KAT’S NOT ANSWERING her phone. I left three messages last night—I heard about Kenyon. Call me.—and another one this morning, but still nothing. It’s impossible, Kenyon getting arrested, him hurting Rhiannon somehow. He and Rhiannon were friends, or at least friendly; they used to party together, and I remember seeing them sitting on the bleachers during gym once, talking, just the two of them, ignoring Coach Tremblay’s whistle. It hits me that Kenyon must’ve been the one to tell the cops that I was in the barrens the night Rhiannon disappeared. I can’t understand it, not at all.
Mags has been nice about it—even though this proves her right about the Levesque twins—making conversation about other things and not chiming in this morning when the locals knotted together in the barrens before work to kick Kenyon’s name around like he’s something the dog coughed up. Nell bites her thumbnail and watches me. She’s been watching me ever since she yanked me away from Shea. She saw something in my face that I never meant her to, and now I don’t know how to make it better. This isn’t how it works. I’m the one who takes care of her. I don’t like things being backward.
Now, a parade’s coming toward me with Shea in the lead, followed by Mason and some other guys. Most of them are grinning, carrying their rakes and water like they’re planning on staying awhile.
I fold my arms and meet them. Shea stops short of stepping on my toes. He looks me in the eye but he doesn’t talk to me; he talks to the guys, saying in that loud, warm voice, like he’s joking around, “Miss America here says she’s gonna beat my ass.”
Laughter. Only Mason isn’t smiling. He watches me closely, grimly, like he’s trying to figure something out. I search for Jesse’s face but don’t find it. “That’s right.”
Shea throws a look back at his buddies, and they feed him with more laughter and catcalls. “Told you guys.” He leans down into my face like I’m a little kid. “Okay, Princess. Don’t blame me when you go home crying.”
I pick up my rake and turn into the first row of the day. “You still talking?”
And like that, it’s on.
I’m not aware of anybody but Shea. There’s a powerful wind today, pushing puffy white clouds across the sky and kicking up leaves and dust, making my eyes water. I don’t need to see. My body’s a machine: rake-rake-rake, dump, rake-rake-rake, dump, close the box, open another. Guy talk and laughter hums in the background like power lines.
Lunchtime. “Darcy, what’s going on?” Mags’s face hovers in front of me as I shove food down, not wanting to waste a second and lose ground. “Why are you racing Shea? Hey, are you hearing me?”
Maybe I grunt out an answer; I don’t know. I churn the afternoon away, then stand, fists on my hips, one knee twitching like a racehorse’s as Mrs. Wardwell tallies up the day’s haul and writes in the new standings.
Shea’s moved up to the sixth slot. I’ve moved up only one slot to number eight, dogging some migrant named Bankowski.
Can’t believe it. I busted my ass today for one stupid slot? Shea’s smirking hard enough to give himself a hernia, shaking his head as he gathers his stuff. The other guys are leaving, too, talking about what they’re going to do after work, acting like it’s over.
Not even close.
Mom’s garden is a thing of beauty. Ruler-straight rows, stakes labeling what’s what. It puts Libby’s neglected jungle of a flower garden to shame, which is why nobody cares that Hunt’s poking his ladder holes all through the marigolds and bleeding hearts.
After supper, Mom goes out to weed and pick green beans. I watch her through the window as I wash dishes. She’s hunched over, wearing her gardening stuff, old cutoffs and a T-shirt so thin you can see the knobs of her spine through it as she bends forward. It’s her day off, and she spends it slaving. Go figure.
I wander outside, standing over her until she looks back, squinting in the fading golden light. We haven’t talked about Edgecombe or telling the truth since that night, but I guess she reads something in my face, because she slaps the ground beside her, and I sit.
I tug some weeds, splitting a strand of witch grass down the middle with my fingernails. The wind picks up, making a hollow howl through the moose blowers—tin cans with string threaded across the opening, meant to scare off the crows—and flapping the old shirt hanging from the scarecrow’s frame. It’s a man’s shirt, probably one of Dad’s. She’s got all his stuff packed in boxes in the attic. Not like a shrine. It’s good stuff and we might get some use out of it. There’s a big pair of steel-toed boots, a heavy Gore-Tex coat he wore when he worked the tugs out of Belfast, a collection of Clydesdale beer steins.
