Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  Traitor knocks on the door. I hang back at the truck, not sure what we’re even doing at this junk heap.

  After a few minutes, the door swings open and the little old lady from the school office appears.

  “Dell!” she says. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

  Traitor tips his faded ball cap back on his head. “We’re gonna fix your porch up, Mrs. Roger.” His voice is completely different from when he speaks to me. Softer and twangier.

  “Y’all don’t have to do that. It’ll do.”

  “No, ma’am. Every time we get a storm I’m terrified your roof is gonna cave in. So me and Nate here will make sure that don’t happen.”

  Mrs. Roger peers around Traitor. “Where’s Bev?”

  “She ran up to Tennessee to get stone for another project. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets your cookies.”

  Mrs. Roger’s mouth quirks to one side. “You better. My lemon cookies are her favorite.”

  I can’t picture Skunky eating lemon cookies. It seems too … dainty for her. Of course, I couldn’t imagine Traitor sounding this pleasant, either, so Skunky could sip tea with her pinky in the air for all I know.

  Traitor lopes back to the truck and opens one of the toolboxes on the side. “Grab the big ladder.”

  I fumble at the bungee cords and maneuver the tallest ladder to the side of the house. Traitor shows me how to extend it, then starts pulling posts out of the truck bed. “Check the bases first,” he says. “Make sure the rocks are all secure and there’s nothing we need to putty.”

  “Is this what you do all day?”

  He drops a post at my feet. “What, fix porches?”

  I nod.

  “I do all sorts of things. Carpentry work, plumbing, minor roof repair, and electrical work. Whatever’s needed.”

  “Is there a lot of that in Lewiston?” A town this size can’t possibly have that much work.

  He adds another post to the pile. “Enough. These old houses need a lot of upkeep. Why? You wanna be a handyman one day?” He sounds genuinely interested for the first time since we met. In fact, everything about him is different—his voice, the way he stands, the glimmer in his eyes—almost as if the chance to work woke up a side of him I’ve never seen. I don’t exactly know what to do with it.

  “Maybe,” I say. “I don’t think about the future much. I mean, I never thought I’d have one, so …” That’s not exactly true. I had a future all planned out for myself. I just didn’t want it. Now I have no idea what I’ll do once I’m eighteen and Traitor turns me out.

  He cocks his head to the side and looks me over. Not wanting to be studied like some fancy fruit at the grocery store, I turn and start examining the first stone column. His boots thump on the grass beside me.

  “Grab the tub of grout from the toolbox,” he says. “I already see a few places we need to patch.”

  He shows me how to squish grout in the seams and smooth it out with a plastic paint scraper. When the holes are filled in and the stones are secure, we start replacing the tilting beams, knocking out the old ones with a sledgehammer and wedging the new ones in place.

  After a while, Mrs. Roger comes outside and sits on a bench under a big oak tree in the yard, knitting from a pattern that looks like it’s written in a foreign language. The clack of her needles is strangely soothing. By the time we finish, the sun hangs low. I’m drenched with sweat, coated in sawdust, and starving. My feet ache from the too-small shoes, but I’m in a surprisingly good mood. It felt good to work. It channeled the fire in my gut into something productive. Maybe this place really is calming the beast.

  I’m loading the tools when Mrs. Roger appears with a tin of cookies. “Be sure to give these to Bev, dear. You can have a few, but don’t let Dell near them or he’ll eat them all.”

  “I heard that,” Traitor says. He closes the toolbox and locks it. “I’ll make sure Bev gets at least a couple.”

  He and Mrs. Roger laugh like this is some old joke. She tries to hand him cash but he pushes her hand away. “We’ve talked about this, Mrs. Roger. No money until the job is done.”

  “This old house will never be done. You know that. Now take the money.”

  He dusts his hands off on his jeans and climbs on the truck seat. “No, ma’am. I’ll be back tomorrow after the wood glue dries to paint the columns. And don’t give Nate money, neither.”

