by S. F. Henson
I’m going back to juvie.
A piece of notebook paper slides under the door.
“If you’re gonna live here, you’re gonna pull your weight,” he says. “I expect these chores to be done before I get home at five.”
I don’t move.
“Dell, you can’t—”
Traitor clears his throat, cutting her off. “There’s bread in the pantry and meat in the fridge. Help yourself, but don’t go wild. And don’t leave the property. Or use the computer. One slip, and you’re goin’ back.”
His heavy footsteps retreat, followed by her lighter ones. She’s yelling at him again, but I can’t make out the words. The stairs creak, then the front door slams shut. The roar of an engine slices through the fog.
I’m alone.
I could run.
And go where? Hop between towns again, hoping no one recognizes me? I had enough of that with Mom.
No. This is my chance. My shot to leave all that behind. The running, the anger, the fear. This is it.
And I guess it starts with chores.
The list is long. Sweep the entire house, clean the kitchen and bathroom counters, mow the grass, organize the pantry. I’m surprised Traitor doesn’t want me to scrub the floors with a toothbrush. The list should be titled “Things to Keep Nate Occupied So He Doesn’t Murder Someone Else.”
Traitor doesn’t keep much in the house. There’s very little furniture, nothing on the walls, no photographs on the tables. I’d hoped he’d have a picture of Mom, or something of hers around here, but there’s nothing. It’s almost as if she never existed.
The house is unnervingly quiet.
The Fort was never quiet. Someone was always barking commands or fighting or listening to Nazi Socialist black metal so loud it made your organs vibrate.
The Psych Center was better, but at least a few times a day, George, the schizophrenic down the hall, would scream at the creatures crawling up his walls or an argument would erupt in the common room over the remote. Nurses were always in and out dispensing meds. There were group therapy sessions.
Now, the only sounds are my footsteps and the occasional tweet of the birds at the metal feeder outside the kitchen window.
And my own terrifying thoughts.
This is the first time I’ve been alone, truly alone, since right before it happened. Since the last time I waited for Kelsey by our holly bush.
I’d been lying on my back in the snow watching the shadows of the bare branches dance across my jeans when boots crashed through the underbrush. His thugs jerked me to my feet and pinned my arms behind my back.
Then Thomas Mayes and the Connor brothers pushed into the clearing, holding Kelsey between them. Jeremy Connor shoved her forward so hard she almost fell. She shivered like a scared dog. Blood streamed down her cheek from a gash over one eye, which was already swelling shut. Fresh bruises splotched her face, reminding me of when she had chicken pox when we were ten. Mud clung to her wild hair and her thin sweater.
They hadn’t even let her put on a jacket after they beat her, which for some reason struck me as the worst part. Like everything would be better if she were only warm.
She wouldn’t—or couldn’t—meet my eyes as she pointed to our holly bush.
When they found the secret books, Thomas Mayes punched me until he knocked me out. He was grinning the entire time. They didn’t let me out of their sight after that.
So I take advantage of the situation now. I could use a talk with Ms. Erica, her calm, low voice soothing my nerves, but there’s no phone. I don’t feel like starting my chores yet, so I snoop through Traitor’s things, starting with his bedroom. There has to be at least a fragment of my mother somewhere. A picture, clothing, a letter. Anything besides the button around my neck.
It had come loose from her interview shirt the morning she died. She pressed the button in my palm and told me not to let go of it while she ran to the gas station for a needle and thread. If I lost it, her shirt wouldn’t close and she wouldn’t get the job we so desperately needed.
I may have forgotten other things she told me, but I never lost her button. I hold it now in one hand while I rummage through Traitor’s room.
It’s a lot like mine. The bed is bigger, the quilt’s not quite as worn. There’s a desk against one wall and a dresser on the other—both are practically empty. The closet is crammed with clothes and several pairs of boots. No black ones. None with laces. Nothing that even resembles a combat boot. One pair’s camouflage, one has rubber around the bottoms, and one pair are brown leather pull-on work boots.
I push the clothes back and find a brand-new gun safe in the corner, the orange price tag still hanging from the handle. A chill rocks through me. In spite of myself, I give the handle a quick turn to be certain it’s locked up tight, that I’m safe from the guns.
Or maybe that they’re safe from me.
The handle holds firm. I let some camo coveralls swing back in front of the safe and start to leave when light glints off something on the floor.
Behind the boots, under a blanket, is a black trunk. Silver brackets cover the corners. I pull the blanket back and try to lift the lid. It doesn’t move. A hinged latch holds the trunk shut. Locked.
Is this where he keeps her, hidden away so he doesn’t have to see? Traitor doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who has a lot of valuables. He and Mom obviously had some kind of falling-out—one so bad she never breathed a word about him to me. If he’s kept anything, it has to be in there.
The keyhole is about the size of a dime, so the key should be small and, unfortunately, easy to hide. I rifle through all the desk drawers again, even feeling underneath in case he taped it to the bottom. No key. Nothing in the dresser but underwear, which I feel weird touching.
I run downstairs and go through all the kitchen drawers, the end table by the couch, the coffee table compartment.
Nothing.
