“Oh. Well. I didn’t.”
“But I really can’t be your accomplice.”
“Because?”
“Because of work.”
“So what part were you messing with me about?”
She blinks. Her mouth tightens into a pout. “You said we would be doing things after school. At night. I can’t. I have to work. At the Breeze Mart.”
“What do you make there, minimum wage?”
“So?”
“I’m just saying, it doesn’t seem like a job worth keeping.”
“Have you ever had a job, Arden?”
“I’ve worked for my uncle a few summers.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll bet that was backbreaking. You probably overdosed on your aunt Dorothy’s lemonade.”
Maybe. “About as backbreaking as doing homework on the clock, I guess.”
She folds her hands in front of her. “I need that job. It’s not something I’d expect someone like you to understand. In fact, I need more hours.”
“Here we go again. The silver platter talk. Let’s skip that today, okay? I get it. I’m privileged and that makes me a bad person.”
A glint of remorse flashes across her face, giving him hope. Until she opens her mouth again. “I don’t think you’re a bad person. I’m just not, well, in the same position you are. It’s not that I didn’t have fun with you. I did. I just have things that I have to do and they’re more important than what I want to do.”
Arden runs a hand through his hair. Obviously this is a bigger deal than he’d originally thought. He knew she was different from all of his friends but he thought it was by choice. Now he can see the differences as if a flashlight were shining on them in a dark room. All of his friends have their own cars, where Carly rides a bike everywhere—even to the next town over to work the graveyard shift at a dumpy convenience store. She wears T-shirts and jeans—something he thought was preference—and as far as he can tell, she only owns one pair of shoes, which happen to be filthy off-brand Converse. What girl would wear dingy shoes every day if she could help it? But it’s not that she doesn’t care about her appearance. He can tell Carly would be girly if she had the chance. Even now she has a complicated-looking braid in her hair and her nails are painted a deep purple.
How he missed these things before, Arden is not sure.
So, Carly Vega is poor. But, unless she’s lying, she wants to have fun with him. She just has an obstacle in her—and therefore his—way.
There’s got to be something I can do. “I’ll pay you,” he blurts. “I’ll pay you for your company.” Whoa, that sounded way wrong. And other people heard it. It’s like the air actually gasped.
Tables of kids around them stop eating. Stop talking. He’s in danger of a chocolate milk bath, he can tell. Carly’s eyes flash with the ferocity of a starved predator. He wouldn’t be surprised if she bared her teeth.
At this moment, there is no amount of salt that would make his foot taste better.
Carly rises from the bench seat. She gathers up her homework in a neat pile, tapping the edges straight, shutting her book with a deliberation so cool it could chill a deep fryer. She tugs at the strap on her backpack and eases it up, onto her shoulder, which is squared perfectly with the other despite the added weight.
“Carly, I—” Arden chokes out. I what, exactly? I’m sorry falls infinitely short of what it will take to get her to speak to him again. Miles short of what it will take to make it up to her. Years short of what it will take for everyone to forget that he said that today.
Carly turns and walks away. Before she opens the cafeteria door, she wipes her feet on the floor mat, as if symbolically. And then she’s gone.
* * *
Out of the corner of his eye, Arden feels Deputy Glass glance at him. Once. Twice. Again. Arden shifts in his seat, slumping even farther down. “Aren’t cops supposed to keep their eyes on the road?”
Glass takes it in stride, bringing the car to a halt at a stop sign, then slowly turning right. Classic patrol driving. “You’re quiet tonight. Having girl problems? Thinking of that little Mexican girl?”
“Why does she gotta be Mexican?”
“Uh, because apparently her parents are Mexican?”
“I mean, how do you know they’re not like Puerto Rican or something?”
Glass shrugs. “So what if she is? So what if she isn’t? Is there something wrong with being Mexican?”
According to the mighty Sheriff Moss, that’s a big unofficial yes. He might center his campaign around deporting undocumented immigrants, but the truth is, he doesn’t care if they’re documented or not. Glass knows it. Arden knows it. Sheriff Moss treats racial profiling like a hobby.