  Mrs. Roger drops her wallet back into her giant purse. “Dell Clemons, you’re the biggest spoilsport I ever did meet.”

  Traitor laughs again and cranks the engine. I hop in the passenger seat and watch Mrs. Roger toddle across her now straight porch and back inside. We did a pretty good job. Blisters bubble across the top of my palms. I’m strangely proud of them. This is the first time I’ve ever done something good with these hands. Something besides break bones.

  I reach for a cookie, but Traitor knocks my hand away. “Those aren’t for you.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t care what she said. Those weren’t baked for you. They’re Bev’s.”

  “She wasn’t even here. I did the work and I can’t eat one lousy cookie?”

  “Nope.”

  Gone is the soft-spoken, nice guy who fixed an old lady’s porch for free. The hard-ass, I-hate-this-kid uncle is back. Why don’t I get any of that softness? Does he use it all up on other people? I don’t understand why this man despises me so much. So much that he automatically believes what everyone else says about me and has never even asked my side. Not that I would tell him, but still, it would be nice if he asked.

  We turn into a gas station and Traitor hands me a ten. “Grab a couple bottles of water. And I want my change.”

  The beast growls down deep inside, reminding me that a few nice moments can’t cleanse my blood. I resist the urge to slam the door. I thought we’d had a good day. Guess I was wrong. I worked my ass off, and I get nothing. It’s not like I asked for money, just a damn cookie. I snag a cold bottle of water from the cooler and a hot one from an endcap.

  Screw him. If I can’t have a cookie, I’m getting a candy bar. Maybe a Kit Kat. Those were Kelsey’s favorite. She’d sneak one in her pocket whenever the Skynbyrds hung flyers in a grocery store. She always brought it to our spot in the woods. We’d each grab half and make a wish as we snapped it in two, like it was a turkey’s wishbone.

  I pick up the candy and can almost feel her fingers holding the other side. Brushing against those fingers was the only way I ever got up the nerve to hold her hand. It amazes me how something as simple as a touch can be so exciting, and it hurts me to know I’ll never get the chance to feel that thrill again. Not with Kelsey.

  Longing rushes through me like sudden blast of freezing air.

  On second thought, a 3 Musketeers would be better. I drop the Kit Kat and reach for the candy bar at the same time as someone else. “My bad,” I say.

  “You go ahead,” a familiar voice says. “Oh, Nathaniel!”

  I stiffen and face the reporter. “What are you doing here?” I demand. “Are you following me?”

  She smiles. “I rent a room around the corner. Running into you is a total serendipity.”

  Too coincidental if you ask me. “Why are you still here?”

  “I told you I’d be around in case you change your mind. Did you get the backpack?”

  “You know gifts aren’t going to win me over, right?”

  She picks up a candy bar. “It wasn’t a gift. I was replacing something I broke. Anyone would do that.”

  I guess. I grab the candy bar and head to the counter, eager to get away from this woman. She’s right on my heels. I glare at her.

  “What?” she asks. “I have to pay, don’t I?”

  I roll my eyes and plunk everything down. “What do you get out of this?”

  “Out of writing your story?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Four seventy-two,” the clerk says.

  I hand him Traitor’s ten and pocket the candy and coins the
clerk hands back.

  “An interview with you would obviously help my career,” the reporter says. “You’re the impossible get. The story everyone wants. But, then again, there are tons of those stories. Like the serial killer they caught in Maine last year.”

  “So why not interview him?”

  She turns to me with a gleam in her eye. “He doesn’t need my help.” She drops her change in the cup beside the register. “I meant what I said. I think there’s more to you than everyone says. I really do want to help you, Nathaniel.”

  My eyes dart to the clerk, but he’s vanished into the room behind the counter. “Say that a little louder, would you?”

  The reporter waves me off. “People around here won’t connect the dots unless you do it for them.”

  A horn beeps in the parking lot. Traitor flashes the truck’s headlights several times.

