Wandering Wild

by Jessica Taylor

  “What a nice little canter you have,” he says.

  In a shadowed area of the deck, Craig’s hands paw over my hips and slide around to my ass.

  “Craig, stop.” I arch away and shove at his chin.

  “Fresh meat,” yells one of the letterman jackets, followed by, “Hey, girl, I’m Jeremy.”

  I smell booze—something hard—as Craig releases me. I turn to find a blond jock staring at me like I’m edible and he’s spent a month stranded on a desert island.

  “Has anyone ever said you have a way with words, Jeremy?” I say. He stares at me, blank–faced and drunk, his eyes glassy as marbles. “Nope, didn’t think so.”

  Craig chuckles and socks Jeremy in the shoulder. “I’d be nice to her, Jer. Her brother brought the fun.”

  “You boys need to go tell my brother, Elliot, that you’re my new friends.” I wink. “He’ll give you his special price.”

  The party goes on for another half an hour before the air starts stirring. It’s getting riskier with each minute we stay, what with people popping pills that aren’t getting them high.

  I catch Wen’s eyes through the sliding glass door, but he’s not reading the urgency in my stare. He’s an animal tonight, pushing the product hard. It’s all about me, helping me buy myself back from Felix.

  Jeremy says something about “sugar pills,” and my heart beats faster. It’s time to get Wen. Cash out before you pass out.

  I get Wen’s attention and rub my fingertip across my bottom lip, our emergency signal. He makes excuses to the girls before meeting me outside, all the money tucked away in his shirt.

  I tug him close and whisper, “It’s getting hot in here.”

  He freezes, recognizing the phrase I haven’t used since the night he ended up behind bars. “Okay.”

  Jeremy steps onto the deck, blocking our path inside the house. He grabs Wen’s collar and throws him against the house. “What’d you sell us? The fuck did you sell us? I’m not feeling a fucking thing.”

  “You ha-have to wait a little while for the high to kick in,” Wen says.

  “I took it half an hour ago, bro. Now give me my money back.”

  “Why?” Wen asks. “You gonna beat the shit out of me?”

  “The beating-the-shit-out-of-you part isn’t negotiable.”

  “Come on, Jeremy.” I level my voice and tug on the sleeve of his T-shirt, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “Let him go. You’re high, and you’re about to make a huge mistake.”

  “No, the problem is I’m not high. And that’s his huge mistake.” Jeremy shakes Wen harder and rakes his eyes over me. “Hey, you in on this with him, bitch?”

  Two of his gorilla friends close in. Hands sink into my skin as someone slams the sliding glass door shut, drowning the music and trapping us on the deck. They could do anything to me.

  Worse than that, they could do anything to Wen.

  There’s a faint chime, one I first think I’ve imagined. Bodies go still, and someone cuts the music. In the silence, it’s louder this time—the ring of the doorbell. A girl says the one word guaranteed to make this party spread: cops.

  Someone throws open the front door. Jeremy takes off running through the house. He may not be high on ecstasy, but I guess he’s not interested in the cops escorting him home to Mommy and Daddy for underage drinking.

  Things aren’t looking up much for Wen and me yet. It wasn’t real ecstasy isn’t the greatest legal defense.

  A few people on the deck scatter, but most are stunned. A boy and girl concealed by the eaves of the patio don’t even break their lip-lock.

  “Hey, Occifer,” I hear a girl slur. “Those people are selling drugs out there. But they’re not really drugs—they don’t even work.”

  What the hell?

  Wen groans. “I told you this place was bad luck.”

  I grab him by his shoulders and dart toward the railing.

  I glance over the edge. To the plummeting drop to the forest floor. It’s too far to jump. Wen points at one of the trash bins leaned against the deck posts below. It should break our fall.

  “It may not be safe.” Wen swings his leg over. “I’ll go first.”

  His other leg comes around, and he lets go before I can tell him no.

  He crashes, and I lean over the railing. The plastic trash can is cracked through the lid, my escape route destroyed. Officers scramble out of the house and onto the deck as I hide in the shadows.

  “Amy?” I hear behind me.