“What did Gramma and Grampie say when you brought Dad home the first time?” It’s an old story, but I love hearing it.
Mom snorts. “You know what they said.” A pause. “You know your grandparents are good Catholics.”
“Not like us.”
“No. If Gramma Nan isn’t sitting in her pew Sunday morning, you’ll know the Rapture’s come. And Grampie can be a hard man to live with.” She hands me the colander and gestures for me to start picking. “The first time I saw your dad, he was parked outside a St. Patrick’s Day dance they were having at the Elks Lodge. I didn’t want to go, but Libby did, so I went along because I’m older and that’s what you do. Your dad was sitting outside on his old Indian bike wearing this red-and-black lumber jacket, and he had the best-looking head of hair I’d ever seen.”
I smile. “Love at first sight?” Behind the trailer, the clothesline jerks and begins to move on its rusty wheels.
“Close enough. Libby got mad at me over something stupid and left the dance early, so your dad offered me a ride home.” I hear a huh from the direction of the trailer’s back steps, which happens to be within earshot of our conversation. “I took him up on it. When Gramma saw us pull up, she went straight for her rosary beads. Grampie was waiting for us at the door, and the first thing he said was, ‘Son, you know that bike ain’t inspected?’ Your dad said yeah, he knew. ‘Well, who the hell do you think you are, driving my daughter around on a piece of junk that ain’t road-legal?’ And he sent Dad packing.”
She always pauses here. I’m grinning as I snap beans off the vine, because I know what comes next.
“Next Saturday, up pulled Tommy Prentiss on the same Indian, but the exhaust was fixed and there was an inspection sticker on the plate. Grampie took one look at him in his jacket and said, ‘Son, if you think I’m gonna let my girl go anywhere with you dressed like some kinda bum, you’re crazy.’ And he kicked him out.
“Saturday after that, Dad showed up wearing some shiny Goodwill suit with a pink handkerchief in the pocket and two-tone wingtips. Came to the door smelling like Aqua Velva, gave me a rose, and asked Grampie’s permission to take me out for a nice time. Grampie says, ‘Where you planning on going?’ And Dad said, ‘Demolition derby over to Fort Kent.’”
I laugh. “And he let you go?”
“You know he did. Grampie was speechless. Stayed that way clear through our wedding day.”
I trail off to giggles, feeling the day’s tension rolling off me. “House is coming along.”
“Mm-hmm.” Hunt’s scraped the clapboards completely bare on this side. He was here working this morning, gone by the time we got home from the barrens. Looks like he took our trash to the dump and did some weed-whacking around the shed, too.
There’s another huff, and then Libby comes around the trailer, lugging a laundry basket. She calls over, “It wasn’t stupid, Sarah. I had a perfectly good reason to get mad at you that night.”
Mom cranes her neck. “Like what?”
“You blew me off for some fool in a lumber jacket.”
I call Kat again. It goes straight to voice mail, same as before. When I turn around, Mags is on the porch, looking in at me through the screen door.
“No luck?” She could care less how Kat’s doing, but it’s nice that it doesn’t stop her from caring about me. I start to ask her something, but she cuts me off. “Lemme guess. You want to go over there. You won’t be able to sleep tonight unless you do.” She sighs and slides her feet into her flip-flops. “It’s going on your tab. Nobody rides for free.”
Nell’s lying on the porch floor, examining her hand in their game of Spit. Mags tells her where we’re going. “Better stay here, hon. Your mom wouldn’t like it.”
Nell surprises us by saying, “Okay,” and climbing up into the swing without any questions. Usually she hates being left behind, especially when it’s because Libby wouldn’t approve.
Mags tells Mom what’s up, and then the two of us drive into town together. I don’t try to explain how it is between Kat and me. It’s not like we’re BFFs or anything, but she was my friend when lots of people at school wouldn’t be seen with me on a bet, thanks to Rhiannon’s mouth.