It’s probably on that giant key ring of his. Of course that’s where he’d keep a key. But how the hell am I going to get it?
589
Traitor—and his keys—left bright and early, but not before giving me a fresh list of chores. My main task is cleaning up the flower beds.
The day is so humid even the grass is limp, like it’s trying to snake under the dirt where it’s cooler. Pulling weeds is a nightmare, and not just because I have to stop and rub sweat out of my eyes every few minutes. The weeds keep slipping out of my grasp. I eventually chuck the leather work gloves on the porch and use my hands to get a better grip, even though the dirt stains them a brownish-red and leaves dark crescents of gunk under my nails.
Anything would be better than this. Although, at least the cabin is nothing like the houses at The Fort.
Kelsey called it Auschwitz because it reminded her of the bunk buildings in pictures of the concentration camp. Pictures we weren’t supposed to see of a camp The Fort denied existed. The sameness and uniformity made me sick. It made Kelsey long to be different, to do something totally distinct, like dye her hair blue.
I guess she never got the chance.
I force The Fort from my thoughts and climb to my feet and push the wheelbarrow of weeds and dirt—although clay is a better word for the thick red mud that passes for dirt in Alabama—to the edge of the woods and dump it in a deep hole I found while mowing yesterday. I’d almost gotten the mower stuck in it when I was trying to avoid the woods. I haven’t stepped foot in a forest since that night, and I’m not about to start now.
I can’t tell how far down the hole goes, but it’s deep enough that only a weak trickle of sunlight reaches the bottom. And in that trickle, is a small tree. It’s a scraggly, thin thing. Hasn’t even reached the edge yet, and Lord knows how it started growing, but it’s there: a flash of pale green leaves in the dark struggling to rise above the muck it started in and stretch toward the full stream of sun on the surface.
I pause at the hole and think about yanking the tree free and putting it out of its
misery. The roots can’t be too deep yet. Its weak trunk would be easy to rip from the dirt. But I’m curious to see if the seedling will ever make its way above the hole, so I carefully dump the dirt around it rather than on top of it, then I right the wheelbarrow and angle back toward the house. Traitor pulls into the yard before I start pushing. The Oriental girl hops out and crosses to her truck without so much as a glance my direction. The sun sets fire to the red streak across her head, like a wrongly colored skunk.
Skunky. That’s what I should call her. It sounds better than the Oriental. Calling her that makes me feel like I’m labeling her by her race, which is too much like what he would do.
Does she know what’s in that trunk in Traitor’s closet? She apparently knows Mom existed, but does she know what happened between Mom and Traitor?
I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she’d ever tell me.
Traitor takes his time getting out of the truck. I already have the wheelbarrow back at the porch for the next load when his boots crunch on the gravel walkway. A forest green backpack with thick black straps thumps to the ground beside me.
“School starts Monday,” he says.
I twist my head around, wishing the house faced the other direction so the sun would be in my eyes. Then I wouldn’t have to actually look at him.
He can’t be serious. There’s no way he can expect me to go to school with regular kids. “I don’t need school,” I say.
He snorts. “’Cause you got such a great education at The Fort.”
“I’m sixteen. I don’t have to go.”
“The State says otherwise.”
“I’m not living with the State anymore. They don’t get a say.”
Traitor nudges the backpack toward me with his toe. “Take it up with Mrs. Hayes tomorrow afternoon.” He turns and clomps up the steps, his keys jangling against his thigh.
This is bullshit. And that’s exactly what I’ll say to this new case manager when I see her.
The backpack is as limp as the grass. I should leave it there. Ignore it. Or toss it in the hole with the tree. Make Traitor bitch about the money he spent.
Instead, I pick it up. Someone colored in the logo on the front with black marker. The straps are torn at the edges and the threads along the top are fraying. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. I peek inside. The front pocket has two black BICs and two mechanical pencils. The big section holds three brand-new notebooks, spiral-bound.
Guess Traitor doesn’t care if I kill myself or not.
591
“I’d be better off at the Psych Center. Send me back to Kentucky.” I cross my arms and stare the social worker down. Ms. Erica’s business card burns a hole in my pocket. She’s the one I should be talking to, not this old holier-than-thou bitch. I have to find some way to get a phone.
The new social worker leans forward, balancing her elbows on her khaki-clad knees. She’s older than Ms. Erica, and not near as pretty. “I know you’re scared, Nate.”
“I’m not scared,” I snap. This lady has no clue. If she did, she’d understand that I’m not the one who should be afraid. All she knows is whatever that thick blue file in her bag says, and since I decided to keep my past private, there’s no telling what that is.
“Okay, good. Because there’s no reason to worry.” She smiles. “I’ve spoken to the principal and the guidance counselor. They think you were in a juvenile facility for behavioral issues before the Psych Center. They’re going to watch out for you.”
I slump against the lumpy couch cushions. Great. They think I’m some out-of-control delinquent. Okay, maybe I am, but it might’ve taken them a while to figure that out.
“What about reporters?” I ask.
Traitor comes out of the kitchen carrying a glass of ice water. He hands it to the social worker, but she doesn’t drink. Just passes it from hand to hand.