  I whirl around and collide with the chest of Spencer Sway, who’s wearing the most surprised smile. “Just what are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Cleaning up at poker. What are you doing here? Stalking me? Your timing is damn near impeccable.”

  “Tal!” Wen whisper-yells from below.

  “Tal?” asks Spencer.

  “I’ll explain later.” I bend close to a knothole in the deck floor. The time Wen did in juvie means he can’t take a pinch, but I can. “Wen, you gotta go.”

  “No.” He flips the busted trash can onto its lid. It shimmies as he shakes it, rickety as hell. “You’re not throwing yourself on the grenade. Hop over.”

  Footsteps draw closer. “I’ll be okay. Go, Wen. Please go.”

  There’s shuffling in the dry leaves below—he doesn’t want to leave, I’m sure—but finally I hear the slap of his feet through the pine needles.

  Spencer gives me a crooked smile. “So he called you Tal, and you called him Wen? I’m eagerly awaiting my explanation.”

  “Not now.”

  I need to get lost, and there’s only one way to do it: I have to blend in with the markies. There are too many people here for the cops to arrest us all.

  Some pitch full bottles of beer over the railing; some rub the bleariness from their eyes. Still, there’s that couple, lost in each other’s mouths.

  There’s no way around it. I do the only thing I can think of.

  “Shh.” I hold my finger to my lips. I back Spencer up until my hips are pressing into his, pinning him to the side of the house. Against his mouth, I whisper, “Please.”

  Our eyes meet under the floodlights.

  I kiss Spencer Sway.

  CHAPTER 11

  We’re nothing more than a couple making out at the party, that’s what the cops will think. Everything will go to hell if they don’t.

  I’ve kissed boys before—markie boys, all of them—always in the interest of a scam. Kisses I made into something tragic.

  I don’t think about Spencer’s lips against mine, only the way the feet sound behind me, clicking against the deck. Closing in. I don’t think about the feel of him, the electricity, not until his hands slide from my shoulders, shimmy up the skin of my neck, and tangle in my hair.

  The balance shifts, and he pushes me against the siding instead. I’m not the one kissing him anymore. Spencer is kissing me, and he’s slowing it down. Way down. It’s softer, easier, rhythmic, pulsing through me.

  Footsteps approach. Boots that stomp, stomp, stomp. Stop.

  “You kids need to break up the tongue bath and go home.” The voice is clear and authoritative—without a doubt, a cop.

  Spencer pulls away, his mouth swollen and his eyes intense. I’m conjuring up lies, ready to take the lead as Spencer says, “Sure.”

  He catches my elbow, skims his fingers down my forearm, before his hand engulfs mine.

  We step through the threshold of the glass door, away from the officer and his handcuffs.

  A girl with bleeding mascara blocks our path. This, I didn’t account for.

  “Nooooo,” slurs the drunk girl, pointing at my chest. “Selling the drugs. Right here.”

  Someone grabs my shoulder, turning me around—Officer Goodwin, according to his badge. Red acne scars dot his cheeks, which means he’s young. And young cops are the worst kind—they’ve got something to prove. He slides a flashlight from his pocket and shines it on Spencer. “Kid, everyone’s saying you two are selling drugs.” />
  “Not him. The girl,” the drunk girl slurs, “and the other guy.”

  I put on my game face and cross my arms. “What drugs?”

  It’s a lame play, but if there aren’t any drugs, there isn’t any proof, and Wen usually watches everyone swallow them before he doles out more.

  “Officer, I can assure you I’m not selling drugs.” Spencer laughs. “And neither is my girlfriend, Tal.” He tucks his palm against the dip of my back.

  The word girlfriend ripples through the party like a tidal wave, the last syllable rising higher each time it’s repeated.

  Goodwin lifts his chin and squints at me. “Tal?”

  “Talia.”

  “Tal?” the drunk girl says. “Whitney said her name was Rachel.”

  Whitney tiptoes around the couch and wraps her arm around the drunk girl’s shoulders. “I definitely said Tal.” With that, Whitney leads her away.

  Goodwin steps forward and gives me a tentative smile. “Mind if I search you?”

