by Ginger Scott
Owen’s brow is already beading with sweat, and he pulls his hat from his head and runs his long sleeve over his face, his dark eyes blinking fast.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say, but he interrupts me.
“Yes. Yes, we do,” he says, and suddenly, his hand finds mine. His grip on my fingers is hard, but the way we lock together is almost familiar—right. Owen tugs on the fabric of his left sleeve with his teeth, chewing on the ribbed edge for a few seconds before grasping it with his thumb and holding it to his closed lips, his eyes darting from the safety latch to the pivot wheel to the line of people still waiting to load. With every new thing he notices, his grip on my hand gets tighter, and when we swing up even higher, his breath falters.
“I’m going to ask him to stop the ride. Owen, we’re getting off,” I say.
“No!” he says, closing his eyes and squeezing them, tucking his chin into his chest, then shaking his head no. “No,” he whispers. “Please, Kensi. Help me through this.”
Without pause, I pull Owen’s right hand into my lap, and I cover it even more with my other fingers. His leg starts to bounce, and the rhythm is making the cart swing a little too much, so I lift his hand again, this time bringing it to my chest so I can hold it to me closely.
“Close your eyes, and I’ll tell you when they’re done loading, when you can just look out at the city, okay?” I say.
“Okay,” he whispers, doing as I say.
“One more round, and that’s it...almost there…loading. Latching. Waving. Okay,” I say, still clutching his hand in mine, his fingers fretting and fighting to find more of my hand to grip any time I threaten to loosen my hold.
“Are we moving? Kensi, I can’t tell. Are we moving?” he asks, his voice soft and vulnerable.
“Not yet. Soon, Owen. We’ll be moving soon,” I say, locking my eyes on his closed lids, watching them twitch with panic.
His breathing starts to stutter even more, and I begin to open my lips to beg him to let me make them stop one more time—when his eyes open, his soul looking right into mine. Then the sky begins to move behind him. I keep his gaze, doing my best not to interrupt, to blink, and I let my mouth form a faint smile. “We’re moving,” I say, his hand still held to my chest, my heart no doubt pounding against our grasp on one another.
“Owen, you can look out now, look at the town and the stars,” I say, glancing over his shoulder as the lights from the festival fade and refocus with every pass we make. Owen keeps his eyes on me, never blinking. But I know he’s seeing something. I know he’s safe, that he doesn’t need to “tap out,” because he’s smiling, and his eyes are showing traces of something new, like the life of a child lost years ago.
It’s joy.
As the ride slows, we pause at the top, still frozen in our pose, our hands tethered to the point where I can no longer feel beyond my first knuckles. But Owen’s smile remains, and his breathing starts to even out, his chest rising and falling at a normal pace. I spare a look away as my friends exit below us, and I notice Willow point up to our cart as she reaches her arms around Jess and squeezes him.
“I think they’re proud of you,” I say, gesturing to the group waiting for us about thirty feet below. Owen doesn’t look, and he doesn’t break our trance. But he does finally speak.
“You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, and all at once, I fall for Owen Harper.
Chapter 12
Beautiful.
Owen Harper called me beautiful. And then just as quickly, he was gone. I squeezed his hand tightly while the ride slowly brought us down to the ground to exit. We walked down the long, metal exit ramp, where Willow was waiting for me, her eyes full of questions, and when I turned back to find Owen again—he had disappeared.
Gone.
He does that. Just…goes.
His truck was nowhere to be found when Willow brought me home. His room was empty for the entire night. And he’s been away all day.
That’s why I practically race down the stairs at the sound of the basketball, and I’m not even disappointed when it’s only Andrew and House shooting the ball. They might be able to tell me something…anything!
Of course, my boldness stops stone cold as soon as House opens his mouth. “Ken Doll! Looking to hold hands with your boyfriend while you both eat cookies and drink milk and watch cartoons?” He’s saying everything in this overly-childish teasing voice, and I hate that it’s embarrassing me.
