Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  Kristie lowers her head, clenches her fists. When she looks up, her face is set. “That’s what everyone says, but there’s a difference between the way he looks at me and the way you look at me, and I’m telling you, it’s creepy.”

  “It’s not what everyone says. It’s what you said.”

  “Not recently.”

  “But still.”

  “He’s like a little boy. He’s totally innocent.”

  Kristie smiles. “Innocent? How many fights did he get into today?”

  There’s no arguing with her. She doesn’t know Ritchie like I do. I’ve known him my whole life. Well, at least half of it anyway, and he adores Joanne. Even if his crush is a bit adolescent in nature, it’s certainly not just some whimsical Saturday morning cartoon fetish.

  “Can you just tell him that my sister’s not interested?” she asks, her eyes pleading.

  “He knows.” I shrug. “It just makes him try harder.”

  Kristie chuckles before burying her face. “So, what do we do?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s one of the good guys. Trust me, you want him on your side. He’ll never hurt her, and he’ll kill anyone that would. He’s like a bodyguard without a W2.”

  Kristie steps forward and wraps her arms around me, leaning her head against my chest. “He’s just so weird.”

  “He’s a goofball.”

  We stand in the middle of the porch swaying to music that isn’t even playing. Her arms are wrapped so tight around me that I swear that I can’t tell where I end and she begins.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Of course you know. What are you thinking?”

  Everything has to be more than just an answer with her. Everything has to have multiple layers that need to be carefully peeled back so as not to damage the fragile ego that shouldn’t be so fragile. And it’s not just her. It’s women in general. I swear they think differently than we do—reveling in the ‘moment’ rather than taking time to understand the larger implications. I can’t tell her what I’m thinking, because she’ll freak out, and then she’ll counter with about a billion more nit-picky questions, leaving me to conjure up about a billion bullshit answers. Why can’t she just accept the fact that I’m happy when I’m with her? In fact, I am so miserably happy that I just stand there smelling her hair.

  Which smells great.

  “I’m mad at you,” she says.

  “What for?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Well, can we postpone the part where you’re trying to figure out why you’re mad at me and instead jump to the part where I left the game so I could be with you?”

  “Is that supposed to make all this okay?”

  “Yes.”

  She continues to rock with me, her body still pressed up against mine. This would be one of those really sweet moments, except she’s decided to make it sexy. Apparently, the time to be angry is over, and the time to be experimental has begun. Her hand has become frisky with a mind of its own.

  “Your mother’s inside,” I murmur nervously.

  “But it’s too dark to see us out here.”

  She leads me off the porch into the dewy grass, the moon showing its cheesy face. We are hidden in darkness as she unbuttons my shirt and stands on her toes to reach my lips. She’s got my buckle undone, and she’s pushing my pants and boxers down. This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. I thought there’d be a bit of me stripping and then a bit of her stripping, but I’m suddenly naked and vulnerable, and she’s not. She kisses my lips, my neck, my chest, slowly creeping down my torso to my belly and then…

  “I…” I say, shivering. “But what about…”

  Being a teenager is the worst.

  And the best.

  Part IV

  I wake up in the Lambert hammock, Kristie at my side. She’s still asleep, curled up against me for warmth, her breathing regular and soft. The trees overhead are waving slowly in the morning breeze. Things are a bit on the chilly side, but the air smells clean—like a spring rain. It’s the first time I’ve woken up without a ceiling over my head, and it’s one of those moments I know I’ll carry with me to the grave. I don’t want to forget it. Any of it. Not the smell of the air, not the sound of her breathing, not the feel of the hammock wrapping us together.

  Kristie jerks, caught in a dream, and I pull her closer just as the sun breaks over the treetops. As wonderful as everything should seem, I can’t help but fear something’s wrong. Maybe it’s the quiet. The town seems quiet—and not just this morning. There hasn’t been any real crime around here for months. Not so much as a convenience store robbery or a teenage arson. With the rest of the world twisting with murder and racism and terrorism all around us, nothing seems to happen in little ol’ Payton County. We’re overdue. It’s as though we’ve been shielded from the rest of the world. Or maybe we’ve just been waiting. Or maybe something’s been waiting for us.

  She jerks again and this time opens her eyes. Yawning, her body shivers as she snuggles up to me. Kissing my neck, she smiles. “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey.”

  She yawns, her breath stale, but that’s okay. “Did you sleep?”

  “For awhile.”

  “That’s it?”’

  “For awhile.”

  She smiles and breathes against my neck, warm breath slinking under my collar.

  “Let’s just lay here for the rest of our lives,” she murmurs.

  “We have school today.”

  “I’m sure we’re already late,” she answers with another sleepy yawn.

  “My algebra final is today. I need at least a B.”

  “Or what? The University of Georgia changes its mind?”

  “No, but still.”

  “But what?”

  “I can’t miss it.”

  She rubs my chest. “Trying to get rid of me?”

  “Just sayin’…”

  Kristie rolls to the side and tips us out of the hammock. I land awkwardly, and she laughs. Rolling onto her back, she looks up at me with a small smile as I hover over her. Gingerly reaching up, the tips of her fingers brush the bruises on my face. I flinch slightly, pulling back.

