“Okay.”
JT disappears into the back of the store. He returns a minute later with a black plastic trash bag full of used spray-paint cans.
“Your yogurt tag was epic, Z.”
I replace my empties with cans from the bag. “Thanks. It did turn out sweet.”
We both laugh.
“Dude, you need to chill a bit,” JT says. “The cops are narrowing in on your ass. They’re sniffing your trail, I’m telling you.”
Bouncer goes nuts ranting about how every last cop wants me dead. Honesti tries to quiet him, but Bouncer doesn’t listen.
I squint at JT. “What do you mean?”
“I think the cops have suspicions about you. I heard your name on a list of four other probables—mainly older gangster dudes with records. Best to go silent. Let the heat sink, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Heat rises, but whatever.”
“Z, I’m serious. You can’t afford to get snagged after you’ve tagged.” He chuckles at his stupid rhyme. Then his face turns serious. “Be careful, Z. I’m telling you. The Police Chief and Mayor are both determined. Ice your hands for a month or two. Chill for a while.”
I zip up the backpack and throw it over one shoulder. “Thanks.”
After we do our handshake ritual, I take off jogging in the direction of the pond.
chapter twenty-five
Before Auntie Dee died, she used to keep the ranch house spotless and full of cooking smells. I loved her rooster-themed country-style decor and the flower box out front. It was always full of blooming wildflowers during the summer.
Ever since she passed, Uncle Pete struggles to keep the house clean. Mom pitches in to pay for a housecleaner once a month and occasionally hires a handyman to help with repairs. But no one tends to dear old Aunt Dee’s flower box. The cooking aromas are gone and so are the roosters. But as I sit on Uncle’s living room couch, I can still feel her warmth.
The screen door rattles. And rattles again. Someone is knocking on it.
Could it be?
Uncle Pete opens the front door. “Well hello there, Reizo.”
The floor suddenly feels like rubber.
“Hi sir. I was wondering—”
I move from the couch and stand near Uncle.
Reizo stares at me for a moment, then glances away. His face reddens.
I love when he gives me his shy-cool-boy-look. It makes me want to run through the doorway and jump into his arms. But I resist. “Hi, Reizo.”
“Hey,” he replies, calm as a sharpshooter, shifting his gaze up at me. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
I feel his anticipation, excitement, and a touch of nerves all combined together. Reizo’s energy feels nice today—the boy who saved my life.
Reizo looks taller than I remember, cuter too. Long brown hair lightly touches his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a baggy green t-shirt and the same tight jeans. He’s gorgeous. My face warms.
Uncle looks at me, then at Reizo. “Kids,” he mutters, walking off and shaking his head. “Can I get you some water or a soda pop, Reizo?”
“Water is fine, sir.”
Uncle Pete shouts from the kitchen. “You two go on. Have a seat on the porch. I’ll bring it out!”
I walk outside and catch his familiar scent as I brush by him.
Reizo clears his throat. “I’m glad you called.”
“Me too,” I say.
“So you’re really okay?”
“Yeah, they adjusted my heart medication. That was all I needed.” I lead Reizo to the porch and sit on the bench, then tap my hand on the wood next to me.
Reizo sits down. His body language is confident, but he fidgets with his hands and seems to be very interested in Uncle Pete’s carpet. “Cool. I was worried about you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. You looked bad.” He looks up at me. “That castle you painted was cool.”
At first I’m not sure what he means, then I remember the painting I had worked on at the pond. “Thanks.”
Uncle Pete walks out with two glasses. “Here you go now.”
I decide sitting on my uncle’s porch sipping drinks is totally elementary school. We need a better spot. Somewhere we can talk. “Uncle, can Reizo and I take a walk to the pond?”
Uncle Pete hesitates, looking at Reizo, then at me again. “Don’t see why not. Especially since we all think Reizo is a hero. The young mister saved you once already. Besides, it’ll give me some time to tend to Aggie and some of the other animals round the place. Go on then, but stay together.”
“Thanks, Uncle.”
