Small Town Sinners

by Melissa Walker

  He stares at me with these blue eyes, squinting a little, like he’s trying to figure something out without speaking. I start to blush because he hasn’t answered my question, and I realize I’m looking at him like he’s an alien or something, like I expect him to say he’s from Mars or the Planet of the Apes.

  “I lived just on the other side of the state,” he says. “A few hours east of here in a small town. Have you been out that way?”

  He’s staring at me again, and as I shake my head no—I’ve never been anywhere—I start to think about what I look like, how he’s seeing me. My hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and a few strands are falling in my eyes, which I can tell are wide with surprise at this moment, here with new-in-town Ty. I’m wearing my favorite blue tank top, and I have on a jean skirt that goes down to my knees. I wish it were shorter, like the ones Starla Joy wears. My bony arms are by my sides and my legs are pulled into my chest protectively. I must look like a scared little bird.

  But I don’t want to be fragile right now. Ty probably spends his summers swimming at country clubs where girls watch the sun glint off his golden hair as beads of water drip down his tan skin. I feel myself flush, but luckily it’s ninety degrees out so that’s not out of the ordinary. I straighten my spine, trying to seem older, more confident. More like a girl that Ty would want to sit out on the curb with after dinner.

  He reaches his hand toward my face, and I jump up, standing so fast I nearly topple over. Nice work, you silly, frightened starling. There goes my cool-and-confident vibe. I put my hands in the back pockets of my jean skirt.

  Ty laughs softly. “Your hair was …,” he starts.

  “I know,” I say quickly. “It’s always in my face.” And I wish I’d stayed still so he could have brushed it back. That would have been nice. But now I’m standing here awkwardly and there’s this silence again.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you with the car,” says Ty. “I just wanted to, um, meet you, I guess.”

  I hear a dog barking in the distance—probably Mrs. Pearson’s beagle—and I have the urge to bolt.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says, standing up to brush off his jeans. “I’ll see you in church then, Lacey.”

  “Okay,” I say. And then, because I want to make something more happen, I add, “You know, Hell House auditions are next week.”

  Ty just stares at me through the shadow of night. I can hear the crickets chirping on the carefully kept lawns of my neighborhood. Usually it’s comforting, but right now it sounds empty.

  “So how does Hell House work, anyway?” Ty asks, mercifully breaking the silence. “Does each sin get progressively more sinful?”

  He’s looking at me in a way that makes me wonder if he’s messing with me.

  “A sin’s a sin,” I say.

  “I’ve heard about Hell Houses,” says Ty. “I’ve read about what kind of scenes they include.” He smiles, and then asks, “Do you think murder and using drugs are the same level of offense in God’s eyes?”

  “Well, they’re both sins,” I say. “And I’d avoid either at any cost to have hope of getting into heaven.”

  I try to stand up straight while I assert my opinion, and I hold my head up like I’ve seen Tessa do when she talks to boys, challenging and flirtatious.

  But my attempt to be someone I’m not, to be someone braver and bolder, isn’t working. He stares at me as though I’m a strange creature, like I just said something in a foreign language and he can’t quite translate it. My confidence falters.

  “Well, I should go,” I say again, backing away from him slowly. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I feel like if I turn around, I might break into a run.

  He reaches out for my arm and touches it, gently, but not like he thinks I’m fragile. I realize that he’s been saying things to me seriously, and not speaking to me delicately like everyone else does. He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know that I’m shy and quiet.

  “That one’s yours, right?” He points to my house.

  “Yeah,” I say, wondering how he knew.

  “Cool,” he says. “Well, good night, Lacey Anne Byer.”

  He waves a small wave.

  “Good night,” I say, turning to walk back to my driveway and breathing a sigh of relief that no one drove by while his BMW was all askew like that. I don’t know how I got so caught up that I forgot to worry about the neighbors. They’d definitely tell my father that I was sitting on a curb with the new guy who wears sunglasses in church. That would not go over well.

