After catching Hunter Wallace’s eye, Gene walked to the back of the restaurant and through a narrow alley to the men’s room. He checked the stall and then stood at the urinal waiting. Two minutes later, Wallace walked through the door. Without saying a word, he handed Gene a wad of cash wrapped in a piece of yellow legal paper. In return, Gene handed Wallace two plain envelopes. Then he stopped to wash his hands at the sink.
“You got yourself a problem,” Wallace said, pushing up close to the urinal.
“Do I?” Gene asked, soaping his palms. “How so?”
“Dusty’s got himself a new skank, and they’ve been holed up for the last week, going through product.”
Gene dried his hands thoroughly, reached into his pocket, pulled a fifty-dollar bill free of his money clip and handed it to Wallace. A tattooed forearm shot out and snagged the bill, shoved it deep in a pocket.
Gene left the restroom, his thoughts turning darker. He walked into the restaurant and sat in a booth, staring out the window at the parade of hicks.
“You hungry?” the waitress asked, eyeing Gene suspiciously.
He gave her one of his biggest smiles and said, “Indeed. What’s good tonight?”
5
Creating Shadows
Mason lay in bed, staring at the wall. Outside, the moon was bright and cast ghostly light through his open window. Even though it was late in the evening and late in the year, it was still very warm. He had pushed his covers away, and they formed a low ridge at the end of his bed. Above this ridge shadows climbed his wall toward the dark ceiling. Long lines from tree branches and dull smudges from the toys he kept on the windowsill formed imperfect shapes against the purplish screen of his bedroom wall, and Mason grinned as he rearranged the shapes with his mind, giving them finer definition and greater detail.
He bent and folded the shadows and realigned them to resemble a house like the one he’d drawn in class for Mrs. Denver. She was nice and liked his pictures. At least she was nice until he drew that angry man. Mason didn’t know who the angry man was, but he upset Mrs. Denver. She made him stop drawing then and told him he could go home. Even though he’d wanted to go home, he felt bad because Mrs. Denver looked so upset. He should have drawn a nice man, a smiling man.
Not a shouting man who waved his fists.
He stared at the shadow-house on the wall. The peaked turret on the left made him think of castles. He knew all about castles. The fairy tales his mama read him when he was little all had castles.
Mason thought hard and shifted the shadows and the light until he imagined a castle painted on his wall. A silhouette leaned out from high in a tower, and he knew this was the princess (because fairy tales always had princesses in castles). Finally, he concentrated on a blob of shadow cast by a small wooden horse. This he elongated and made fierce with a long beak filled with sharp teeth and the impression of thin leathery wings: a dragon.
Mason smiled at the shadow picture on his wall. It reminded him of a long time ago, before his mama and daddy went away. He could almost feel his mother sitting on the bed next to him, could almost smell the sweet scent of chocolate chip cookies, which she’d fix in the evening so he had snacks for the next day.
“Once upon a time,” her voice whispered to him.
His bedroom door opened, startling Mason. The wall picture fell apart, reduced to simple dark smudges amid the moonlight. Mason turned his head and saw his brother, Gene, closing the door.
“We’ve had a bad day,” Gene whispered.
A flare of panic shot through Mason’s belly and lodged in his chest. His brother only visited at night to punish him. He struggled to remember what he had done wrong. He looked at the sock hanging from Gene’s fist. It bulged like the body of a white snake devouring a rat. Only there were two bulges, like the snake had had dinner twice. But thoughts of snakes quickly faded as Mason searched for some event, no matter how minor, in the course of the day that might have angered Gene. Because Gene must be angry with him.
“I didn’t do anything,” Mason whispered.
“Didn’t you?” Gene asked. “How can you be sure? Your head is broken. Are you absolutely certain you didn’t do anything wrong?”
“Yes, Gene. Yes. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t.” But Mason wasn’t sure. Maybe he had done something wrong. He didn’t know what it was. He never knew what might make Gene angry.
Just don’t, Gene. Please don’t.
