"Hello?"
"Hey. How's things? Is the football team there worth a damn?"
"It will be."
"I need you to do something for me," he said, emotionless.
I rolled my eyes, knowing he couldn't see me.
"Elliott?"
"Yeah."
"You, uh . . . you still mowing lawns?"
"I was. Starting to slow down--why?" I didn't have to ask. I already knew what he was going to say.
"I was thinking about coming down to see your first game, but gas is way up. If you could spot me the gas money . . ."
"I don't have any," I lied.
"What do you mean?" he asked, annoyed. "I know you have money saved up from three summers ago."
"The Chrysler broke down. I had to pay to fix it."
"You couldn't do it yourself?"
I clenched my teeth. "I don't have any money, Dad."
He sighed. "Guess I won't be making it to your first game."
I'll survive somehow. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Damn it, Elliott! That's just lazy! What was wrong with your car?"
"Something I couldn't fix," I deadpanned.
"You gettin' smart with me?"
"No, sir," I said, staring at bugs clamoring in the beam of the field lights.
"Because I'll come up there, you little shit. I'll come up and whip your ass."
I thought you needed gas money. You could've caught a ride with Mom if you really wanted to watch me play. Guess you'll have to get a job instead of owing your teenage son money. "Yessir."
He sighed. "Well, don't screw up. Your mom hated that town, and there's a reason why. They might love you now, but you screw up, and that's all over, you hear me? They'll make you miserable, because they don't give two shits about a redskin kid. They only like that you're making them look good."
"Yessir."
"All right. Talk to you later."
I hung up and gripped my steering wheel, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth, trying to let my hatred simmer instead of boil oil. After a few minutes and some meditation Aunt Leigh had taught me, it began to subside. I could hear her calm voice in my head. He can't touch you, Elliott. You are in control of your emotions. You're in control of your reaction. You can, at any time, change the way you feel.
My hands stopped shaking, and my grip relaxed. Once my heart slowed, I reached forward for the ignition and twisted the key.
I drove my junk car straight to the Calhoun mansion, parking across the street between streetlamps. All the lights inside were dark except for a bedroom upstairs. I waited, hoping she'd somehow see my car and come outside, wishing I could talk to her one more time before I went home. She had forgiven me faster than I thought--or at least she was beginning to. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was going to have to work a lot harder for her to let me in, literally and figuratively. Whatever she was keeping from me was scaring her, and she'd been left alone to fend for herself too long. I wanted to protect her, but I wasn't sure from what.
Just as I reached for the key, a figure stood in front of the only lit window. It was Catherine, looking down the street toward my aunt's house, holding something in her hands. She looked sad, and I was desperate to change that.
My cell phone buzzed, displaying a text from Aunt Leigh.
You should be home by now.
On my way, I typed.
You don't get to run all over town without permission. You're not eighteen just yet.
I was just trying to calm down before I got home. Dad called.
Oh? What did he want?
I smirked. She knew him so well. My lawn money.
It took a moment for the three dots to signal she'd begun typing again. Uncle John will make sure that doesn't happen again. Come home. We'll talk.
It's okay. I feel better.
Come home.
I put the gearshift into drive and pulled away from the curb, heading home. I could see Catherine in the rearview mirror, still standing at her window. I was wondering if she was dreaming about freedom or glad the glass was separating her from the hateful world outside.
Chapter Eleven
Catherine
A wooden floor panel creaked just outside my door. When the recognition hit, my eyes popped open, and I blinked until they adjusted to the darkness. A shadow blocked the hallway light from shining beneath my door, and I waited, wondering who would be standing quietly outside my room in the middle of the night.
The knob turned, and the latch clicked. The door opened slowly. I lay motionless while footsteps approached my bed, the shadow looming above me growing larger.
"Dear God, Catherine. You look like crap."
