The Locket

  “Just a couple more seconds,” Rachel said in her talking-to-someone-who-matters voice. Ever since the fashion show girls found out Sarah was a “professional” actress, they’d been a lot friendlier. “Sorry, we’re almost finished. We’re just deciding on the dresses for the finale. I think I’ve picked mine.” She gestured down at the skintight red dress she wore. It looked like something my gran would have worn to a 1960s cocktail party. It was really different. Interesting.

  And not at all what she’d worn before.

  I peeked into the room, swallowing hard as I took in the rhinestone pins and cat-eye glasses, the taffeta and chiffon and strings of pearls. All ten girls were decked out in period costume. It was like they’d stepped out of Leave It to Beaver. Or maybe Stepford Wives would be a better analogy.

  More changes. More and more and more until I felt like I was going to lose what was left of my mind.

  “Is something wrong, Katie?” Rachel asked.

  “Um. No.” I shook my head a little too long. I could feel myself shaking like an idiot, but I couldn’t seem to stop. It was starting to feel like this wasn’t even my life anymore.

  Who had dreamed mundane details were so important? That the color of a door or the arrangement of a classroom or the expected Wednesday chili dog buffet line could mean so much?

  Rachel reached out, plucking a dust ball from the end of my hair and flicking it onto the ground. “Listen, Isaac and I talked.” She made the word “talked” sound like a bona fide betrayal. “I know you were upset that I didn’t ask you to be part of the show.”

  I was going to kill him. How dare he talk to Rachel about me behind my back? And tell her things I’d never even said, no less? I tried to smile. “No, I wasn’t upset at all. I mean, I’m not upset. Now, or ever.”

  “It’s okay. I really would have asked you if it wasn’t a conflict of interest.”

  A conflict of interest? What was she talking about?

  She swiped an invisible bit of lipstick off the corner of her lips. “I mean, I really wanted this show to have all the hottest senior girls at BHH in it. I told Isaac that, but he still didn’t get it. He just can’t see clearly where you’re concerned. But you understand, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. No worries.” I understood completely. She’d thrown the “senior” part in there so it wouldn’t seem like she was being mean, but she was. She knew it, and I knew it. Once again, she was making it clear I wasn’t good enough for Isaac and that he was the only one who hadn’t gotten the memo.

  Sarah took a deep breath and discreetly grabbed the strap of my backpack. “Okay, Rachel, I have to go. You can have the keys.” She tossed the keys in a wide arc. For the first time in my life I witnessed Rachel Pruitt suffering from awkward as she snatched them from the air. It was only a second, but it was enough to make me silently pledge my eternal friendship to Sarah Needles. “Lock up the dressing room and the front and back doors to the theater. I’m telling Mr. Geery you’re in charge, so if anything gets stolen, it’s your fault.”

  “Thanks, Sarah,” Rachel said, so sweet she’d make sugar taste artificial. “You’ve been a big help. You’re such a good friend to our little Katie. And her boyfriend.”

  “Whatever, Rachel.” Sarah spun away, pulling me with her. When she was in stage manager mode, Sarah was confident enough to treat a senior goddess like an equal.

  I, however, turned over my shoulder and gave a little wave.

  I wasn’t confident enough to snub Rachel. For some stupid reason, I couldn’t bring myself to be rude to the girl who had inferred I was an ugly troll more times than I could remember.

  “Don’t let her get to you. You’re gorgeous, way prettier than she is. People would skin their babies for hair your color.” Sarah flung open the back door. We both winced in the bright sunlight. It was easy to forget it was still daylight in the blackness of the theater. “I’ve got to run, but call me la—”

  “I will!” On impulse, I lunged for Sarah, hugging her tight. “Thanks for saving me from the ladder. I’m so glad we’re friends again.”

  “Me too.” She hugged me back, tentatively at first, but then a real, strong squeeze. “It sucked not seeing you. You . . . really mean a lot to me. You know that, right?”

  “I do,” I said, touched by the emotion in her voice. “I hated that we were growing apart.”