“If you didn’t do anything wrong,” Gene asked, “then why am I here? Don’t you think I’d rather be asleep? Don’t you think there are a hundred other things I’d rather be doing?”
“I s’pose, but I didn’t do anything.” Still, Gene’s logic worked into Mason’s thoughts. His brother wouldn’t just hit him for the sake of hitting him. That made no sense at all. People didn’t do that, especially family. There must be a reason, and if Mason could just remember what he’d done, he could apologize and promise to never do it again.
“I keep trying to teach you,” Gene said, stepping into the room. The lumpy sock swung against his thigh as he walked. “I want you to learn and be a normal person, but you just won’t learn.”
“I will,” Mason said quickly, scooting back on the mattress until his back hit the wall. “I’m sorry, I’ll try.”
Just don’t, Gene.
“You always say you’ll try, but here I am, having to teach you all over again.”
Gene stepped into the moonlight. He didn’t look angry, but then Gene never looked angry. He always looked like he was remembering a joke.
“You know stealing is wrong,” Gene said. “Stealing is a sin, Mason.”
“I didn’t steal.”
“Didn’t you? Do you know what stealing is?”
“Taking someone else’s things, but I didn’t take anything.”
“And yet, something of mine is gone. It’s gone forever. Now, is that fair?”
Mason didn’t answer. The threads of his thoughts were tangled, and he tried to work his way through them, but having Gene standing near the bed with the sock thumping against his leg, looking like he’d heard a funny joke, just tangled the knots more.
“Is that fair?” Gene repeated.
“No,” Mason said.
“That’s right. It’s not fair. And someone’s got to take responsibility. Someone’s got to step up. That’s what normal people do. That’s what good people do.”
“But…” Mason tried.
“Ah-ah,” Gene replied, holding up his hand to interrupt Mason’s protests. “Someone’s got to step up.”
Terror shot like flashing lights in Mason’s head. Already confused, he was unable to follow the fragments his mind produced: I didn’t steal. Punishment. Don’t, Gene. Please. Didn’t steal. Mama, make him stop. Didn’t. Step up.
Then his thoughts shut down completely. His body went numb.
As he’d done too many times to count, Mason slid out of bed and turned. He dropped slowly to the floor and sat cross-legged with his back to Gene. He reached his arms out and laid them on the bed. He lowered his head, awaiting his punishment.
The stuffed sock came down hard on his shoulder blades. It felt like two fists punching him, but Mason didn’t make a sound. Another blow rang pain all up and down his back, but Mason didn’t say a word. Eyes closed, he saw nothing but a field of black. Behind him, Gene continued to speak, but in those moments of anguish, the words meant nothing to Mason.
Dusty. Loser. Skank. Profits. MY money. Dusty.
Gotta step up.
Someone has GOT to step up.
Gene stayed longer than usual. The punishment was so bad that Mason couldn’t keep hiding in his mind. Tears spilled from his eyes, and his lips trembled as he tried to keep from crying out. He thought it would never end—thought he’d done something so wrong Gene would kill him for it.
Then it stopped. Mason’s back throbbed with a dozen painful hearts, all beating miserably against his skin. His hands were clenched into tight fists. Sweat poured
over his face, his neck, and his wounded back.
“There,” Gene said, out of breath, “now, don’t you feel better?”
Mason said nothing.
“Be sure you keep a shirt on around Molly for the next week.”
Mason sat trembling.
“Did you hear me?”
“I’spose.”
Finally, Gene left the room, and Mason got to his feet.
Mason lay on his stomach. He looked through a film of tears at the door to his room. More than anything, he wanted his mama to walk through that door. She’d know how to make the pain stop. She’d bring him cookies and kiss his forehead and stroke his hair. Maybe she’d tell him a story to take his mind off the pain.
So hard did he wish to see his mother, she appeared in the room before him. A green cotton dress hung from her shoulders and hugged her waist tight. She was still really pretty. Her long brown hair hung straight to her shoulders. Her face was shaped like a valentine heart, and she smiled at him.