  “Sorry,” she whispers.

  I lean in and kiss her quickly. Her breath is stale but still so good that I go back for seconds. I have every intention of stopping at two, but her tongue is warm, and she’s giggly and how many more times can I expect to make out with a seventeen year old girl on the front lawn of her parent’s house on a Friday morning?

  “Stay home,” she begs.

  “It’s one of my finals, Kris. I can’t just skip it.”

  She smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “Call in sick.”

  “Or call in sick.”

  “Fine. Then go.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Now I feel guilty.”

  She licks her lips, nods and rolls out from under me. She stands, pushing her hair behind her ears. I stand too, and look around. Judging by where the sun is sitting pretty in the sky, I’m already running late.

  “You’re still planning on the party tomorrow, right?” she asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. ‘Cause it wouldn’t be a party without Triple A.”

  She only calls me Triple A when she’s upset.

  “What’s going on?” I ask softly, carefully checking my tone.

  “Nothing. What time?”

  “What time what?”

  “What time do you plan on showing up?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Ritchie works until close, so probably not until after eight.”

  “Ritchie?”

  I sigh. “Are we going to start this again?”

  She stares at me for a long moment, ugly daggers in her eyes, before shaking her head, turning away and heading up to the house. I consider calling after her, but I’ve
seen that look before, and she’s taking those broad, determined steps that indicate she’d rather run face-first into a brick wall than argue with what she calls my ‘lunacy.” Besides, sometimes a man needs to stand firm in order let her know that she’s not always the center of the universe.

  I prance my unhappy ass down the driveway and turn toward home. The edge of Lawton stretches out like a runway with Payton all the way on the other side of the field. The sun is rising, and it’s going to be a beautiful morning. I walk through the sleepy town that’s only beginning to stir and cross into the dewy grass leading back toward the Old Beaver. The morning air smells humid—sticky. Summertime in Michigan has arrived.

  Stripping nude beside the Beaver, I toss my clothes into the weeds and stand there free as a bird, swinging in the wind. Then I dip my toe into the stream. And then my foot. And then I step in, shivering as I sink into the cold water that wraps itself around my body and grips me like a glove. I splash around for a few minutes, careful to wash the dried stink from my skin. It’s not like it’ll be a big secret when I show up for class. All of my books are at home, and I’ll be wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. My hair is a mess and my face looks like ground chuck. The swelling has gone down somewhat, and the bruises never got as bad as I thought they would. It’s more of a rugged look. Studying my reflection in the rippling water, I look something like a gangster.

  I shake the water from my body the best I can and get dressed before turning toward town. But that good feeling I’d had out in the tall grass disappears as I make my way into Payton. I’m late for school, which isn’t unusual, so it’s not the end of the world. My algebra final doesn’t start for another hour and some change. But as I pull open the doors, my sneakers squeaking, watermarks left with each step, I realize how out of place I feel. Carelessly running my hand through my unkempt hair for the umpteenth time, I stop outside my classroom. Through the window, the students inside look back. Mrs. Lipinski is unimpressed with my disheveled appearance and late arrival. I pull open the door, don a smile, bid the old crow a good morning and make my way through the rows of desks to the back of the room.

  But something’s different.

  Normally I’m just Average-Joe. I’m neither popular nor unpopular. I’m that guy that blends in with the more modest of them, but today they’re noticing. Every girl is turning her head and smiling—even blushing. And the guys are frowning. Was it the fight? Did people hear about it? Or is it how I look? Can they tell I’m in love?

  “Mr. Abbott,” Mrs. Lipinski asks with a sour tone. “Where are your books?”

  I smile. “Dog ate ‘em.”

  “A dog?”

  “A big Doberman.”

  There are giggles.

  “I had to run for my life,” I finish.

  More giggles.

  “I’m sure you did,” Mrs. Lipinski smirks.

  I take my seat and smile. The old battleaxe glares. It’s a good old fashioned Mexican standoff with twenty other students stuck in between.

  “Well,” Lipinski remarks, her tone softer. “Look on with Joni then.”

  Joni is seated right beside me, and she smiles lightly as I scooch my desk toward hers. She points at the page number and taps the textbook, but she’s not looking at the book. She’s looking at me. Big pretty eyes.

  I smile. Damn it feels good to be a gangster.

  Thirteen

  Today

  The houses are thinning on either side of the road as we head out of town, and the sun dips behind some fast approaching clouds like an ominous omen as if warning me to get away. Bolt. Run. Go. I wanted so badly for all of this to feel like home. I wanted so badly to remember, but it doesn’t, and I don’t. And now I’m starting to actually feel like a tourist in my own hometown.

  “Looks like rain,” I say.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Route 89 is even more familiar than Payton, probably because not much has changed. No new businesses have sprung up, and none of the old ones have closed down. I could drive this route blindfolded while following the sound of the cracks beneath the tires.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  “Just over this hill,” she whispers.

