My mind wanders to the start of last summer when I’d hit the mall with Mom and Mini as often as I’d hit it with my girlfriends. I miss our time together, and it’s taking a toll on me. I think that’s why the letter cut me so deep to begin with. I never used to tell Mom everything—a girl’s gotta have some teenage secrets—but we used to share so much, and I certainly never ever lied to her. And to think she’s lied to me all this time just adds to the giant hole in my chest.
Tiff has been my anchor. She understands why I don’t care about walking around the mall or gossiping about who’s hooking up with whom in senior year. She leans over closer to me. We’re in English, watching the minute hand get closer to lunchtime.
“Do you think he’ll show up tonight?” she asks. It was such a relief to share the reason for my glum mood with her.
I shrug. I’ve been trying not to think about when or whether I’ll see Rocks again.
“Maybe tomorrow night then?” She’s ever the optimist.
The bell clangs, signaling our release. Before I’ve packed up my books, a body stops next to my desk in the aisle. When I hear Tiff’s breath catch, I know immediately whom that body belongs to.
“Hi, Connie,” he says. Parker Reed is channeling the Cheshire Cat. His body language mirrors that of every high school student that only has two more classes to survive before the weekend. “It’s Tiffany, right?”
Tiff shoots out of her chair, her books forgotten and offers a hand. “Hi Parker.” Her tone makes me want to gag.
“Walk with me, Connie … alone?”
My eyes plead with Tiff to stay. As my best friend, she knows perfectly well what my face is asking so she ignores me. I stand up to get between them, trying to catch her eye, but it’s pointless.
“See you in the cafeteria.” And she’s gone.
Crabapples.
Parker helps me collect my books, and we head to the cafeteria at a speed even a garden snail would find amusing. “Looking forward to the weekend?”
Not what I was expecting, but I honestly don’t know what I’m expecting at this point. It’s an innocent question and not at all boob related. “Sure. I work so that takes up a bit of it.” Be polite. It’s not his fault I feel cut off from a boy I wish was my other half. “You?”
He smiles. “Training” —he flexes his bicep and grins— “and study. Got my eye on a scholarship next year.”
Two of the cheerleaders pass us going the opposite way down the hall. I can feel their eyes burning into my skull, and when I look to see if I’m right, my suspicions are confirmed. I bet they’re wondering, just like I am, what Parker Reed is doing talking to me.
“You see the pre-season wrestling competition coming up? Coach is arranging it.”
The halls are lined with posters advertising the event and predicting our team’s victory. “Yeah. You nervous?”
His snail’s pace is killing me. I ignore the urge to sprint to the cafeteria for cover and safety.
“Nah, can’t wait. The season never seems to start fast enough for me. Wanna come and watch me rule the mats? It’s in November.” Finally, the cafeteria materializes.
There is no way I’m eating lunch now. Parker seems like a nice guy. A guy doesn’t get this popular and not have loads going for him. Maybe the universe is giving me a sign, but I’m suspicious.
“Sure. Why not.”
“Awesome.” He smiles and it warms my insides. It’s not the shy smile I’m used to seeing, but it’s genuine. Parker is confident and it shows in everything he does. He holds the cafeteria door open. “See you in class.” He heads to his table, and I prepare for imminent squealing and speculation.
* * * * *
I know where Josie Hendersen lives.
Finding out took my lying abilities to the next level entirely, but I’m fairly confident that this address is the one. According to the white pages, a J. Hendersen resides there, and it matches the address my alias—the sports journalist for FASTPITCH magazine—received back from the softball blogger. Yeah, I’m a liar and an imposter these days. But who would honestly believe an email from FASTPITCH @ gmail.com wanting to organize a 1982 winning team reunion? With the amount of spam these days, it amazes me that people are still being conned, then again, I’m not about to start complaining.
Josie Hendersen lives in Watkinsville. It’s a bit of a drive so I’m going to need plenty of time to get there, introduce myself, and hopefully sit down for a nice glass of lemonade on her porch. The image of the pretty house with manicured flowerbeds and my elegant blonde mother out front thrills me.
