I blinked. “Hmm?”
The motion stopped suddenly, his pen going still, and when I looked up, Wilder was staring at me. I couldn’t be certain, but it looked like beneath that sharp gaze, he might’ve been amused.
“It’s the first question,” he said, “for the assignment.”
“Oh.” I looked down, trying hard to conceal the blush that threatened to steal up my cheeks. Dang Alexis Walker and her big freaking mouth. Get it together, Doherty. “Blue,” I answered, “My favorite color’s blue. And what about you?”
“Pink,” he said.
I’d been ready to fill in the answer, but instead I paused for a second, brow furrowed, before turning to look at him. “Pink?” I asked, trying not to sound too incredulous. But seriously, pink? “Really?”
If I hadn’t been watching carefully, I would’ve missed the way the corner of his lips twitched.
“No,” he said, “not really. I just wanted to see if you were listening.”
Sitting up straighter, completely blush-free—thank goodness—I looked Wilder in the eye and said, voice thick with sarcasm, “You have my undivided attention.”
His eyes narrowed but all he said was “Green.”
We got through the rest without a hitch. He or I would pose a question then we’d both answer it in turn. By the end of the worksheet, I’d learned a little more about Ethan Wilder, mostly superficial things like: his favorite book, To Kill A Mocking Bird, his favorite band, The Police, his favorite sports team, the Colts. But he’d surprised me when I’d asked question twenty-six—”What do you want to be when you grow up?”—and he’d simply said, “Happy.”
I’d answered the questions as truthfully as I could, but I hadn’t expected him to be so open. It was a nice surprise. I couldn’t understand what had changed between the first time I’d spoken to him and now, but I knew that something had. He wasn’t as...well, rude as he’d been to me in the cafeteria that first day. He wasn’t exactly friendly either, but he was at least civil.
Work complete, we sat there in the back row while everyone else made their way through the interview. Looked like some groups were having a hard time—one person trying to talk over the other—but Wilder and I hadn’t run into any problems. I smiled as I watched George grill Bobby McAfee, her style, straightforward rapid-fire interrogation. Bobby looked a little dazed, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Thanks to Law and Order re-runs and countless episodes of CSI, George was a master interrogator. Odds were Bobby never knew what hit him.
“Were you born here?”
“Yep,” I said, “right down the road at Bowie Medical.”
“Is that your natural hair color?”
I turned back to Wilder, thinking—hoping—he was joking. But his expression was completely serious. How could he not know that that was inappropriate? You just didn’t ask girls about their hair color, especially with all the bottle-blonds down South. It simply wasn’t done.
“Yes, it is.” I followed up with a question of my own. “Do you always just say what you want?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Well, of course not. Some things can be offensive.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you”—he paused—”I like your hair.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Yeah, right,” I said. “Good one, Wilder. I bet you say that a lot, huh?”
His eyes shifted from where they’d been resting, on my hair, back to my face. He didn’t sound like he was teasing as he said, “No, Doherty. I don’t.”
My smile faded as the bell rang; students packed up to leave. Realizing I’d been staring again—but was it really wrong if Wilder was staring back?—I looked away, started piling up my books.
Distracted and a little off-center because of Wilder’s remark, I watched dumbly as my pen rolled across the desk and onto the floor. Before I could move, Wilder was reaching down, bending to one knee. As he came up, my pen in hand, his body was so close I could feel the warmth rushing off him. He held it out to me, palm up, face inscrutable.
“Careful, Wilder,” Grant McCreary called from the door. “Don’t get too close. Doherty may look harmless, but she’s her mama’s daughter. Wouldn’t want you to catch anything.”
“Thanks,” I said stiffly, snatching the pen from Wilder.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Totally mortified, I turned away, noticing Bruce Diamond and George standing there, both witnesses to my humiliation. The first was frowning at his friend, but the second looked like she wanted to gut McCreary where he stood.
I knew exactly how she felt.
