"They don't talk about it to me, but from what I've heard over the years, the Youngbloods weren't receptive to Aunt Leigh at first. Uncle John just kept loving her until they were."
"Because she's . . . ," I began, stumbling over the words.
He chuckled. "It's okay. You can say it. My grandparents had a hard time with it, too. Aunt Leigh is white."
I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh.
"What about you? Are you really leaving after graduation?"
I nodded. "Oak Creek is okay," I said, drawing circles in the sand with my sandal. "I just don't want to stay here forever . . . or a second longer than I have to."
"I'm going to travel with my camera. Take pictures of the earth and sky and everything in-between. You could come with me."
I laughed. "And do what?"
He shrugged. "Be the in-between."
I thought about what Dad had said earlier. I wanted to prove him wrong. I smirked. "I'm not sure I want to travel the world with someone who punches trees."
"Oh. That."
I elbowed him. "Yes, that. What was that about?"
"That would be one of the times I didn't listen to Uncle John's philosophy on anger."
"Everyone gets angry. It's better to take it out on a tree. Just maybe wear boxing gloves next time."
He breathed out a laugh. "My aunt has mentioned installing a punching bag downstairs."
"That's a healthy outlet if you ask me."
"So if you're not going to travel the world with me, what will you do?"
"I'm not sure," I said. "We've only got three years left. I feel like I should at least have an idea, and at the same time, it sounds crazy to think that I should at fifteen." I looked away, frowning. "It's stressful."
"Just hold my hand for now."
"Catherine?"
I looked up to see Owen, letting my hand slip away from Elliott's. "Hey," I said, standing.
Owen took a few steps, wiping sweat from his brow. "Your dad said you might be here." His eyes kept bouncing between Elliott and me.
"This is Elliott. He lives down the street," I said.
Elliott stood and held out his hand. Owen didn't move, warily watching the tall, dark stranger.
"Owen," I hissed.
Owen's blond eyelashes fluttered. He shook Elliott's hand and then returned his attention to me. "Oh. Sorry. So . . . I'm leaving for camp tomorrow. You wanna come over tonight?"
"Oh," I said, glancing up at Elliott. "I, um . . . we sort of have plans."
Owen frowned. "But I'm leaving tomorrow."
"I know," I said, envisioning hours of munching on popcorn while Owen gunned down countless space mercenaries. "You can come with us."
"My mom won't let me go anywhere tonight. She wants me home early."
"I'm really sorry, Owen."
He turned, frowning at me. "Yeah. See you in a couple of weeks, I guess."
"Yes. Absolutely. Have fun at science camp."
Owen flicked his sandy hair out of his eyes, stuffed his fists in his pockets, and walked in the opposite direction of my house, toward his street. Owen lived in one of the nicer neighborhoods, his house tucked into a woodsy cul-de-sac. I'd spent one-third of my childhood there, sitting on one of his beanbags vegging out in front of the TV. I wanted to spend time with him before he left, but Elliott had a lot of layers, and I only had a few weeks of summer break to peel them.
"Who was that?" Elliott asked. For the first time, the unaffected, small smile that had been perpetually on his face was absent.
"Owen. He's a friend from school. One of two. He's in love with my friend Minka. We've been hanging out since first grade. He's like this . . . avid gamer. He likes Minka and me to watch him play. He's not much of a two-player fan. He doesn't like waiting on us to figure it out."
One corner of Elliott's mouth turned up. "One of three."
"Pardon?"
"Owen is one of your three friends."
"Oh. That's . . . a nice thing to say." I looked down at my watch to hide the flush of my cheeks, noticing the time. The sun had stretched our shadows to the east. We'd spent two hours at Beatle Park. "We should probably eat something. Want to come over for a sandwich?"
Elliott smiled and followed me through the shade to Juniper. We didn't talk much, and he didn't reach for my hand again, but my palm tingled where his had been. I stopped at the gate, hesitating. Mama's car was parked behind the Buick, and I could hear them arguing.
"I can make a sandwich at home," Elliott said. "Or I can come in with you. Your call."
