by Joanna Bell
As I said, I only have brothers. Even the Devlin cousins tend to be boys. We're a very boy-heavy family. So I really had no idea how to deal with a girl who wasn't my own age or older. She was 12 at the time. I'd heard things about 12 year old girls – that they were prone to drama and tantrums and tears. But while I would never say Hailey Nickerson was the passive type, she always took my clumsy comments with grace.
"I like the way you drew the wrinkles on her hand," I would say about a sketch of her mother's hands, or: "Yeah, that's exactly what the mountains look like in the evening," to a drawing of the Rockies bathed in the day's last light.
"So you like it, then?" She would ask, eyes shining in spite of her nonchalant tone of voice.
"I do," I would reply. "You should go to art school. You're too talented to stay in this little podunk town. As soon as you finish high school you'll be off to New York or Paris or one of those places, won't you?"
She would always look a little sad when I said that, which confused me at the time. And before I could ask what the sudden darkening of her delicate features meant, we would always be interrupted by Tiago demanding that I stop playing art teacher with his cousin and get my sorry ass in gear, or Lili complaining that we were being "super boring."
***
One evening around the halfway point of that last glorious summer of non-adulthood, on my way out of the Super Mart with a couple of cases of beer that everyone knew I was too young to buy but that no one actually wanted to stop from buying, I heard a strange sound coming from the alley beside the store. I thought it might be an animal that got hit by a car, or a drunk, so I went to investigate.
It wasn't a drunk or an animal. It was Hailey Nickerson, her eyes red and swollen in the fading light and her shoulders hunched up tightly in a stance that immediately made me uneasy.
"Hailey." I said, putting down the beer and rushing up to her. "What the hell are you doing back here? What's going on?"
As soon as she saw it was me, she turned away. I even spotted a quick flash of hostility cross her face – she was always so secretive about things, so unwilling to accept help even when it was offered.
"Hailey," I repeated, my chest tightening as I realized she was too upset to answer. What the hell was she doing out there in the alley behind the Super Mart after 8 p.m., anyway? "Hailey! Look at me! Tell me what's going on. Look, I'm going to call your mom, OK?"
"No," she replied, a strangled-sounding little plea. "No – don't."
I stayed rooted to the spot, not sure what to do. And as I looked at her, still cringing away from me and telling me not to call her mother, an ugly thought crossed my mind. A thought so ugly it took the breath out of my lungs and replaced it with something that felt closer to violent hate.
"Did someone –" I began, stopping briefly to get my shit together. "Did someone hurt you?"
No answer.
"Hailey, you need to answer me, OK? You need to answer me right now."
But she didn't answer me and the blood began to pound in my ears at the thought of someone doing something hateful to that innocent little girl.
"HAILEY!" I finally shouted when the utter silence continued, taking her face in my hands and forcing her to look at me – as if somehow the look on her face alone would tell me what was wrong. "TELL ME IF SOMEBODY HURT YOU!"
She shook her head quickly, afraid of my sudden, explosive anger. "No. Jackson, no. I mean – only my feelings."
"Only your – what?" I asked, so primed to tear some imagined bad guy to pieces I barely comprehended what she actually said.
"My feelings. They only hurt my feelings. It's nothing." She eyed the boxes on the asphalt. "Is that beer?"
My heart was still pounding like a jackhammer. "Is that what? Beer? Uh..." I hesitated, the way I often did with her. She was precocious and wiser than some fully grown adults I knew, but she was still a child.
"I can read, you know," she told me, sensing – correctly – that I was about to lay some bullshit on her. "It says beer. You're underage."
I rubbed my forehead. "Underage. Yeah, I guess I am. Anyway, I want you to tell me what the fuck you're doing crying in an alley. Does your mom know you're out here? Don't try to distract me by talking about beer."
"You could get in trouble for that. The beer."
She wasn't crying anymore. In fact a hint of the impish look she often had in her eyes was already returning.
"Tell me what's wrong," I demanded, ignoring her attempts to change the subject. "Tell me what's going –"
"But you won't, will you?"
