Secrets

by Corinna Turner

  Scoping out the lot, Sean spied a patch of empty spaces at the far side where other businesses had closed for the day. Sweat gathered under his arms and behind his neck. Now would be a good time for his video game skills, well-honed behind a virtual steering wheel, to kick in. He pulled in, backing up twice and pulling forward to re-center the vehicle between the white lines.

  He shoved the gear shift into park, and a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. He’d arrived. Tapping his fingers on the wheel, he honed in on the singer’s voice. Was he singing about smoking pot? What the heck did Dad listen to anyway?

  Once Sean had turned off the engine and applied the emergency brake—the lot was level, but just in case—he peered over his shoulder. Inside the front window of Rizzo’s, in an orange booth beneath a cheap Tiffany-style lamp, sat Robyn.

  A clip of some kind held her long, blonde hair in place at the back of her head, and she sipped from a straw. A book lay open in front of her.

  He smiled, biting his bottom lip as a wave of nerves hit him. Right where she said she’d be.

  Not that she’d be expecting him.

  She’d told Abscess Cheek she hung out at Rizzo’s on Thursday nights from seven o’clock to eight-thirty while her younger sister was in ballet class at the studio across the street. Her mom worked that night, and her dad had to get her little brothers into bed, leaving her to chauffeur duty.

  Sean exited the truck and crossed the parking lot, a skip in his step as he mounted the sidewalk. Excitement and nervousness pulsed through his veins. Once Robyn saw him outside of school, on his own, having driven here himself, she wouldn’t care that he—

  The front of his tennis shoe caught on a rise in the pavement, and he stumbled forward. His feet pedaled ahead two paces before his palms landed flat against the window pane, one on either side of Robyn’s seat.

  She jerked back, bumping her drink, which toppled and spilled across the tabletop and onto her book. Brown liquid, probably a Coke, puddled around the condiment tray as she slid her paperback out, shaking it gently.

  Sean visualized the SAT vocabulary words on the left hand side of the white board in his American Lit class. He ticked through them mentally until he landed on the most apropos one, which then flashed before him.

  M-O-R-T-I-F-I-E-D

  “In a sentence please, Mr. Porter.”

  “Mortified. I was mortified when I stumbled and flattened myself onto a pane of glass in front of the only girl I ever cared to impress. Mortified.”

  Swallowing the lump of humiliation clogging his throat, Sean straightened and reached for the door handle. Bells jingled overhead as he rounded the table and darted for Robyn. On his way, he yanked a fistful of napkins from the metal dispenser and blotted what he could of the sticky, liquid mess on the table.

  “Hey, Robyn. I, uh—”

  “Did you have a nice trip?” Mischievous amber eyes peeked from beneath long brown lashes lightly coated in mascara. A smile inched wider, dimpling her cheeks despite her having to sop up a pile of shaved ice that melted and dripped onto the booth seat beside her. Her suppressed laughter erupted in a snort, dissolving the knot that had built in his chest.

  “Yeah, it was a doozy. Enjoying your beverage?”

  She snorted a second time, an endearing, feminine noise despite its similarity to a swine’s signature sound.

  He pushed their combined pile of sopping napkins to the center of the table. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Nope. As long as you promise not to make me topple any more drinks.” She dried her hand on a clean napkin and examined her book, which, surprisingly, looked no worse for wear.

  “Sorry about that.” Disaster averted, or at least contained, a chasm of silence opened between them filled only by Nickelback’s “Rockstar” coming from the speaker overhead.

  “I hate this song.” Robyn folded her hands atop her book, waiting, it seemed, for Sean to steer the conversation.

  “Yeah, me too. So, uh, you like this place?” He jerked a thumb toward the counter where a portly middle-aged man in a white tee shirt slid a paper plate of greasy deep dish toward a customer. With it came a fresh wave of the aroma of tomato sauce and oregano.

  She shrugged, then tapped a fingernail against the window, pointing at the single-story building across the street. “My little sister is at Dancing Queens. I’d rather sit here than in the waiting room over there. Stinks like sweaty girls and cherry lip gloss.” She wrinkled her nose.

