MOM ORGANIZED MY temporary move and transfer to Black Water High School in less than forty-eight hours. The threatening phone calls were a serious motivator. We received three more calls after Mom got off the phone with Hawk. Mom reported the threats to the police, but there wasn’t much they could do, so we just unplugged the phone again. The police suggested filing for a restraining order to keep Reed away from me, but Reed was out of control. It would take more than a piece of paper to intimidate him.
I didn’t get another text from the prank caller, but Reed texted me eleven times, which was more annoying.
The morning we left, I lugged a huge suitcase out of my closet and filled it with armloads of clothes. Clean or dirty—everything made the cut. How was I supposed to know what I’d need in Tennessee? My family had always visited in the summertime, and it was November.
I packed the important things last—my soccer cleats, even though I wouldn’t need them; the framed photo of my parents from my nightstand; a raggedy stuffed bunny I slept with, a birthday gift from Dad when I turned five; and the crooked friendship bracelet Tess made me in elementary school.
When it was finally time to leave, Mom couldn’t get me in the car fast enough. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, so I let her listen to mind-numbing soft rock stations.
The fall soccer season was supposed to be my victory lap, after three years of leading the girls’ varsity team to the state championships. Then in the spring, I’d showcase my skills with my select team. The hard part was supposed to be over, but now it was just beginning. Hawk came through on the physical therapy front—the only detail about this move that mattered to me. A doctor who specialized in sports therapy agreed to work with me.
Six hours into the drive, Mom turns off the radio in the middle of “The Piña Colada Song,” which means she wants to talk.
“Does Tess know you left?” she asks tentatively.
“Lucia told her.” The only one of my friends who seems to believe me. “I’m sure Tess doesn’t care. The last conversation we had lasted less than a minute and she called me a liar. I haven’t heard from her since then.”
Mom turns off at the next exit. “The truth will come out eventually. It always does.”
“That’s a cliché.”
“It also happens to be true.”
After the last three weeks, I’m not holding my breath.
The off-ramp merges onto a narrow two-lane road without a McDonald’s or a gas station in sight, just a green sign that reads: BLACK WATER 20 MILES. Crooked wooden fences wrapped in barbed wire separate the road from miles of pasture. Aside from the occasional weather-beaten barn, there’s nothing out here except cows.
Lots of them.
“Is this the road we usually take?” I look out the window in time to see a huge black cow taking a dump near the fence. “I don’t remember it being so … farm-like.”
“I took the back roads. Your dad preferred the highway. But Black Water is ‘farm-like’ no matter which road you take to get there. Before they built the grain processing plant, the only thing that came out of Black Water was Division One football players.”
“Football is archaic.”
“Don’t let your uncle or anyone else in town hear you say that,” she teases.
It doesn’t bother me if everyone hangs out at football games. I’m planning to spend all my free time rehabbing my knee.
Up ahead, I see the high school stadium. A white letterbox sign next to the parking lot reads, WARRIORS VS. STALLIONS. FRIDAY NIGHT.
The parking lot is full of pickup trucks and Jeeps.
“It’s like we’re at a country music concert.”
“That means we’re in the right place.” Mom pulls into the first free parking space and takes out her phone. “Before we go in, I need to check my work email.”
My knee is achy and stiff from the drive. “I’m going to stretch my legs.”
As soon as I get out of the car, it feels better.
Mom wasn’t exaggerating when she said everyone in Black Water loves football. I’ve never seen so many cars at a high school game. Even stranger, there’s nobody else out here except a kid riding a skateboard and three guys, who look like they’re in high school, drinking beer on the tailgate of a pickup.
Back home, there were usually more people hanging around outside the stadium than filling the seats inside.
The skater weaves between the trucks, dodging side mirrors like a pro. He coasts into the row next to ours. His hair is buzzed on the sides, with a short strip of hair running down the middle of his dark brown scalp.
Maybe this town isn’t as different from DC as it looks. A black kid with a fauxhawk wearing high-top Vans and an old-school Green Day hoodie is a good sign.
The skater does an ollie and the board does a perfect flip, righting itself in midair. He’s about to nail the landing when someone darts between two cars and kicks the board out from under him. I recognize the asshole with the mullet. He’s one of the guys I saw drinking in the back of the pickup.
The kid lands on his butt and winces.
The guy with the mullet laughs. I’m surprised he has the guts to laugh at anyone else when he’s sporting a bad ’90s haircut and a T-shirt that says: THE HIGHER THE TIRES, THE CLOSER TO GOD.