I sighed heavily and leaned against the wall of the Super Mart. "What? I won't what?"
"Get in trouble," she replied quietly, chipping away at the peeling paint on a No Parking sign with one slender little finger.
"I won't get in trouble? For what? Goddamnit Hailey! I'm busy! Now either you tell me what the hell is going on right now or I throw your skinny ass in my truck and drive you back to your mom's."
She tilted her head to the side and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, leaving a trail of yellow paint flecks behind on her temple. She wasn't scared of me. She was just about the only person in Sweetgrass Ridge – besides my dad – who wasn't.
"You won't get in trouble for the beer," she said a moment later, completely ignoring my threats. "You won't get in trouble for anything. You're Jackson Devlin. Your dad owns Devlin Ranch. You can do whatever you want."
There's nothing like having the unvarnished truth thrown in your face by a little girl. I even opened my mouth to argue before immediately thinking better of it. There was nothing to argue. She was right – mostly right. I probably couldn't have gotten away with murder or burning down the mayor's office. But Hailey called it straight – I wasn't going to get in trouble for the beer. Even if the chief of the Sweetgrass Ridge PD came around the corner at that very moment, he would just pretend he didn't even see it.
"You're spoiled," my little questioner concluded, turning on her heel in that way she had of turning on her heel that was as irritating as it was adorable and preparing to leave me in the alley with only my technically illegal beer for company.
"And you're a pain in my ass!" I barked back. "Seems like all I ever do is be nice to you. And all you do is bust my balls for it."
She stopped and turned around to face me, a withering look on her face. "I'm not busting your – I'm not doing that thing you said. It's just the truth. I still like you and everything, Jackson. But you are spoiled."
"But you still like me?" I grinned.
"Yeah. And I was crying because my dad was supposed to come visit me today and he didn't show. I usually don't cry about it these days, but it's been a hard week."
Hailey was an only child, and you could tell. She had that habit that only children often have of using phrases and words that you're more used to adults using. It was hilarious. Not that I laughed over her 'hard week' that time. She didn't talk about her dad very much, so I wasn't going to hassle her over it.
"He has a new family," she continued, looking at the ground. "For awhile now. He has new kids, too. He likes them better than me."
I almost argued with her and then immediately thought better of it. I knew how it felt to be lied to by adults about my own feelings.
"Well then he's an idiot," I replied simply, catching her dark, watchful eyes as she searched my face for signs of condescension or dishonesty.
"Is he?"
"Yeah, he is. Anyone who could like other kids better than you is an idiot."
"They are?"
"Yes. Now get in the damn truck, I'm taking you home."
***
We didn't talk much during the drive. It was an easy silence, though, only broken by Hailey asking me if I was going to a party when I pulled into the shabby 1970s condominium complex where she lived with her mom.
"Yeah." I told her, sensing a pointed curiosity in her question. I remembered being her age, fascinated by what the older kids were doing with their time ou
tside of school, looking forward to the time when it would be me.
"What kind of party?"
"Just a normal party," I replied.
"Will there be girls there?"
That was new – the curiosity about girls.
"Uh, yeah. There'll be girls there. I'm not Amish."
"Is one of them your girlfriend?"
I blew my breath out my nose and shook my head, chuckling. "Why are you asking me that, nosy?"
"Answer the question!"
I turned in my seat and looked right at her. "What is this? Am I on trial? No, I'm not. You're a nosy little pain in my ass and I definitely don't have to answer any of your questions, missy. Now git."
Hailey's face broke into a slow smile, although I would be lying if I said I didn't see a strange sadness underneath it, or hear the almost imperceptible wobble in her voice when she continued.
"So there is a girl!"
"It's none of your damned business if I have a girlfriend, kid. Now get the hell out of my truck before I kick you out."
As she unbuckled the seatbelt I made her wear – even though I was in the habit of not wearing one myself – I noticed her lower lip tremble slightly. And I didn't think it was about her dad that time.
