The Swift Boys & Me

by Kody Keplinger

  I pulled on my sandals and slid, quietly, out of Felicia’s bedroom.

  I wasn’t sure how late it was, but Felicia’s parents had already gone to bed. I crept through the dark living room and opened the front door slowly, hoping it wouldn’t creak. Once I was outside, though, I had to move fast to catch up.

  They were still headed up the street. I could hear them talking and laughing. I stayed back, keeping to the shadows so they wouldn’t turn around and spot me following them. They all must have snuck out of their houses, and I wanted to know what they were up to.

  “So, who should it be?” I heard Andy ask. He was holding something in his hand, but I couldn’t see what.

  “That one,” Peter said. It was hard to tell, but I thought he was pointing at Mrs. Santos’s house. “I hate that woman. Her and her stupid dog.”

  “What do you think, Canaan?” Andy asked.

  “Fine by me,” he said. His voice was flat, like he didn’t really care either way. “Apathetic,” Richard would say.

  “Let me do it.” Peter grabbed for the thing in Andy’s hand.

  “You’ll mess it up,” Andy said, keeping whatever-it-was out of Peter’s grasp.

  They’d stopped now, in the middle of the sidewalk, right in front of Mrs. Santos’s house. I crouched down and hid in the bushes across the street, watching.

  “Canaan, you wanna do it?” Andy asked.

  “Why does he get to?” Peter whined. “He ain’t never done it before. Plus, he’ll mess it up!”

  “I can do it,” Canaan said.

  Andy handed the thing to him.

  Canaan gave it a shake before stepping up next to Mrs. Santos’s mailbox. That’s when I realized what he was holding.

  A spray paint can.

  The other boys stood back, watching while Canaan sprayed something onto the mailbox. A few seconds later, he was done, and they stepped forward to check out his work.

  “Not bad,” Andy said.

  “I could’ve done it better,” Peter huffed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Canaan said, handing the can back to Andy.

  They headed back in the other direction, moving quieter and quicker this time. I held my breath and sat real still, but they didn’t see me. They stayed on the opposite side of the street. Once they were gone, I slipped out from behind the bushes and walked over to Mrs. Santos’s yard.

  On the side of her mailbox were four bright red letters. Letters that spelled out a word any one of those boys’ mamas would have tanned their hide for using.

  I felt bad for Mrs. Santos. She’d wake up to that word, staring at her when she checked her morning mail. She’d probably have to get it painted over, and that’d cost money. If it was just Andy and Peter, I would’ve told on them. I knew their parents would make them find a way to pay for it. But Canaan had been the one to do it, and there was no way I could tell on him. No matter how bad things had gotten.

  There was nothing I could do to fix it, either.

  I walked back to Felicia’s, feeling sad and angry all at once. I couldn’t believe Canaan would do that. I couldn’t believe he was friends with Andy and Peter now.

  Friends with Andy and Peter, but not with me.

  There was a time when he’d defended me against those boys. When we were in third grade and they’d started calling me names like “Nasty Nola.” They’d told stories about me having lice and smelling like a skunk. None of it was true, of course, but that didn’t stop some people from believing it. One day, when they were following me around the playground saying things like “Do you smell that?” and “I can see bugs all over her!” Canaan stepped in. He’d shoved Peter, sending him toppling backwards into Andy.

  “Leave her alone, or else!” he’d yelled.

  He’d lost recess privileges for a week after that. But he’d said he didn’t care, because it got the boys to stop bothering me.

  How could that be the same boy who was running around with Andy and Peter in the middle of the night, spray-painting people’s mailboxes now?

  I slipped back into Felicia’s bedroom, took off my shoes, and climbed into my sleeping bag. I missed Canaan. Not this new, mean Canaan, but the one I’d grown up with. My best friend. It felt like he’d vanished overnight and hadn’t bothered to say good-bye.

  Kinda like his daddy had done, I guess.

