Spirit

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Then his fingers slid across the face of his phone quickly. He didn’t look at her.

  Her phone buzzed in her hand after a moment.

  My grandfather threw me out of the house last night. The school counselor called and told him I was hitting Calla, the girl you saw in the caf. So he punched me and told me to get out.

  She snapped her head up. Her mouth opened, but he held up a hand, his eyes still on the windshield.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  No wonder he was barely holding it together.

  In a flash, she remembered the first time her mother had brought her to that tiny farm somewhere in southern Virginia, saying they were going to the “training compound,” which turned out to be a dark barn that reeked of alfalfa hay and blood. She hadn’t wanted to go inside, and then a massive man had walked out of the darkness.

  When his hand came out, she’d thought he was going to introduce himself.

  She’d never been hit in the face before that moment.

  She remembered rolling in the dust and scattered straw, wondering when the world would right itself, hoping her mother would intercede.

  Instead, she’d said, “Stop disappointing me, Kathryn.”

  Kate typed quickly on her phone.

  Are you OK?

  When his phone chimed, he glanced down. Then he looked back at the windshield.

  And shook his head.

  She knew that feeling, when your life felt so out of control that you had to do something to get it back on a track, any track, just so you didn’t explode with tension from staying in one spot.

  She was supposed to be doing some kind of reconnaissance, but she couldn’t disregard the brittle state of the boy sitting beside her.

  “Was Calla your girlfriend?” she asked softly.

  He hesitated. “No. I thought—I don’t know.”

  “What did you think?”

  His eyes were locked on the steering wheel. “She found me at a party a few weeks ago. Her dad is in the Marines—mine was, too. I just thought she needed someone to talk to. I didn’t realize—”

  Kate waited, but he stopped there.

  “You didn’t realize what?” she said.

  Hunter took a deep breath—but then he didn’t let it out, and the tension rolled around in the car with them. “You should get out and go inside. I think I’m going to cut, and you’ll be late for first period.”

  “I’ll cut with you.”

  He shook his head. “No—I mean, I’ve got things I have to do.”

  Things? What kinds of things?

  Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she was so surprised that she almost dropped it.

  Silver.

  What are you doing?

  She hit a button to clear the screen. Her pulse jumped.

  It buzzed again.

  Is that our mysterious Hunter Garrity?

  Did that mean Silver was watching them right now? She cleared the screen again and shoved the phone into her pocket, where it vibrated a third time.

  “Someone wants your attention,” said Hunter.

  “He’s like a toddler,” she agreed.

  Hunter’s eyebrows raised just the tiniest bit. “He?”

  “No one important,” she said. But her phone buzzed again.

  The emotion in Hunter’s eyes was walled up now, and she could see the tightness in his jaw. He looked so tightly wound that she was almost afraid to leave him alone. “Where do you want to go?” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

  He didn’t look over.

  She put a hand on his arm. “Come on. Maybe you can show me around—”

  He caught her wrist. Not hard, but fast enough that it made her gasp.

  “I don’t want to be a jerk,” he said, his eyes shifting to meet hers. “But I can’t do this.”

  She didn’t understand. “This?”

  His eyes were tired and wary—but also sharp and intelligent. “Yeah. This.”

  Kate stared across at him. “What just happened?”

  He glanced at her phone. “Boyfriend?”

  “What? No.” Then she remembered Silver’s cover story. If she denied it now, would it screw things up later? “It’s not like that.”

  But she’d fumbled her words, and she knew exactly what it looked like. Hunter leaned across her body to pull at the handle to release the door. Cool air streamed into the car.

  He was throwing her out?

  His expression said he was.

  “You’re getting this all wrong,” she said.

  “I don’t think I am.”

  She slid out of the car. Before closing the door, she said, “I just thought we could get to know each other.”

  He finally looked at her fully, and he laughed shortly. “If you’re lonely, why don’t you text Nick Merrick? He seemed perfectly willing to stare at you.”

  Then, without waiting for an answer, he reached out and grabbed the door, pulling it shut and leaving her out in the cold.

  Hunter waited until he couldn’t ignore the hunger clawing at his stomach, then bought two breakfast sandwiches at Dunkin Donuts. He was hungry enough to inhale both, but he’d fed Casper the last of the milk bones this morning, and the dog was staring at him desperately. So he set the second sandwich on the wrapper on the ground.

  Eleven dollars left, and a third of a tank of gasoline.

  His cell phone remained blank. At least he had a car charger for that.

  He’d been so stupid, entertaining the thought of . . . of anything with Kate. Like his life wasn’t complicated enough right now. She’d climbed into his car, he’d almost broken down, and then she’d started texting with some other guy.

  God, he’d looked like such an idiot.

  Really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that she’d pick him to screw with. His abilities drew people to him. He was just used to the heckling, fist-swinging type of attention. He’d been dumb enough to think this would turn out differently.

  Besides, he had other things to worry about.

  Like finding a way to earn money. It would cost a fortune to fill his gas tank, and if he had no transportation, he was sunk.

  His mom hadn’t even called to see if he was okay.