“Dude, don’t be a dick!” Andrew says, throwing the ball hard into House’s chest. I like Andrew more and more.
“What? You saw those two acting all junior high and shit last night. Don’t pretend like you weren’t making fun of them as much as I was,” House says, throwing the ball back at Andrew twice as hard, ricocheting it off his less-coordinated hands. Andrew scrambles to pick the ball back up and looks up at me sheepishly, guilty for enjoying a laugh at my expense. I forgive him because he honestly feels bad. House can eat it, though.
“It’s Kensi,” I say, looking beyond House’s broad body into the open front door and windows of the Harper house, wishing to see someone inside.
“Yeah, I’m not calling you that,” he says, spinning the ball on his finger a few times, a cocky smirk smeared across his face. I snatch the ball from his right hand and pull it under my arm. My heart is smacking the insides of my ribs as I realize how ballsy I’m being. I stare him down while he maneuvers a wad of chew in his mouth, spitting obnoxiously, the tobacco staining my driveway. I can’t help but revolt when he does it, and I let my disgust show. House isn’t any different from the privileged boys in uniform I used to have to deal with at Bryce. Instead of flashing his money around to intimidate me, though, he uses his size and masculinity. I bet it’s effective on others, and on girls who probably harbor secret crushes on him.
“Oh, Kensi. I’m just messin’ with ya,” he says, snatching the ball back from me and passing it around his body once or twice, his eyes squinted, waiting for me to react.
“Owen’s at work,” Andrew says, saving me from all this.
“Oh…okay,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward, like I no longer have a reason to be outside my house.
“You can hang out with me? I’ll show you a good time,” House says, sliding his giant arm over my shoulder, the material of his sweatshirt is actually damp with his sweat.
“I’m good…thanks,” I say, slinking out of his grip. His laugh is almost demonic as he tosses the ball back to Andrew and pulls his keys from his pocket.
“All right, but you’re missin’ out,” he says, walking to his truck near the curb.
“Am I?” I ask, my heart actually hurting with the anxiety coursing through my chest. House makes me nervous. Owen may think he’s harmless, but I’m not convinced.
“You let me know when you’re done playing footsies with O, and I’ll show you a real man,” he says, nodding to Andrew, then stepping up into his truck and roaring his engine loudly.
“He’s all talk,” Andrew says, bouncing the ball a few times to draw my attention back to him.
“Sure he is,” I say back, not believing it for a second. I know House’s type, and it’s entitled. Money has nothing to do with it. He just needs to know he’s not entitled to me.
“You like my brother?” Andrew says, and my throat burns with fear at having to answer that question. I can’t look at him, so I keep my attention on House’s taillights as he pulls away.
“We’ve become friends,” I say, my voice unsteady, unsure, and my mind flashing through the dozens of nights I’ve waited to see just a glimpse of Owen outside, my palm burning with the memory of the touch of his hand in mine. “Yeah…” I add, my voice even softer now. “I like him.”
“He’ll be home late tonight. But…he’d like to see you,” Andrew says, his foot kicking into mine, teasing me like a little brother should. I nod once and smile at him, and his smile is broad and satisfied.
I head back into my house and tiptoe up t
he stairs to my mom’s bedroom door. Her shift was late, and she’s been sleeping most of the morning, so I don’t want to wake her, but when I press my ear to the door, I hear her talking on the phone.
“We can talk, sure…but…not now. I’m not ready to talk now. I think I just need time,” she says, her half of the conversation piquing my curiosity about the other end of the line. I’m sure she’s talking to my father, and I don’t like that she’s talking to him. I want to cut him out of our existence, to just take a giant eraser to all he was and all he is, and I want to do that for Gaby, too. But then there are those memories, the few good ones of us as a family, home together, on holidays. And maybe we can only let in those small things, but keep everything else out.
