eleven

We don’t exit at the trailer park. I want to get out of these woods, but if people spot me at night with a guy they don’t recognize, someone will follow, maybe out of curiosity, or maybe to ensure I haven’t made some gravely naive mistake…like finding a cute guy in the forest and bringing him home.

Maybe we should have made a beeline for the sheriff’s department. But I never even consider it. I’d just be “Rob Crane’s stuck-up brat” bringing along some city fella and playing a prank. Being chased through the forest by a psycho dog-killer? Yeah, because outside of teen slasher movies, that happens all the time.

I could probably take the sheriff back and show him One-Eye’s corpse, and he’d think it was part of a really sick joke.

I select a safe path that will take us behind the main street. Our stalker won’t follow us here—I’m sure of that. Ninety percent anyway.

Once we’re away from the forest, I whisper, “About my place…”

“Hmm?”

“I live…Well, it’s my father and me….He’s probably not home, but…” I inhale, and blurt, “It’s a trailer.”

“Mobile home, you mean.”

“Technically, yes, but…it’s a trailer. In a trailer park.”

“Okay.” He glances over at me, through the moonlit dark. “I don’t care where you live, Winter.”

“I’m just warning you. The place is clean. Or it was. Well, it’s as clean as I can make it, which isn’t really—”

“Winter? I don’t care.”

I do. I know what I’ll see when we get there. Judgment. He’ll try to hide it. He’ll still be surprised, though, because he’ll have thought I was exaggerating. And he isn’t the kind of guy who’s been in a trailer where you need to move stuff off the chairs to sit down, where you won’t find a matching set of cutlery and you’re just happy that a spoon is clean and, really, it probably isn’t—Bert likes to just rinse stuff off and stick it in the drawer.

“You guys don’t have much money, Winter. I get that. You want to know my secret?” He leans in and mock-whispers, “I’m rich.”

I roll my eyes, and he says, “No, seriously. I come from old Kentucky money. The kind that means I’ve been going to the Derby since I was old enough to sit still.”

“The eye roll wasn’t doubting you.”

“It’s mocking me, I know. It’s saying, ‘you poor baby.’ And that’s totally legit, because I know exactly how good I have it. But I don’t go around advertising my background. People have certain preconceptions if your family’s rich. Preconceptions and expectations. Still, I know life’s a whole lot easier for us because we have money, and if I ever forget that, Jude’s quick to remind me.”

“Is Jude your brother?”

“Yep.”

“Jude and Lennon? Is there a Beatles fan in the family?”

He chuckles. “Good catch. Most kids don’t get the connection.”

“My mom was into the old stuff. The Beatles, Rolling Stones…”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “You use the past tense, and you said you live with your dad. Your mom’s…gone?”

“Died when I was seven. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry. Jude and me…Our parents died when I was six months. Car crash. We’re adopted.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I shouldn’t have jumped in with that. No one likes people comparing their situation to theirs. Jude says—” He makes a face. “I keep doing that, don’t I?”

I resist the urge to say something lame, like You look up to him. No one over the age of ten wants to hear that. I can’t help a pang of envy, either. People used to say that about Cadence and me. You look up to your big sister, don’t you, Winter? Because I did. And then it changed, and I’d give anything to have that back.

Instead I just say, “He’s your brother,” as if this explains everything, and he nods as if, yes, it does.

“He’s older, right?”

“A little.”

“Off at college?”

“He should be, damn him.” He says the last two words as if in affectionate exasperation, but there’s real exasperation there too. “He had the grades to get into any school he wanted. Hell, he could have gotten a music scholarship if he didn’t want to take our parents’ money.”

I want to ask why he wouldn’t take it. If his family is wealthy, he has a right to a good education, adopted or not. But instead I say, “Music?”

“Piano. He’s a freaking prodigy. No exaggeration. Or he was—he gave it up last year, the idiot.”

I’d have to agree. If I had a talent, I’d treasure it. But I can also imagine that “concert pianist” isn’t the dream of the average teenage boy.

“How long ago did he finish school?” I ask.

“Just this year. We’re—we were—in the same grade.”

“You’re twins?”

He laughs softly. “ ‘Irish twins’ is the not-quite-politically-correct term one of our nannies used. Jude’s ten months older than me.”

“That’s…”

“About as fast a turnaround as a mom can manage.” Another chuckle. Then, “Enough of this shit. I should call him. Do you guys have a landline?”

I shake my head. “There’s a pay phone just over on Main.”

“Can I get change somewhere? Any I had fell out in my tree-climbing escapade, apparently.”

“I have some. I’m not sure if it’s enough.”

“I’ll keep it short.”

He keeps the call very short because his brother doesn’t pick up. Lennon leaves a message. “I’m in a bit of trouble. Big surprise, right? I, uh, wouldn’t call, but…yeah, it’s…more than a bit of trouble. I’ve…I’ve done something really stupid, Jude, and—” He inhales. “I’ll confess later. For now, I’m calling from a pay phone, which apparently still exist. So no point calling me back. I’ll try again in the morning. Please keep your damn phone on for once, okay?”

He shakes his head and hangs up.