  I can’t let him. I’ve got two fake IDs in my wallet and no way to stash one. Legally, he can’t search me without my consent or without probable cause. He might have a case for probable cause, but he’s not getting my consent.

  I start to say just that, until Spencer speaks. “Judge Sway wouldn’t like this, sir.”

  Goodwin frowns. My thoughts run rampant. He’s going to haul us to the station, Boss will have to put up the bail, we won’t be able to pay him back, and Wen will have to fight until he’s dead. He’ll die fighting one of these days—he will.

  Spencer whips his wallet from his back pocket, riffles through it, and produces his ID. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Officer, but I’m Judge Sway’s son.”

  Goodwin hovers a flashlight over the ID. “Spencer Sway. I’ll be damned.” He gives it back to Spencer. “Okay, then. You kids go home, and don’t let me hear about any more trouble tonight.”

  Spencer brings two fingers to his forehead in salute and snaps them to his side. “You got it, Officer.”

  He drapes his arms over my shoulders and steers me around the furniture and through the crowd. Some guy says, “Spencer Sway. That figures.” More whispers trail behind us as we make our way to the front porch.

  Whitney’s arms are crossed as a cop questions her in the doorway of the kitchen. She lifts her hand in a half wave as I go by. My almost friend. I actually feel ashamed for the first time in my life, and the evidence is hot across my face.

  “Don’t worry about Whitney,” Spencer whispers into my hair. “Her party will be the talk of the whole school on Monday, thanks to you. Come on.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Flashing lights from the patrol cars paint Whitney’s lawn red and blue. I race to the sidewalk. There’s a gap along the curb—where we parked the Chevy. Wen’s already gone.

  A shadow stretches across the sidewalk before me, and Spencer Sway says, “That guy left you?”

  “Our truck was parked there.” I point to the empty space, between a Volkswagen and a BMW. “Was.”

  “Is he really your brother? Not your boyfriend or something?”

  I shudder at the thought. “Cross my heart, Wen is my brother.”

  Even though I’m stranded, I can’t be anything other than relieved Wen is safe. Still, I’ve got to get out of here. I give Spencer Sway the once-over. “Are you too wasted to drive?”

  He rocks on his heels and smiles. “No, I didn’t drink anything.”

  “Designated driver? Puritan? Prohibitionist?”

  “No.” He laughs a little. “I like my mind sharp when I’m playing cards.”

  “Smart.”

  “And my car isn’t here. I walked.”

  “Shit.” I could call a cab, but then the driver would know where we’re living, and that’s not information we hand to outsiders. I suppose, though, for Spencer, with his Good Samaritan ways, I would have made an exception and let him drive me home.

  “So, Tal . . .” My name sounds like an allegation on his lips. “I live about eleven or twelve blocks that way.” He points down the hill toward the lake—the pricier views of the water. “We have a basement with a pullout couch. I’ll take you home in the morning.”

  I don’t know why he’d let me sleep inside his house—him knowing about me hustling in the pool hall in Pike, passing fake drugs to his friends—but he’s inviting the danger. It’s equal parts sexy and terrifying.

  “Couldn’t you drive me home tonight instead, once we get to your house?”

  Even I don’t trust myself to spend a night in his world.

  “I would. I really would, but my parents—they’re real light sleepers—and I’d have to open the garage door, which is loud. You’d have to spend the night.”

  There it is—his reason to help me. I know a thing or two about the lies boys tell in the dark. “I’d be sleeping in your basement, and you’d be . . . ?”

  “Upstairs, two sets of locked doors between our lonely bodies, I swear. The basement’s sort of musty, but the futon’s pretty comfortable. That’s the best I can do.”

  Nothing’s right about leeching off markies and then accepting their kindness. But I’m something I’ve never been before: helpless. Tonight, I have to put my pride aside.

  We head down the separated sidewalk, and I remember I haven’t even thanked him yet. I should, even though he was the one who distracted me from jumping and making a clean getaway.

  “You saved my ass back there.” That sounded nothing like a thank-you. I try again. “Thanks, really. Thank you.”