  I tuck the water bottles under my arm and start for the door.

  “I’m sticking around town for a while,” she calls. “Just in case. Call me if you change your mind and need to talk.”

  Déjà vu washes over me. The last person to say that was Ms. Erica.

  But unlike this lady, I think Ms. Erica really meant it.

  624

  I’m at my usual corner table, lost in trying to figure out how to break into Traitor’s trunk, when a tray smacks the table beside me.

  “This seat taken?” Brandon asks.

  I swallow my bite of sandwich before I’ve finished chewing. He always sits with his friends. They’re the loudest group in the lunchroom. Did something happen? Are they mad that Brandon’s been hanging out with me?

  I scoot over to make room. “What’s up?”

  “I just can’t deal with them today. Do you mind?”

  I actually don’t. Are people staring at us, though? Wondering if the scary new kid is being a bad influence on the clean-cut popular guy? I gaze around the lunchroom, but the only person who seems to be staring is Brandon. His eyes are fixed on his group of friends. His shoulders are slumped. The crinkle is missing from the corner of his eyes. I’m afraid to ask—he could be private, like me—but it feels weird not to.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, it’s just …” Brandon’s brows furrow. “Ever feel like there are some things no one else will understand?”

  “All the time,” I blurt before I can stop myself. If only he knew how much I get that feeling.

  He twirls some spaghetti around his fork and slurps up the noodles. I’m not sure what to do with this new, gloomy Brandon. I’m supposed to be the quiet one. A burst of laughter erupts from his friends and Brandon scowls.

  “I was going to ask her out tomorrow,” he says. “Maddie. Football game, and then dinner in Fletch’s field under the stars. Cheesy, huh?”

  Better than any date I could’ve come up with. The best I ever planned for Kelsey was stealing the beer she liked from the meeting hall fridge and drinking it together in the woods.

  I crumple my sandwich bag into a ball. “So, ask her.”

  “Can’t.” He points across the room. “Scott Ryman got to her first.”

  I follow his fork and spot a tall blonde guy with his arm around Maddie. She giggles and presses her mouth to his cheek.

  Brandon sighs. “That could’ve been me.”

  “Dude, hate to be harsh, but you sound pathetic.”

  He stabs his fork into the stale bread stick. “I know. I know! I’ve had a crush on her for three years. I finally get the balls to ask her out and Scott beats me to the punch.”

  Maddie flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and leans into the guy.

  “They look more like brother and sister than boyfriend and girlfriend,” I say.

  “I know, right! Super creepy.”

  “Definitely.” I roll my sandwich bag back and forth between my hands. A question simmers under my skin that I’ve been afraid to ask since I found out Brandon liked her. “Would she have even said yes?”

  He twists the fork in the bread stick, flinging dry crumbs across the table. “What do you mean?”

  I summon my courage. “I mean—and don’t take this the wrong way—but she’s … white, and you’re … black.” God, I hope that was the right word. I watch Brandon closely for a reaction. He stopped twirling the fork and is staring at me. “Would that be a problem here? Because it never would’ve happened in The … where I’m from.” I clamp my mouth shut. I screwed up. Not only have I offended him, but I almost told him about The Fort. This is what I get for talking.

  Brandon considers for a minute, then puts his fork down and looks back at Maddie. “I think she would’ve. Not sure if her parents would’ve approved, but … we grew up together. I hope it wouldn’t be an issue and they’d just see the kind of guy I am. That’s all anyone ever wants, right?”

  Not me. That’s what terrifies me more than anything.

  “Besides, I think Lewiston has come a long way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was never as bad here as it was other places. My grandfather integrated in 1963 pretty easily. That’s why there’s a statue of him in the center of town. Well, for that and for the civil rights work he did in the late fifties and early sixties. But there are assholes everywhere. I don’t think the Lyons family are assholes, though. At least I hope they aren’t.”

  I hope so, too, for Brandon’s sake, but Maddie and Blondie could be on an Aryan Youth poster.