And Arden knows Glass doesn’t feel the same way. So what Arden says next is unfair. “Why does she have to be anything? Why couldn’t you just say ‘short girl’ or ‘girl with the long eyelashes’? Who cares what race she is?”
Glass grins wide, exposing a rarely seen dimple and the fact that he’s not as old as he looks in that nerdy uniform. If Arden had to guess, he’d say he’s only about twenty-four, maybe twenty-five years old. “Girl with the long eyelashes huh? That ‘short girl’ has Arden Moss squirming in his little ol’ panties, eh?”
“It’s not like that.” Arden turns to face his friend, feeling a deep scowl embedded into his expression. “I insulted her today by accident. And now she won’t talk to me about it. Not even to let me apologize.”
Glass gives him a charitable shrug. “Your specialty is girls. You’ll figure it out.”
“Not this one,” Arden grumbles, but Glass is turning up the radio. Dispatch issues a call for domestic violence. The address is close to them.
Glass rolls his eyes. “Copy that,” he says into the mouthpiece on his shoulder. He rolls his eyes at Arden. “It’s Rose again, beating up on Henry. This’ll be her third offense so I’m going to have to take her down to the station. You want to come or you want me to drop you here?”
Glass knows Arden hates coming to the station; there’s always the chance he’ll run into his father there. But tonight, he doesn’t want to be left alone with his own thoughts. Tonight, he could use some entertainment drummed up by someone else for a change. “I’ll come.”
Glass nods and flips on the blue lights, which illuminate a hedge of rosebushes outside the window. People dread the sight of the flashing blue lights. Those lights may mean a hefty speeding ticket or possibly jail. That’s what they mean to Arden too. But there was a time when Arden loved them. It meant that his father had come home from work—back when his father was just a deputy. Back when Arden actually wanted his father to come home.
He and Amber would sit and wait at the front window, waiting for Deputy Moss to arrive at the end of his shift. As soon as he pulled into the driveway, he would turn on the blue lights—which were actually blue and red back then—and Arden and his sister would squeal, “Daddy’s home!” and run to the door to greet him.
Arden nearly laughs aloud at the idea of looking forward to seeing his father. They say kids can sense someone’s character. Arden guesses that doesn’t apply to one’s own dad. He never saw the real Dwayne Moss coming.
They pull into the driveway of a familiar residence—the Walkers, starring Rose the Wife, Henry the Husband, and Caden the Toddler. Caden is outside on the walkway, happily holding on to Henry’s hand. Henry is a walking stick of a man, redheaded and freckle-faced, with disheveled hair and a swollen red nose that might have been bleeding before they arrived.
When Deptuy Glass opens the door to get out, Arden rolls down his window to listen in. He’s not allowed to get out and actually take part in calls. But he’s allowed to observe, by policy. Anyone can, in fact. It’s one of the most well-kept secrets of the county.
Henry extends his hand to shake Deputy Glass’s. He nods toward the yellow vinyl-sided house, where the light is on in the living room, and the front door is wide open. “Rose is in the bedroom crying her eyes
out. She feels real bad about it this time,” Henry says. “If it weren’t for my little man here, I wouldn’t care none. But I’ve got to raise him right, you know? What goes in might come out one day.”
Deputy Glass nods. “That’s right, Henry. That’s right. You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? I can’t do anything about that. It’s her third time.”
Henry hangs his head and nods. Arden can’t tell if he’s sniffling because he’s crying or because he’s sucking up more blood that might be oozing out. Probably both.
Glass disappears into the house and when he reemerges, he has Rose Walker in submissive tow, hands cuffed behind her back. She’s in her pajamas, which are mismatched Tweety Bird pants with a Mickey Mouse tank covering her muffin top, all accentuated with hot-pink bejeweled flip-flops. Her runny mascara and mussed-up hair will make a classic mugshot. Deputy Glass allows her to kneel down so that Caden can throw his chubby little arms around his mother’s thick neck.