  As I drift off to sleep that night, just before I leave the waking world for slumber, a thought pops into my head: How did he know my middle name?

  Chapter Five

  Though I think I hear the rumble of an unmuffled BMW outside my house a couple of times in the next few days, I don’t actually see Ty or his red vintage machine for almost a week after that night on the curb. It’s almost like I dreamed it.

  When Dean came over to work with my dad in the garage, I almost told him about talking to Ty, but I didn’t get a chance. He and Dad were together almost the whole time, laughing and talking about spatial relations in miniature models or something I don’t understand and don’t care to find out about. It’s nice to see them together—his own dad isn’t really the buddy-buddy type.

  Mom made grilled chicken like I’d suggested, and she brewed tea and put out gingersnaps for dessert—another nod to Dean’s diet, I guessed, because we normally have ice cream. We stayed around the dinner table long after the dishes were cleared, talking about Hell House and what kind of outreach we’re hoping for.

  “I’d love for Dean to have some kind of role this year,” Dad told me after Dean left. “We’ll work on him—it’d give him a confidence boost.”

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I said, kissing him on the cheek and feeling happy to have parents who watch out for my friends like that.

  It’s late on Saturday afternoon, and Starla Joy and Dean are sitting in the back corner table at Joey’s Barbecue, downing sweet tea refills. Since getting my license, I’ve picked up a few extra summer shifts as a hostess/waitress here so I can save for my own car—I’ve already got about four hundred dollars in babysitting, birthday, and Christmas money.

  Starla Joy drove me to work today in the old truck she and Tessa share, because my mom needed the Honda for church errands.

  I’m handling the slow in-between-lunch-and-dinner shift and trying not to make eye contact with the taxidermy on the walls. There’s one squirrel that’s particularly disturbing because its mouth is open, wide and fierce, like it died trying to bite whoever killed it. To soften the décor, I suggested putting little bud vases with daisies in them on each table, next to the ketchup and barbecue sauce. I think it’s a nice touch. As I walk back and forth between my friends’ table and the few customers we have, today feels like every other day at work this summer.

  Until Ty walks in.

  I hear the bells over the door jingle and I turn automatically, ready to smile and seat whomever it might be. He looks like he stepped out of one of those old high school movies in his soft green polo shirt. I kind of love that he’s always wearing those. He raises his dark sunglasses over his head as he catches my eye. Starla Joy and Dean, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Wilson at table four—the only other customers this afternoon—go silent.

  “Hi, Lacey Anne,” says Ty, nodding my way. “I’ll take that spot by the window.”

  I look over at Starla Joy and Dean and watch their jaws drop. They have a ton of theories about Ty. Starla Joy keeps calling him MTV Boy because she thinks he looks like a reality show star, but Dean just thinks he’s a normal guy from somewhere else who hasn’t yet learned that no guys really wear pastel shirts in West River. I didn’t tell them I met him for real already. I’m not sure why, but it feels like a secret. I’ve been nodding noncommittally as they put forth various ideas, feeling slightly guilty that they don’t know I’ve already had an actual conversation with th
e subject of their unrelenting speculation.

  “Sure,” I say brightly, grabbing a laminated menu and leading him far away from Starla Joy and Dean. “Table six it is.”

  I sit him down next to the Wilsons, who smile politely before they start to whisper to each other as Ty passes by. Everyone knows he’s new in town.

  I hustle back to the drinks station and pour a glass of water, avoiding Dean’s and Starla Joy’s eyes. When I return to table six, I take my ordering pad and a pen out of my ruffled blue apron, which suddenly feels childish.

  “Do you have anything for vegetarians?” asks Ty, and I stifle a smile.

  “It’s called Joey’s Barbecue,” I say. “What do you expect? Fried beans or something?”

  “So you’re saying you have nothing for a non-meat eater?” Ty asks.

  “Well …,” I say, thinking about it. “The beans are cooked in fatback and the potatoes have bits of bacon in them … but I guess the hush puppies might be plant-eater friendly.”

  “Hush puppies?” he asks.