  Sean laughed. “Gotcha.”

  Fifty minutes later, his cheeks aching from smiling so hard, Sean stood as Robyn slid out of her side of the booth. A steady stream of little girls in pink tutus poured out of the studio across the street, dragging their pink satin ballet bags behind them.

  “You’re good company, Sean Porter.” She slid a phone from her tiny purse. “Text me your number?” She glanced down, her cheeks growing pink.

  Elation, chased by humiliation, had Sean scrambling for a response. He had to be the only teen in a thirty-mile radius without a phone. As per Dad’s rules. He’d promised Sean a flip phone, once he got his driver’s license.

  “Uh, sorry.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, unsure what to say or do next. “No phone.”

  “Oh.” In a half second, she recovered from her surprise and grabbed the last clean napkin from the center of the table. Pulling a purple gel pen from her purse, she scribbled on the napkin, folded it in half, and handed it to him. “There.”

  He accepted the napkin, his fingers brushing hers. Sean pressed it carefully into his back pocket, resisting the desire to immediately read what she’d written. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Outside the door, breaks in the traffic revealed the sound of crickets chirping. Moths swirled overhead, bumping into the lights.

  At Robyn’s car, Sean said, “Well, see ya at school tomorrow.”

  Robyn fiddled with her car keys, smiling. “See ya.”

  Sean nearly floated to the truck.

  With the door firmly shut and seatbelt in place, he let loose possibly the biggest smile ever. A fresh boost of confidence kept worries of the drive home at bay. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Plenty of time to get back before Dad.

  Outside his window, cars continued to file out of the dance studio lot. Sean backed the truck up, grateful he’d parked on the empty side of the lot, and eased to the exit.

  He smothered his smile—he’d think about Robyn later, probably all night. For now, he needed to block out the ZZ Top track on the radio and concentrate on the road. Using the turn signal, he turned left. He immediately slowed in front of the dance studio as a family stepped onto the crosswalk.

  A girl of about seven or eight in the requisite pink tutu ran ahead while a mother with a toddler clinging to each hand followed. They’d stepped onto the curb in front of Rizzo’s, when another kid, a boy who looked to be Paul’s age, sprinted across behind them.

  Headlights flashed, temporarily blinding Sean, as a small black SUV barreled toward him in the opposite lane. With horror, Sean anticipated what was about to happen.

  A collision was imminent.

  Pressing frantically on the center of the steering wheel, he tried to activate the horn. He glanced down, finally discovering the little horn image, and laid on it. Too late.

  Brakes squealed, but the SUV clipped the kid’s heel, knocking him forward.

  Eyes wide with shock, Sean sat transfixed. A moment later, he blinked out of his stupor and took in the scene.

  The mother had left the toddlers in the hands of the tutu girl as she dropped to the pavement in front of the motionless boy.

  The SUV remained still, the driver making no attempt to exit the car. In the dark, Sean couldn’t even make out whether it was a guy or a woman. The passenger’s side of the front bumper didn’t appear dented, but the decorative plate in the center depicting palm trees silhouetted in front of a golden sunset and the name Stewarts hung askew.

  Suddenly, the vehicle jerked backward, then r
aced forward and down the street.

  The white tee guy from Rizzo’s and several patrons rushed out to help the injured boy and the woman leaning over him.

  Sean gulped, his stomach twisting. He’d driven slowly and carefully, obeying all the rules of the road—aside from the one about possessing a license. And yet, he’d been witness to an accident not of his doing.

  The perpetrator had sped off. Maybe he should too. He wasn’t at fault.

  But he’d been a witness.

  With his hands settled on the steering wheel, knuckles white, he eyed the empty road ahead. Nothing to stop him from proceeding home, same as he’d come. It’d been a good night. Robyn liked him, despite the fact he was an underclassman and not because of how he looked. They’d enjoyed being together.

  In a few minutes, he could be home. There’d even be time for him and Paul to go over homework or watch something before bed.

  He pressed his fingers against his eyes and then massaged his forehead, knowing the right thing to do.