My excitement is short-lived though. Try as I might I can’t actually visualize myself walking up to a strange house and knocking on the front door—alone.
That’s what Horror Movie Girl would do, and we all know what happens to her. Knowing my luck, I’d probably find myself locked in some psycho’s basement, and nobody would have a clue about where to even start looking for me. Somewhere between getting lost in the forest, driving to the abandoned house and finding this new address, I’ve lost my bravado. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve lost the six-foot-four guy who worries about my safety.
After a whole weekend of thinking about what my mother looks like in her forties, I decide I can’t do this alone.
“Hon, listen to this,” the news addict calls out to the bake queen. “The Vipers leader, Mitchell ‘The Finger’ Jones and his right hand man, Raymond Ramirez are to stand trial. Bet that witness is praying for his or her life.” I guess he saves her from having to re-read the day’s top stories. “Who in their right mind would admit to witnessing those thugs kill two cops? Jones and Ramirez run half the drugs through the south. Everybody knows it. Not exactly the kind of folks you want as enemies.”
The woman whom I never thought capable of lying is perusing her cookbooks at the island. “I’d rather take on Jones than that Enzo Ascari character.”
When I’m sure news hour is over, I speak. “Make lots of something that doesn’t need to be refrigerated.”
“Hmm?” she questions, not bothering to look up.
“I’m driving up to Helen tomorrow to visit Rocks.”
That gets her attention. “You are not on a school day, Missy.”
I roll my eyes deliberately, although I don’t know why I’m trying to annoy her when I really do want to take Rocks some baked goods. “It’s Columbus Day.” I reel back my tone before adding, “Teacher planning or whatever, but it’s pupil free. Remember?”
“Oh, sorry, sweetheart. How can it be Columbus Day already? This year is flying, and we’ve hardly spent any time together lately.”
I study my nail polish and shrug. If I look her in the eye, she might see how much that hurts me as well, and then I’ll be done for. I’m not mentioning adoption to them until I have my own answers. Having given her a purpose, she opens the cupboard and starts pulling out canisters. I take this as approval for my trip and retreat to my bedroom. I have a gift to prepare myself.
* * * * *
Telling the truth has advantages. Chad has set up his GPS in my car, and he’s assured me that it’s set to Georgia. He did look at me like I had lost my marbles, when I asked, before I remembered he doesn’t know about that night. I don’t know how people manage to lead double lives. I’m barely in control of one with a few secrets, but having a second family or something crazy that you see on news.com must take some serious preparation and planning.
Once I get north of Atlanta, I realize I’ve never driven up this way before. It’s only a couple of hours away from my home, and I wonder if Chad knows these roads well with his rappelling trips. The roadside is filled with little vendors selling boiled peanuts, fresh picked apples, and pumpkins. I notice that folks seem to plant corn in tiny patches wherever they can. It’s not something I would think to produce in my garden even if I did live on a couple of acres.
Helen is a small historic town on the edge of the southern Appalachian Mountains. Way before I was born, the town was redesig
ned as a replica Bavarian Alpine village. Some architect thought it was funny to build an alpine town in the Appalachians instead of the Alps. If you imagine a main street lined with steep-roofed, brightly colored, gingerbread houses, then you’ve seen Helen.
The knot in my stomach vanishes once I pass through Helen. I would dare anyone to drive through there for the first time and not smile. I feel as though I should have gotten a stamp in my passport because I’ve been teleported to Germany or Austria or somewhere gorgeous in the Alps. My neck hurt from turning this way and that repeatedly while I drove down the main street. Even creeping at twenty miles per hour due to the other drivers doing the same thing, it’s too fast to take in all the little stores.
Helen is just too cute for words. The ironic thing is that a man wearing lederhosen wouldn’t cause anyone to blink, but all that Camazotz leather and black velvet must really turn some heads.