The jerk’s friends wander over, cracking up like idiots. The taller guy has pockmarked skin and a unibrow. His buddy has two separate eyebrows, but he doesn’t seem to know his shirt size. His T-shirt is stretched over his gut like a sausage casing. These two shouldn’t be laughing at anyone, either.
The tall guy with the unibrow points at the skater. “Looks like you need some practice, Tucker. Maybe you should go back to California and hang out with the other skate freaks.”
Tucker stands, brushes off his jeans, and picks up his board without a word. He either knows the drill or he’s smart enough not to antagonize them. He keeps his head down and stays close to the parked cars, giving the three guys a wide berth. He almost makes it past them when the jerk with the mullet lunges to the side and snatches Tucker’s skateboard out of his hand.
Tucker tries to grab it, but he’s not fast enough. “Give me my board, Garrett. Why are you hassling me? I didn’t do anything.” He doesn’t have a Southern accent like Garrett and his friends. Maybe he really is from California. I feel bad for him. He looks at least two years younger than the guys bullying him.
Garrett leans the skateboard deck against his shoulder. “You made me look stupid in class today because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”
“Because I answered a question right?” Tucker asks innocently.
“I bet he did that shit on purpose.” The guy with his gut hanging out eggs Garrett on.
Garrett nods. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing.” With his free hand, he grabs the front of Tucker’s hoodie and yanks the kid toward him.
Tucker is so much shorter than Garrett that he has to balance on the balls of his feet. “I swear I wasn’t trying to make you look bad.”
“But you did.” Garrett tosses the skateboard to his friend. The guy with the unibrow catches it and brings the board down hard against his knee. The deck snaps in half.
“No, man! Come on.” Tucker scrambles to collect what’s left of his skateboard. As he bends down to pick up the pieces, Garrett plants his work boot against Tucker’s chest and shoves him backward.
Mom comes up behind me. “What’s going on?”
She follows my gaze and sees Tucker hit the ground—and three older guys laughing at him. Mom narrows her eyes.
I know that look.
“I’ll be back.” Mom marches between a Bronco and the truck parked beside it. For someone who is paranoid about my safety she rarely worries about her own.
I catch her arm before she makes it past the front of the Bronco. “You can’t go over there alone, Mom.”
“Of course I can.”
“I’ll go.” I try to squeeze by her.
“You just had surgery, Peyton. You’re staying here. I can handle those Neanderthals. But call Hawk and tell him to come out here anyway. Those three boys need a good scare.” Mom takes off before I can stop her.
I pull out my phone and follow her. I don’t think I have Hawk’s number. It’s not like we call or text.
Shit.
Where’s Mom?
“Leave me alone,” Tucker pleads.
Garrett grabs Tucker and hauls him to his feet.
I catch a glimpse of a figure darting between two cars near Garrett and his friends. It’s another guy.
Mom cuts between two trucks and yells, “Get your hands off him!”
Garrett and his friends look over at Mom. They don’t notice the mystery guy charging toward them.
The new guy on the scene grabs Tucker and tears him away from Garrett, simultaneously clamping his other hand around the jerk’s neck.
“What the—” Garrett can’t get the words out.
The mystery guy tightens his grip on Garrett’s throat. “If you want to start shit with someone, let’s see how well you do against somebody your own size.” He shoves Garrett away from him. “Only a punk would pick on a freshman.”
Garrett coughs and rubs his throat. “You’d better watch it, Owen.”
“Or what?” Owen laughs and shakes his head like he thinks Garrett is pathetic. “I’m right here. But you’d better bring your friends, because you’re going to need help.”
The other two guys take a step back to make it clear they aren’t accepting Owen’s challenge. Garrett puffs out his chest, but he keeps his mouth shut.
“That’s what I thought.” Owen points at Tucker’s broken skateboard. “And you’re paying to replace his board.”
“The hell I am.”
Owen walks up to Garrett and looks him in the eyes. “Those tires on your truck look expensive. How much would it cost if you had to replace one of them? A lot more than a skateboard, I bet.”
It takes Garrett a second to catch on. “Stay away from my truck, Owen.”
“Like I said, you’re paying to replace his board.” Owen steers Tucker toward the stadium. “Let’s go. We’re done here.”
Tucker looks back at my mom and nods—a silent thank-you, as if he knew she would’ve stepped in.
Owen turns in our direction.
He looks right at me. His expression is a complicated tangle of emotions I can’t unravel. There was a time when I would’ve wanted to try to do some untangling, after watching a good-looking guy swoop in and rescue someone. But I’m done with complicated.