It wasn’t so much what he said; I didn’t give a crap what Rapier or anyone else thought. I just knew my mom, and she was better than that, a better mom and a better friend. Those rumormongers didn’t know anything.
Wilder was silent, staring at me, his expression blank.
Needing a break from those eyes, I turned to George. “So, what do you need?”
“Well,” she said, studying the sheet, “we have to wait till the water starts to boil, then—”
“Lab safety 101,” Rapier called from his stool. “No long sleeves around the Bunsen burner. That includes you, Wilder.”
Wilder just stood there, staring the coach down till he blinked. Then, without a word, he shrugged out of his jacket, folded and placed it on his chair.
For a beat, every eye was on him again. It was like going back to the first day he’d joined the class. Wilder was fit. His plain white t-shirt and jeans did nothing to hide that fact. I wasn’t usually so observant—or frankly, so girly—but after thinking about Rapier’s for so long, I had to admit. Wilder had a great neck. I didn’t know why it was great, or what exactly made it great, but it was. My eyes moved to his broad shoulders, down to his arms and—
I felt my brow contract.
He had bruises. Up and down his arms, they were smallish in size, three inches at most and oddly spaced. The groups of twos and threes formed a pattern that almost looked like stripes. Some were dark blue, others yellowish-green. I’d never seen anything quite like it.
When Wilder saw where I was looking, his face went rigid.
If I hadn’t been watching him right at that moment, I would’ve thought I’d imagined it because in the next instant he was back to his normal unreadable self. But I had been watching. He’d looked almost angry. More than that, there was a flash of something I’d never seen in his expression before, something that looked a lot like fear. He turned away from me to watch George perform the lab, but I couldn’t help staring at the marks a final time, wondering how they’d gotten there and why they’d caused such a reaction.
#
At the end of the day, George and I decided to stop by the office to pick up a few college apps; we’d put it off long enough. One of the hardest things about being a senior was everyone expected you to know what you wanted to do with the rest of your life. As if anyone could answer that question. When we walked in, Rapier was already there, in full rant mode.
George and I ducked over to the collegiate wall to listen in.
“Disappeared!” he yelled. “The whole damn thing!”
“I don’t think I’m understanding you, Hal.” Ms. Potts cocked her head at him from behind the desk. “Could you explain to me one more time just what the problem is?”
Rapier was nearly shaking. Slowly, as if talking to a child, he said, “Well there’s not all that much to understand, Winnie. Try and see if you can keep up. I parked my car in the lot this morning. I came inside to do my job. I went back to my car about five minutes ago, and now, my engine’s missing.”
“Missing?” she repeated. She sounded doubtful, and Rapier looked pained. Beside me, George snickered.
“Yes, missing,” he said teeth clenched. “As in not there.”
“Not there? Are you sure?”
He jerked his head, a nod.
Her brow creased. “How’d that happen do you think?”
“Somebody stole it.”
“Stole it? Now, why would anybody want to do that?”
Rapier had had enough. “How the hell am I supposed to know?!”
“Watch your tone, Hal.”
“My tone?” Rapier threw up his hands. “This is my engine we’re talking about! It was there, now it’s not. I don’t care about the why. All I want to know is the who. Whoever it was is in for a world of hurt, and I’m going to get the little bastard if it’s the last thing I do.”
Mr. Valencia came out of his office carrying a manila folder. “What’s all the ruckus about?”
Turning to face him, Ms. Potts said, “Someone pulled a prank on the coach here, and he’s throwing a tantrum.”
“I am not!” Rapier said. “This is serious, Carlos. First Grant, now me. I’m thinking someone’s targeting members of the team.”
“Or targeting jerks,” I muttered.
“Come into my office, Hal. I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you anyway.” Mr. V led Rapier to his door then turned back around. “Hey, Delilah.” He smiled. “What are you doing here? Didn’t get into any trouble I hope?”
“No, just checking out colleges,” I said, embarrassed. Even if he was dating my mom, Mr. V and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms.
“Okey-dokey. Make sure you check out Bama. If you want to go there, I could put in a good word. That’s my old stomping ground.”
“Thanks, Mr. V. I’ll think about it.”
“Tell your mom I said hi,” he said and walked away.
“Will do,” I mumbled.
George couldn’t stop her laughter from bubbling over.
“That was,” she said as we walked outside, “the most hilarious—” Her words were interrupted by another bout of giggles, and I rolled my eyes. “You’re like best buds with the VP.”
“No, I’m not. He’s dating my mom.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what makes it even more hilarious.” She mimicked Mr. V’s strong Southern drawl. “Okey-dokey? Is he serious?”
I shrugged. “He’s a goof, but he’s good to Mom.”
“Yeah,” George said. “Mr. V’s not that bad, for a teacher. Can you believe someone actually stole Rapier’s engine?”
We both looked over to Rapier’s car. The large red truck with the COACH #1 license plate was hard to miss. The hood was raised, but sure enough, there was nothing inside but air.
“He had it coming.”
George smiled. “Why Delilah, that sounds like something I would say.”