She flickered and almost disappeared, but Mason concentrated harder, until she looked as solid as the chair by the door. With a bit more thought, he gave her motion, brought her close to his bedside, and made her sit next to him.
The scent of sweet chocolate-chip cookies filled the air.
His mama reached out the way he wanted her to, but he didn’t feel her palm on his brow. It was just a mind picture, and mind pictures couldn’t touch you.
Seeing her would have to be enough.
“I didn’t do anything,” Mason whispered.
His mama nodded her head and smiled a little wider, even though her eyes looked sad. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. His mind pictures couldn’t talk, either, but he knew what she’d say.
You’re my special boy. My good boy.
“Are you ever coming home?”
I am home.
“But for real?”
Mama shook her head. No.
“I miss you,” he said. “Lots.”
I miss you.…
His bedroom door opened again, but Mason was so happy, he barely noticed. He wanted to keep looking at his mama’s pretty smile and her warm, sad eyes.
“What the hell?” Gene whispered.
The voice startled Mason. Panic flared again. His thoughts became jumbled.
No more, Gene.
I’ll learn. I’ll learn.
I’ll step up.
The mind picture of his mama disappeared.
“Who…?” But Gene couldn’t finish the thought. He stood in the open doorway. Even from his bed across the room, Mason could see the door trembling in his big brother’s grip.
Did Gene see Mama too? Mason wondered. He wanted to ask, but he was too afraid to say anything.
From the darkened threshold, Gene chuckled. He stepped back into the hall, whispering, “I must be losing it.”
He closed the door without saying another word.
He did see her, Mason thought. He did.
6
Chiaroscuro
On Thursday morning, Rene woke very early to the sound of rain. The night before had been clear with a big orange moon in the sky, but sometime during the early-morning hours, the clouds had rolled in. She opened her eyes to the gray downpour smearing the world beyond her window. She blinked and rolled over, giving herself an extra five minutes of pillow time. Her bed was just too comfortable to leave, and it was Friday, and there were surely a dozen other good excuses to lie there and do nothing.
Maybe a sick day was in order. She could always fake a stomachache. Hold a thermometer near the lightbulb of her desk lamp. Just stay in her comfortable bed all day, watching Smallville or Heroes on DVD. Once her mom went to work, she could get online and text some friends or just surf ’n’ shop the web.
As tempting as these thoughts were, Rene rolled out of bed. She scratched her head. Yawned. Walked to the bathroom to shower. No hooky today.
There was a test on the colonies in American history class.
They were choosing lab partners in chem, and if she missed it, she’d end up with Eric Crawford or Donnie Langham or some other slacker who’d make Rene do all the work.
Plus, Lara needed a talking-to.
All night Rene had worried about her friend. Lara had actually gone out on a date with Hunter Wallace. It seemed like a repulsive impossibility, but Cassie had told her all about it on the phone last night. Rene had been grossed out just seeing Lara flirt with the boy on Tuesday night, but dating? The idea was sickening. Her friend might have had a thing for bad boys, but Hunter wasn’t just bad. He was dangerous. Maybe not as dangerous as Gene Avrett, but not far off. They were two sides of the same coin. Gene was heads. Hunter was tails.
Maybe that’s why he’s such an ass, Rene thought. She smiled at the notion, but it quickly faded. Hunter wasn’t a guy you joked about. Everyone knew Hunter kept a gun in the glove box of his car. He’d shown it to enough kids to take the idea out of the realm of school mythology and make it a piece of cold reality. Lara had no business getting mixed up with him.
Turning on the hot water, Rene decided to call Lara. They could meet for coffee. It was kind of early, but it would give them a chance to talk without a ton of kids around.
She had to say something.