  Just like at the birthday party, I think JW sensed I was upset. He hopped off Felicia’s bed curled up next to me, his tail wagging softly. I reached out and scratched his ears. Then I fell asleep with his cold, wet nose pressed against my cheek.

  Mama said I could have a sleepover at our house. I’d wanted to invite the boys, but earlier that week Mama had sat me down and told me that I was eleven years old and that was a little too old to have boys sleep over anymore. So I’d invited Felicia instead.

  Felicia was my closest friend that was a girl, and even though I’d have rather been with the boys, I knew having her spend the night would be fun, too.

  We watched movies and ate candy and Mama let us borrow her nail polish to paint each other’s toenails. Once our nails were bright pink, Felicia turned to me and looked me right in the eye.

  “Truth or dare?” she asked me.

  “Truth,” I said. I was too scared to pick dare.

  “If you could marry anyone in the world, who would you pick?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You gotta answer,” Felicia told me. “Or else you face Consequences.”

  “What’s Consequences?”

  “Like, a real big dare. Something you really won’t want to do. Like … eat ketchup on a cinnamon roll or something.”

  “Eww. That’s gross, Felicia.”

  “That’s Consequences. So you better answer. Come on. Who would you marry?”

  I looked down at my hands in my lap, feeling embarrassed. “Well … Canaan, I guess.”

  Felicia clapped her hands together, her dark brown eyes brightening. “You like Canaan? You got a crush on him?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t.” And I didn’t. It wasn’t that I wanted to grow up and marry Canaan. I’d just always figured that’s how it would be. We’d get married and buy a house and Kevin and Brian would live in houses on either side of us, and we’d always be together just like we were now.

  “Then why would you marry him?” Felicia asked, stretching out on her stomach and staring up at me with her chin in her hands.

  “Because he’s my best friend,” I said, shrugging. “I think it’d be nice to marry your best friend.”

  “Maybe,” Felicia said. “But I’d rather marry a movie star. Or a writer — someone who could write me all the books I want for free.”

  “That’d be nice, too,” I said. But really, I didn’t care about any of that. If I was gonna spend every day with someone, I wanted it to be Canaan.

  Canaan was dribbling a basketball in the Swifts’ empty driveway the next morning when I walked back from Felicia’s house. I almost walked past him. I almost made it all the way to my front door without saying a word. But then I thought about those red letters and the spray paint can in Canaan’s hand, and I just couldn’t stop myself.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  He didn’t even stop dribbling. “Do what?”

  “I saw you last night,” I said. “I saw what you and those other boys did to Mrs. Santos’s mailbox. Why were you hanging out with them?”

  “You gonna rat on us?”

  “I thought about it, but … no. Even though I should.”

  “Then mind your own business.” He threw the basketball onto the ground and let it bounce off into the grass. I watched him stomp his way up the front steps and slam through the front door.

  I sighed.

  Mama was waiting for me inside. She looked up from a bridal magazine when I walked in.

  “I’m ready to go,” I told her.

  “You don’t have to, you know,” she said, putting the magazine aside. “Normally I’d never encoura
ge you to quit in the middle of a job, but I know how nervous Grandma Lucy makes you.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “You’ve always hated visiting her. It’s just a little odd that you’re so eager to help her out all of a sudden.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I changed my mind? She’s not going to be around forever, you know. I should get to know her while I can.” It was a nice thing to say, even if it wasn’t entirely true. Which made me feel sorta bad. But I didn’t think Mama would take well to my search for Mr. Swift.

  “That’s sweet,” she said. “Oh, Nola Baby. I wish your Mamaw and Papaw lived closer. Your daddy’s parents are some of the best people I know. You know I love your grandma Lucy, but those are the grandparents I really wish you could spend more time with.”

  “I wish that, too,” I said. “But Grandma Lucy lives close by, so …”

  “You’re such a good girl. I’m her daughter, and I wouldn’t even volunteer to spend my Saturdays with her.” She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “All right. Let’s go, then. You know how your grandma hates to be kept waiting.”