  Sirens wailed in the distance as Sean backed up—flashers on, slowly and carefully—into what was probably the worst parallel park job known to man. A minute later, when the flashing lights of a police car reflected in his rearview mirror, he steeled his courage and begged God not only for the health of the injured kid but to get him through this mess. Preferably without Dad knowing.

  After more police officers and EMTs arrived, taking stock of the victim and the traffic situation, Sean exited the truck, patting the rear pocket where he carried his student ID and Robyn’s napkin.

  Swallowing hard and mustering his courage, he approached a stocky young police officer standing alongside his vehicle at the edge of the scene. “Excuse me, officer. I witnessed the accident.” The wind kicked up, scattering dry leaves that had gathered along the berm. “I can give you a description of the vehicle that hit the kid.”

  Forty minutes later, that same police officer pulled his cruiser in front of the Porter home. From behind the curtain, warm light shone through the living room window. Sean glanced at the dashboard clock. A good twenty minutes shy of 2200 hours, so Dad wouldn’t—

  The front door swung open, and Dad stepped onto the porch, hands on his hips, a scowl on his face.

  Sean’s stomach flipped.

  Appropriately chastened, he thanked the officer for driving him home and exited the vehicle, a copy of the fine he’d been issued firm in his hand.

  The police cruiser pulled away before either he or his father had taken a step. Time to man up, face the music, put on his big boy pants, pay the piper, or whatever other cliché fit plunging headlong toward imminent doom. At this rate, he wouldn’t get his driver’s license until he was eighteen. Let alone a cell phone.

  Sean climbed the steps as if someone had attached leaden weights to his tennis shoes. At the first landing, he stopped and chanced a look at Dad. He’d never felt smaller or weaker in his life.

  Dad’s gaze roamed Sean’s body from head to foot. Seemingly satisfied that he hadn’t been hurt, Dad’s gaze hardened to a glare. “Care to explain where you’ve been and where my truck is?”

  In this case, Sean knew the honest answer, “No thanks, I’m headin’ to bed,” wouldn’t mollify his father, although the retort tempted him. “Sure, Dad,” came out of his mouth instead as he crossed in front of his father, a hard stare warming Sean’s ears and tightening his gut.

  Inside the house, Paul backed away from the window where he’d apparently been lurking and skittered to the farthest seat on the couch.

  “Snitch,” Sean mouthed, regretting it immediately. Paul was just a kid. It hadn’t been fair to ask him to keep his secret. What if Sean’d been the one lifted into an ambulance outside of Rizzo’s? His little brother shouldn’t have that on his conscience.

  The door slammed and the dead bolt snapped shut.

  “Sit,” Dad barked in his formidable Army voice that never failed to garner the Porter boys’ full and undivided attention.

  Sean obeyed for the first time that night, and sat, letting his head droop. Finally, uncomfortable silence forced his gaze up.

  “I got the gist of what you planned from Paul.” Dad glanced at Paul, whose sagging expression said he was ashamed of his complicity. “He called me when you were gone later than you said you’d be. Let’s hear the rest.”

  Sean released the fine he’d crumpled in his sweaty palm and flattened it on the table. Then he explained his trip to Rizzo’s and the hit-and-run he’d witnessed while leaving.

  Dad sucked in a deep breath and exhaled, looking as if he’d aged a decade over the course of the evening. How long had he had those creases in his forehead and that sprinkling of gray in his hair? He fiddled with his bare ring finger, his trademark tell for when he especially missed Mom.

  Despite looking angrier than Sean had ever seen him, Dad pretty much kept his cool as he spent the next who-knew-how-many minutes rehashing what Sean had done wrong: disobeying the law and Dad, endangering himself and others, shirking his responsibility to Paul and expecting him to cover for him. All of which Sean knew—and had known, intellectually—before he’d ever pocketed the keys. At the time, it’d all seemed inconsequential, a distant second to earning the attention and affection of a junior girl with amber eyes who seemed to understand there might be more to Sean than even he had recognized.

  Eventually, Dad’s lecture wound to a close, leaving Sean doleful and disappointed in himself.

  Apparently, Paul lacked both the patience and the sense to wait more than two silent beats before chiming in. “Can someone go over this religion stuff with me? I’ve got a test tomorrow.”

