Through the woods, Scarlett followed me, walking where I walked, but as soon as we step into the hayfield, she catches up to be by my side. She has a slight limp, and I shake my head. She’s wearing sandals. Not even sturdy sandals. Ones that were made for show and not for comfort. And she thought walking was a good idea, and I thought she was smart.
“Let’s take a break.” I expect her to argue, but instead she plops down on a log.
Good thing the hayfield was cut last week or we’d be thigh deep in grass. I prop my back against the trunk of an oak and watch as she takes off her sandals then circles her ankles.
“You used to be able to run from Gran’s to Glory’s without stopping,” I say.
“But I never did it in sandals.”
True story. Though, during the summer, she used to run this land barefoot.
“Know where you’re at now?” I ask.
She scans the area then nods. This time, I believe her.
“The creek’s to the south.” Scarlett turns her head in the right direction then her gaze wanders to the north—to the location of the huge sugar maple my great-great-great grandfather planted when he was a boy. She doesn’t mention the maple. I don’t bring it up either. I guess some things are better left in the past.
I lean my head against the tree and can feel the lingering warmth of the day radiating from the bark. Breathing in deep enough, I can still smell the sun. Scarlett used to tell me I was wrong—she said the scent was that of life. She thought the aroma was created when the leaves absorbed beams of light for food. With all the seriousness that a ten-year-old could have, Scarlett pinned me down with a glare and declared the smell green.
That was back when she would admit she could smell colors. Now I’d bet she would tell me she smells nothing.
The leaves surrounding us clap with the breeze and a new scent fills my nose. It’s sweet honeysuckle on the vine with a hint of wild grass, and I frown. There’s no honeysuckle near here, it’s the wind having fun at my expense. That scent belongs to Scarlett. I glance over at her and she’s watching me.
“I was always envious of you for that,” she says.
“Of what?”
“Of how you could touch any part of this land at any time and look as if you truly belong. As if it’s alive and you’re having a conversation no one else can hear. Sometimes it made me think that the Lachlins are spiritually gifted and that Glory might really be psychic.”
“Glory’s a con,” I say.
Scarlett studies me. “You have to admit the phone call Camila received was weird.”
As was Scarlett showing up in the car exactly as Glory and I were talking about the third member of the tribunal, but that boils down to . . . “Coincidence.”
“She knew a lot about Camila, and some things she said regarding me were true.”
“It’s a game. She throws out broad statements, and people are more than happy to latch on to her lies because they’re excited at the idea of believing in something.”
“So you don’t believe we’re meant to work together?”
I believe I need her to vote for me in May. “What do you want?”
She freezes while wrapping her hair into a bun at the base of her neck. “Excuse me?”
“Glory said you had a goal. What is it?”
“Why do you care?”
She has a point. To go from years of ignoring her to attempting to sneak into her private thoughts doesn’t exactly add up. “Just making conversation.”
Scarlett finishes with her hair then gives me her best princess to pauper look. It’s equal parts tempting and annoying. “What do you want?” she turns the question around.
I could lie. Give her some lame goal, but she’s watching me, testing me. I have nine months to win her over, and it’s going to take all that time to undo what’s happened between us. The pure truth will drive her away, and odds are she still knows me well enough to ferret out the lie so I give her half of the truth. “I want my land.”
“This is your land. It’s been your land since the day you were born.”
Exactly. “Gran didn’t give me it outright. Marshall will decide when I turn eighteen if I’m mature enough to own the farm.”
“Are you?”
That was direct. “Yes.”
She gathers her sandals and stands. “Then I wish you luck.” With a gentle sway of her hips, she pivots on her toes, and this time heads in the right direction.
I push off the tree and join her. We’re so deep into the heart of my land that there’s no sound of human life, no rumble of a truck from the road, no music from speakers, no stray conversation lingering in the night. Just the occasional sound of a cricket trying to get laid.
She wishes me luck. As if she doesn’t believe in me. As if she sides with Marshall on her opinion of me. “I’m responsible enough to own the land.”
“Okay,” she says, but doesn’t sound convinced.
“I’m responsible enough to own the land,” I say again. Silence on her end and that pisses me off. “What makes you think I’m not responsible enough?”