Okay, so maybe Rhiannon wasn’t the first one to spread the rumors—the seniors we met up with at the soccer fields Halloween night of sophomore year told people, too, I’m sure—but she said enough. Even now, my face gets hot remembering a girl’s voice, maybe Georgia Cyr’s, drifting into the bathroom stall where I sat, trying not to breathe: said he almost asked Darcy Prentiss. I don’t get it. She’s not even that pretty. Rhiannon, with this dry little laugh: Don’t worry about it. He just wanted to get some.
And I remember how much I still hate her for that.
Mags says, “So spill. Why are you racing Shea at work?”
“Because he’s a jerk.”
“Well, yeah. You must have a better reason than that.”
I scan through radio stations. “He gave me a bunch of crap about the Princess thing, so I told him I could rake more than him.”
“Can you?” Mags sounds like she really wants to know. “You’re good, Darce. Your paycheck’s almost twice the size of mine, and I’m no slacker.”
Mags doesn’t go around handing out compliments like Juicy Fruit; it means a lot. And it’s the first time I’ve thought about this thing without anger. “I dunno. He’s stronger than me. But I might be faster.”
She lets loose a rare cackle, tossing her head back. “Ooh, he must’ve hated you calling him out like that in front of his buddies. Bet it got his panties all in a twist.” She glances at me. “Then this means that you guys definitely aren’t—”
“No,” I say flatly.
“Just checking.” Then: “Good.”
I’m nervous when we pull into Church Street. The Levesques live in a nice white two-story house with a renovated barn they use as a garage. I walk up to the door and knock. After a minute, Kat opens it, her eyes half-lidded, hair tangled around her shoulders. She wears a tank top with no bra, her teeny-weeny boobs pitching pup tents against the fabric.
“Hey,” I say. “I called you.”
“I know. Sorry.” She squints at Mags’s car, scratching her hip through a pair of droopy boxers with the Playboy bunny printed all over them.
“It’s just my sister.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” She blows out a sigh, and stares back.
“Are you and Kenyon okay?”
She hesitates. “He’s sleeping.”
“He’s here? I thought he got arrested. Everybody’s talking about it.”
She snorts and checks out her black toenail polish, disgusted with me or the world or all of the above. “They questioned him. It’s not like they cuffed him or anything.”
She’s about to shut the door on me. I put my palm flat against it. “Well, I need to see him.”
She opens her mouth, then glances back as a shadow steps from the stairs into the hallway.
“Kenyon?” I push past her into the house.
He’s shirtless, wearing his baggy-ass skater jeans and nothing on his feet. Kenyon’s blond—Kat’s been dyeing her hair black or blue for years—with soft brown eyes and a sketchy attempt at a goatee. He stands with his hand on the newel post, maybe wondering if he can bolt upstairs before I catch him.
I’m not sure how to start, but pissed-off and yelling is out the second I get a good look at his face. The boy is tired. He’s got shocked hollows under his eyes and his cheekbones are sharp, like he’s lost weight. I have an edge to my voice all the same. “Why’d you tell the cops?”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?”
“Why’d you give them my name, Kenyon?”
He goes off. “Because I didn’t do anything to her, but they think I did and—I’m like Leatherface or something because they got my prints.”
“Dude! Shut. Up.” I’ve never seen Kat really mad before, and it’s strange to actually see the whites of her eyes as she gets in her brother’s face. “You’re not supposed to talk about it.” When he just stands there, looking beaten, she says, “You’re such an idiot,” and stalks off to the kitchen.
Kenyon and I look at each other. Mrs. Levesque’s voice drifts down from upstairs. “Kenny? Who’s here?”
He makes a frustrated sound in his throat and pushes through the door that opens into the garage. I don’t know if he means for me to follow, but I do.
The light is on above the tool bench, and everything smells like sawdust and motor oil. This is where we do our drinking when Kat has people over. The Levesques run a furniture business, and Mrs. Levesque is all about yoga classes and spa weekends to center herself or whatever, so the twins basically have the run of the place most of the time. I lean against the chest freezer, watching him prowl. “They got your prints where?”