Rene sat in the coffee shop, already a third of the way through her cappuccino with the remnants of a biscotti dusting the plate beside her. The main room of the coffee shop was pretty cool. Taking its inspiration from Planet Hollywood, the shop walls were covered in classic movie posters—Casablanca, King Kong, Citizen Kane, The African Queen. Rene had seen only a couple of the films on television. She often thought about renting some of the others, but watching people who she knew were dead, chatting and smoking and acting like they didn’t have a single care in the world, bothered her.
And where the hell was Lara? Her friend promised to meet her before classes, but she was already half an hour late. Rene shook her head and sipped her coffee.
She had met Lara in the sixth grade. Back then Lara was so quiet, so shy. She kept her hair long and straight, like curtains behind which she could hide her face when the world got scary. In fact, Rene’s first memory of Lara was of a girl without a face. She’d walked into class, nervous herself because of the new school year, and she saw Lara at her desk, head lowered and face hidden by long, flat sheets of black hair. The hair was clean and shimmered, but the way it covered her features looked so strange.
Mr. Foster had arranged the room, and Rene found herself sitting right next to Lorraine Pearce, who would later insist on being called Lara. They were not immediate friends; that took some time. Over the course of the first month of school, Lara made quiet wise-ass comments when Mr. Foster lectured, and Rene couldn’t help but smile at them. Later, they chatted over lunch and at recess. Two other girls, Cassandra Ferguson and Susan Melvoin, joined them, and before the Thanksgiving break, Rene and her new best friends became inseparable. They remained that way for years.
Over the summer, everything changed, though. Susan got involved with Mark Decoteaux, and Lara had what she called “an affair” with a college boy that lasted through most of June. Just before the Fourth of July, when they were all going to go to the river to see the fireworks, the boy bailed town, went back to Alexandria, and never called Lara again. She was crushed and called Rene twenty times a day to talk through her disappointment and hurt.
Rene understood. Lara’s parents were almost nonexistent. Her dad was a consultant, and he spent more time on planes than he did at home. Her mother was another unrepentant workaholic, and though her office was in the house, she kept herself locked inside it most days, communicating with Lara through email and text messages, even if her daughter was only a room away.
When the boy broke up with her, Lara said it felt like “hanging off the side of a building and having another finger stepped on.”
Now this Hunter Wallace situation. Ugh. If that college boy had stepped on one of Lara’s fingers, Hunter would stomp hi
s black boot down on her whole hand.
Rene took another sip of coffee and noticed she was rapidly reaching the bottom of the cup. She was about to pull out her cell phone to call Lara, but her friend finally appeared in the doorway.
Lara wore a black string tank over blue jeans. She looked seriously exhausted as she wandered through the shop and dropped into the chair across from Rene.
“Don’t even start the disappointed-mama lecture. I am so not in the mood.”
“I wasn’t going to lecture.”
“Yes, you were,” Lara said. “I saw it in your eyes when I walked through the door. But I already got my fill of life lessons from Melanie, so my quota has been met.”
Melanie was Lara’s mother. Rene was always thrown off when Lara called her parents by their first names. Rene couldn’t imagine calling her parents Lorelei and Phil. Of course, Cassie called her parents “ma’am” and “sir,” which was really weird too.
“What happened?” Rene asked.
“I was trying to get out of the house this morning, and she texted me about some BS that threw my happy in the furnace. Apparently, I have a curfew now.”
“A curfew?”
“Yeah,” Lara said. She snatched Rene’s cup and drained the remaining coffee from it. “I mean, it’s like I see my parents every eighth day and on national holidays. They so don’t keep track of what’s going on, and that’s cool. But last night, Melanie decided to put on her mama-crown and got up in my grill about being out too late. And I’m all, too late for what? It’s not like they ever said, ‘You have to be home by ten or no allowance, young lady.’ It’s all so stupid.”
“How late were you out?”
“Like midnight.”
“On a school night?”
“Chill out, Mary Poppins. I wasn’t doing anything. I was just out.”
“With Hunter?”
Lara broke into a broad smile and looked up from the empty coffee cup. “Yeah. Hot, right?”
Mason Page 3