"I was sleeping," I grumbled. I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed the blurriness from my eyes. I didn't need to see to know my cousin, Imogen, had arrived sometime in the night. She couldn't wait until morning to insult me. "How are you?" I said, staring at my bare feet. I wasn't in the mood to chat, but Imogen would simply annoy me until I paid her attention. They didn't come often, her and Uncle Toad, but they always came in October.
She heaved a dramatic sigh as all tweens did and let her hands fall to her thighs with a slap. "I hate it here. I can't wait to leave."
"Already?" I asked.
"It's so hot."
"You should have been here a few weeks ago. It's cooled off since then."
"Not everything is about you, Catherine--God!" Imogen said, twisting her dark hair around her finger. "Your mom said when she checked us in that you were in a mood."
I tried not to snap back. Tolerating Imogen took great patience, and her late-night pop-ins made it difficult. My only cousin always dropped in with Uncle Toad, and I knew when they visited that I would either have to put up with Imogen's incessant complaining and insults or clean up after her father because he was too lazy to move but somehow made huge messes everywhere he went.
Poppy was younger by several years but somehow more mature than Imogen and far more pleasant. It was a toss-up whether I'd rather deal with Poppy and her father, Duke, or Imogen and Uncle Toad.
My cousin rolled the quilted fabric of my blanket between her fingers, wrinkling her nose. "This place has really turned into a dump."
"How do you like your room?" I asked. "Would you like me to walk you there?"
"No," she said, tapping her toes on the floor.
"Please don't . . . don't do that," I said, reaching for her foot as if I could stop her.
Imogen shot me a look and then rolled her eyes. "Whatever."
I stood, padding across the floor and down the hall, signaling for Imogen to follow. The sound of her heavy feet against the wood echoed through the old house, and I wondered how she didn't wake the entire neighborhood.
"Here," I said, keeping my voice low. I turned the corner, choosing the room next to Duke's, which I knew was clean and ready.
Imogen walked past me, frowning in disapproval. "Is this the only one?"
"Yes," I lied. We had several rooms open, but I hoped with Imogen sleeping so close to the stairs that led up to Mama's room, she'd stay at her end of the hall.
Imogen folded her arms across her chest. "This whole house has turned into a dump. It use to be nice. You use to be nice. Now you're rude. Your mom is weird. I don't know why we even come here."
"Me neither." I spoke the words under my breath as I turned away. My feet dragged as I made my way back to my room. I stopped, hearing Imogen step out into the hall.
"Catherine?"
I turned to face my cousin, seeing the dark circles under her eyes. I prayed she'd fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
"Yes, Imogen?"
She stuck her tongue out, wrinkling her nose to make the ugliest face possible. Her tongue glistened with slobber that gathered at the corners of her mouth. I recoiled, watching the spoiled brat continue her horrid expression until she returned to her room, slamming the door behind her.
My shoulders jolted u
p in reaction to the noise against the quietness of the house.
After a few moments, I heard another door, then bare feet padding across the hardwood floor. "Catherine?" Mama asked, looking tired. "Everything all right?"
"Fine," I said, returning to my room.
I'd pushed my bed until it was flush against the door. The iron feet whined against the floor, creating new scratches in the wood. It had been almost six months since the last time I'd had to keep anyone out. The Juniper was no longer my home, and not just a bed and breakfast; Mama had created a sanctuary for people who didn't belong in the outside world, and I was trapped there with them. Even though I fantasized about freedom, I wasn't sure my conscience would allow me to leave her. That was hard to explain to anyone . . . to Elliott, to Mrs. Mason, even to myself. Explaining only meant more questions anyway.
I scooped up my jewelry box and listened to it play its tune while I carried it back to my bed, trying to let the music lull me back to sleep.
I pressed my head into the pillow, stretching to get comfortable and reacquainted with my mattress. I heard a creak outside my door and peered down to see another shadow partially blocking the hallway light at the bottom of my door. I waited. Imogen was mouthy, but she didn't push confrontation. She was angry. I wondered if the person outside was Uncle Toad, or worse--Duke.