“Mama’s got to go away for a little while, but Daddy will take care of you, okay, little darlin’?” For what it’s worth, it does appear that Rose seems more remorseful this time. Probably because she’s going to jail.
“Daddy has boo-boo,” Caden announces. “Mama hit Daddy.”
“Mama loves Daddy, okay?” she says. “We just get mad at each other sometimes.”
Arden rolls his eyes. Way to teach your son that domestic violence is the norm. Arden’s quite certain little Caden would understand if Rose said something more accurate like, “Mama isn’t supposed to hit Daddy. That’s bad.” But instead, she splits the blame between them. Glass calls it classic abuser syndrome.
If only Henry would grow some balls and say it himself. But everyone in this yard knows that will never happen.
Glass opens the back door of the car for Rose and helps her in. “Hi, Arden,” she says. “How’s your mama doing these days?”
Arden grinds his teeth. “She’s doing.” The truth is, she isn’t doing, not much anyway. She’s awake half the night and sleeps during the day and in between she apparently fusses over Cletus. She must miss having someone to fuss over, now that Amber is gone. At least Cletus is good for something.
“Well, that’s good.”
Arden’s not sure what’s so good about it, but Rose isn’t really interested in talking pleasantries. As soon as Glass gets in the driver’s seat, she starts in immediately, pressing her face against the metal, netlike barrier between the front and backseat. “You know that hag May’s going to fire me over this,” she says. Arden perks up. Rose works as a waitress at Uppity Rooster Café on Highway 98. Has for as long as Arden can remember. His aunt Dorothy was best friends with the café manager and owner, May Haverty.
“You really want that to happen?” Rose continues. “I support us, you know. Henry hasn’t had a job for six months now. Who’s going to feed my Caden if I’m in jail?”
At this Arden is surprised. The Walker house is in a good neighborhood. It’s a nice house. They even have their lawn cut regularly by a lawn care service. At least, they have a sign advertising a lawn care company stuck in the ground by the sidewalk. The Chevy truck parked in the driveway looked new. How much could Rose possibly make as a waitress?
“You make good money there?” Arden says. Deputy Glass looks at him as if he’s grown double D breasts. Arden shrugs. He usually doesn’t take to talking to the backseat guests, but this could be pertinent information. Arden turns around to face the husband beater.
Her chin raises slightly. “I make enough to pay the bills, feed us, and then some. I make sure my little Caden doesn’t want for nothin’.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before you started on one of your fits again,” Glass says to the rearview. He makes a slow left turn. He could take a more direct route to the station, Arden knows, but apparently he’s humoring Arden’s newfound interest in interrogation.
Rose scoffs. “Henry knows just how to push my buttons is all.”
“So what shifts do you normally work?” Arden says, determined to make her focus. “Breakfast?”
“I get the best shifts, since I’ve been there the longest.”
“Which are?”
“What do you care?”
“I’m just trying to make conversation,” Arden says, hoping his smile looks authentic. “You’ve had a rough night and I wanted to get your mind off things.” And I want to fill your position pronto.
This softens her up a bit. “That’s awfully sweet of you, Arden. Isn’t that sweet of him, Deputy Glass?”
Glass casts him an ironic look. “It is, Ms. Walker. Arden here’s a sweet boy when he wants to be.” And by the sound of his tone, Glass doesn’t believe that’s what Arden’s being right now.
“You get a lot of snowbird action at the café?” Arden presses. It’s still hot outside, but school’s already started in most states, and the tourist traffic has died down a lot in Destin. Snowbirds usually keep the place up and running, especially some of the more popular hangouts like Uppity Rooster.
“Oh yeah. I work breakfast shift Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and the weekends. Saturday and Sunday are my bread and butter though. I make more on Saturday morning than I do all week.” Rose is particularly proud of this. Then her countenance falls as if weighted with a concrete block. “I did, anyway. I’m pretty sure May’s going to let me go over this. I already got wrote up last week for taking too many smoke breaks.”