“I can’t help it. He gets under my skin.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” We’d reached my car, but George was parked way over on the other side. Tilting her head, she said, “You know, if you ever want me to say anything…”
“No,” I said, “that would just make it worse.” For George and for me. “Besides, someone got him good today.”
“They sure did.”
A sound like an engine trying to catch drew George’s and my attention. Wilder was a few rows down, attempting to start his motorcycle with little success. I had the oddest urge to go to him and flip his hands over, see if there was any telltale grease this time.
“You’re the only one he speaks to, you know?”
Startled, I looked at George. “What?”
“Wilder,” she said. “He doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“That’s not true.” I’d seen him speak to people. He’d been talking to Selena just today at lunch. Not that I’d been paying them much attention, but it was hard to block out that high-pitched cackle she called a laugh.
“Let me put it another way,” George said. “Wilder doesn’t approach anyone. They come to him, talk to him. But he doesn’t ever start a conversation. Only with you.”
Now that George mentioned it, I couldn’t think of a time when I’d seen Wilder go up to anyone. He kept to himself for the most part at school, and all those girls at the music store had always been the ones talking. He just sat there, not saying a word, listened as they went on about one thing or another. Still, I couldn’t believe I was the only one he spoke to.
“But, that’s just silly,” I said.
“Yeah,” George said, “silly and true.”
Wilder’s engine finally caught, and he drove off.
“Well Big Hands, I’ll leave you to gaze after him.” George turned and began walking not to her car, but toward Rapier’s. She plucked her phone out of her back pocket as I got into my Mazda, on her way to capture another great photo opp.
“Big Hands?” I called. “What the heck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t talk,
” she said over her shoulder. “When I’m walking I like to, you know, strut my stuff.”
“No, I don’t know.” I put my key in the ignition. “What I know is you’re crazy, St. Claire.”
“High as a kite,” George said, twirling, arms held high, though she’d never taken drugs a day in her life.
I shook my head at her antics. She wasn’t making any sense. It wasn’t until I started my car and a song—perhaps the most embarrassing song ever—blasted through my radio speakers, the volume turned way up, that I got it.
People stopped in their tracks, heads turned, but George just laughed, singing along.
She’d done it again, I thought. Don’t get me wrong, “Blister in the Sun” was a classic. Great guitar riff, good lyrics, awesome band—but I refused to be bested.
As George took her pics, I sat back to wait. A few minutes later, her engine revved, and the late great sounds of Spice Girls “Wanna Be” powered through her speakers. She winced. Hardly anyone knew, but George had gone through a year-long Spice Up Your Life phase. She’d wanted to be Scary Spice.
Sugary-pop-tastic blackmail versus Awesome-yet-inappropriate rock?
Yeah, score one for me.
Making sure my windows were down, I cranked the music even higher, sticking out my tongue as George glared, smiling all the way to the bakery.
I’d been working a couple hours when Sandy and the boys came in, Poncho looking downcast, Patrick and Pete smirking at his side. Sandy leaned down, whispered something into Poncho’s ear. He nodded, eyes glued to the floor, and walked to the register.
Without looking up, he held something out to me, mumbled, “Made this for you.”
Cautiously, I took the square piece of paper between two fingers while his brothers laughed. For all I knew, it could be covered in poison oak or something equally as bad.
The card was handmade. On the front, Poncho had drawn a picture of a sad-looking penguin, holding a rose. The drawing actually looked very advanced for a nine-year-old. He must’ve spent some time on it. Flipping the card open, I read the inside. It said, “Sorry, I nailed you with that doughnut” along with his cramped signature at the bottom.
“I was trying to hit that jerk with the football,” Poncho said, cheeks flushed, “not you. I’m sorry, Delilah. Please don’t be mad at me.”
I looked over, and Ronnie was smiling, apparently amused by the whole thing. I was glad someone was enjoying this.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I forgive you, Poncho, so long as you promise not to throw any more food in the shop.”
“I promise,” Poncho said quickly, finally looking up. With a mischievous smile, he asked, “Can I have a hug?”
“What? I don’t think—”
He crossed his arms. “You gave that other guy a hug.”
I stared. Weren’t boys his age supposed to think girls had cooties?
“Well?” Poncho raised an eyebrow.
Sighing, I walked around the counter. I’d intended it to be quick, just a small pat on the back and done. But when I tried to pull away, Poncho held on.
After a moment, I tapped him on the shoulder. “Okay,” I said as gently as I could, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “That’s enough.”
Small hands moved to squeeze my backside, and just as I was about to push him away, Poncho scurried off to the protection of his mother. He was lucky he had because I was ready to slap the twerp’s smirk right off his face.
Once they’d left, Ronnie turned to me. “I never knew you liked younger men.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, punching him in the shoulder.
“Hey, don’t hit me,” he said. “I didn’t do anything. That kid’s the one who had his hands all over your—”
The phone rang, cutting off his rant, and I answered, giving Ronnie the one-fingered salute.
It was Aunt B. She sounded frantic, said she needed someone to come to Mercy Hope and bring tea. Fast. They were having a big get together, and we’d been called in to cater at the last minute. Apparently, Aunt B had remembered the extra food but not the extra tea. Ronnie helped me load three tea urns into my car, and I pushed the speed limit on my way to the church. Aunt B should’ve known better. Southerners were serious about their tea. If I didn’t get there before they noticed, all hell would break lose.