  “Me too. Let’s not let it happen again. No matter what.” Sarah’s green, yellow, and brown eyes practically glowed with intensity. I’d never seen her so serious. And it was because of me. Because she’d missed me. It was almost enough to make me hug her again, but I didn’t. I knew she wasn’t a huge fan of the touchy-feely.

  “No matter what,” I promised instead, waving as she turned to run to her car.

  Moments like these were what I needed to remember when I was freaking out about little differences. I wouldn’t trade my renewed relationship with Sarah for a million Wednesday chili dog buffets. And who cared if she cussed more than she used to? Words were just words. Actions were what mattered, and Sarah had proved what an amazing friend she was.

  And I was going apple picking! I actually squee-ed aloud as I ran around the theater, heading toward the west parking lot.

  Who cared that Rachel had stung me yet again? I was going to relive a precious moment from my childhood with two of my favorite people in the world. Rachel probably wouldn’t know a precious moment if it came up and bit her on her perfect little butt. She probably . . . wouldn’t . . .

  Mitch waved at me from across the lot. He leaned against the door of the family van, ready for wholesome, fruit-picking fun in a white, long-sleeved shirt beneath a pair of faded overalls. He looked like an overgrown Huckleberry Finn, which shouldn’t have been cute, but it was. Really cute. It made me wish I’d thought to dress up too. My jeans and blue-and-white-checked button-up were definitely farm friendly, but Mitch had taken this to an entirely different—and awesome—level.

  If Isaac had been sporting overalls too, it would have been a moment of such preciousness I would have been forced to grab my cell and take a picture. Of course, if Isaac had just been there—regardless of his state of dress—that would have been good too. But he wasn’t. It was only Mitch.

  I slowed, crossing the last few feet to Mitch’s van at a trudge, my feet clearly wanting to avoid the inevitable. “He’s not coming, is he?”

  “He called a few minutes ago. Practice is running late.”

  “Great.” I wanted to rant about the fact that Isaac should have called me, not Mitch, but I knew why he’d done it. He didn’t want to deal with me “nagging” him about basketball consuming his life. Basketball came first and he was sick of me pressuring him to change that. “This stinks.”

  “We don’t have to go, if you don’t want.” Mitch shrugged. “I know you wanted this to be a three-of-us kind of thing, so—”

  “No way.” I smiled and grabbed the bandana out of the front pocket of his overalls. “We’re going. And we’re going to pick apples and keep them all to ourselves and not give Isaac any.” My fingers trembled a little as I tied the bandana around my hair, but I pushed my anger and disappointment away.

  I wasn’t going to let basketball ruin another day. Mitch and I were going to go and have fun, and we’d be back when we got back. Isaac had talked about watching a movie at his house tonight, but if I didn’t get back in time, he could watch it by himself. It was probably some stupid boy movie he’d ordered from Netflix anyway.

  Basketball and boy movies. They could both go suck it.

  “Hell, let’s get some cider too,” Mitch said, playing along. “And we’ll warm it up and go sit right in front of his house and drink it.”

  “And when he smells it and comes begging for a sip, we won’t give him one.”

  “Not even one. And then he’ll cry,” Mitch said, absolutely serious, so serious I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t. It was more fun not to.

  “That’s right, but we still won’t give him one.” I narrowe
d my eyes, doing my best Mom impression. “And he’ll learn not to stand us up ever again.”

  Mitch nodded sagely. “It will be a bought lesson.”

  “That’s right.” I fought a smile as I walked around to get into the passenger’s seat. “Sometimes you have to show people a little tough love.”

  “Speaking of, I love you in that bandana.” Mitch hopped into the car, the light in his eyes making me glad we hadn’t canceled.

  “Thanks. I love your overalls.”

  “All the ladies do, Katie.” He winked at me and fired up the van. “All the ladies do.”

  We laughed as Mitch pulled out of the parking lot and down the street lined with fire orange trees. Crisp fall air rushed in the windows and a demo tape Mitch had scored from one of his music connections blared from the speakers. It was going to be a perfect afternoon, whether Isaac was there or not.