Perfect.
Thirteen
I hear Arden’s truck and feel the rumble on the dirt road. I know it’s Arden because this has become his ritual the past two days: follow me home from school and beg me to speak to him, driving alongside me as I pedal my bike faster and faster before coming to a complete stop when he doesn’t expect it, then dart through the woods while he’s trying to back up.
It’s an exhausting but necessary ritual. And slightly entertaining.
Today shall be no different from the last two. I already have my sights set on which part of the woods I’m going to launch off into. He’ll never see it coming.
Unfortunately I don’t see something else coming: a soft spot in the dirt road. My front wheel pirouettes almost backward, bringing me to a violent, immediate standstill, which nearly sends me flying over the handlebars. As it is, I turn at an unnatural angle, and my right ankle scrapes against the pedal and I’m forced to forfeit the bike into the red clay and my pride along with it. Also, I trip, fail to catch myself, and land squarely on my rear.
My hurt ankle and mutilated ego make it difficult to want to get back up.
Arden’s truck skids to a halt beside me as I begrudgingly pull myself to a standing position, patting a red dust cloud off my butt. I continue to ignore him as I attempt to arrange the handlebars in rideable order. There’s no getting around the fact that he saw everything. If our roles had been reversed, I would find this funny for the rest of my days. The kind of funny that, out of nowhere, cracks you up in the middle of a library or someone’s funeral or an important conversation.
But Arden isn’t laughing. I know this, because I steal a glance at him—his eyes are all determination and his mouth is set in a straight line. Laughing is the furthest thing from his mind. Because for the second time in our brief history, Arden Moss steals my bike again. With superhero ease, he snatches it from my hands and puts it in the back of his truck, sliding it to the middle of the bed.
I can’t decide where I’m going to hide his body after I murder him.
Before I can say that, or anything, his hand is covering my mouth and he’s turning me around in his arms so that my back is to his stomach and it dawns on me that maybe I’m the one being kidnapped and that nobody will find my body and that even if they do he’ll get off scot-free because he’s the sheriff’s son.
A scream wells up inside me.
“For God’s sake, will you just listen to me without opening your mouth?” he says in my ear. His voice is gruff, like he has a cold.
&nbs
p; I try to bite the soft part of his hand, but he cups it just in time. He tightens his grip on me and presses his cheek against mine. I stomp on his foot and he grunts, but doesn’t let go.
“I’m sorry, Carly,” he says. “So sorry. I’m a pathetic particle of dust that doesn’t deserve to land on your feet. What I said at lunch was the stupidest thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. But I’m trying to make it up to you. Will you just listen to me?”
Trying to make it up to me? By stealing my bike? Holding me hostage?
“I have good news,” he continues, as if I’m not squirming like a hooked worm. Arden is rock solid. It feels like struggling against the inside of a stack of tires. “I got you a job. A better one than the Breeze Mart. You can start this Saturday if you want. It’s good money, less hours.” With this, he turns me loose and shoves me away from him.
He wipes his wet hand on his T-shirt; he didn’t release me in time to avoid me spitting into his palm. It was the least I could do.
I want to push him against the truck and kick his nuts up his throat. But his words are sinking in. And I want to hear more of them. It’s then that I realize I’m about to hyperventilate.
Arden seems to realize it at the same time. “Whoa, you don’t have asthma or anything, do you? Calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. Put your hands on your head. I hear that helps with asthma attacks.”
“I don’t have asthma, moron,” I screech. “It’s not asthma attacking me, it’s you!”
He wipes both hands down his face, then interlaces them behind his neck as if trying to appear harmless. “I wasn’t attacking you. I was … subduing you.”
“For real? That’s what you’re going with?”
“Ohmigod, I can’t talk to you! You’re impossible to deal with!”
“I’m impossible? You took my bike—again! Then you … you…”
“I’ll give your bike back. I’m sorry I sub—took actions to neutralize your anger. I knew you wouldn’t listen to me.”