As I came through the door, muscles straining under the weight of one of the urns, Aunt B looked so relieved she just about melted. She followed me out to my car, grabbed one of the remaining buckets, while I lagged behind with the other. The things were heavy.
I heard voices coming from the partially open door a few steps ahead. Recognizing one of them, I inched forward. I tried not to think about why I could recognize Wilder’s voice.
“Dad, give me a break,” Wilder said.
“It’s just not right.” And now that I was closer, I could tell that the raspy voice belonged to Reverend Jim Wilder. Though the rasp was new, he still had the pipes to fill the pews on Sunday morning. “What kind of message does it send, Ethan? What does it say to my congregation if I can’t even get my own son to show up on time for church?”
I peered inside and saw them both in profile; Wilder leaned back in a chair as his father paced in front of him.
Wilder shrugged. “I had car trouble.”
“Car trouble? Answer me this, how can you have car trouble without a car?”
“My bike needs a new part. It’ll be here Saturday.”
The reverend shook his head in disapproval, the white bandage still covering his neck injury. “I told you not to waste your money. What kind of respectable young man rides around on a motorcycle, anyway? It’s just not done.”
“Doc used to have a motorcycle.”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t known that tidbit, but I could picture it so clearly: Doc, his hair blowing in the breeze, on the back of a chopper...or maybe even a Harley. I’d have to ask him about it later.
“That’s my point right there.” Jim Wilder rounded on his son. “You want to end up like him? Working in a music store the rest of your life, contributing nothing to society? He’s a hack Ethan, nothing but a hack.”
“Mom didn’t think so.”
The reverend was silent a moment, his eyes burning. He cleared his throat.
“Your mother,” he said, weight on each syllable, “was a woman of God. She knew the difference between right and wrong, always had her heart in the right place, even if she didn’t always make the right decisions. That woman believed the best of everyone.” He sighed. “Pearl’s heart was as open as the sky.”
There was raw emotion in the reverend’s voice as he spoke about his wife. It made me realize I was listening in on something private, and I moved to back away.
But his next words stopped me cold.
“Doc’s store, that’s the one next to Aunt B’s place?”
Wilder nodded.
“Now listen here, I don’t want you going in there.”
“Why not?”
“Those Doherty women aren’t the kind of people you should be socializing with.” When his son didn’t respond, the man of God continued, “The mother’s a tramp, her sister’s a devil worshipper and the girl can’t be much better, growing up in an environment like that. They’re trouble. That’s all there is to it.”
Wilder began to laugh quietly, and my chest tightened. Did he think those awful insults about my family were funny?
“This isn’t a joke,” the reverend said, starting back up with the pacing. “Those women... They’re, they’re... For God’s sake, Ethan, they don’t even go to church. I don’t want you being seen with them. Appearances matter, son.”
I didn’t stick around to hear more.
Heart heavy, eyes full, I forced my feet to move. When the tears began to fall, I pushed them away with my fist. Screw them. The Wilders could think what they wanted. I didn’t want anything to do with any of them. Living or dead.
CHAPTER 13
By the time I got back to the bakery, anger
had won out. Blowhards like Jim Wilder were a dime a dozen, particularly in the South, preaching the word of God but acting like judgmental hypocrites. If his son wanted to follow in his footsteps, so be it.
One thing was certain. I wasn’t going to let anyone keep me from my music.
Trudging to the emporium, I went inside, grabbed up a favorite, plopped onto my stool and listened without once looking in Wilder’s direction. Somehow he’d beaten me back to work, but I didn’t want to think about that now. No one—especially not Wilder—was going to scare me off. After listening to a few songs, I placed the earphones into their cradle, put the cd right back where I’d found it.
Just as I was about to leave, Wilder said, “Do you ever buy anything?”
Stopping with a hand on the door, I faced him. Instead of answering, I said, “Can you actually play one of those or do you just tune them?”
Wilder picked up the acoustic guitar he’d been examining, placed it under his arm and strummed a chord. Looking down, he tightened one of the struts.
I waited, not really expecting much.
And then he started to play.
With precision, he fingered through a difficult sounding Spanish piece like it was nothing, never losing speed, hitting every note just so. Impressive, I thought, having tried and quit guitar myself after five lessons. Wilder paused, lifted his head. I assumed he was waiting for applause, but he was so looking in the wrong place.
Schooling my features, I said, “Not bad” and walked out.
Wilder’s face was priceless.
His mad guitar skills couldn’t make me forget how he’d laughed at his father’s words. I didn’t know if anything could make me forget. What, did he expect me to go all gooey just because he played an instrument? Did he think I’d get starry-eyed, like those other girls?
Not likely.
When Wilder came in that night, I let Ronnie get him his coffee, pretending I had work to do in the kitchen until he left. The truth was I just didn’t want to see the jerk’s face. Aunt B called asking me to lockup. She said a storm was coming, and she wouldn’t be back until late. Ronnie waited while I closed everything down, and we walked out together.
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 11