"Hey," I said, reaching out as she moved to slide down off the high seat and onto the curb. "Hey, cupcake girl. Do you want me to come in and talk to your mother? Are you – are you OK?"
She stood on the sidewalk with her back to me for a few seconds, and I could see that she was struggling to control her breathing. When she turned around her eyes were glassy. "I'm fine! And no, I don't need you to come talk to my mother! I can do it myself!"
"I know you can, I just thought –"
"LEAVE ME ALONE!"
She tried to slam the door, but she wasn't strong enough to do it with the emphasis she intended – which just seemed to piss her off even more. I sat in the truck and watched her marching away from me once more, just like she did that day at junior school.
I wasn't angry. It's hard to be angry at kids, but her age wasn't the only reason. It was because I understood that she was possessive, in that way children can be.
When I was in first grade, I developed an innocent but fervent crush on my teacher, Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown had short, chestnut colored hair and she wore a lot of ugly dresses that my stepmom Darcy described as "hippie-chic, but not in the good way." Mrs. Brown was nice to me, but no nicer than she was to any of the other students. I never detected the slight undercurrent of fear in her that I often detected in adults. Not direct fear of me but fear of my father and Darcy and their social position in Sweetgrass Ridge. Fear of what they could do to a schoolteacher or a principal or a cop who stepped out of line with their eldest son.
Mrs. Brown wasn't afraid, and it just made me crave her approval even more. I even took to faking difficulties with our reading lessons so I could stay behind for twenty minutes after class and watch the way her bangs fell over her eyes as she slowly read the words in our workbook aloud.
"C-A-T-E-R-P-I-L-L-A-R. Caterpillar. Do you see how you can break the word down into parts? C-A-T – cat..."
I would float off in a reverie as she spoke, besotted the way only very small boys can be.
And then one day, during the summer after school was out, I spotted Mrs. Brown at the Foothills Mall where Darcy was dragging me around to help carry supplies for a big party she and my dad were throwing. My teacher didn't see me, though. She was pushing a stroller and walking hand in hand with a man I unhappily realized must be her husband.
It was like the hot, searing knife of betrayal had been plunged into my chest by my sweet, wonderful teacher herself. A baby? Mrs. Brown had a baby? And a husband? What kind of awful injustice was this? She belonged to me!
I spent the next few weeks moping around the house, unable to get the image of Mrs. Brown – my Mrs. Brown – and her husband and child – out of my 6 year old mind.
So when Hailey Nickerson shouted at me to leave her alone and stomped off in a huff, I thought I knew what she was feeling. But I was wrong if I thought she was going to forget me the way I forgot Mrs. Brown.
As soon as I saw she was inside, I reversed back out of the driveway, briefly considering skipping the party altogether such was the change in my mood.
But I was 17, it was summer – and I had beer. So I cranked up the music and gunned it back to my side of town, where the party was just getting started.
Chapter 4: Hailey
I tried not to think about Jackson Devlin anymore after that embarrassing incident outside the Super Mart. And the other one in the truck when I almost started blubbering like a baby over the idea that he might have a girl his own age he was more interested in spending time with than the imperious little beast that was me at 12.
It almost worked. Even when I saw him at Lili's house I would treat him coolly, as if he hadn't been kind to me from that very first day with the cupcakes. As if he hadn't been patient with me every single time we spoke. As if he didn't do his best to look – to really look – at the sketches I used to show him.
It was innocent, of course. I was 12 – and a young 12 at that. Friends already had 'boyfriends,' and things they talked about in whispered conversations punctuated by giggles and furtive glances over their shoulders. I still played with the bedraggled old Barbie doll my mom gave me for my 8th birthday, even though her hair was fried and her tiny little shoes long gone.
The thought of boys – of doing things with boys – was still disgusting to me at that age.
But none of that meant my psyche wasn't already fully in the business of becoming a woman. I didn't know why it made my skin crawl to think of Jackson Devlin with a girlfriend, I just knew it did.