The drive takes me way longer than the GPS originally predicted due to traffic. Weekend trippers are clogging the highway to photograph the beginning of fall. The leaves are turning from green to yellow, orange and red. The road is bathed in a golden halo and showers of leaves rain down on the breeze. In the coming weeks, the mountains will be congested, and that’s got to be good for the Camazotz market business.
Rocks had told me about the market the colony owns on the outskirts of Helen in the mountains. Open on weekends, the small historical market caters to the passing tourist traffic. When I asked him why they run it, Rocks said that even though they shun modern society, they still need cash to buy clothing and other essentials they can’t procure from nature. Just the bare minimum, but they need an income source nonetheless.
The trees are magnificent and a nice distraction. The leaves fluttering to the ground in bursts mirror what’s happening in my stomach. I’m getting closer.
The GPS tells me to turn around because it was set for Helen. I silence her annoying voice and keep my eyes peeled for any break in the trees to signal an entrance. Up ahead, there are two motorcycles and a huge pickup truck on the side of the road. I automatically slow, but when I get closer, I see that there isn’t a gate or driveway. The pickup truck has the National Park Service logo on the door. The Ranger is pushing one of several huge metal cages along the truck bed to the tailgate. A massive, dark bird—about two-foot tall—sits glaring out at the world.
The car behind is getting impatient so I speed up a little. A hundred or so feet later, a gate with a large carved wooden sign emerges. Sanguine Mountain Market. I turn off the highway and into the gravel drive before I see the smaller sign that reads CLOSED.
Sugarplums. All this way and Rocks probably isn’t here. Determined not to give up so easily, I follow the road through the trees until it opens up to a small parking area. There are two gleaming motorcycles and one really beat up van. I park next to the van and sling the overstuffed tote onto my shoulder. Outside the car, the crisp pine air circles my bare legs, and I want to hit myself for my outfit choice. Why didn’t I wear black? In my excitement at seeing him, I put on a sunshine yellow dress with a white cardigan. Idiot. Maybe I should just go home? Getting him into trouble is not part of my plan, and his words about some members wanting him ‘gone’ come back to me. A creeping sensation floats up my spine.
It’s now or never. Walking around a massive tree the path curves around, I spy two guys having a hushed conversation ahead. Camazotz. My blood pressure soars. The sunlight gives me a chance to drink in all the details of other colony members. It surprises me to know I’d recognize one anywhere. Despite the sunlight, they seem to ooze shadows dark as midnight. The caramel color of their skin tone shows their Mexican origins three or four generations removed just like Rocks said. Their movements are graceful—almost fluid.
One of the guys, in his early twenties, flinches and I know he’s sensed my presence. He steps away from the other. The expression on his face, as he turns, is feral. I feel so insignificant, and that feeling is confirmed by the reflection I see in his mirrored aviators. I do not belong here. He’s taller than me but short in comparison to Rocks.
“Can’t you read?” His voice is void of emotion and slices through me with the precision of a newly sharpened blade. This man is harder and colder than steel.
The lies are starting to come without much thought. “I’m here on personal business.”
The way he stares at me and the memory of Rocks talking about judgmental looks makes my blood begin to simmer. If this dude has been making Rocks doubt his place in the world, then he can talk to me about it.
“Feisty,” his partner comments.
I’ve taken a step toward him and am glaring at my own reflection in his glasses.
“Business with whom?”
“Rockland, the jeweler. Special order.”
They look at each other briefly. He stands down and gestures for me to walk on ahead. “Lead the way then.”
“Thought we were going to see the tanner?” the other one mutters.
Lying gets you nothing but trouble. This has been proven to me ten times over. I don’t let the fear inside show as I stride up the path. I fill my lungs with as much pine air as I can inhale. Visiting a friend should not be classed as a crime. The guys are talking in hushed voices behind me, and I resist the urge to give them a rude sign over my shoulder. They could be relatives. I don’t want to push my luck.