I collect my painting supplies.
Reizo helps me carry them. How can people think he’s crazy?
I touch his hand and give it a squeeze, then let go, hoping he’ll take my hand into his.
A moment passes before he gets it. He softly curls his fingers around my hand and gives me one of his sweet half-smiles.
I decide I’m melting. “You saved my life, you know.”
He chuckles. “Guess we’re even.”
I raise an eyebrow as we walk toward the pond. What does that mean?
I can’t explain it. Something special happens to me when I’m near her. It’s like being home, but you haven’t been there for a long time. It’s like spending time in a dream with the most beautiful girl in the universe.
But this isn’t a dream.
“What do you mean we’re even?” she asks with a whole lot of determination.
“Tell her, Reiz, go on, you whiner,” Bouncer says with extra attitude. “Exit. Remember? Or have you forgotten? Wimp.”
Of course I remember, but I ignore Bouncer. It’s my life. Bouncer is just a spy.
“Can’t you be nice for once?” asks Honesti.
“He don’t deserve nice,” says Bouncer. "We'll never be able to activate him at this rate."
I flinch. Bouncer pisses me off, but I keep my focus on Aimee and manage to ignore Bouncer’s latest attempt to rattle me.
“Nothing,” I say, and then notice four official-looking men behind us in Rancher Murdock’s grassy field.
The men setup hardware on tripods and peer into them.
“Who are they?”
“Not sure exactly. They might be doing a survey of Uncle Pete’s ranch. Uncle told me he is putting the ranch up for sale next year.” She frowns and squeezes my hand a little harder. Her breath catches when she adds, “It’s just not right.”
“Maybe he can lease it back or something.” I try to sound upbeat.
“I wish. From what Uncle told me, they’ll probably build houses or something on the land.”
“You can’t let that happen, Reizo,” says Honesti. “He can’t lose the land.”
“What’s he going to do to stop them?” asks Bouncer. “Spray-paint their hardware?”
I focus on Ames’s voice and peer out at the ranch’s grassy field, where horses graze on blades of grass and a cow follows Aimee’s uncle into a barn.
The pond makes Murdock’s ranch a special place for me too. It’s just plain wrong, evicting nature from such a colorful playground, imprisoning life into some rich guy’s cement. Destroying the one place in the world where the voices are silent.
“Houses invading your uncle’s ranch would totally suck. Isn’t there anything we can do?”
Aimee shrugs. “I don’t know. He just can’t afford the taxes.”
“What will happen to all the animals?”
“Guess he’ll have to sell them.”
Bouncer spells it out: “G-o-n-e.”
“It’s not gone yet,” says Honesti.
Bouncer deserves to get screamed at today, but I resist. I’d freak Aimee out for sure if I did start yelling. “I wish I could do something to help.”
Aimee turns and smiles at me. Her hand feels soft as her fingernails tickle my palm. “I wish you could too, but thanks for the thought. It means a lot.”
Finally, we reach the old o
ak trees. Bouncer and Honesti go silent, as if an off-switch is toggled. I feel so much lighter. It’s as if someone has just shut off two cell phones blasting different kinds of music directly into my brain.
I squeeze Aimee’s hand, and then let go.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Better now.”
We set up the easel and paints, straighten the lawn chairs, and are about to sit down when Aimee peers in the direction of one of the trees. “Hey, I just remembered. I found something the last time I was here.”
I remember that day, carrying her in my arms. Worried she was going to die. It isn’t a day I want to remember. “When you—”
“Yeah, that day . . . Let me show you.”
I follow her to an oak tree, where she points down at an exposed iron square in the ground with a handle in its middle.
“What is it?”
She shrugs, bends down, and pulls up on the handle. It won’t budge.
“Here, let me try.” I squat down like I’m some kind of hulk, tighten my grip, and then yank it hard.
Ugh. It barely moves.
My hands slip. I stagger backwards, fall onto my butt, and then push myself back up to my feet as if I’d planned the klutzy move. Awkward. I brush myself off.