  He felt like he shouldn’t care—she’d let his grandfather throw him out—but he did.

  A lot.

  Stop. Focus.

  He could fill out applications. How hard would it be to find a job?

  Three strip malls later, he knew the answer: hard.

  He wrote his personal information so many times that he started to bore himself. At first he was meticulous, knowing that he only had one opportunity to make a first impression. He knew to make eye contact, to shake hands, to speak confidently.

  Regardless, it was like a fist to the gut when bored workers would take his completed application and fling it in a box.

  It was a slap in the face when he was told he couldn’t complete an application because of how he looked.

  This was at a little café on Ritchie Highway. The hostess had frowned when he asked for an application—reminding him of his grandmother’s constant look of disapproval—and said, “No piercings, no long hair, no tattoos.”

  He’d nodded and thanked her, figuring it was just a fluke. An old people’s place.

  Then two more stores said the same thing.

  Like what he looked like would matter if he was washing dishes or stocking boxes in the back.

  By three o’clock, he was bitter and jaded and starving again.

  And exhausted. He’d slept in the car all night, but he hadn’t really slept.

  His phone chimed, and Hunter immediately thought of Kate.

  No. Becca.

  You ok? Why aren’t you in school?

  His thumb hesitated over the screen—but then he remembered her brush-off, the way she’d whispered about him with Chris. The way she didn’t trust him anymore.

  His car was down to a quarter of a tank of gas. He spent a dollar fifty on a bottle of w
ater and told himself it would have to suffice until dinner.

  Less than ten bucks left. And he was starting to run out of options.

  Home Depot sat with two other big box stores off the main road, but they had a NOW HIRING sign out front.

  The man behind the service desk was counting cash in a drawer. He didn’t glance up when Hunter asked for an application.

  “You’ve gotta be eighteen, kid.”

  Hunter had heard this one before. “I am eighteen.”

  The guy’s eyes flicked up and his hands went still on the money in his hands. “Sure. Prove it.”

  Okay, he hadn’t heard that yet.

  The man laughed and went back to counting cash.

  “All right, look.” Hunter felt like he’d reached the end of his rope and found it a frayed, tangled mess. “I need a job. You’ve got a sign out front. I can work hard. I don’t understand why everyone has to act like I’m some—”

  “You look.” The man flung the stack of cash into the drawer. “Forgetting the fact that you’re underage, I’ve got guys coming in here with families to feed. You want me to turn them down because some kid wants money to take his girlfriend to the prom?”

  Hunter glared at him. “I need a job.”

  “Join the club.” Then the phone beside the register rang, and the man turned away to answer it.

  Hunter stood there, feeling the air bite at his cheeks. The fluorescent lights in the warehouse ceiling seemed to be buzzing more loudly than normal, but maybe it was just his shot nerves.

  At this rate, he’d have to drop some of his remaining cash on a bottle of Motrin.

  Then he realized that the man had left the cash drawer open, and he was now facing away, flipping through a binder full of laminated pages.

  Hunter stared at the cash. He’d watched the man count it—a big stack of twenties. There had to be several hundred dollars there.

  The store wasn’t even that crowded. He could grab a twenty and run.

  He’d never stolen anything in his life.

  The lights buzzed more loudly. Hunter wanted to rub at his head, but he was afraid if he lifted a hand, it would grab the cash almost against his will.

  “Hunter?”

  He turned his head, feeling like he’d lost a minute of time.

  Michael Merrick stood there, two rolls of something green hooked under one arm. A red shirt with the Merrick landscaping logo stretched across his chest, already sporting a fine layer of dust, and a stain near the hem. He had a couple inches on Hunter, but that might have just been the work boots on his feet. It was the first time Hunter had ever seen Michael clean shaven.

  Hunter had no idea what Michael thought of him, but considering the way his younger brothers were treating him, it probably wasn’t good.

  Then again, Michael wasn’t swinging a fist or openly mocking him, so maybe this was better.

  Michael said, “Why aren’t you in school?”

  Hunter froze. He’d been ready for that question all day—but Michael was the first one to ask, and probably the only one who wouldn’t buy a line of bullshit.

  Then Michael glanced at his watch. “Jesus, is it after three already?” He shifted the rolls under his arm and looked at Hunter a little more critically. “You all right?”

  The question took him by surprise. “Yeah. Fine.”

  The cash drawer slammed behind him, and Hunter jumped.

  Well, there went an opportunity. Hunter scowled and wondered if he should be relieved or pissed.

  The service manager cleared his throat. “I can take those for you here, if you’re ready.”

  “Sure.” Michael put the stuff on the counter. Then he pulled out his wallet. Hunter could see cash trapped in the folds.

  The service manager was watching him. “You need something else, kid?”

  He needed to stop staring and get the hell out of here.

  Before he did something he’d regret.

  “No. Forget it.” Hunter unclenched his fists and turned away.

  “Hey,” called Michael. “Hunter.”

  Hunter whirled, ready to be hassled. “What?”

  Michael was swiping a credit card through the machine. “The guys are all busy this evening, and I’m already behind. Feel like helping me build a retaining wall?”