Before I could think up a cutting retort, Ethan was in front of Grant, just standing there, saying nothing. His eyes were icy; his voice when he spoke sent a chill up my spine.
“What makes you think you can talk to me?” Ethan said quietly.
Grant stiffened but didn’t respond.
“You know who I am, what I’m capable of.” A beat passed as he let the threat sink in. “Only assholes talk about girls that way. Don’t speak to her like that again.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Grant said—then took a step back as Ethan suddenly leaned forward.
“I think I just did,” Ethan said.
The showdown ended when Bruce grabbed McCreary’s arm, said, “Come on man. Let’s go.” The latter left with a scowl and an eyeroll, but there was no doubt about it. Grant McCreary had backed down. Ethan left right after, and books held tight to my chest, I met George in the hall.
“Well, that was awesome,” George said.
“I know,” I said. “I think I may be a little in love with Ethan Wilder.”
“You joke, but I may be falling, too, after he stood up to McCreary like that. What’s his problem, anyway?” she said as we walked side by side. “I mean, besides the obvious. Why does Grant McCreary hate you so much?”
“I broke his jaw once.”
George’s head whipped around so fast, I was surprised she didn’t get whiplash. “You did what?!”
“It was a long time ago, when we were kids.”
“But his jaw, Delilah? You broke his freaking jaw?”
“It wasn’t on purpose.” I couldn’t help but get a little defensive. “And anyway, he started it. Grant McCreary was as big a bully then as he is now.”
George’s smile was vicious. “I’d have paid good money to see that. Hell, I’d cut off one of my hands to see that.”
“Don’t have to,” I said. “Just go find a yearbook. It happened in third grade, the Sunday before picture day.”
“Priceless,” she laughed, walking to her next class a few doors down. “Just priceless.”
I settled into Calculus, got out my book, my eyes on the problems on the board, my mind in the past. Grant would never forgive me for what’d happened that day. But I’d never forgive him either. Unconsciously my hand made its way to my wrist, searching for something that wasn’t there, hadn’t been for years. My fingers trailed to the long scar starting right beneath my thumb, running to mid-forearm and traced the thin, vertical line back and forth, over and over.
On the way to last period, I saw Wilder again. It was just in passing; there were a ton of other students in the hall, but, like at the church, for some reason he stood out.
This time it was because of the grease.
Each of his hands—fingertips, knuckles, palms and all—was covered in the stuff, the lower third of his t-shirt streaked black. He was just standing there, leaning against a wall, cleaning off his hands with a small towel then tucking it into his pocket. But for the first time since he’d been at BHS, no one seemed to notice him. True, it was near the end of the day, and everyone was scrambling to get to their last class; but I didn’t think that was the reason.
The thing was: Wilder hadn’t done anything to make people notice him. He hadn’t been caught smoking in the boys’ room. He hadn’t mouthed off. He hadn’t picked any fights (minus that one awesome moment
with McCreary). He sure as heck hadn’t murdered anyone. Far as I knew, he hadn’t even been late to turn in an assignment. If the guy was trying to fly under the radar, he was doing a mighty fine job of it.
It was as I had this thought that two things happened simultaneously. Grant and a couple of his obnoxious friends walked by, doing the now-expected-yet-totally-overdone “slut” cough, and Wilder lifted his head, locking eyes with me. Something passed between the two of us that I couldn’t name, but it sent a shock straight through me, one I felt down to my bones—which was strange...but not unpleasant.
I was still thinking about it—that look, his eyes—at the end of the day when George and I walked out to the parking lot. There’d been something almost familiar in his gaze. But that was ridiculous because I hadn’t even met Wilder before a week ago.
“Son of a bitch!”