  Chapter Eight

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2, 5:23 P.M.

  Mitch sneezed again, and the little girl with pigtails seated next to him in the hay-filled trailer scooted a few more inches away. At this rate she was going to fall off the back of the cart before we reached the apple orchard.

  I pressed my fist against my mouth and fought the urge to laugh.

  “This is picturesque.” Mitch motioned toward the cornfield flowing down the hill away from the tractor trail and the pumpkin patch beyond. “I’m glad we—decided to—take the hayride—to the—”

  Mitch lost the battle with another sneeze, making the little girl shoot first him, then her mother—seated on the opposite side of the trailer—an outraged look. Somebody needs to do something , the look said. This diseased sneezing was unacceptable!

  Clearly a little Rachel Pruitt in training.

  “Sorry,” Mitch said, turning to whisper in my ear. “I’m allergic to hay.”

  “I sort of figured,” I whispered back.

  “I would have taken my allergy medicine this morning, but I forgot about the whole hayride thing. Do you think I’m bothering anyone?”

  “No, not at all.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

  Mitch squeezed my knee right at the ticklish place, making me jump and giggle before slapping his hand away. “I take back every nice thing I ever said about your acting. You are a bad actress. Very, very bad.”

  “I’m not a bad actress, I’m a bad liar. There’s a difference.”

  Mitch reached for my knee again, but I dodged him with a karate chop and a handful of hay to the face. He sneezed again and we both started laughing.

  “This is embarrassing.” He sniffed.

  I pulled his bandana out of my hair and pressed it into his hands. “Here, I think you need this more than I do.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “No problem.” I was still grinning when I turned back to watch the apple orchard come into view and caught the mom of the little girl giving me and Mitch “the look”—the same “aren’t young people in love the cutest thing” look old people had always given me and Isaac. She turned and kissed her husband on the cheek. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.

  A chill slipped into my chest, tamping down my giddiness to a nice, respectable level. This was a friendly trip. A friend trip. Mitch and I had always been physical with each other—a side effect of becoming friends when we were little enough to think wrestling in our swimsuits on the Slip ’n Slide was completely acceptable—but maybe we should tone it down a little. We wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.

  Not that it really mattered on a hayride in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a bunch of families and little kids, but still . . . It would probably be a good habit to get into.

  Mitch sneezed again, and the little girl made a face like she’d been sprayed with monkey pee. “It should stop once I get away from the hay,” Mitch said apologetically, loud enough for the girl and her family to hear.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “You can’t help it. And we’ll walk back when we’re done picking. It’s not that far to the van.”

  I could see Mitch’s relief on his face. In that moment, I knew he’d done the hayride thing for me, because I’d been so excited to see the faded green tractor pulling the hay-filled trailer the same way it had when we were little. It kind of made me want to hug him, in spite of my non-touchy thoughts.

  “Here we are.” The old man driving the tractor—the same ancient, crooked-faced farmer who had helped me and Mitch lift our apple baskets into our red wagons when we were little—turned around at the end of the gravel trail. “Baskets are at the beginning of each row and ladders at the end. Children, be sure to watch your parents. Don’t let them get lost.”

  The mom and dad across from us laughed. The little girl rolled her eyes. Still in pigtails and already with the eye rolling. Good thing her parents were gross in love because she was going to be a heck on wheels. I didn’t think I eye-rolled until I was at least old enough to wear lip gloss.

  Farmer Funny killed the engine. “Last tractor leaves in forty-five minutes.”

  “I forgot about the ladders,” Mitch said as he jumped off the end of the trailer and turned to offer me a hand down. “I was so scared of those when we were little. My dad had to climb up behind me.”

  “Really? You were scared of ladders?” I’d forgotten about the ladders too, even though I’d nearly been crushed by one an hour earlier. Still, climbing a little apple-picking ladder should be a piece of cake after braving the light grid.

  I followed Mitch through the trampled grass, heading toward the last row of the orchard. The sun was going down and everything was bathed in a rosy pink light, blushing like the ripe apples peeking from the tree branches. It was beautiful, but the fading light meant fading warmth. We were going to have to pick fast if we didn’t want to freeze on the walk back to the car. It was starting to get cold at night.

