"Can't say I have."
Neither had I. Guess this meant I could say what I wanted about Knoxville and neither of us would be any wiser for it.
And then he said, "But I would have expected a different accent. Yours sounds . . . East Coast."
"Oh," I said dismissively, giving myself an extra second to think up an excuse. "That's because my dad grew up in the Mid-Atlantic. I took his accent more than my mom's."
To my relief, he seemed done grilling me and extended his hand. "Welcome to Thunder Basin, Stella. I'm Chet Falconer."
I frowned. "The same Chet Falconer who mows Carmina's lawn?"
A smile twitched his lips. "She mentioned me?"
"You woke me up at five this morning! See these bags under my eyes? You can take credit!"
"Your eyes look perfectly fine to me."
Before I could wonder if he'd given me a line, he went on, "Tell you what. I'll make you a deal. I'll get this old battleship running, but I need something in return. There's a diner around the corner with two people at a table in the back. One of them is a punk trying to look tough in a leather motorcycle jacket," he added darkly. "I want you to grab a table close enough to eavesdrop, order a cheeseburger so you look like you belong, then come out and tell me what they talked about."
"I see. You want me to spy on your girlfriend? If you think she's cheating, she is."
He ignored me. "I'll have the car running by the time you get back."
"No deal. I'm in a hurry. I need it running now."
"Well, this is gonna take a few."
I blew out some air. "Fine. But you're paying for the cheeseburger."
He gave a sigh of exaggerated patience, then slapped a ten-dollar bill in my palm. "Eat slowly. I want to know everything they say."
"Even the heartbreaking stuff? The parts where she talks about how awful your breath smells and how your mouth overproduces saliva when you kiss?"
He pulled his cowboy hat off and whacked me on the butt. Actually whacked me on the butt. "Get going before you miss everything. And I don't have bad breath. Or that other thing."
"You'd better have this car working by the time I come out," I warned.
"Yeah? Or what?"
"Or I'm gonna make you buy me a second cheeseburger. And fries and a shake." I didn't sound ruffled, but if I didn't beat Carmina back, she'd probably make me sit in jail overnight to teach me a lesson. Plus, she'd make sure I never got my hands on the Mustang again. And I couldn't let her do that, because I needed a way to get to the library. I was going to check the e-mail account as often as I could. Reed would e-mail soon and we could begin to formulate a plan to get back together after my birthday. He was nineteen and could legally live on his own; we just had to wait for me to turn eighteen.
"Hold that thought until you've tried the first burger," Chet cautioned with a pirate glint in his eyes.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Let's just say the county health department isn't what you'd call fastidious. Fact, jury's still out on whether we have a health department."
I waved his crumpled ten-dollar bill in the air. "Then I'll pass on food and consider this my tip for my stellar espionage skills."
Turning on my heel, I strolled to the end of the block and looked both ways down the street. The Sundown Diner was on the bottom floor of the next building. I recognized it from that morning's job hunt. The outside lights were on now, moths fluttering madly around the bulbs. A blue-and-white striped awning extended over the door.
I swung through the entrance and made a quick scan of the place. Business was scarce tonight. Only two tables in use. A mother with two small boys was seated in the booth next to the jukebox. At the back of the diner, two guys sat hunched across a table, deep in conversation.
Guess I'd been wrong about Chet's girlfriend. He was having me spy on two guys. The one wearing the leather biker jacket looked about my age, maybe a year younger. His brown hair hung in his eyes, which kept shifting nervously around. His companion was several years older, with a beer belly that strained against a Journey concert T-shirt. He sported thick red sideburns and a black head bandanna, and he looked like a hybrid between a Hell's Angel and a redneck. I immediately knew I didn't like or trust him.
"Just the one tonight?" the hostess asked me, fishing through her stack of menus.
"Do you mind if I sit in the back corner booth?" I flashed a smile. "My lucky seat."
"Sure thing, hon."