“With how you behave at school, I’d say you’re going to sell the farm the moment your name is on the deed. What will you blow the money on? A field party for the ages?”
I spit out the same words she threw at me earlier, and I’m a bastard because I want them to hurt her as bad as her saying it hurt me. “You don’t know me.”
She doesn’t respond, just keeps on walking like what I said doesn’t matter.
“You don’t know me,” I say louder.
“I guess that makes us equal.”
“What makes you think I’m irresponsible?”
She makes a soft derisive sound, and my teeth grind.
“Don’t act insulted,” she bites out. “You’ve been suspended from school, you’ve been arrested at least twice, and your friends are a bunch of losers who sit in the back of class and make fun of anyone who is not the four of you. That is the definition of juvenile delinquency.”
“You think you have me and my friends figured out, don’t you?”
“Three years of high school, and each year, you guys act like fools, so, yes, I have a good handle on the situation.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “Like you and your friends are any better?”
“Well, none of my friends have been arrested.”
“Your friends are mean and talk more crap than my friends ever do. My friends would never hurt people like your so-called friends do.”
She picks up her pace. “Unlike some people, my friends don’t ridicule people in public.”
“Guess I should tell my friends that the great Scarlett Copeland told me it’s only proper to throw shade if we do it behind people’s backs.”
“Do whatever you need to ease your conscience. You’re the jerk here, Jesse. Not me.”
“You and your friends believe you’re better because your clothes cost more, but you aren’t better. Your life is a show. You guys complain how hard life is because the hotel you want for prom is booked. Not a single one of you know what it’s like to struggle.”
“Wow.” Her chin lifts and her nose is definitely in the air. “And to think, I spent years wondering why you didn’t want to be my friend anymore. I had no idea you had done me a favor. Thank you for helping me figure out that I like it better when we don’t talk.”
I become rooted on the spot. Idiot. I’m. An. Idiot. I’m supposed to be repairing my friendship with Scarlett, not rehashing years of pain.
Scarlett keeps going, and when I catch up, it’s clear she’s going to ignore that I exist. The walk goes by too quickly or not fast enough. Depends upon one’s feelings on heavy, angry silences. The beaming porch lights of Scarlett’s massive house comes into view, and I can see the outline of my trailer. Home sweet home.
We reach the old, rusting metal swing set my grandmother bought for me when I was five. Back then, I thought she gave me heaven. I pause by the seesaw that looks like it would crack in two if touched. Scarlett and I had spent hours on this thing. Going up and then down. A fantastic metaphor for our lives. Scarlett, though, must not feel sentimental. She keeps walking. I guess she’s not saying goodbye.
“Scarlett,” I call out, and I’m shocked when she stops. Her back’s still toward me, but at least she’s not running. “I told you what I want. I’m curious what you want.”
She glances over her shoulder at me. “Why?”
“Maybe Glory’s right. Maybe we can find a way to help each other.”
Scarlett scans the yard, and I wonder what she sees. With her here, I see our ghosts as children—hear our laughter, taste the honeysuckle we ate as we talked for hours and the way she’d place her hand in mine when we’d walk across this field.
“Even though you obviously did me a favor, why did you stop talking to me?” she asks. “After all those years of seeing each other day in and day out, why did you stop being my friend?” She pauses, and I lower my head because each and every word is a paper cut on my heart. “What did I do wrong?”
I shake my head because I got nothing. Nothing that will make sense to her. What’s worse, I don’t have anything that makes sense to me. At least not anymore.
When it’s clear I’m not going to give her the Disney ending she was hoping for, she digs into her purse and pulls out a key. She’s going to leave, and I’m losing my shot. I should have listened better in health during the sex education talk. Maybe Coach had some great pearls of wisdom on how to talk to girls, and I missed it in order to take a nap.
“Can you get me a job?” she asks.
“What do you need a job for?” Her father is loaded.
“I want to go to UK.”
My eyes narrow as I try to figure out where this is headed. “The University of Kentucky?”
“Yes. I want to become a speech therapist, and they have a great program. So I need a job. Can you make that happen for me?”
She’s met with more stone cold silence from me.
“I didn’t think so.” Scarlett walks across the road and back to her pristine life.