My head snapped up at the exclamation. If I’d been paying attention, I might’ve noticed the small crowd that’d gathered near the center of the lot, the one George and I had just joined. I’d have noticed Grant McCreary pushing his way through the growing mob to see what all the fuss was about. And I’d most definitely have noticed the newly polished, newly re-upholstered white Corvette Coupe propped up on cinder blocks, de-tired, all four rims lying around the car, shining bright like over-sized silver Frisbees.
“My baby!” Grant cried, running to the car to examine the damage. There were some laughs and a few scoffs, but for the most part, everyone stayed silent, shocked that someone had dared defile the car of Bowie’s star QB. Grant turned to the crowd, eyes burning. “What happened to my car?!”
There was no answer.
“Who did this?” Again, naturally, no answer. “Who the hell did this?!”
Grant continued to rant and rave until one of the administrators came out, saw what’d happened, then forced him to come with her to file a report.
Click, click, click.
I looked to my left. “What are you doing?”
“Documenting a historic event,” George said, snapping another photo with her cell. “This is golden, D, sweet justice in the form of public humiliation. Can you remember a time when someone actually stood up to that asshat?”
I thought about it a second. “Send me a copy,” I said.
George laughed. “No problem.”
I shook my head while she walked around the car, trying to find the best angle. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember a time when Grant hadn’t been the biggest or the strongest. His talent for throwing a pigskin had given him power and prestige, so people generally overlooked his mean streak and either kissed his ass or tried their best to stay out of his way. Most knew better than to get on Grant McCreary’s bad side.
“Who do you think did it?” George asked.
“No idea,” I said—though I had my suspicions. “They’re either real crazy or real ballsy.”
An engine flared to life. Shortly after, Wilder roared past on his motorcycle, not even slowing to glance at what’d caused all the commotion, almost like he didn’t care—or like he’d seen it already.
CHAPTER 7
The thought was stupid. Why did I automatically suspect Wilder? It wasn’t like he’d spray painted his name across the hood. He must’ve had shop or something. That’d explain why his hands were so dirty. Sure, McCreary was a jerk—and I’d known that within minutes of meeting him—but it usually took people more than a few days to figure it out, even longer to work up the nerve to act on it.
But someone had acted on it today, I thought, and in a big way.
I couldn’t wait to tell Aunt B. She had spies everywhere, usually got all the gossip first, almost as quick as George. But I was looking forward to passing this one along. It was nice to see guys like McCreary get the metaphorical finger of life shoved down their throats every once in a while.
Unfortunately, when I walked into the bakery, the first thing out of Aunt B’s mouth was, “Did you hear what happened? That little son of a gun McCreary finally got what was coming to him.”
“Who told you?” I grabbed an apron as I walked behind the counter, slipping it over my head. Our shop was near the center of town, off one of the main streets, a little hole in the wall with a pink and black awning squeezed between a bowling alley and music emporium.
“Just got this text from your friend George”—she held out her phone so I could see—”That’s a real good picture, almost feels like I’m right there, seeing the whole thing for myself.”
She was right. Grant’s baby looked like a model sports car sitting on toothpicks. “I saw it up close just minutes ago.”
“You did? And?”
I smiled. “It was a beautiful thing.”
“I bet it was.” Aunt B slid a tray of fresh triple chocolate brownies into the display case, pulled one out, broke off a piece for me and kept the rest for herself. “I told you things got a way of coming around. That boy has a baby face, but he’s rotten to the core, been like that since he was young.”
“Yeah, I know.” I ate the brownie in two bites, happy she saw it my way. Aunt B had never been a big fan of high school football—or Grant McCreary.
“Alright,” Ronnie said, carrying a platter of pastries out from the back. He was wearing an apron identical to mine, pink with the company’s logo curling across the front. “You two gonna sit around eating the merchandise, or help me do some work?”
“Sorry, Boss,” Aunt B laughed.
I went for serious. “Didn’t mean to slack, won’t happen again.”
Ronnie nodded. “You just make sure it doesn’t.” He placed the pastries on the counter and stopped for a moment at my side. “Heard about what happened to Grant.”