I settled into the booth. I was close enough that I should have been able to overhear the guys at the next table, but they'd stopped talking when I'd taken my seat. To encourage them to let me fade into the background, I pulled Carmina's Walkman out of my handbag, set it on the table, and inserted the cheap plastic headphones into my ears. Don't mind me, boys, I'm in my own little world. Now, start talking, and make it fast. I'm on a tight schedule.
The younger of the two was the first to talk.
"I've got a few grand coming from my parents," he confessed uneasily.
"Define 'few.'"
"Four."
The Hell's Angel scratched the scruff on his neck thoughtfully. "It's not a lot, but it should be enough."
"Once I get you the money, how long until I'm in business?"
"Two weeks. Gotta transport the goods from Colorado."
The younger guy nodded, thinking it over. "Okay. I'm in."
"Not so fast. How soon can you get me the cash?"
Just then a waitress ambled over, standing between me and their table. "Anything to drink?"
"Water," I said, trying to keep one ear trained on the guys' conversation.
"Questions about the menu?"
I hadn't opened the menu. I already knew what I wanted. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't screw up fries. They were cooked in hot grease. Any lingering bacteria would be killed off.
"A large order of fries, please."
"That it?"
I nodded, figuring I deserved to keep the rest of Chet's money, and she sauntered back to the kitchen.
One table over, the Hell's Angel and the boy were wrapping things up. The boy was on his cell phone texting, and the Hell's Angel was scrounging through his wallet for cash to pay his tab. I knew Chet wouldn't like it if I returned with next to nothing to report, but he'd have to deal. He'd told me to eavesdrop. I couldn't help it if the conversation only lasted a couple of minutes.
"I'll call you when I have the funds," the boy in the biker jacket said, sliding out of his chair and pocketing his phone. As he rose to his feet, he must have sensed me watching, because his eyes flicked in my direction. His eyebrows drew together suspiciously at the sight of me, and I immediately picked up my menu, looking absorbed in reading.
He left, followed by the Hell's Angel, and I decided rather than wait around for my fries, I'd go see if Chet had upheld his end of our bargain. I paid for the fries at the register and hoped my waitress enjoyed them.
In the library parking lot, I found Chet bent under the Mustang's hood. He looked over his shoulder as he heard me approach. Even in the darkness, I could see his hands were smudged with grease.
"Well?" he asked expectantly.
"The kid's parents are giving him four thousand dollars, and he's going into business with the Hell's Angel."
Chet swore under his breath. "What else did they say?"
"Not much. It was a short conversation. The kid hopes to have his business running shortly."
"Over my dead body."
"Just tell me you got the car working."
"Yeah, it was the carburetor. I've got it propped open with a pencil to let air in. See if the engine starts now."
I swung behind the wheel and turned the ignition. Right away, the engine purred to life. I was so relieved, I could have kissed Chet.
Instead I said, "What's the fastest way back to Carmina's?"
Chet dropped the hood and brushed his hands clean. "She doesn't know you took the car, does she?"
I bit my
lip. "Can this be our little secret?"
"New girl in town already owes me a favor." He smiled, bringing boyish dimples to his cheeks. "Take Rodeo Road home; you'll skip a couple lights. Carmina never gets home from Bible study before nine thirty. As long as you don't get stopped at the train crossing, you should beat her by five."
Five minutes wasn't quite the buffer I'd hoped for, but it would have to do. I blew him a kiss and roared out of the lot.
At the farmhouse, I was relieved to see Carmina's truck wasn't in the drive. I backed the Mustang into the barn, just the way I'd found it. Letting myself into the house, I flipped on the light. And nearly swallowed my tongue.
Carmina was seated on the sofa, tapping her nails on the armrest. Her features looked chiseled from ice. Her mouth compressed thinly, and it made my heart squeeze.
"I didn't see your truck," I said nervously.
"Sent it home with Mac Hester after Bible study--he's fixing the transmission. Gave me a lift home. Keys," she said, extending her hand.
I gave them to her.
"Apology."
"I'm sorry."
"Not good enough, Stella."
I shifted my weight and exhaled impatiently. "I'm sorry I took your car. It won't happen again."
"Look at me when you speak to me."
"I said I'm sorry," I snapped. "What more do you want?"