Aimee tries to hide a smile, but I see it. A giggle slips out. “Nice going, Clark Kent.”
“Hey,” I say, grinning and holding up one finger. “One more time. I got this. Guaranteed.”
“Right. Use your inner Super Reiz.” She sits down, smiling as if the show is about to really begin.
I grip the square metal handhold again, but this time I use both hands and yank. The metal square moves, but only by an inch. I yank harder.
It suddenly gives and pulls up like a door, one end swiveling up, the other end fixed to a hinge.
A burst of air hits me in the face, reeking of an old thrift store smell. Gross.
I notice a rusty ladder attached to the square opening, but it disappears into the darkness below.
Reizo peers into the darkness. “What the—?”
I sniff at his warmth like I’m a white tailed deer and wonder what the crap I’m doing. How does he do that to me? I move in close and clear my throat. “What is it?”
Reizo glances up and frowns. “Looks like some kind of underground cave.”
“A cave with a square door and ladder?” I get down on the ground next to him.
“It could be a septic tank.” He smells the air. “No, probably not. It’s musty, not crappy.”
I hit him on the shoulder. “Reiz.”
He smiles. “What?”
“My uncle said Wesley had a house near here. Do you think it could be a basement or storm shelter or something?”
It wasn’t out of the question. Franklinville, Arkansas had seen its share of twisters. I’d heard stories about bad tornados wiping out farms and ranches back in the day. The last big one hit Franklinville fifteen years ago. An F3. The twister sideswiped the city center, but still managed to inflict chaos and major damage. Luckily, it didn’t kill anyone. These days, the news media reminds everyone it’s tornado season when the dogwoods bloom and spring causes me to sneeze until my head hurts.
Every year, during the first two weeks of storm season, Hank straightens out his six-foot-five frame and creases his forehead when he talks about building a storm shelter. But when the third week rolls around, his priorities shift to sitting in a fishing boat and casting during the few hours he takes off work.
Reizo scoots over to the edge and reaches into the darkness. “There’s a ladder. But I can’t see where it goes. What do you think?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I strain to focus on anything below, but it’s too dark. No way I’m going down into a bottomless pit. “You go first.”
Reizo chuckles. “Right. Just in case there are rats or spiders or something else disgusting, like a mutant cockroach or a lost crawdad.”
I give him my best innocent smile and scrunch up my nose. “Exactly.”
Reizo turns around, pushing himself backwards feet first into the hole. “Here goes whatever.”
He winks, and then disappears.
What the hell am I doing?
There’s no way I can turn around now, even if it means dropping a hundred feet and breaking my entire sixteen-year old collection of bones. I’d at least impress her.
“Be careful down there.” Aimee bites her lower lip. “The ladder might have rotted.”
I touch the next ladder rung with the tip of my shoe and push myself backwards off the dirt until I’m standing on another rung. I quickly confirm it’s solid metal, and step down another rung. But I still can’t see the bottom.
Aimee leans over the hole and watches as if I’m the star of a live horror flick.
I tightened my grip and take another step down.
This is freaking nuts.
A tangy mustiness hangs in the stagnant air. I can tell it isn’t mold, thanks to Mom. When I was younger, I occasionally went on cleaning jobs with Mom to save money on daycare. She taught me all the different colors of mold, allergic reactions, and where it grows.
I look up at Aimee and flex like I’m some kind of real-life Indiana Jones. I give her a thumbs up and then continue down until I reach the bottom.
A whistling breeze swirls around the pitch-black space.
How can there be airflow at the bottom of a pit? Vents maybe?
Then it hits me. Ames has to be right—it must be an old storm shelter.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, there’s a small amount of sunlight beaming through the square opening overhead, acting like a spotlight. I notice a dusty white candle on a small table next to the ladder with matchsticks in a round container. I take a match and strike it against a rough spot on the bottom of the container. The match crackles and flares.
I touch the candle’s crooked wick with the flame to light the candle.