  “I’m still scared of ladders,” Mitch said. “Heights, really. Terrified of them.”

  “Me too! ” I studied him out of the corner of my eye. Was this something I hadn’t known about Mitch or something new, something that was different this time around? I’d been lulled into relaxing my guard by the utter sameness of the farm and had almost—for a blissful thirty minutes—forgotten I was living in do-over land.

  “I know.” He grabbed a basket and headed down the row. “Remember swim lessons? When you wouldn’t jump off the high dive and the lifeguard had to push you off the end into the water?”

  Thank God, I did remember that. It was the first time I’d ever really thought I hated someone. I’d plotted the pimply-faced teenage lifeguard’s death for the rest of the summer. “And you hid under the bleachers so you wouldn’t have to jump. You big chicken,” I said as we walked by a pair of little boys struggling with a basket of apples as big as they were. They couldn’t be more than four or five years old.

  “You’re just jealous that you lacked the forethought to hide with me,” Mitch said, stopping in the middle of the row as I doubled back to check on the boys.

  “I was seven. Who has forethought when they’re seven? And you don’t count, Mensa boy.” I threw the words over my shoulder before bending down to take one side of the giant basket. “Do you guys need help?” I asked the two boys, smiling at the almost identical freckled faces that looked up into mine. Aw, man, these two were precious.

  And trouble. Before I knew what was happening, both of them had narrowed their eyes and lifted their fists.

  “Stranger danger!” the one on my right screamed, aiming a karate kick at my knee that I just barely avoided.

  I backed up, holding up my hands. “No, I—”

  “Stranger danger! Mom!” The slightly bigger boy joined his brother and they both rushed me like mini-ninjas.

  “Run!” I grabbed Mitch—who was, of course, laughing his ass off—by the arm and busted a move down the row.

  Thankfully, however, our flight was short lived.

  “Ashton! Amos! Stop chasing those people!” a female voice yelled from
the other end of the row. We turned to see a tiredlooking woman with a little girl propped on her hip pulling a second red wagon toward the boys. She dropped the handle to wave in my and Mitch’s direction. “Sorry about that! They take karate.”

  “No problem!” I smiled and waved back, relieved to have been spared some kind of preschool smack down. Sheesh. The perils of trying to be nice!

  Mitch chuckled again as we headed back down the row. “Stranger danger. How awesome was that? I’m totally going to teach Ricky to do that. It’s hysterical.”

  “So you’re getting used to the little-brother idea?”

  Mitch shrugged and his smile faded. “Maybe.”

  Hmm . . . sounded like that was still a topic best left alone if we wanted to enjoy the rest of our afternoon. I reached up to grab an apple from a low-hanging limb. It snapped off easily in my hand, still a little warm from the sun. Yum.

  I bit in, tasting sweet and sour, simplicity and sin, all in the first crunch.

  “That apple is probably coated in pesticides.”

  “Mmm . . . pesticides.” I took another big bite and grinned at him around the pulpy white flesh.

  Mitch snatched the fruit from my hand so fast I made a yipping sound and juice ran down my chin. I swiped at it and swallowed while he finished off the rest of the apple in three huge bites.

  “What about the pesticides, thief?”

  “You made them look so yummy, I couldn’t help myself.” He tossed the core into the grass and stopped to stare at the last tree in the row. It was much bigger than the others, with three gnarled main branches that twisted at least twenty feet in the air and dozens of longer, thinner limbs reaching down to kiss the ground on every side. A ladder was already positioned beneath a break in the foliage, near a clutch of particularly delicious-looking fruit.

  “Is it wrong that even looking at that ladder kind of makes me want to puke?” Mitch asked, tossing our basket on the ground with a sigh.

  Crap! He really was scared of heights. This could put a major dent in my tree house plan. Dad was nailing the platform on the lowest limb, but still . . . it was at least twelve feet up. How ridiculous would it be to have a tree house between our yards and both of us be too scared to sit in it?