  “They’re like fried bits of cornmeal and onion,” I say. “You eat ’em with butter or ketchup or whatever. You’ve never tried them?”

  A shadow crosses Ty’s brow, but just for a moment. Then he smiles at me.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll have a pulled pork sandwich and a side of hush puppies.”

  “So you’re not a vegetarian?” I ask.

  “Not today.”

  And then I don’t know what to say, but luckily I have a job to get back to.

  I walk over to the kitchen and clip his ticket to the hanging line of orders. Since it’s such a slow afternoon, I have to shout for Mel, the cook, who’s probably outside on his cell phone talking to his new online girlfriend. Then I notice Starla Joy waving rapidly, motioning for me to come over.

  I stride her way, trying to look nonchalant.

  “What?” I whisper through clenched teeth.

  “He knows you,” says Dean, leaning over the table until it tips off balance a little and Starla Joy’s sweet tea almost spills all over the blue plastic tablecloth.

  “Careful, Dean,” I say. “I don’t want to clean up a mess today—my shift is almost over.”

  Starla Joy ignores me.

  “When did you meet him?” she asks.

  “It’s a small town,” I say quietly. “Besides, he probably just saw my name tag.”

  “Nice try, but he said Lacey Anne, and that just says Lacey,” says Starla Joy. She points at my plastic name tag. “When were you going to tell us?”

  Why did I have to pick such a super-observant best friend?

  “Later!” I hiss. I hear Mel shout “Order up!” and I rush to get the sandwich. When I walk it over to Ty, he’s staring out the window intently. I want to say something when I put down his food, but he looks like he’s deep in thought so I just place the plate gently on the table and turn around.

  “Lacey,” he whispers, and I turn back. But his face is still looking away from me, so I must be a crazy person who just imagined him whispering—how weird of me! I turn around again, but then I feel his hand on my arm. And I start to tingle.

  “What time are you done working?” he asks. I look over my shoulder at Starla Joy and Dean, who are unabashedly staring at me, mouths agape … again.

  “Ten minutes,” I say, glancing at the clock above the door, though I know exactly what time it is.

  “Can we take a walk?” he asks, smiling a smile that could make a leading lady go weak in the knees.

  And I know that Dean and Starla Joy have been waiting for me to get off work all day so we can catch some psychological thriller that Dean’s been wanting to see for forever, but we always do the same things and I really, really, really want to talk to Ty again, so I just say, “Yes.”

  Then I walk into the back to change out of my apron.

  Turns out it’s near impossible to ditch your two best friends for a new person on a day when they’ve been waiting for you for hours. Especially when those two best friends are insanely curious about said new person.

  Ty doesn’t seem to mind meeting Dean and Starla Joy though. I kind of thought he wanted to walk just with me, but when they insist on coming along, he nods amicably. He’s even open to the idea of going to the movies. And he puts up with an intense line of questioning as we head back toward the center of town.

  “What town did you say you came from?” asks Starla Joy, after Ty gives her the same vague answer he gave me.

  “A tiny town,” he says, looking down at the road. “You wouldn’t know it.”

  Starla Joy gives me an exasperated glance, like, What’s with this guy?

  “And you moved here with your family?” asks Dean, struggling a little to keep up with Ty’s long strides. Actually, we’re all struggling a little but Dean tends to sweat easily so he’s showing it the most.

  “Yeah,” Ty says. “My aunt. She’s the new church librarian.”

  He raises his head and looks at me.

  “Oh,” I say, surprised I hadn’t made the connection. Vivian Moss has been working at the church for just two weeks. She’s really young—I guess I thought she was here on her own. “Miss Moss is really sweet.”

  “She can be,” says Ty, giving that half smile again.

  “And where are your parents again?” asks Starla Joy. This is the kind of question she feels justified in asking, if only because her own father isn’t around anymore.

  “They’re not here,” says Ty. He says it pleasantly, not defensively, but I can tell that he doesn’t want to go into further detail.

