of Sticks, I love this little town.
Abigail stands super tall on the top bleacher. Her eyes scan the crowd below, hunting while trying to appear as though she’s not.
Sterling and Heath have huddled again. She leans into his shoulder, ready to fall asleep even in the midst of all this.
Abigail fidgets. Her eyes are stuck on a clump of girls who’ve just come around the corner. It takes me a minute to spot Shannon. There she is, strawberry-blond hair cinched in a ponytail, dark eyes skittering over the bleachers. She finds Abigail and immediately looks away, a warm smile pressing at her cheeks. It’s all so tediously coy.
“Abigail,” I urge, “go talk to her.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she says so softly it’s almost lost in a sudden rev of engines.
Sterling reaches for Abigail’s hand. “How does she look tonight?”
“Like the last minute of sunset,” comes Abigail’s murmured response.
A smile muscles its way onto my resistant face. “Start with that. Or start with ‘hello,’ but for the love of Pete, start with something. I can’t take this much longer.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Sterling offers.
For a moment, it seems Abigail’s become a statue. We’ve reached the limit of her capacity for emotional expression and this will be yet another missed opportunity, but then she shakes herself.
“No,” she says. “I’m going to say hi.”
We watch her descend the steps and slip into the crowd. Even from this distance I can tell she’s moving without her usual confidence. I’ve never understood why the promise of love has the power to make a perfectly reasonable person feel like they’re incomplete without it, to get weak in the knees, or act a fool. If someone made me that nervous, I’d hightail it in the other direction faster than they could spit. Give me a high-impact love that makes me stronger than I already am. Or give me nothing at all.
Abigail and Shannon make agonizingly slow progress. I turn my attention to the track, where a few of the shiniest cars in town are parked side by side. Clustered around them are the drivers. Sharing cigarettes and psyching one another out before the first race. Directly across the track, there’s a row of cars waiting in the wings. They’ll come out in sets, each group getting five laps to determine the winning car. At the end, those winners will race. Everyone watches the last race. Even those who come for the darkness of the field will emerge for the final event and the shouts will be heard in town.
Quentin Stokes’ll be with them, but not good for much until after. He doesn’t get too bunched up about winning or losing. He likes the rush of the race and the rush of a postrace kiss. I’m fond enough of the second that I’m willing to wait for it.
Checking in on the floor show, I see Abigail and Shannon have moved away from Shannon’s crew of friends and are sharing a moment a few feet from the bleachers. It’s as private as it gets unless they suddenly go from zero to sixty and head for the field, which is less likely than snow.
Abigail’s been mooning after Shannon since freshman year, but she’s never been brave enough to make anything that might be construed as a move. I can’t blame her. Sticks isn’t what you’d call metropolitan. And it’s not as though her family’s suddenly going to support their daughter’s sinful leanings. I don’t know how she’s been coping with that sort of pressure, but whatever her strategy was, it’s changed. Abigail Beale has made a small, but significant move.
And here I am, the fifth wheel.
“I’m going back to the car for another sip. Anyone want?” I ask, but Sterling’s eyelids barely flutter. “Never mind.”
Heath digs the keys from Sterling’s pocket and tosses them over. By the time I hit the ground, cars are revving their engines and a screech of a cheer breaks across the crowd. It’s seconds before the pistol fires and the cars fly into action. I pick my way through the throng of spectators toward the nonracing cars. Here the air smells less like sweat and smoke and more like a warm summer night.
I fish my vodka from the backseat of the Chevelle and take a sip. It’s tepid and burns as it slides down my throat. I lean against the car, waiting for the liquid to work its magic and lift me from the trenches of fifth wheels and Shine-less eyes.
“Candy, Candy,” a voice drawls. “I’ll take a piece of you any day.”
Laughter. Not what I was hoping for.
I open my eyes to a swirl of stars and slowly turn to see my assailant. Or several assailants. A group of boys approaches from the end of the parking field. Eyes on me. Prowling. Led by the Wawheece brothers, Riley and Lamont.
I don’t bother to move from the car. “The only piece of me you’ll get is a taste of my fist if you come too close.”
Lamont cackles. He’s not much for verbal communication. I’m fairly certain any mental gifts they may have received were not evenly split.
“Whatcha drinkin’?” Riley asks, stepping closer to swipe the bottle from my hand. “It’
s polite to share.”