Ahead, a wooden welcome sign appears, and the universe is again on my side. I have to act like I know where I’m going. Thick arrows made from gnarled tree branches are carved with locations and point the way. The jeweler is left, along with the candy store, apothecary hall, candle works, and museum. The blacksmith, tanner, dairy and tinsmith are down to the right.
“This is me,” I announce, pointing left. I pick up my pace without stopping in case they grill me again.
The path opens up into a circular area that reminds me of a tiny replica Western town. The buildings are small and roughly constructed. Felled trees have been carved into picnic tables and benches for shoppers to rest at, and old-fashioned equipment for photo opportunities is scattered here and there. The only people I see chatting at the storefronts are definitely not aeronaughts.
A large group of guys and girls are gathered around one of the picnic tables opposite the apothecary shop. The conversation stops dead when they spot the only blonde. I stare back. Rocks is not the only man to wear a vest, or maybe I should call them waistcoats. I have a sudden urge to act proper and dignified. The girls—holy sugarplums—wear a mix of proper 1865 and modern Goth-burlesque-sex shop ensembles. There’s a familiar closeness about them as many of the girls are sitting on boys’ laps or leaning close. Bodies touch bodies with an air of intimacy that makes me look away. I think of bats huddled together on the ceiling of a cave and understand their need to touch each other in human form.
One girl leaves the group and cuts me off, just as I spot the sign for the jeweler’s shop. I’m so close. Her blood-red velvet corset has leather highlights and is showing way more of her breasts than I’m comfortable looking at. The skirt of black satin falls almost to the ground, but as she moves I notice there are four thigh-high slits in her dress, and the lace-up boots she’s wearing go up past her knees. Her wavy hair frames her angular, hard features, but the jagged scar that joins her lip to her chin is what I focus on. Until I notice the half-inch wide tattooed eyeliner that surrounds her eyes in thick bands. The whites of her eyes are a stark contrast to the dark pupils and black inked lines.
“The village is closed.” If she relies on tips from her amiable customer services, then I’m convinced she’s penniless.
“I’m sorry. I know, but I just need a minute with the jeweler.”
Her eyes narrow, swallowing the visible whites, and she bares her teeth. If I thought she was prickly before, she’s downright lethal now. “You have no business with him. Leave.” She starts to walk toward me, and I instinctively step backward. I can’t stop looking at the angry puckered scar on her face, an
d I’m sure that’s not helping with her attitude. “He needs to be with his own kind at a time like this.”
“What? Why?” The lead weight in my stomach starts to roll about.
A guy approaches us, scowling. I clench my fists and take another two steps back. His ink-black hair is super short and draws attention to the fact that half his ear is missing. Fudge me. The tattoos and scars are starting to get under my skin.
What on earth does Rocks see in me?
“Zabreena, leave her alone.” He’s standing behind her but is looking at me and jerks his head toward the jeweler’s shop. “I’ll take you to Rockland.”
He moves quickly and I half run to keep up. The words “naught lover” echo from the group as we leave. He steps onto the old-fashioned shop verandah and into the open doorway with me hot on his heels. Two figures are standing together in the dimly lit shop. From his height, I know the guy is Rocks, and as my eyes adjust to the dull light, I can see he’s rubbing his hands up and down a girl’s bare arms. She’s resting her forehead in the middle of his chest. Her hands grip his waist.
I’ve been sucker punched. A jarring sensation slams through my whole body as my brain processes the closeness between them. His head is bowed and he’s whispering to her, but he looks up when he registers our presence.
A wooden workbench and heavy anvil are behind them. The heat on my cheeks is actually coming from a corner pit fire, but my insides are burning too. The oven reminds me of the pizza oven at Giovanni’s, but the oversized leather bellows at the opening confirm it’s far too hot for cooking. Two long, mismatched counters line the walls on either side of the oven. Pliers, hammers, tongs, and sheets of metal litter every other surface. A barrel of water stands next to the smelting tools resting near the fire. Not only have I stepped back in time, but I would swear I’ve stepped right out of my own body. I do not belong here.
“Connie?” My eyes close for a moment at the sound of his voice.
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