"You're coming to church with me tomorrow morning."
I looked her square on. Taking her car was wrong, and I'd apologized. We'd settled the matter, and I wasn't going to let her use my bad behavior as an excuse to exercise authority over me. She wasn't my mom. She was a moving piece in the Justice Department's cover story, and I was going to let her know that I knew it.
"I'm not going to church."
"Oh, you're definitely going to church."
"Are you threatening me?"
"You're under my roof, and I expect certain behavior from you. Stealing my car and only feeling bad that you got caught . . . those things severely disappoint me--"
"Stealing?" I challenged, my defenses automatically shooting up. "I didn't steal your car--I borrowed it! Did I leave town? Did I crash it? No! It's in the same condition as when I took it!"
"Don't interrupt me, and don't talk back to me," she said evenly. "I'm not your mother, Stella. I know that better than anyone. I never had the opportunity of meeting her, but I'd be doing her a great disservice if I let you steal and lie, and get away with it."
I pushed down my shock and humiliation and channeled it into rage. "Don't bring her into this. You don't get to use her to make me feel guilty."
"Starting tonight, you have a curfew of nine p.m."
I made a strangled sound. "What? You can't give me a curfew. I've never had a curfew!" By the time I was old enough to go out at night, my mom was too high to care what hour I came or went. I took care of myself, set my own rules. Who was this woman that she thought she could tell me what to do?
"Curfew stands. And you're joining me at church tomorrow. I can't make you like it. I can't even make you listen. But I'm not going to stand aside and let you run wild this summer. Not on my watch. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm making things worse. But I'd rather try and fail than sit here, too damn hesitant to act. I hung a dress in your closet. I don't care if you don't like it. I expect you to be showered, dressed, and in the truck by nine thirty. Are we clear?"
I fled upstairs. I slammed the bedroom door, not caring if it was childish. She couldn't make me go to church. I'd call Price. Things were not working out with Carmina. Maybe he could talk to the U.S. attorney's office and get them to overrule their decision to place me in a home until my eighteenth birthday.
They thought they knew what was best for me, but I was better off on my own. I'd been on my own for two years.
Curled up on the bed, I comforted myself with one of Reed's letters.
Estella,
Day one of summer baseball camp. The facilities are pretty sweet. All-you-can-eat meals in the cafeteria. We sleep in dorms, two guys per room, with a shared bathroom down the hall. I have a jackass for a roommate. There are guys on my floor from all over the country, and I get stuck with this loser. There's even one kid who traveled from the Dominican Republic. I guess they're serious about baseball there.
During opening ceremonies, the coaches threw out words like "legendary," "prestigious," and "tradition of excellence" to describe the training program. It was hard not to laugh. They sound like my dad. He still thinks he can get me to enlist. I'll skip the Winslow family tradition of excellence, thanks anyway.
xReed
6
BY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, MY TEMPER HAD cooled slightly. I wasn't in the mood to put on a dress and sit on a hard pew for an hour, but after spending most of the night stewing in a rage, I'd started to see things from a new perspective. Price wasn't going to lift a finger for me if I didn't show him I was trying to make things work with Carmina. Surely he knew me well enough to know I'd never go to church. Which meant if I did end up going, my willingness would become a powerful bargaining chip. Look, Price, I'd tell him, I'm giving this my best shot. I even went to church. But in the end, Carmina and I aren't a good match.
Ditto for Nebraska. But right now, I'd fight my battles one at a time.
Of course, there was always a chance they'd send me someplace worse. . . . Could things get worse than Thunder Basin? I cast a look full of disdain out my bedroom window. And had my answer.
I showered and flat-ironed my dark brown hair to sleek perfection. Standing before the mirror, I tousled my bangs. They were getting long, which I sensed was going to be a problem. I was better off trimming them myself, I decided, than letting someone at "Haircuts, 7.5 Owed" botch them.
Shortly before nine thirty, I trotted downstairs wearing a mint-green sundress and espadrille sandals that one of the deputies had hastily packed from my home. The shapeless muumuu dress Carmina had hung in the closet could hardly be called clothing. I was pretty sure the dress was the unspoken half of my punishment for taking the Mustang last night. Church and public humiliation.