I hear the conversation end, so I step quickly to my room, folding my legs up on my bed and pulling my laptop in front of me, acting busy. My Facebook page is still up. I had been looking for pictures of Owen—anything about Owen—but he seems to avoid being online. I found a mention of his name in a town newspaper archive; he was named to the state’s all-star basketball team. But that was all.
My exploration started with a hunt for pictures because I wanted to see his face. But soon I started looking for the bad things, arrest records and proof that Owen was also all of those things Willow and Jess and Elise say he is. But those records don’t exist online. And even though it’s probably just because he’s a minor, I still like the fact that I can’t find the bad things. I’m ashamed I even started looking for them in the first place.
What I settled on, though, was my folder full of photos of Gaby and me. I’ve dragged them into the trash a dozen times, but I keep pulling them back out. As much as I want to erase my father, I don’t want to erase Gaby. I only want to erase what she did. God, how I want to erase that.
“So I was thinking of making pasta for dinner. You know, Grandma’s sauce? What do you think?” My mom startles me when she comes in my room, and I snap my laptop to a close. Her eyes linger on it, her head tilting, but she doesn’t question. It’s almost like she knows enough to know she doesn’t want to know what I’m looking at.
She doesn’t. It would kill her to see these photos—reason enough to delete them all the moment she leaves my room.
“Sure. Pasta’s good,” I say, holding my hands still on the silver top of my computer, my eyes doing their best to bluff happiness. After a few long seconds, my mom turns to leave.
“Hey, Mom?” I ask; she pauses and looks over her shoulder. “Can we have the neighbors over for dinner with us? It’s usually just Owen, and his brother. Their mom works nights, and they’ve just been good…to us…”
My mom knows what I mean—Owen’s been good to me, defended me, defended her, stood up to my dad. She smiles softly before she speaks.
“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll try to clean up the kitchen some, enough to have guests,” she says.
“They won’t mind the mess,” I say, the double meaning there for both of us. Owen understands life’s messy. She nods and smiles once again before leaving, and the second I hear her feet hit the stairs, I open my laptop and delete the visual reminders of my former best friend.
It’s the least I can do.
My piano hasn’t made a sound for days, minus the moment I played it for Willow. And when I played, it felt like a goodbye. But today…
Today I just feel like I need to touch it. I’ve been sitting at it for more than an hour, my mom clanking around the kitchen, cleaning and cooking. All I can bare to do is run my hand along the cover over the keys, my finger tracing along the fine lines of the wood grain. Something so beautiful is also so ugly.
“Kens, hun? I think your phone is ringing,” my mom shouts from the kitchen. I slide from the bench quickly, not wanting her to see where I’m sitting. I think I’m worried she’ll encourage me to play.
“Thanks,” I say, passing through the kitchen to the small table in the nook where my jacket and backpack are sitting. My phone is sitting on top, and there’s a message notification on the screen. I grab all of my things, and head back upstairs as I listen to the message, recognizing that the number was Owen’s and not really wanting to listen to his voice while my mother watches the smile form on my face.
“Hey, uhm. Damn. Kens? I really hate to ask for this,” his message begins. I pause it, his concerned voice making me nervous. I hurry the rest of the way to my room, toss my belongings to the ground, and move to my bed to listen to the rest, my eyes peering out my window to the spot where I’m wishing for his truck to appear.
“I’m in trouble. Not like…real trouble,” he says, and a voice near him adds, “this is pretty serious, son.”
“No, it’s not serious. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you,” he says, the phone muffled while he talks to someone in the room with him. “Look, Kensi, I need you to come down to the shops I work at, they’re on Eighth and Central. I need you to get something out of my truck, but I’m being held for…shit, I’m being held for shoplifting. This dickhead cop won’t let me go, even though he’s wrong!”
“That’s enough; time’s up, Harper,” the voice bellows in.
“Just come, Kens. My mom’s not home, and Andrew can’t help. Please.” It’s that last word, the please, that breaks me. He doesn’t sound like Owen at all, instead more like the frightened ghost of Owen that I got to see terrified dozens of feet in the air on that Ferris wheel.