My eyes widened. Surely, Ronnie wouldn’t have...
“It wasn’t me.” He shook his head, the smile on his lips shining in his eyes. “I sure do wish it was, but it wasn’t.”
“Ah, that’s okay.” I patted his arm. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can change one of my tires later. You’ll have to do it free-hand though, might get a little messy. I don’t have gloves.”
Ronnie’s face contorted. “No thanks.”
“You take care of the front Delilah while we go cover the rear. Get ready,” Aunt B said. “Second noon rush is about to hit.”
With that, Aunt B and Ronnie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving customer service to me. Grabbing a towel, I cleaned the glass displays of finger smudges, wiped down the counters. In about fifteen minutes, our little bakery would be chockfull of people expecting their midday sugar fix; we had to be armed and ready.
It wasn’t like Southern Charm Confections was the only bakery in town—just the best. Georgia Magazine had called our Southern Charm Confections “downright delicious desserts made with the magic touch.” The business was founded twenty-two years ago by a starry-eyed Aunt B who, at the time, had more dreams than business sense. I was too young to remember everything, but I knew Mom and Aunt B struggled those first few years. Christmases and birthdays, our primary gift-giving holidays, were downsized. We’d had to write down every expense, looking to cut corners, which led to the creation of peanut-butter Tuesdays and Thursdays, canned-soup Sundays, and carpooling with friends whenever possible.
It’d taken time and funding we didn’t really have to break through as a viable business, to be visible to the public. But now we had a reputation as one of the best bakeries in the state.
Before long, customers started flooding in and we had a line going. First up was one of Bowie’s finest.
“Hi there Garrison, how’s it going?” I was already moving to bag up his usual, two crullers, one bear claw and a side of steaming hot coffee, decaf.
The man sighed, handing me a ten and exact change. “Now Delilah, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s either Officer Henley or Officer Garrison. That’s it. That’s all you’ve got to choose from. Anything else undermines my authority and this uniform.”
“Alright Garrison,” I said, giving him three
dollars back. He wasn’t too intimidating with floppy brown hair and big puppy-dog eyes, but he took his job seriously. “It’s hard for me to see you as anything other than that, but I promise to try.”
“That’s all I ask.” He walked away, settled into one of the two-seaters along the wall and pulled out the bear claw. At twenty-five, Garrison Henley was a seasoned cop, having joined the academy right out of high school. When he used to sit for me on Saturdays, he’d spent most of the time watching cops shows and reading manuals about law enforcement. He might’ve been cloaked in blue now, but back then I’d called him Nanny Garrison.
I helped the next person and the next, recognizing a few more regulars. Most I knew by name, some I didn’t. Everyone besides Garrison ordered sweet tea. Ronnie came out carrying a batch of banana-nut muffins and took over the register while I filled orders. Sliding open the display to grab three oversized cookies, I couldn’t help but overhear the customers next in line. The two older women were wearing red hats with matching purple dresses, talking in voices just loud enough to carry.
“That child’s a menace,” Red Lady one said. “Driving like a maniac on that two-wheeled death trap of his, black as night, fast like he’s running from the devil.”
Red Lady two clucked her tongue. “From the stories I’ve heard, he may just be the devil himself.”
“Always wearing that jacket, too. Like he’s got something to hide.”
“Maybe he’s not all bad.”
“Not all bad?” A look of disbelief from Red Lady one. “Decent boys do not wear leather. And they most definitely do not wear it to church.”
Oh yes, I thought, and gaudy red hats are just fine. I glanced sideways at Ronnie, who discreetly shook his head, acknowledging the absurdity of it all.
“I guess you have a point there,” Red Lady two said solemnly. “I did hear the boy stole some cars while he was up there in New York.”
“Yes ma’am, I heard that same thing just yesterday, was part of one of them…what’d Minnie call it? Oh, that’s right. Auto-theft rings.”
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 6