I glanced back at him. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
Elliott tucked some hair behind his ear and then made the decision for me. He pushed back through the gate and walked toward his aunt's, wiping sweat from his temple and then readjusting his camera strap.
I walked up the porch steps slowly, cringing when they lowered their voices.
"I'm home," I said, closing the door behind me. I walked into the dining room to see Dad sitting at the table, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "You didn't get the job?"
Dad's underarms were stained with sweat, his face ashen. He attempted a small smile. "There were a hundred other guys up for that position, all younger and smarter than your old dad."
"I don't believe that for a minute," I said, walking past Mama to the kitchen. I made two glasses of ice water and then sat one in front of him.
"Thanks, Princess," he said, taking a big gulp.
Mama rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Listen to me. It could work. We have all this room, and--"
"I said no, honey," Dad said, sounding final. "No tourists come to this town. There's nothing to see except closed businesses and a Pizza Hut. The only people who stay the night are coming off the interstate or oil guys. They're not going to pay extra for a bed and breakfast."
"There's only one hotel," Mama snapped. "It's full almost every night."
"Not every night," Dad said, patting his brow with a napkin. "And even if we got the overflow, it wouldn't be enough to sustain a business."
"Dad?" I said. "Aren't you feeling well?"
"I'm okay, Catherine. Just got too hot today."
"Take another drink," I said, pushing his glass toward him.
Mama wrung her hands. "You know this is something I've always wanted to do with this house."
"It takes money to start a business," Dad said. "And I'm not comfortable having strangers sleeping next to Catherine every night."
"You just said we wouldn't have guests," Mama snapped.
"We won't, Mavis. If this house was in San Francisco or anywhere with a tourist attraction, it would, but we're in the middle of Oklahoma, not a thing within two hours of us."
"Two lakes," she said.
"People who go to the lake either make a day trip or camp. This isn't Missouri. We're not on the edges of Table Rock Lake, with Branson ten minutes away. It's not the same."
"It could be, if we advertised. If we got the city to work with us."
"To do what exactly? You can't argue this. It's just not fiscally responsible to start that kind of business when we're already facing being a month behind on bills." Dad glanced at me as if it were an afterthought.
"I could get a job," I said.
Dad began to speak, but Mama cut him off. "She could work for me at the Juniper Bed and Breakfast."
"No, honey," Dad said, exasperated. "You couldn't pay her for a long time, and it would defeat the point. Look at me. You know this isn't a good idea. You know it's not."
"I'm calling the bank in the morning. Sally will give us a loan. I know she will."
Dad slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it, Mavis, I said no."
Mama's nostrils flared. "You got us into this! If you'd done your job, they wouldn't have let you go!"
"Mama," I warned.
"This is your fault!" she said, ignoring me. "We're going to be penniless, and you were supposed to take care of us! You promised! Now you'
re staying home all day while I'm the sole income! We'll have to sell the house. Where are we going to go? How did I get stuck with such a screwup?"
"Mama!" I yelled. "That's enough!"
Mama's hands shook while she picked at her nails and fidgeted with her messy hair. She turned on her heel and rushed up the stairs, sniffling as she climbed.
Dad looked up at me, embarrassed and remorseful. "She didn't mean it, Princess."
I sat down. "She never does," I grumbled under my breath.
Dad's mouth pulled to the side. "She's just stressed."
I reached across the table, grabbing his clammy hand. "Just her?"
"You know me." He winked. "Falling is easy. The hard part is getting back up. I'll figure this out, don't you worry." He rubbed his shoulder.
I smiled at him. "I'm not worried. I'll walk down to Braum's and see if they're hiring."
"Don't get your britches in a bunch. We'll start talking about that next month. Maybe."
"I really don't mind."
"What did you eat for lunch?" he asked.
I simply shook my head, and Dad frowned.
"Best get in there and make yourself something. I'm going upstairs to calm your mama."
I nodded, watching him struggle to get up and then nearly lose his balance. I held his arm until he was steady. "Dad! Are you sun sick?"
"I'll take this with me," he said, picking up the water.