I braced myself for the pounding on the door, the grunt from Uncle Toad or the threats from Duke. Instead, the shadow moved, and the footsteps sounded farther from my room with each step. I took a deep breath and exhaled, willing my heart to stop ramming against my rib cage, and the adrenaline to soak back into my system so I could get some rest before school.
"Whoa. You okay?" Elliott asked, leaning against the closed locker next to mine. He readjusted the small red backpack hanging from his shoulder.
I shoved my geometry textbook between my AP chemistry and Spanish II books, almost too tired to stand. Forming a sentence threatened to crash my whole system.
"Do you have plans for lunch?" he asked. "I have an extra PB and J and a passenger seat that leans almost all the way back."
I shot him a death glare.
"To nap," he said quickly. He surprised me when his bronze cheeks flushed a hint of red. "Just eat and nap. We don't even have to talk. What do you think?"
I nodded, feeling close to tears.
Elliott gestured for me to follow him, taking my backpack off my shoulders and walking slow to keep pace with me all the way down the hall until we reached the double doors that led to the parking lot.
He pushed, allowing me to walk past him.
I squinted from the sunlight, holding up my hand to shield my eyes and hopefully stave off the headache that had threatened to worsen all day.
Elliott unlocked the door and opened it wide, waiting until I was seated to show me where the lever was to adjust the angle. As soon as the door shut, I was nearly horizontal, pushing myself back until I was flat and the seat back hit the bench behind me.
The driver's-side door opened, and Elliott slid in beside me. He pulled two cellophane-wrapped sandwiches out of a brown paper sack and handed me one.
"Thank you," I managed, clumsily pulling at the clear edges. Once the bread was exposed, I shoved a fourth of the sandwich in my mouth, chewing quickly before taking three more bites until it was gone. I closed my eyes without saying anything else, feeling myself drift off.
In what seemed like just a few minutes later, Elliott gently poked me.
"Catherine? I'm sorry. I don't want you to be late."
"Hmmm?" I asked, my eyes fluttering. I sat up and wiped my eyes. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Pretty much the whole half hour. You slept like a rock. Didn't move once."
I gripped the strap of my nylon backpack and stepped outside. Several of our classmates were turning to do a double take, one small group walking arm in arm in between giggles and whispers.
"Aw, how sweet," Minka said. "They still have the same haircut." Her red hair flipped over her shoulder as she turned to stare. She nudged Owen with her elbow and glanced at us once, looking disgusted before pulling him toward the door.
"Ignore them," Elliott said.
"I do." We continued across the parking lot toward the school building. The double metal doors were painted red, and a silver bar across instead of handles practically screamed stay away. Immediately the rumors would begin. Presley would have a new reason to heckle me, and now it would happen to Elliott, too. He pushed on the silver bar, and it made a loud knocking sound. He gestured for me to go first, so I did.
"Hey," Elliott said, touching my arm. "I'm worried about you. Everything okay? Didn't you use to be really close with Minka and Owen?"
"I stopped talking to them after . . ."
Connor Daniels slapped Elliott hard on the backside.
Elliott clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together in a hard line.
"Scrimmage tonight, Youngblood! It's on!"
Elliott pointed at him. "We are the Mudcats!"
"The mighty mighty Mudcats!" Connor yelled back, doing his best Heisman pose.
Elliott chuckled and shook his head, then sobered when he saw the look on my face. "I'm sorry. You were telling me about Minka and Owen."
"You're friends with Connor Daniels?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I mean, I guess. He's on the team."
"Oh."
"Oh what?" he asked, nudging me with his elbow as we continued walking.
"I just didn't know that you . . ."
"Youngblood!" another team member called out.
Elliott nodded and then looked down at me. "That I what?"
"Were friends with those people."
"Those people?"
"You know what I mean," I said, continuing to my locker. "He's friends with Scotty, who's friends with Presley. And didn't you take Scotty's place as senior quarterback? Why don't they hate you?"