“It’s polite to ask, you ass.” I reach for the bottle and miss as he dodges. “Or didn’t your mama raise you right?”
“Tsk, tsk, Candy Cane. It’s too early to bring my mama into anything. But now that you’ve done it, it was thoughtful of yours to prepare you for your career on the pole.” He unscrews the cap of my vodka and tosses it back, taking an overly large gulp.
“Hey!” snaps a voice from within the pack, quickly followed by the Prince of Ghosts himself, Gage King. “I didn’t hear her offer, man.” His eyes are fixed on Riley, unrelenting, and he’s stepped up so that he’s partly between us.
They make an odd pairing, but I suspect Gage knows only the boys who’ve been working on his new house this summer. I’ll give him a pass on hanging with Riley Wawheece until school starts.
“She was about to. Candy likes to give it up. You wanna pull?” Riley’s grin is loose, his gaze already glassy. He goes to raise the bottle again, eyes shifting back to Gage.
This isn’t about me anymore.
Gage waits until Riley lowers the bottle. Then he leans in and says, “Return what doesn’t belong to you or I’ll do it for you.”
The air shivers with the distant roar of cars.
I can’t look away, yet every muscle in my body is ready to move. Riley’s eyes narrow. That boy was born spoiling for a fight. There’s no way for Gage to know it, no way for him to know that the Wawheece boys are 20 percent of Doc Payola’s practice. It’s the not knowing that impresses me.
“You sure about this, Gage?” The bottle lowers. And with that movement it goes from beverage to weapon.
“C’mon,” I say. “Everyone just relax.”
Gage says, “I’m relaxed,” and the calm that settles over him is practiced—a perfectly confident aggression that chips away at careless smirks on the faces behind Riley. If I don’t do anything, this is going to get stupid.
Stepping forward, I snatch the open bottle from Riley’s grip.
“Thanks,” I say, shaking spilled drops of vodka from my hand. “You’re a peach.”
Guys have this way of communicating with glares and wide nostrils and bloated pectorals they think girls don’t understand. But the exchange between Gage and Riley isn’t complicated. It’s reducible to one simple thing: dominance. One of them will leave this place with more than the other.
“Whatever,” Riley says, melting into his pack.
Gage hasn’t taken his eyes off Riley and it’s making the boy twitchy. It’s not an unpleasant thing to witness. “Coming?” Riley asks.
“In a minute,” Gage says, dismissing everyone like they’re his pack of miscreants. Bravo to him. “I’ll find you.”
I’d swear it was a threat. If the flinch on Riley’s face is any indication, he thinks so, too. He recovers, but his retreat is too quick. And that’s when I realize I’m alone with Gage.
The roar from the track climbs to a pitch as the first race ends. The first winner is called through a bullhorn to an approving crowd. When the boys are out of earshot, Gage finally turns his dark eyes on me.
I say, “Five minutes in town and you’re already running with the worst. I don’t know if I should compliment you or condemn you.”
“Five minutes in my company and you’ve got me figured?” he retorts. “I don’t know if I should compliment you or promise to prove you wrong.”
Points for responding with wit and humor.
I set the contaminated bottle of vodka on the trunk of the car. The cap’s long gone and I’m definitely not putting my mouth where Riley’s has been. Sighing, I tip the remaining liquid into the grass.
Gage frowns.
“Don’t you need to catch up with your friends?” I ask. “They’ll be giving someone else trouble before long.”
“I will,” he says, casting a glance over his shoulder. Then, sounding alarmed, he asks, “Are you here alone?”
That makes me laugh and wins a crippling smile from Gage. My head swims as the alcohol pulls me into a more complicated dance. Here is Gage King, thumbs pushed through belt loops, the glint of a silver chain beneath his shirt.
“I should’ve guessed you wouldn’t be anywhere alone,” he says, subdued.
And once again, before I can stop myself, I cross the line from composed to overeager simply by opening my mouth. “Not with a guy.”
I see the twitch of a grin at his mouth. Victorious and grating. Damned vodka in my brain.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I blurt.
His smile hardens. Light catches on his heavy brow, turning his face into jagged edges of light and shadow. “That’s what we’re starting with?” he asks.
I shrug. “Seems like a pretty good place to me.”
“Is it important?”
“Damned important.”