  I had a plan before we even got to Bunker. I was gonna say my hellos to Grandma Lucy, finish up the garage, and then ride my bike to the Country Kitchen. Hopefully, this time, I’d be able to get more information. There were a few dollars in my pocket so that I could order something and maybe-Elmira wouldn’t kick me out.

  “So you’re back.”

  That was Grandma Lucy’s version of a greeting.

  “Good to see you, too, Mother. Nola’s really looking forward to spending the day with you, you know,” Mama said.

  “Well, I’m looking forward to having a clean garage.”

  I could tell Mama was getting frustrated, so I cut in.

  “I’ll get started right away, Grandma Lucy. Sorry I wasn’t able to finish last week.” I grabbed the cleaning supplies she’d left on the kitchen counter for me. “I’ll just let you know when I’m done.”

  “Fine,” Grandma Lucy said. “And remember — don’t you touch that workbench, Fionnula.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mama walked back outside with me and helped me open the garage door. “That workbench,” she said, sighing as she stared at the wooden table and dirty tools. “She hasn’t let anyone put a hand on those tools since the day my daddy died.”

  “I found a bunch of pictures in that box over there,” I said, pointing. “There were some of her and Grandpa together. And one of her in a beauty pageant.”

  “Oh yeah,” Mama said. “Did I never tell you about that? Your grandmother used to be known as the prettiest girl in Besser County.”

  “She looked real happy in all those pictures,” I said. “The one from the pageant and all the others — with Grandpa and you as a baby.”

  “She used to be different. Before he passed away.” She shook her head. “Anyway. I oughta get going. I’ll be back in a few hours. And I’ll put your bike on the front porch in case you need to go get anything.” She kissed my cheek. “Bye, baby.”

  “Bye.”

  There wasn’t a whole lot left to do in the garage, just some organizing and sweeping. I turned on the radio and got to work. I threw out the rest of the junk and grabbed the broom, which looked like it was older than me by the way the bristles were ripped and bent. It still worked all right, though. There was a Miranda Lambert song on, and I couldn’t help singing along.

  But maybe I was having a little too much fun. I started dancing around, singing into the end of the broomstick and pretending I was on the stage at the Grand Ole Opry. I should’ve been paying more attention, though. I shouldn’t have been goofing off. Because I was belting out the chorus and I spun around with the broom and —

  I tripped.

  I tripped and I fell right into the workbench full of tools. About half of them fell onto the concrete floor, clattering in a way that made me cringe and squeak. I kicked the broom aside and scrambled to pick up the tools, terrified Grandma Lucy would come out to check on me right at that minute and yell at me for messing with the bench.

  Most of the tools were fine and I was able to put them back right where I’d found them. But one, an old yellow drill, hadn’t held up so well. There was a crack running along the bottom side, and a piece near the bit had broken off completely.

  I almost started crying right then and there.

  I tried to put it back together, but it was no use. The drill was broken. I set it back on the workbench and tried to make it look like it was still together. If Grandma Lucy saw — if she knew I’d broke it — she’d kill me. I’d be in so much trouble.

  There wasn’t much left for me to do in the garage, and all I really wanted was to get away from the tools. So I figured now was a good time to head down to the Country Kitchen and look for the waitress. I took the cleaning supplies back inside the house. Grandma Lucy was folding clothes in the living room. “Done already, Fionnula?” she asked.

  “Y-yes, ma’am.” I was so scared she was going to yell. Like she could look at me and just know what I’d done. I knew I should tell her, but the idea of admitting that the drill was broken, especially after she’d repeatedly told me to stay away from the tools, made me feel like throwing up.

  “I ain’t paying you if you did a sloppy job.”

  I swallowed. “I did my best.”

  “We’ll see.” She folded the last shirt in her basket and stood up from the couch. “Your mother won’t be back for a while. What are you gonna do until then?”

  “Um, I was getting hungry, so I thought I might ride my bike down to that little diner — the Country Kitchen? I saw it when I was getting trash bags the other day. It looked nice.”