He shrugged. "They like winning, I guess. I'm good, Catherine. I mean . . ." He looked like he was about to backpedal but then decided against it. "Yeah, I'll say it. I'm pretty good. I've been named as one of the top quarterbacks in the state."
We continued walking. "Wow. That's . . . that's great, Elliott."
He nudged me. "Don't sound so impressed."
Teammates randomly yelling his last name happened half a dozen more times before I stopped in front of the row of maroon lockers. I stopped at number 347 and twisted the black dial, entering my combination, and pulled.
I growled. The door stuck like it always did. Elliott watched me try it again and then stood behind me. I could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt and mine. His arm slid over my shoulder, settled on the handle, and yanked hard. The lock released, and the door cracked open.
He leaned down to whisper in my ear, "Mine sticks, too. Just have to be persistent."
"You are that." I was aware of my every muscle, every movement, my posture. Everything felt awkward as I removed books from my backpack and replaced them in my locker before hanging my pack on the hook. I had to stand on the balls of my feet, but I could reach. "What's with the little red bag?"
"Oh," he said, looking down. "It's my camera. It's inconspicuous."
"Thank goodness I can keep a secret," I said with a grin.
Elliott stared at me, amused. "You should come to the scrimmage."
"Tonight? No," I said, shaking my head.
"Why?"
I thought about that for a moment, too embarrassed to answer. I wouldn't have anyone to sit with. I wouldn't know where to sit. Was there a student section? Did it cost to get in? I was angry at myself for being such a coward. I'd faced scarier things than an uncomfortable social situation.
"Please come," he said, watching me from under his brow.
I chewed on my lip while I mulled over why I would or wouldn't. Elliott waited patiently, as if the bell wouldn't ring any second.
"I'll think about it," I said finally.
The bell rang, and Elliott barely noti
ced. "Yeah?"
I nodded and then pushed him gently. "You should get to class."
He walked backward a few steps, grinning like an idiot. "You first."
I gathered my things and shut my locker, letting my gaze linger on him for a few more seconds before turning toward my next class.
I didn't make eye contact with Mr. Simons while I took my seat. He stopped speaking for a few seconds but chose not to single me out, and I quietly slid into my chair, relieved.
Mr. Simons was as animated as ever about physiology, but my thoughts were being pulled back and forth between going to the scrimmage like a regular high school student or going home like I knew I should. I didn't know who'd checked in--if anyone--and lists began to form in my mind, scrolling through what I'd planned to do after school and if it could wait or not.
Laundry.
Scrubbing tubs.
Dinner.
What if I went to the scrimmage and Poppy was at the Juniper alone, or worse, what if Imogen was still there, pouting and angry when I returned for not coming home at a predictable time? Uncle Toad would inevitably make an appearance. Imogen's arrival assured that. I closed my eyes, imagining my uncle's temper flaring or Poppy's father angry that I was late. The longer I thought about it, the more deflated I felt. The cons far outweighed the pros. The bell rang, startling me.
I trudged back to my locker. Before I could open it, a familiar bronze arm slid over my shoulder and yanked up on the handle. I tried not to smile, but when I looked up at Elliott, his contagious grin from before hadn't faded.
"Have you thought about it?"
"What time does the game start?" I asked.
"Pretty much right after school." He held out a set of keys. "If you need to run home, you can take my car. Just bring it back. I won't have the energy to walk home."
I shook my head. "I don't have my license."
He wrinkled his nose. "Seriously?"
"Dad never got around to it before he . . . I never learned."
He nodded once. "Good to know. We can get to work on that. So? Scrimmage."
I looked down. "I'm sorry. I can't."
Mr. Mason was checking his phone, the pits of his ratty white shirt stained with sweat. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "Dear God, will it ever cool off?"
"It doesn't cool off in hell, Mr. Mason," Minka grumbled.
The rest of the chairs filled, the bell rang, and Mr. Mason had just pushed off his desk to stand when Mrs. Mason walked in.
She immediately noticed Elliott. "I thought I requested a table for Mr. Youngblood?"