“You’re enrolled as Nate Clemons so—”
“No,” I bark. “I won’t take that name.”
Traitor stiffens. “It’s a hell of a lot better than the one that jackass gave you.”
“What would you know about it?” I glare at him. From where I’m standing he and “that jackass” have a lot in common.
Traitor pushes off the doorway and takes a step toward me. “Enough.”
“Stories from biased reporters don’t count for shit.” I cross my arms.
Traitor looks like he wants to say something, but the social worker cuts in before he can.
“It’s for your safety, Nate. It’s not only the media we want to keep away from you.”
I swallow hard. It’s suddenly a million degrees inside this house. My palms are sweating like leaky faucets. My knee bounces up and down. “Do you … do you think they’ll find me?”
I’m not scared of some bitch-ass kids, but anyone with sense would be afraid of The Nazi Socialist Party. I don’t care how far I am from The Fort. There are white supremacist groups in forty-eight states. If they find me, it’s game over. They made no secret of the fact they think a stint in the Psych Center isn’t enough punishment for taking out their dear old leader, and they aim to fix what the jury got wrong.
The social worker puts her cool palm on my arm, but it’s not comforting. Not like Ms. Erica’s hand. “You’re safe here,” the woman says.
I slide away from her. “They knew Mom. Nate Clemons will be almost as obvious as Nate Fuller.”
Despite the heat, Traitor gives me a look that could freeze Hell. “You don’t even know your own mother’s name?”
I clench my jaw to keep my mouth from dropping open. It wasn’t Clemons before she got married? He never called her anything but Mae or Bitch, and she was a dozen different people when we were running, but she was always Mom to me.
The social worker shoots Traitor a warning glance. “Your mother’s last name was Reese, Nate. Your uncle changed his name to Clemons a long time ago. That’s why it took Ms. Erica so long to locate him.”
Is that why Mom didn’t find him? Did he change his name to hide from us? What happened between them? I want to ask all these questions, but I know he won’t answer. He wouldn’t help me then, and he won’t now. The State must be paying him to keep me. That’s the only reason I can come up with for why he’d let me live here.
“If Ms. Erica found him, The Fort can, too.”
Traitor scowls. “I’ve been off their radar for a long time. Ms. Erica had access to records they can’t possibly get ahold of.”
Why was he on their radar in the first place? Unless The Fort thought they could get to Mom through him. I bet that’s why he didn’t help us. To protect his own ass.
“As long as you go by Clemons, you’ll be safe,” the social worker says. “Your records are sealed. You’re at least four hundred miles from The Fort. No one who isn’t associated with your case knows where you are. Not even the school administrators know your past since you’ve refused to release details.”
She says the last part like I’m a horrible person for holding back information. Dr. Sterling said it’s my choice who I disclose my medical history to, and I chose not to disclose to anyone but her and Ms. Erica. I told them to only release what they absolutely have to, which isn’t much. Even to this lady.
The social worker sighs. “Keep a low profile and The Fort won’t bother you.”
Traitor crosses his arms. “Don’t do anything that will land your ass back in the news.”
I glare at him. “Skunk—that lady knows. She knows exactly who I am.” And she’d love to see me dead.
The social worker raises an eyebrow.
“I had to talk it through with someone,” Traitor says. “Bev won’t tell. She doesn’t want them after me, either.”
“See?” I say.
The social worker sets her full water glass on the coffee table. “I wouldn’t get involved in sports or clubs that might post your picture somewhere, but otherwise you’ll be fine. This will be good for you, Nate. It’s time to reintegrate into societ
y.”
Reintegrate. As if I was ever integrated to begin with.
“And what happens if I don’t go?”
Her smile falters a little. “This is the next step of your court-ordered therapy. The State will compel you to attend school.”
“How?”
“Just go and we won’t have to worry about that.” She stands and slings her bag over her shoulder as if that closes the matter. She could at least pretend to care about what I want.
I’m not letting this go without a fight. “What about homeschool? Can’t I—”
“Who’s gonna teach you?” Traitor snaps. “Sure as hell ain’t gonna be me. It’s public school or a job.”
It’s an empty threat. From the number of “looking for work” flyers I saw stapled to phone poles on the way into town, no one is hiring.
“Nate, give it a chance,” the social worker says. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
594
I stabbed someone for the first time in school. It was in the second grade.
Thomas Mayes.
He was a few years older, and a hell of a lot bigger, than me. I stabbed him in the gut with my pocketknife. Only once. Our classmates pulled me off after that. But I wish I’d gotten more jabs in. I wish I’d stuck that knife in him again and again and again until he didn’t have a breath left in his body.
I wish I’d gotten the last laugh.
My first day of school at The Fort—homeschool really—went fine. Everyone loved me. Who wouldn’t love the leader’s son? I sat at the front of the meeting hall, riding high on their smiles and friendly words. The teacher handed me a slip of paper and told me to memorize it.
The mantra.
A racially pure people which is conscious of its blood can never be enslaved by the antiracists. In this world, we must fortify the future of the White people and the White people alone.
I recited it that first day without knowing what I was saying—just read the words off the page along with everyone else in the hall.