I watched him slowly climb the stairs, crossing my arms across my middle. He looked older, feebler. No daughter wants to see her dad as anything but invincible.
Once he reached the top, I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It kicked on, humming while I searched for lunch meat and cheese. No meat, but I found one last slice of cheese and some mayonnaise. I pulled it out of the fridge and looked for bread. Nothing.
A full box of saltines was in the cabinet, so I slathered on some mayo and tore apart the cheese in small squares, trying to spread it out across as many crackers as I could. Mama had been so worried she'd forgotten to go to the store. I wondered how many more times we could afford to go.
Dad's dining chair creaked when I sat. I picked up the first saltine and took a bite, the cracker crunching loudly in my mouth. Dad and Mama weren't fighting--she wasn't even crying, which she usually did when she was this stressed--and I began to wonder what was going on up there and why she wasn't at work.
The chandelier above me trembled, and then the pipes began to whine. I exhaled, knowing Dad was probably running a bath to help Mama calm her nerves.
I finished my lunch and washed my plate, then sauntered outside to the porch swing. Elliott was already swinging there, holding two large brownies wrapped in cellophane and two bottles of Coke.
He held them up. "Dessert?"
I sat next to him, feeling relaxed and happy for the first time since he'd left. I pulled open the clear plastic and bit into the brownie, humming in satisfaction. "Your aunt?"
He squinted one eye and smiled. "She lies to her women's auxiliary group at church and says it's her recipe."
"It's not? She's made them for us before. The whole neighborhood raves about Leigh's brownies."
"It's my mom's. Aunt Leigh keeps me very happy so I don't rat her out."
I smiled. "I won't tell a soul."
"I know," he said, pushing off with his feet. "That's what I like about you."
"Which is what exactly?"
"Did you tell anyone about my uncle losing his job?"
"Of course not."
"That." He leaned back, cradling his head in his hands. "You can keep a secret."
Chapter Three
Elliott
I visited Catherine the next day, and the next, and every day for two weeks. We walked for ice cream, walked to the creek, walked to the park . . . just walked. If her parents were fighting, she wasn't home to see it, and if I could do nothing else to make that situation better, she was happy about that.
Catherine was probably sitting on the porch swing like she did every afternoon, waiting for me to wander to her section of the neighborhood. I'd been mowing lawns all morning, trying to get all my accounts caught up before the dark, puffy clouds that had begun to darken the southwestern sky reached Oak Creek.
Each time I came home for more water, Uncle John was glued to the news, listening to the meteorologist report on pressure changes and wind gusts. Thunder had been rolling for the last hour, growing louder every ten minutes or so. After my last yard, I ran home and showered, grabbed my camera, and tried very hard not to look like I was rushing when I reached Catherine's porch.
Her thin, sleeveless blouse stuck in different spots to her glistening skin. She picked at the frayed edges of her jean shorts with what was left of her chewed nails. I struggled to breathe in the muggy air, glad for the sudden chill in the air as the sky darkened and the temperature dipped. Leaves began to hiss as the cool wind from the storm weaved through and blew away the heat that had danced above the asphalt just moments before.
Mr. Calhoun rushed out, straightening his tie. "I have a couple of interviews, Princess. See you this evening." He trotted down the stairs only to hurry back up. After planting a quick kiss on her cheek and then giving me a look, he ran for the Buick and backed out, stomping on the gas.
The swing bounced and the chains shuddered when I sat next to Catherine. I pushed off with my feet, sending us in an uneven back and forth. Catherine sat quietly, her long, elegant fingers catching my attention. I wished I could hold her hand again, but I wanted it to be her idea this time. The chains of the porch swing creaked in a relaxing rhythm, and I leaned my head back, looking up at the cobwebs on the ceiling and noting the pile of dead bugs inside the porch light.
"Camera?" Catherine asked.
I patted the bag. "Of course."
"You've taken hundreds of pictures of grass, the water flowing at Deep Creek, the swings, the slide, trees, and the railroad tracks. We've talked about your parents a little bit and mine a lot, at length about Presley and the clones, football, our dream colleges, and where we want to be in five years. What's the plan for today?" she asked.