  All of a sudden, Brandon laughs. “Maddie’s family moved here from Vermont when we were five. I don’t think she’d ever seen a black person before then. She came to class that first day and couldn’t stop staring at me. At recess, she tapped my shoulder and whispered, ‘Are you that color all over?’ I was so surprised that I got hit in the head with a kick ball and fell down. I caught her peeking up my shorts before I could stand back up.”

  “I caught Kelsey watching me pee in the woods one day when we were kids. She went crying to her mother, afraid that her body parts were falling off because she didn’t have the same pee tube that I did.”

  Brandon laughs so hard he snorts, which sets me off. Now people really are staring at us, but I don’t care. The lunch bell rings and we dump our trash, still laughing. We manage to go quiet for a minute, then Brandon says, “Pee tube,” and we lose it again.

  I haven’t laughed like this in years. On one hand, it feels amazing, but on the other, it depresses the hell out of me. It shows what I could have if things were different, and I know that deep down, this happiness isn’t real.

  It can’t be real. Because Brandon doesn’t actually know the real me.

  The laughter carries me through the rest of the day, right up until I find the envelope sticking out of the slats in my locker. Nathaniel is written on the outside in slanted script. My pulse spikes like thorns in my veins. I yank the envelope free and check the hallway for signs of whoever left it. And here I thought that happy feeling would last a little longer.

  When I’m sure the coast is clear, I tear open the envelope, certain I’ll find some kind of warning note from The Fort.

  Four folded pages are crammed inside. The first is a letter from the reporter.

  Nathaniel,

  Okay, so this may be a bit stalkerish, but I thought it was better than showing up at your house. These are articles I wrote about you during your trial, that News First never ran. A new assignment is going to pull me away soon. I hope these will show you that I really am on your side.

  I hope to hear from you before I leave, but if I don’t, you have my number.

  Shaw Holt

  Unbelievable. At least she’s leaving soon. So she claims.

  I skim the articles. They have headlines like “Wrongly Accused” and “Teenager Stands Trial for Self-Defense.” They do seem more slanted toward my side of things, even if the facts aren’t exactly right. The last paragraph of the last article sums it up pretty well:

  We know that a man is dead, and a fourteen-year-old has blood on his
hands. We know the deceased was the leader of a white supremacist group, and the kid was likely brainwashed by him. What we don’t know is exactly what happened in the woods. Only one person can tell us, and he’s not talking.

  I stuff the articles in my backpack and dart into the library. The librarian is sorting books at the counter.

  “I’ll be here for another half hour, then I’m locking up,” she says.

  I flash her a thumbs-up and sit at the first computer. When I search “Shaw Holt,” a long list of links appears. Articles she’s written, pictures, achievements. I read through a few of the articles. Every one of them has a ton of comments at the bottom.

  Most people love her. She has a lot of regular readers and commenters. One guy says he only reads her articles. Another link takes me to a poll of “America’s most trusted newsperson.” Her name is near the top.

  Maybe this chick is on the up-and-up. That doesn’t mean I trust her. She definitely has her own agenda. But maybe I should give her more credit than I have been.

  632

  I unhook the bag from the lawnmower and dump the clippings down the hole. The tree is taller now. While the leaves on all the trees aboveground are changing, this puny thing doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. I grab the hose and shoot some water down there, figuring it can’t hurt.

  “Nate!” Traitor calls.

  I kink the hose with one hand and push the mower back to the house with the other. Thank God this is the last time I’ll have to cut the damn grass until spring. If I’m still around by then.

  “Get washed up. Bev’s bringing supper.”

  The hose pops out of my hand and sprays the porch. Traitor jumps out of the way, but not before his jeans get splashed.

  “Damnit! Watch it with that thing. What the hell were you even watering?”

  I bend the hose again and turn off the spigot, ignoring his last question. For some reason, I feel like I have to protect the tree, like if he knew about it he’d think it was a problem and get rid of it.