  I know it’s just over the hill, but if navigating gives her something to do other than nag, then I won’t say anything. I already know where I’m going. I saw it on my way in, and sure enough, as we crest the hill heading out, there it is again. The old Johnson farm. It’s been close to twenty years, but it looks almost exactly as it did when I left. The roof has collapsed on one corner, and there are trees growing through the porch, but the lawn was overgrown before, and it’s overgrown now. That old rusty pickup is still parked in the driveway as if loyally waiting for its owners to climb behind the wheel and fire her up. Not that there’s much of a driveway. Poplar trees have taken over everything, springing several feet tall and swaying in the breeze. Even the grass is three feet high.

  I pull into what used to be the driveway and roll over the tall grass and small trees, driving as far inland as I can get. We’re within twenty feet or so of the rusted out truck when I decide that this is as far as I dare go lest I get stuck, so I put the car in park and kill the engine. Kristie and I sit quietly for a moment before I undo my seatbelt and open the door. Thunder rolls in the distance, the sky overhead growing increasingly dark.

  “Let’s look in the barn first,” Kristie whispers, shutting her door. “Where I found the headband.”

  The barn has fared far better than the house. It stands coldly against the orange, red and gray backdrop. We traipse through the tall jungle-like grass, which slaps at my arms and legs with snake-like fingers, making me feel caged. I pull open the old door, the rusty wheels squeaking along their track, light bleeding across the dusty floor. Ironically, once inside, I actually feel a bit of relief. There’s a quiet harmony in here, secrets playing hide-and-seek. The floor is sandy, and the barn carries that ever-present smell of dry hay. The roof is still relatively intact, so everything inside is mostly dry. Nothing’s changed, so it’s hard to believe that it’s been half my life since I was here last, and I’m oddly aware of how at home I feel, which is a bit unnerving considering how out of place I felt back in Payton.

  Over here,” she whispers, motioning me toward the corner. As I draw closer, my attention is drawn to the dull graffiti sprayed on the walls. Had someone asked me about it last week, I would have shrugged it off. I wouldn’t have remembered a thing. I’d have dismissed it as ‘probably’ something I did as a kid, but now, seeing the familiar words splashed over those old wooden boards, I remember it like it happened yesterday. I remember me and Ritchie stealing those cans of spray paint from the local True Value and immortalizing ourselves in the corner of an old barn.

  44

  The Rejects

  RH + JL

  AAA + KLL

  Something’s wrong.

  “Boys will be boys,” Kristie giggles.

  I say nothing. I don’t even smile. I just stare at that last line.

  “What is it?” Kristie asks. “I thought it was sweet.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t do that.”

  “What? Which part?”

  “The last line. The Triple A plus Kristie Lynn Lambert part.” I remember spraying the number ‘44’ and ‘The Rejects,’ but I don’t actually remember the rest. “I didn’t add that.”

  Her smile fades, and she turns back to the wall. She stops as well and reflects. “Then who did?”

  I brush past her. “Ask my good buddy the next time you see him.” I stop in the corner and kick around some hay and loose dirt. “You found the headband here?”

  She approaches me, tucking her hands in her pockets. “Yes.”

  Crouching down, I start poking in the dirt. Suddenly, I’m a television detective with all the right dialogue and all the right facial expressions, and I’m sporting a poker face worth millions in Vegas, but I see nothing, and what’s more, there’s nothing to be seen. I use a small
twig to cut through the dirt. “The topsoil is loose,” I murmur, “but it’s solid underneath.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  I turn to her. “It means her body isn’t here.”

  Her eyes get misty, and she stands with her hands on her hips. “It’s been almost twenty years.”

  “There haven’t been any animals or people in this barn to pack the ground down, but it’s hard as rock. Even if she was killed here, and I’m not saying she was, but if she was, her body isn’t buried here.”

  “There’s a shovel over there,” Kristie whispers.

  I stand. “Knock yourself out. She’s not here.”

  Her mouth curls sharply downward, and she lowers her head, covering her eyes with her hand. I hold my tongue. The loss of her sister is not my responsibility, but it’s clear that she’s still hanging on. “It doesn’t mean we can’t keep looking,” I whisper. “All I’m saying is she’s not here. At least not in this spot.”

  Kristie keeps her face buried in her hands, and it’s the same thing all over again. I thought she’d gotten past this stage years ago. The tears, the grief, the condolences. Not sure what else to do, I wrap my arms over her shoulders and pull her to me. “Maybe the headband was just left behind,” I try.

  She’s already shaking her head. “She can’t hear without it.”

  Can’t.

  Not couldn’t.

  Kristie’s speaking about her sister as though she’s still alive. Joanne’s dead. And if she’s not dead, then she’s gone. And if she’s gone, then she’s not coming back. The cops did their job. They searched everywhere and interviewed everyone. Either she hitchhiked her way out of town, or she disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle.

  Kristie’s not satisfied. She frantically begins looking around. Nothing in this barn has shifted in a century or more, but she’s a girl on a mission, and she’s out to prove me and the rest of the world wrong. She’s determined. She’s so determined, in fact, that she’s risking her life by climbing the rickety wooden ladder leading into the loft.