My feet are wandering my room, carrying my body that’s not even caught up with my mind yet. I don’t know what to do, and I barely know what Eighth and Central means. Owen needs me, and I have to go.
I have to go.
I grab my boots and the heavier coat hanging on the hook behind my door. The sky has been gray for days, threatening to open up. These early storms, they aren’t really snow. But they aren’t rain either. The air has been frosty, and the cold has been harsh. I’m used to the city, which while the wind cuts to the bone, the buildings offer you the occasional reprieve, making it livable to move around outside. There’s nothing to hide behind out here, even the trees have lost most of their leaves and are mere spindles standing on dead, lifeless ground.
I’m down the stairs quickly, my wallet and phone sandwiched in my hands. I need the keys. My mom doesn’t let me drive often, and I’ve never had a car of my own. There’s never been a need.
I have to go.
“Mom?” I ask, my lip trembling that she’s going to say no. For some reason, the more time that passes, the more worried I am that Owen is in big trouble.
“What, babe?” she asks, her eyes watering from the onion she’s chopping. She runs her face along the bicep of her sleeve, then looks up at me, and I try my best to look calm.
“It was Owen. He’s at work, had some trouble with his truck,” I lie. “He needs me to come get him. It’s only a few blocks. I won’t be gone long; can I borrow the keys?”
“Oh, poor kid. Here, let me just turn the stove off. I’ll come with you,” she says, my stomach starting to fill with the drumming beats of my heart, the heaviness of stress weighing me down more.
“No, no,” I start, and she pauses, tilting her head in that way, the same way she did before when she caught me looking at pictures of Gaby. The face she makes says she knows, just not everything. “You’re in the middle of cooking. And I’m really looking forward to tonight. I don’t want to stop you, or to mess any of this up,” I say, this time not really a lie. “Let me go. Let me do this. Please.”
Please.
I say the same word Owen said, hoping it resonates. Something does, but my mom waits for a few long seconds before nodding her head toward the keys on the counter.
“If the speed limit is thirty, you drive twenty, okay?” she says. I smile and cross my heart, trying to keep it light, inside wishing I was a better driver so I could be there as quickly as House would be.
He called me. He didn’t call House.
That thought…it feels….
I’m careful as I buckle myse
lf into the car, tossing my wallet and phone into the passenger seat. I maneuver down the driveway, onto the road and to the end of our block, and then I shut my eyes while I sit at the stop sign, not a single car coming in either direction. Which way is Eighth? Which way?
My gut tells me to turn right, so I do. I’m rewarded by street names that count down from Seventeenth to Sixteenth to Thirteenth and soon Tenth. When I find Eighth, I actually laugh out loud with the kind of glee I didn’t think was real.
“I’m coming, Owen,” I whisper to myself.
I see the main grocery store near the strip mall in the distance, and despite my mother’s best warnings, I punch the gas, skipping part of the curb as I pull into the parking lot, and my tires squeal as I move down the main lane through the mall. I can see the small security vehicle and the squad car parked next to it, the lights flashing like there’s an emergency.
I park right next to the cars, grab my things, and rush into the small gift shop where Owen is sitting, his hands cuffed.
“Owen! I’m here. What’s…” I pause when I see his dejected face. His hands are pulled tightly behind his body, and everything about him looks tired and defeated.
“Miss,” the officer says.
“Kensington,” I say to him, my full name. This feels like I should be formal.
“You know this young man?” he asks.
“Yes. We’re friends. He’s my neighbor,” I say, not really sure what the right definition is for our relationship. I want to say whatever makes this better for Owen.
“We were sort of expecting a parent,” the officer says, tipping his glasses down and looking at Owen with an intense scowl.
“I told you. My mom is working. I don’t have anyone else. And I didn’t do anything wrong!” Owen says, his temper showing its familiar flare.
“I’m sorry. Could someone explain what’s going on? How can I help?” I interrupt, my hands shaking while I move to a small folding chair across from Owen and an older man.