So I did what any insecure pre-teen with no idea how to handle the burgeoning emotions in her heart would do and threw myself into being mean to Jackson. When I saw him at my aunt's house, nothing he could do or say was too insignificant to avoid earning an audible scoff from me. No joke he cracked was funny enough to warrant anything other than a disdainful raised eyebrow. No question about how I was doing and if I'd seen my dad lately was sincere enough to get an honest answer out of me.
Besides, he was Jackson Devlin. He was going to inherit Devlin Ranch and, with it, half of Montana. Or something like it. Nothing I could do could ever hurt him.
I never saw him in town without an assortment of glossy-haired high school girls following him around like lost puppies and laughing at every dumb joke I imagined he was telling them.
I wasn't like those girls. No. I may have been from the wrong side of town and my clothes may not have been as expensive as theirs or my hair as polished to such a high shine, but at least I had my self-respect. At least I didn't stoop so low as to debase myself for some stupid boy.
And then Jackson's class graduated from high school. Tiago got a job and moved out of my aunt Sandra's house and I stopped seeing so much of him. I stopped seeing anything of Jackson, except for brief glimpses sometimes in town at the Super Mart or the feed store. He took to wearing a cowboy hat like his dad and a couple of his younger brothers, so whenever I saw a particularly tall, broad man in a hat my traitor heart would momentarily leap.
***
"You're sad you don't talk to Jackson anymore," Lili observed during a summer afternoon between 8th grade and 9th. "It's so much quieter around here without the boys, isn't it?"
My cousin and best friend knew I had feelings of a kind for Jackson Devlin. She also knew me well enough not to poke me about it. Her observation wasn't a dig, it was just musing. One I couldn't bring myself, in that moment, to deny.
"It doesn't matter," I answered mournfully. "He doesn't even know I'm alive."
Lili looked skeptical. "He used to. Until you were a complete bitch to him all the time."
We were sitting out on the deck that overlooked her family's small backyard. I brushed an insect off my bare thigh and looked out over the fence, to where the Rockies stood like sentries ov
er Sweetgrass Ridge.
"He deserved it."
It was a lie. I knew it was a lie. I was 14, fresh to the experience of the kind of pure, hot jealousy I felt whenever I imagined Jackson with one of those simpering blondes I saw him with.
Lili, ever the diplomat, didn't respond right away. A few minutes later she got up and announced she was going to make some lemonade and asked me to help. And then when I was spooning lemonade powder into the pitcher, she told me it didn't matter anyway, because Jackson was too old for me.
"I know," I replied. "What do you think? That I'm in love with him or something?"
"No," she said carefully, not meeting my eye. "Just that he's too old for you. He's graduated already."
"I said I know!" I snapped, dumping the last spoonful of powder into the pitcher and flipping the tap on to fill it up. "Just stop talking about it!"
So she did stop talking about it. And my mom, who expressed a few worries over my "mood" that summer, seemed to relax a little when school started up again and thoughts of Jackson had to take a back seat to my studies.
And that's how it went for quite a while. I stopped playing with my Barbie and started going to parties with my classmates, usually at someone's house – at least until the first of us started to turn 16 and get our driver's licenses. I even, briefly, had what I assume was a boyfriend. Levi Forslund, a boy in my class with short dark hair and freckles and slightly clammy hands.
Levi was nice. He wanted our relationship to be more physical than it was, but he never pushed me too hard – even when I could tell my reluctance to go any further than brief, closed-mouthed kisses was confusing him. I liked him a lot. He made me laugh. But there was no fire there. No heat when I stood next to him. There was no heat when I stood next to anyone.
On the evening of the Homecoming dance in 11th grade, I accidentally walked in on Lili in an empty classroom, full-on making out with her boyfriend at the time.
They didn't see me, but I certainly saw them. I saw – well, I saw what I didn't have, and it shocked me to see my friend like that, in such a heated clinch. They looked like they were devouring each other. I remember backing out of the classroom and closing the door very slowly, so as not to make a sound. And then I remember standing in the silent hallway, my cheeks burning with something I didn't understand – shame? Embarrassment? A sense of missing out? I didn't know.