I grinned. "You."
"Me?"
"It's going to rain. I thought we'd stay in."
"Here?" she asked.
I stood and held out my hand. So much for waiting for her to do it. "Come with me."
"What? Like a photo shoot? I don't really . . . like getting my picture taken."
She didn't take my hand, so I hid my fist in my pocket, trying not to die of embarrassment. "No pictures today. I wanted to show you something."
"What?"
"The most beautiful thing I've ever photographed."
Catherine followed me out the gate and down the street to my aunt and uncle's house. It was the first time in weeks we had walked somewhere without our clothes being soaked with sweat.
Aunt Leigh's house smelled like fresh paint and cheap air freshener. The fresh vacuum markings in the calico carpet told a short story of a busy housewife and no children. The ivy stencils and plaid came straight from 1991, but Aunt Leigh took pride in her house and spent hours a day making sure it was immaculate.
Catherine reached for a painting on the wall of a Native woman with long, dark hair, adorned with a feather. She stopped just before her fingers met with the canvas. "Is this what you wanted to show me?"
"It is beautiful, but not what I brought you here to see."
"She's so . . . elegant. So lost. Not just beautiful . . . the kind that makes you want to cry."
I smiled, watching Catherine stare at the painting in awe. "She's my mother."
"Your mother? She's stunning."
"Aunt Leigh painted it."
"Wow," Catherine said, looking over painted plates with similar styles. Landscapes and people, all looking like any minute the wind would make the grass sway or a dark hair would brush against rich, bronze skin. "All of them?"
Elliott nodded.
The flat-screen television hangin
g high on the wall was on, the news anchor talking to an empty room before we'd arrived.
"Is Leigh at work?" Catherine asked.
"She leaves the TV on when she's gone. She says it makes the burglars think someone is home."
"What burglars?" she asked.
I shrugged. "I don't know. Any burglars, I guess." We walked past the TV down a dim hall to a brown door with a brass knob. I opened it; a rush of air with the subtle hint of mildew blew Catherine's bangs from her eyes.
"What's down there?" she asked, peeking down into the darkness.
"My room."
A steady beat sounded on the roof, and I turned to look out the front windows, seeing pea-size pellets of ice bouncing in the wet grass. As they fell, they grew bigger. A white ball the size of a half dollar made contact with the sidewalk, breaking into a few pieces. As quickly as the hail came, it vanished and melted like I'd imagined it.
She returned her attention to the darkness. She seemed overly nervous. "You sleep down there?"
"Mostly. Wanna see?"
She swallowed. "You first."
I chuckled. "Chicken." I tromped down the steps and then disappeared into the darkness, reaching up exactly where I knew a string would be for the single bare bulb above.
"Elliott?" Catherine called from halfway down the stairs. Her calling for me with her tiny, nervous voice made something inside of me click. I only wanted her to feel safe with me. "Hang on, I'm getting the light."
After a click and a jingle, the bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated our surroundings.
Catherine descended the remaining stairs slowly. She looked down at the large green shag carpet centered in the middle of the concrete floor.
"It's ugly, but it's better than stepping on a cold floor first thing in the morning," I said.
She peered around at the small loveseat, a console television, a desk with a computer, and the futon I slept on.
"Where's your bed?" she asked.
I pointed to the futon. "It lays flat."
"It doesn't look . . . long enough."
"It's not," I said simply, pulling my camera out of the bag and pinching the memory card from the bottom. I sat in the lawn chair that Uncle John had bought for me to use at the desk Aunt Leigh found sitting on the side of the road, and pushed the tiny square in my hand into a slit in the desktop.
"Elliott?"
"I just have to pull it up." I clicked the mouse a few times, and then a faint, high-pitched wail sounded above us. I froze.
"Is that the . . . ?"
"Is it the tornado siren?" I said, scrambling to stand and then grabbing her hand, pulling her to the top of the stairs. The sound was coming from the television; a meteorologist stood in front of a map splashed with reds and greens. A severe thunderstorm warning had been issued for the whole county, and it was going to hit us at any minute.