He nods like it was the answer he expected, then squints at the lights over the track. The crowd’s no louder than a hum now. This is the quiet lull between races. Gage is just as quiet as he searches the distance, considering his answer. If he’ll give one. He seems both grim and confident standing there in jeans and a black collared shirt with the top buttons open, the sleeves rolled up, and a wide mess of leather bracelets. Though I can’t see them clearly, his shoes appear to be both nice and leather. Too much fashion for Sticks. I’d bet good money his wardrobe downshifts after a few weeks. And that’ll be a shame.
I’m startled to find his eyes on me when I look up again. How long was I studying his shoes? How long was he studying me studying his shoes? Doesn’t matter. I asked a question.
“Well?” I prompt.
“I’d rather not.”
“What? Believe or answer?”
This time his pause is brief and resolute. “Either,” he says. “Both. I wish you’d ask me anything else.”
It’s an invitation. I could agree, ask him how he’s liking Sticks or what his hobbies are or if he wants to come hang with my friends. We could move straight past the tough stuff and onto something more fun. I’m supposed to be making nice, after all.
He takes a step closer, repeating the invitation with a small, hopeful smile. Those lips. I wouldn’t be opposed to something that ended in the backseat of a car or at the far edge of the field.
“Let’s forget about ghosts,” he suggests.
I laugh. “How is that even possible for someone like you?”
Disappointment falls down his face. In two seconds he’s gone from playful to something quite the opposite.
“You’re right,” he says with a resigned sigh. “I can’t.”
And with that, he turns and walks away from me toward the roaring crowd.
As I watch him go, I realize just how much I wanted him to stay. He was offering something uncomplicated, and I’m the one who made it about ghosts. Once again, I’m letting these stories drive me and now I’m standing alone in this parking lot when I might have been doing something much more interesting.
I consider returning to the bleachers where my friends wait. I consider loitering around Quentin Stokes’s car until I can claim him at the end of the night.
Neither appeals. Instead, I crawl into the back of the Chevelle and let the familiar noises lull me to sleep until my friends return.
12
JUNIOR YEAR. I’VE WAITED FOR this day all summer and now that it’s here, I wish I could do anything else. The first day of a new year should be like a birthday. Everyone I care to see should be happy to see me, full of superficial compliments about my hair, my clothes, my boots, and my magnificent smile.
Instead, everyone wants to know how I banished Mad Mary Sweet, or they want to call me a freak, or they want me to come over and dispel the ghost they swear they saw hanging in their closet. All day, I practice derailing conversations with the threat of all the secrets I know. There’s a currency to shame, and I never intend to pay any of it out. Sarah Menard backs down when I remind her that I know her purity ring’s just for show, Cade Vincent caves when I reveal I know he’s dealing
from the back of his car, and Sonny Patin blanches at the phrase “backwoods bed wetter . . .”
The only person to treat me with any diplomacy is Quentin Stokes, who leans against my locker with a cocky smile and a pouting, “Missed you Saturday night.” That, at least, feels normal, since I felt too weird after my parking lot Gage encounter to stick around after the race and hang out with Stokes. I tell him, “Yeah, you did.” And as I strut my stuff to the girls bathroom, he calls, “Not for long, though.” He likes the game, but he doesn’t like to lose, which is one of the things I actually like about him. He’s more flame than spark. But I have enough fire to deal with today.
To top things off, there’s a story floating around about how there was a woman crying in a church pew after services on Sunday. Father O’Connor went to comfort her and she stood, wandering straight through the pews with long, black hair streaming behind her.
Father O’Connor never would have said a word. The story comes from Mrs. Calhoun, who stays late to pick up.
With so few details, I can’t tell if this one echoes a swamp story, but Mrs. Calhoun isn’t one for embellishment. If I had to bet, I’d say this was yet another true sighting.
According to plan, Abigail, Sterling, and I have nearly identical schedules. We rotate through the day, claiming our seats in a triangle of three in every class with the exception of Madame Evan’s class, where we’re ruled by the cruel tyranny of the alphabet. Nova King turns up in half of our classes. The first is advanced European history with Mr. Berry. Nova walks in wearing that flawless bob and pink smile and, spotting us, heads straight over to turn our triangle into a square. No sign of new-school jitters. I have to admire that.
“Hey, girls,” Nova says, dropping a messenger bag by the desk and sitting. “Mind if I join you?”
“Only if you don’t ask me about Friday night,” I say.
She gives me a shrewd smile. “I know you don’t know me very well, but trust me, I’ve got an idea what you’re going through.”
Behold the Bones Page 11