  “Well, it’s nice that your aunt is working at the church,” I say, before Starla Joy can drill Ty more. “I think my dad had a hand in hiring her—I remember him telling us about her at dinner. Didn’t she have family in West River once or something?”

  “Yes,” says Ty, his pace slowing a bit as we reach the railroad tracks on the edge of the town center.

  “So what brought her back?” asks Dean.

  But Ty doesn’t answer. He looks left, then bends down to feel the tracks. He pauses there, in silence, for almost a full minute.

  “What’s he doing?” whispers Starla Joy.

  “Feeling for a train vibration,” hisses Dean.

  “But he can see there’s clearly nothing coming,” Starla Joy says quietly.

  I stare at the back of Ty’s head, where a piece of soft blond hair curls over the collar of his cotton polo. I study the outline of his back muscles, and I feel a trickle of sweat run down my arm.

  “Six minutes,” Ty says, looking down at his watch. Then he stands up and crosses the tracks.

  I glance at Dean, who just shrugs, and we all follow Ty, stopping on the corner to buy matinee tickets at the movie theater.

  “I’m kind of hungry,” I say. I never eat at Joey’s on my shift anymore—I got sick of barbecue a week into working there.

  “Duh,” says Starla Joy. “Popcorn.”

  “I need something more substantial,” I say.

  “Popcorn has a lot of fiber,” says Dean.

  “RJ’s,” I say insistently. We head into RJ’s Pizza Shoppe, which is next to the theater, and I order a plain cheese slice.

  I carry it outside, folding it in half and eating it quickly so we won’t be late for the movie.

  “Hurry!” says Starla Joy. She’s a total sucker for previews.

  “Go on,” I say. “Get your fibrous popcorn.”

  Starla Joy and Dean head into the lobby, but I notice that Ty is still standing outside, staring in the direction of the railroad tracks. He glances at his watch, and just then I hear the whistle of an approaching train.

  “Six minutes,” he says with a wide grin.

  We watch the train rush by us, and the wind that the passing freight cars churn up makes my hair blow all around my face. I look at Ty and smile. He’s still staring at the cars as they chug past.

  I fold the grease-stained paper plate that held my pizza slice and drop it in a
trash can next to the tracks. I remember there was this boy at my elementary school who used to love to watch trains. All of his projects were train related and he had a huge electric railroad set in his backyard.

  Ty turns to face me. And then I get a flash of that boy’s face.

  “Tyson,” I think to myself. And Ty’s eyes widen in surprise, maybe delight. I must have said that thought out loud. He smiles encouragingly.

  “Tyson Davis,” I say more confidently, meeting his grin with my own. This is Tyson Davis, the boy who left just after first grade. He’s the only member of our tiny class that ever moved away. For a while it felt like there was a hole in our ranks, but I guess after a few years we all just forgot. I step back for a second and take him in, seeing him from head to toe with new—but familiar—eyes. Six to sixteen is a long way to grow.

  Ty laughs and pulls me in for a hug. “I thought you’d never guess,” he says, as my head presses in to his chest and he squeezes me like an old friend. “It’s Ty now,” he adds, sounding more serious as we break our embrace.

  A thousand thoughts run through my mind: Why did he come back? Where are his parents? Why didn’t he say something earlier, especially with all the questions we asked? It’s like he needed me to know who he was without having to tell me.

  And then I feel a rush of happiness. I’m glad it’s him. It makes sense, the way I felt when I first saw Ty. He isn’t a mysterious stranger, he’s Tyson, a boy I’ve known my whole life. Even my parents knew his family. I want to ask him my million questions, but he grabs my hand and says, “We’ll miss the movie,” and he pulls me toward the theater.

  But I hold back, still grasping his fingers.

  “Don’t you want to talk?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says, smiling brightly. “After.”

  And that’s all I need to feel warm inside, knowing that there’ll be an after. As we walk through the glass door, he puts his arm around me, like he’s been doing it for years.

  “Want a drink?” he asks.

  I nod, feeling closer to him now that I’ve figured out who he really is. And also because of his arm.