  “It’s all right, I reckon,” Grandma Lucy said. “Nothing special.”

  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say to that. So I just sort of stood there for a second, chewing on my lip and trying to figure out if I was allowed to go now or if I should wait for permission. I was still fighting the urge to take off out the door at a run.

  She put her basket away and carried the clean clothes to her bedroom. When she came back she said, “I’m hungry, too. I might as well go with you.”

  “W-what?” I stammered, feeling panicky.

  “It’s not far. We can walk,” she said, pulling a wide-brimmed straw hat over her short gray curls. “And a chicken salad sounds good right about now.”

  So we walked down to the restaurant together. It was about half a mile from her house, but Grandma Lucy didn’t walk too fast and she got mad and scolded me when I got too far ahead of her. By the time we got to the restaurant, I felt like I was about to throw up from nerves.

  Maybe-Elmira wasn’t standing behind the register today. Instead there was a pregnant woman with big green eyes and black hair. “Y’all eating here or is it to go?” she asked.

  “Here,” I said.

  “Sit anywhere you like. Sarah will be right with you.”

  Grandma Lucy picked a booth next to the far window. I slid into the seat across from her and started looking around the restaurant, hoping I’d catch sight of the redhead I’d seen Mr. Swift leave with last week. I also wanted a reason to keep from looking at Grandma Lucy. I felt my lip trembling every time I looked her in the eye.

  “For God’s sake, Fionnula. Put your behind in the seat,” she hissed. “You’re twelve years old — you oughta know how to sit properly.”

  “Sorry, Grandma Lucy,” I mumbled. I hadn’t even realized I’d been half standing while I craned my neck around. But when you’re like me — not real tall at all — it’s hard to see over the back of these booths without standing up. Again, I felt like I was in trouble, and I felt sicker than I did a few minutes ago.

  “Hello, hello,” a voice chirped above my head. I looked up and almost gasped.

  There was the woman with the curly red hair. She was wearing the same pink uniform, and the name tag clipped to her shirt said Sarah.
Up close, I could tell how pretty she was. She had blue eyes and a big, straight-toothed smile.

  “How are y’all today?” she asked in a cheerful, fluttery voice.

  “All right, I guess,” Grandma Lucy said.

  Sarah handed us each a menu. “Can I go ahead and get your drink orders?”

  “Dr Pepper,” I said.

  Grandma Lucy huffed. “That garbage will rot your teeth.”

  I bit my lip. “Um … Or just water.”

  “Lemonade for me,” Grandma Lucy said. “Is it homemade?”

  “Sure is, ma’am,” Sarah said, scribbling our orders on a little notepad. “I’ll be right back with those drinks.”

  I wanted to point out that lemonade had a lot of sugar, too, but I didn’t want to get in trouble, so I kept my mouth shut. Maybe when you were old, you didn’t care so much about your own teeth, just other people’s.

  When Sarah’d gone, Grandma Lucy heaved and groaned her way out of the booth. “I’ve gotta use the ladies’ room. I’ll be back. If she comes for our order, I want the chicken salad without dressing.”

  I nodded.

  I started flipping through the menu, but I wasn’t really reading it. I was too jumpy, worried about the drill and trying to figure out how I was going to get information about Mr. Swift with Grandma Lucy here. It might not be possible. And that would make this whole afternoon a waste.

  “Here you are.” Sarah appeared with our drinks. She put down Grandma Lucy’s lemonade, then turned to me. “I brought you Dr Pepper,” she whispered. “Just tell her I got your order wrong, and it’s my fault.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “No problem,” she said. “I had a mean grandmother once, too.”

  And that’s when I saw my opportunity. Grandma Lucy wasn’t back yet and Sarah was here, and if I did this quick enough —

  “You know, I think you know my … my uncle,” I said, cobbling the lie together as fast as my brain would let me. “David Swift?”

  “You’re David’s niece?” she exclaimed. “Oh my goodness, it’s so lovely to meet you! Wait … That woman’s not his mother, right?”