  Hunter stared at him for a second. Lack of sleep and food was making him stupid. “I don’t—what?”

  Michael looked up. “It’s easy work, it just takes a long time, and I don’t want to lose the light.” He paused. “If you’ve got somewhere else to be, don’t sweat it.”

  Hunter stared at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There had to be a trick here. Had to be. “You want me to help you?”

  “Sure. I mean, I’ll pay you. Fifty bucks fair?”

  Hunter almost choked on air. Fifty bucks? That would probably carry him into the weekend. If Michael wanted him to cut grass by pulling up individual strands, he’d do it.

  But then he remembered Casper. “My dog is in the car.”

  Michael slid the credit card back into his wallet. “Bring him. As long as he doesn’t dig up the landscaping, he won’t bother me. Meet me at the truck.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Michael made for quiet company. Aside from giving Hunter a ball cap with their company logo on it and saying, “This way you’ll look official,” he didn’t say anything. Hunter curled the hat in his hands and wondered if this was a mistake—but they were already driving, and he’d feel like an idiot backing out now. The truck windows were down, air streaming through the cab. Casper sat in the backseat but hung his head over Hunter’s shoulder to let the air blow his ears.

  Hunter’s cell phone was in his pocket. No new messages.

  “I don’t have any idea how to build a retaining wall,” he finally said.

  “Then you’d better get out of the truck right now.”

  Hunter figured he was kidding, but Michael’s voice was so flat he wasn’t sure.

  Michael glanced over. “Can you keep your mouth shut and do what I tell you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you’re an expert at building retaining walls.” Michael hit the turn signal. They were pulling into a Wendy’s parking lot. “Hungry? Tell me what you want.”

  Hunter hesitated. The thought of food was almost making him dizzy—but he didn’t want to spend his last nine dollars until he was sure Michael would be good for the fifty he’d promised.

  But watching someone else eat would be the worst form of torture. Hunter reached into his pocket for his wallet.

  “It’s on me,” said Michael. “Since you’re doing me a favor.”

  “Whatever you’re having, then.”

  It wasn’t until ten minutes later, when he had half a grilled chicken sandwich left in his hands, that his suspicion fully kicked in. “Why are you being nice to me?”

  Michael pulled a handful of fries from the bag but didn’t glance away from the road. “Nice?”

  “I thought you were all pissed at me because of what happened with Bill Chandler.”

  Michael shrugged.

  And then he didn’t say anything.

  Hunter scowled at the windshield. Pride was pricking under his skin, trying to convince him to climb out of the car at the next stop light.

  The promise of fifty bucks was keeping his ass right here in the passenger seat.

  But really . . . the atmosphere in the car wasn’t tense. He had a task, something to take his mind off his mother and his grandfather and the mess of a situation he was in.

  Michael hit the turn signal and eased the truck onto a gravel driveway that led back to a sprawling ranch-style house on the water. “Look,” he said. “I’m not upset about the Bill Chandler thing. I get where he was coming from, asking you to watch Gabriel.”

  “I wasn’t—it just—” Hunter stopped himself and sighed. “It wasn’t like that.”

  Michael stopped at a curve in the driveway and threw the truck into park. “Put the hat on and
grab those rolls of landscape fabric.”

  So they weren’t going to talk about it. Fine.

  Hunter slid out of the cab. He pushed his hair back from his face and tucked it under the cap, breathing in the air off the water. The house sat alone on a few acres of land, and even here, in the driveway, they were a good hundred feet away from the front door. He felt better now that they were outside, with the sun on his skin. Casper bounded out of the truck to sniff at pallets set off to the side of the driveway, stacked with cut stone and sacks of soil and mulch.

  Despite the breeze and the water, the whole place had a quiet stillness. It felt nice against his senses.

  “Is anyone home?” said Hunter.

  “Nah. They don’t need to be.” Michael pointed inside the curve of the driveway where the manicured lawn was broken by an eroded slope. “We’ll build a wall to match the curve today, then I’ll come back next week to plant stuff on top. Here. I have a sketch.” He reached inside the truck to grab a clipboard.

  Hunter took a glance at the rough drawing. It was probably a good thing Michael was paid for landscaping instead of artwork. “Got it. What’s first?”

  Michael was looking at him a little too closely. “Did you get in a fight at school?”

  “What? No.”

  “Then what’s with the bruise?”

  Hunter wanted to pull the hat off and let his hair fall across his face again. He hadn’t noticed a mark this morning, but then he’d been hustling to get out of the locker room before the first bell since he wasn’t sticking around for classes. “It’s nothing.”

  For a second, he thought Michael was going to push. Hunter didn’t look away, but inside his head, his brain was spinning out trying to think of some excuse to give.

  But Michael just gave half a shrug and turned, gesturing to the grassy slope again.

  The work was harder than Hunter expected. He kept his mouth shut and did as he was told, digging and laying stone dust and staking rebar. It felt good to work, to put his hands in the earth and let the sun draw sweat from his back. The cut stone was heavy, and he was really feeling it in his shoulders before they had a third of the wall built.