  He shoves his hands deep inside the pockets of his jeans. “So it’s Tal? Not Amy or Rachel or Bertha or something else?”

  “Talia. But everyone calls me Tal.”

  “Tal,” he repeats carefully. He gives me this sideways look like I’m the most amusing thing that’s ever happened to him. I probably am. “I’m still Spencer, like I’ve always been.”

  “You a heartbreaker, Still-Spencer? And don’t lie to me. I’m practically a human lie detector.”

  “Not the last time I checked.”

  “Then why’d that guy at the party say it figured you were taking off with me?”

  “I think it had something to do with me lying to the cop about you being my girlfriend. Taking that risk. I’m sort of the fallen angel of the popular crowd.”

  “You haven’t gotten yourself in any trouble by lying to that cop, have you?” I don’t know why I’d care about something like that—a little slap on Spencer’s wrist—but I do.

  “Nah.”

  After a few more blocks, he turns up the walkway to a two-story brick colonial easily large enough to function as an orphanage or a small hotel. Or, I guess, the home of a judge.

  “So your dad gets you out of a lot of trouble?”

  “My dad?”

  “Judge Sway.”

  He steals a sidelong glance at me and smiles. “Judge Sway would be my mom. I’m a little disappointed. You seemed like the kind of girl who’d be a lot more progressive.”

  From under a mat that spells SWAY HOME in cursive letters, he finds a loose key and works the lock. Markies are that way, closing their windows and putting locks on their doors, but keeping a key to all their valuables right under the welcome mat.

  “I’m the worst at keeping up with my damn keys,” he whispers.

  He smuggles me through a maze of hallways and down the stairs into the basement, where I’m hit with a musty, familiar smell, like Wen’s encyclopedias. I want to breathe in deep and hold the air of this place inside me forever.

  “My mom thinks basements are one of the few things the North is doing right,” he says. “She’s always been terrified of tornados. So she insisted the builders blow out the foundation for a real basement.”

  We wind around a pool table, beside bookshelves stacked with old books—some so high I’d need a ladder to pluck one off the top—all the way to a futon.

  He gestures to a closed door with his chin. “Half bath’s right through
there.”

  “Spencer?” I sit on the edge of the futon and cross my legs, waiting for him to look at me. “What were you doing with that pool game?”

  “Would you believe I was trying to impress you?”

  “Oh, I was surely impressed.”

  He reaches inside an old dresser and tosses me a flashlight. “I’ll come back in the morning. If my parents see you, I’m deader than dead. And, hey, since I’m giving you a bed for the night and all, could you promise not to rob us blind?”

  “Don’t worry.” I turn the flashlight on, holding it under my chin like we’re sitting around the campfire telling stories about things that scrape and scratch around the forest. “I always case the joint first.”

  He grins and backs away from the bed, like he suddenly realized he’s knee-deep in quicksand and sinking fast.

  Spencer leaves, and my eyes adjust to the pitch-black darkness of no stars and no moon. I think of Wen, alone in our trailer. He must be worried as hell.

  More worried for me or worried for himself, I’m not sure.

  Wen and I haven’t been apart for more than a few hours since the day he was born. When he was six, he told me he dreamed we got separated and our world spun out of control. He said the trucks lifted up, the trailers, the Wanderers, everything careened through the atmosphere and came crashing down.

  But that was something Wen dreamed up after Rona snuck us into a midnight showing of The Wizard of Oz. It was a few weeks after that time I went missing, right after Mom went to prison. Everything for Wen always goes back to then.

  They packed up camp—the elders, Rona, everyone—and piled into our cars to head to our new destination.

  They traveled for almost an hour before picking a campsite. Wen thought I was sleeping under some old quilts in the back of Rona’s trailer. He barely spoke as a child—I was his voice. Wen still isn’t much for speaking to people other than me. Nobody noticed I wasn’t there. Not even Rona.

  It wasn’t until they heard Wen’s frantic screaming that they realized I was gone. Rona hopped into her truck to find me. She didn’t even get the gear into reverse before I stepped from the shadowy woods, dry leaves glued to my feet with mud.