Whoa! As I take a quick look around in the candlelight, I realize I’m not just standing in a storm shelter. I’m inside a freaking ancient storm shelter, filled up with artifacts.
“Ames, it’s rat free!” I shout, although I’m not exactly one-hundred-percent sure of that after I say it. “Man, wait till you see what’s down here. Come on. You’re going to freak.”
“On my way,” she says, and starts down the ladder.
The space is about ten-feet by thirty-feet. Mortared river rock lines the walls and slick stone floor with two deep indents running across the floor’s length to holes in the wall, presumably for drainage. Interlocking steel rails and wood railroad ties cover the ceiling, holding up a massive amount of earth eight-feet overhead.
There’s a shelf built into one wall, stuffed with old rotting books that belong in the Little Rock used bookstore. A wooden desk and chair like you might see in some old western movie are against the far wall. A dusty cot has been turned onto its side against the other wall. Folded wool blankets, wooden boxes, different-sized strips of leather, clothes, stacks of dishes, cups and saucers, iron tools, silver spoons, and empty glass bottles fill one half of the room. From the look of the place and its contents, the shelter must be well over a hundred years old, probably a hundred-and-fifty-years old.
“The shelter looks like it was used for storage.”
I move a box and a stack of wool blankets, then clear other old wooden furniture and boxes out of the way as I make an opening to the desk against the wall.
Aimee lights up another candle and stands beside me. “This place is so amazing. It’s like a time capsule of buried treasure.”
“Buried old junk, if you ask me.” I move dusty boxes, old tools, and dishes to one side of the room.
Once I make room for the cot, I turn it on its legs and slide it to one side of the room, dividing the space into half: stuff and no stuff. When I reach a desk against the far wall, I sit down and gaze at a wall of wooden shelves full of books, old newspapers, and notebooks.
Ai
mee picks up a weathered box about the size of a shoebox with a square shape and made from wood. “Look what I found. It’s heavier than it looks.”
She opens the top. Inside, there’s a yellowing paper glued to the wooden top, with a faded blue flower-pattern design printed on it with three columns of written description. Above the columns of text, “Symphonion” is printed in fancy-looking letters.
A metal disk with holes is inside the box. “The disk looks more like a dull circulating saw blade rather than a vinyl record.”
“How do you think it works?” she asks.
I clear away a space on the desk and Aimee sets the box down. I notice a lever built into the box moves along one side, and another lever is on the other side. I slide one of the levers sideways. It clicks as I move it.
When it stops clicking, I pull out the second lever.
The metal disk begins to rotate.
Music fills the dimly lit shelter with beautiful sound, like ten music boxes playing all at the same time.
We smile at each other.
“Shall we?” Reizo asks, holding out one hand.
I scrunch up my nose. “Oh really? You’re a dancer now—?”
Before I can finish, he takes my hand with his left hand and places his right hand around my waist. He’s holding me in an old-fashioned dance-style, like Grams might have danced back in her day. He begins moving me in a tight circle within the cramped space.
I’m impressed. He’s actually not a bad dancer.
We both giggle as the music box’s metal comb plays a harmony of magical metallic notes while the antique disk rotates.
My mind drifts back to the last time I danced. It seems like a lifetime ago. Homecoming. Freshman year. Dancing with my friends—jock girls hanging together. Track and field mostly, but some swimmers and a few field hockey girls.
But after my heart failed a few weeks later, everything was different. Dances, parties, overnight invitations. My entire social life evaporated. The daily grind became school, home, meals, and sleep. That was it. I avoided dances during sophomore year. Of course, I love to dance, but I realized school dances aren’t about dancing. Frankly, I just wasn’t interested in the social scene. Some called me antisocial, but most didn’t call me anything. Eventually, they all exited out of my life.
“Smile,” Reizo whispers. “You’re a good dancer.”
I smile as he pulls me out of my silent pity party. One hand is still firmly around my waist; his other is braided finger-by-finger with mine. Peaceful. Warm. It feels safe in his arms, as if all my heart problems melt away.