“Off the car. The stupid Fit. I had it.” He sees my look. “I didn’t take it. She gave it to me.” I wait as he scrubs his hand across the top of his head, making his cowlick stand up in the back. “God, I’ve already explained this nine thousand times.”
“Better make it nine thousand and one, bub.”
He speaks slowly, like maybe I’m touched in the head. “She gave me the keys that night in the barrens. After Kat took you home.”
“She gave you her car.”
“Basically. She didn’t give a shit. You oughta know. That car was just her parents throwing more money at her to keep her out of the way. We were the last to leave that night. She said would I do her a favor and take the car.”
“How was she gonna get home?”
“She said she had a ride coming. I don’t know, I thought she wanted to freak out her mom by not bringing the car home that weekend or something. When I left, she was sitting by the fire alone. I slept it off at our camp on Alamoosook that night. Sent my dad a text, let him know where I was and everything. No big. I done it before. Next morning, Kat called me saying nobody can find Rhiannon, and had I seen her.”
“So, what—you were too scared to tell anybody you had it?”
He gives me a naked look. “I’m not stupid, okay? The cops know me. They would’ve had my ass in lockup so fast, asking me where I put the body or whatever. They never would’ve believed I didn’t steal that car. God, I was shitting bricks.” Nervous energy sends him over to the heavy bag hanging in the corner, which he shoves and throws a left into, pulling his punch at the last second so it lands with a muffled whump.
I walk as far as the hood of Kat’s pickup. “Come on, you could’ve told somebody. Kat would’ve tried to help you.” He ignores that. “Where’d you hide it this whole time?”
“In the camp shed. Left it there all winter.” He snorts. “Then back in June Dad started talking about opening up camp again for the summer. I freaked.” He rubs his eye. He and Kat are built the same, thin as whips with long-fingered hands they can’t seem to keep still. “I thought if I left it somewhere they could find it easy, right? But nobody did, for like, weeks. I couldn’t take it anymore and called in a tip. I’d wiped down the steering wheel and door handles and stuff, but when they dusted for prints—ding-ding-ding—bells and whistles.” Another punch. “I’m the only person with a record who ever touched that car, I guess.”
Kenyon was busted for possession of a tiny bag of weed at a school dance sophomore year. They let him off with community service and some drug counseling, I think. “They gonna charge you with something?”
“Probably. But I told them I don’t know where she is.”
“Do they believe you?”
He tosses a dark look over his shoulder. “Do you?”
“Duh.” And I do. Sounds like whoever picked her up that night was the last one to see her alive. “I wanna know why you threw me under the bus. I told the cops Kat and I were out driving around that night.” Kat backed me up, too. She didn’t want to get busted for trespassing any more than the rest of us did.
He won’t meet my gaze, and I think of all the times he tickled my sides in the school hallway, or lugged me over his shoulder through the parking lot while I shrieked and laughed. “I gave them other people’s names from the party, too. Not just yours.” He finally glances at me. “Sorry. Seriously. I had to give them something . . . you know, to get them off me.”
My nails dig into my palms. He can’t know why this matters to me so much. He can’t know why Nell called Kat looking for me that night, hysterical, why I had to leave the party ASAP. He can’t know what he’s turned the cops onto, how this jar I’ve put over Nell could crack at the slightest pressure. But I know one thing. No matter what the cops did to me, I never would’ve thrown him under. Ever. All I say is, “Yeah.”
We stand in silence for a long time, Kenyon pushing and punching the bag and watching it swing. When I’ve got my voice under control, I say, “Do you think Rhiannon’s dead?”
“She must be.”
It clicks, then. His sullenness, not asking any questions when Rhiannon told him to take her car. “You liked her, didn’t you?” No answer. “Did she know?”
Kenyon puts his fist out very slowly and presses his knuckles against the leather, holding them there. “Wasn’t gonna happen.” His voice is quiet.
I say, “See you around,” though I hope I don’t, and leave. As I walk to Mags’s car, the songs of crickets and the smells of a hot day cooling down to night strike me differently. In some way, everything’s changed since I stepped into that house.