"You look respectable," Carmina said somewhat stiffly when I came downstairs. She carefully avoided my eyes. She hadn't forgotten about last night, or forgiven me. We were on equal ground, then. What made me even angrier--what was extra painful--was that Carmina, a stranger, was mothering me when my own mother wouldn't.
"I don't want the dress you hung in my closet. Please remove it by the end of the day." Without breaking stride, I continued into the kitchen and poured myself a mug of coffee.
"There's a linger longer after church today," Carmina called from the hallway. "If you don't want to stay for it, you'll have to walk back here or catch a ride."
"I don't know what a linger longer is," I returned, burning my tongue on the hot black coffee. I would have preferred a heaping spoonful of sugar and a dash of cream, but I wasn't about to ask Carmina for help finding either. Instead, I sipped as much of the coffee as I could tolerate before I felt my insides start to curl.
"Potluck. Everyone brings a dish and a picnic blanket."
"Isn't that adorable. A country picnic. I'll pass." I put my mug in the sink and met her in the hallway. She was wearing a long denim skirt, a white blouse, and those same red cowboy boots. Her platinum hair was smoothed back in a nineties French braid. I tried to come up with a snide remark about her sense of style, but in the end, I just rolled my eyes. "Well, it's nine thirty sharp. Let's get this show on the road. Wouldn't dream of being late."
"With attitude to spare," Carmina murmured as she followed me out.
Oh, I was just getting started. I couldn't wait to meet her church friends. If I had anything to say about it, Carmina and her new foster daughter would be the gossip of Sunday dinner tables across town tonight. I fully intended to be the one who left her feeling humiliated. She was an ex-cop. People saw her as an authority figure. Their opinions might shift after today.
I was going to walk all over her.
> Carmina's congregation met in a plain building that mildly resembled a large white barn. Arched windows ran along the sides of the church. A steeple capped the roof. A wide brick staircase led up to the double doors, which were open and letting out a stream of organ music. But what really caught my eye was the marquee sign on the lawn that read EXPOSURE TO THE SON PREVENTS BURNING.
I really hoped this meant the clergy had a sense of humor.
We were greeted at the door by a man wearing a crisply ironed black shirt and a clerical collar. His salt-and-pepper hair was parted on the side, and he smiled warmly at us. He was by all accounts so bland, it was impossible to be offended.
"Good morning, Carmina," he said, clasping her hand affectionately. "I see you've brought a visitor."
"Pastor Lykins, may I present Stella Gordon," Carmina said. "She'll be staying with me for the summer."
Before Pastor Lykins could ask a host of follow-up questions--and I could see by the stark surprise in his widening eyes that he wanted to--Carmina propelled me inside by my elbow.
"You're not even going to let me say hello to people?" I said as she steered me to a vacant pew. "Tsk, tsk, Carmina. Where are your manners?"
"You can open your mouth during the hymns." She set her green bean casserole for the linger longer between us. "Something tells me you've got impressive pipes."
Two silver-haired women shuffled into the pew in front of us, their gazes fluttering speculatively over me and Carmina. Just as one of them tried to catch Carmina's eye, she fixed her attention on removing a ball of lint attached to her skirt, putting true diligence into the task. At that moment I realized just how uncomfortable Carmina was with having me stay for the summer. I knew my supposed reasons for being in Thunder Basin, but I'd never thought about Carmina's side of the cover story. A reclusive and aging ex-cop fostering a seventeen-year-old? It was sure to raise a few eyebrows. I wondered why the U.S. attorney's office had picked her. Her background in law enforcement had undoubtedly made her a desirable candidate.
Probably, she was getting paid a boatload for taking me in. I wasn't an average foster--I was in WITSEC. The higher the danger, the steeper the pay. It was happening all over again: I was being used for money. The only reason my mom had fought for custody was so she could get child support from my dad . . . which she proceeded to use on drugs. And now Carmina was using me to pad her retirement.