  Dad tilted his head from side to side, as if working out the kinks, then massaged the back of his own neck. “This is not how I expected this evening to go.” He extended a hand toward Paul, palm up. “Let’s have a look.”

  Paul handed him the open book and poked a finger at the page. “This stuff, here.”

  Dad’s gaze roamed over the page for several seconds. “Gifts of the Holy Spirit. Go.”

  Sean stood, eager to escape to the shower, where he could decompress. Taking the truck, meeting Robyn, the accident, Dad finding out—he needed time to process it all. The police officer had assured him the kid hit by the SUV sustained only minor injuries, but it still had him shaken. He made it only two strides toward the hall and the bathroom.

  “Take a seat,” Dad bellowed from where he stood opposite the couch. With his free hand, he swiped the crumpled fine from the table and let it flutter back down. “We’re not done. There’s still your punishment to discuss.”

  Sean sighed, careful not to let his exasperation show, and slumped back to the couch.

  Attention shifted to Paul again, Dad waiting for his recitation.

  Eyes squeezed shut, Paul began. “Wisdom, knowledge, counsel . . .” He tapped a fist against his palm. “Uh, piety. Fortitude.”

  “Stop.” Dad’s gaze wandered the page again. “Define fortitude.”

  “Uh, courage,” Paul said with a note of uncertainty.

  Dad nodded then read from the page margin: “Virtue that ensures firmness in difficulties. Strengthens the resolve to resist temptations, overcome obstacles. Enables one to conquer fears, face trials and persecution.” The book smacked shut, and Dad placed it on the table.

  “Despite what happened,” he leveled a pointed look at Sean, “I’ve seen evidence of fortitude in both of you tonight. Paul, you called me when you knew you’d be in trouble with both me and Sean. Because it was the right thing to do.”

  Paul swallowed and gave the slightest nod.

  “And Sean,” he said, shaking his head, “Well, you did the right thing too, sticking around and going to the police when you knew it would get you in trouble with them and with me.”

  Sean sat straighter in his seat, eager for the smallest scrap of respect Dad proffered.

  “So . . .” Dad moved the coffee table away from the couch and sat on it. He leaned forward, restin
g his elbows on his knees. “I need to show some fortitude too. We’re all gonna need a hefty dose of it, so we better start praying to the Holy Spirit.”

  Sean’s brow wrinkled. What did he mean? Why did they need fortitude? What about understanding? Sean liked that gift. Didn’t seem to require much on his part.

  Dad bit his lips together and dropped his gaze to his hands. “I’m being deployed.” Dad made eye contact first with Paul, then Sean, his firm gaze communicating the seriousness of his words. “I leave in five weeks for Afghanistan. You’ll be staying with Aunt Ginny and Uncle Joe while I’m gone.”

  Sean’s breathing stalled. “How long—?”

  Dad held up a hand, silencing Sean. “I know you’ve got a lot of questions. I wish I had answers, but I don’t. Very few.”

  Paul launched himself from the couch into Dad’s arms, his cheeks already wet with tears.

  Dad squeezed him, reassuring him that everything would be okay. Once Paul settled, Dad dismissed him to get ready for bed.

  With a grim smile, Dad motioned for Sean to come closer until he sat opposite him. “No Xbox until further notice.”

  “Okay.” Was that it? Sean expected worse. Cleaning out the garage. Chopping off a limb. Something.

  “Are we good?”

  Sean nodded. Despite wanting to keep his cool, tears built behind his eyes, closing his throat. He glanced down the hall, hoping Paul would hurry it up so he could take refuge in the shower. Tonight had been enough; he couldn’t even think about his dad going to war. Wouldn’t think about it. Not yet.

  Dad’s chin dipped. “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” Sean croaked. “Can I go to my room now?”

  Dad didn’t answer right away, his gaze boring into Sean. “Go ahead.”

  Relieved, Sean swallowed his emotion and strode to the hall.

  “Sean,” Dad called.

  He stopped, but didn’t turn, hoping whatever Dad had to say wouldn’t take long.