by Penny Reid
“There’s a fairy in our backyard!” This excited claim came from Roscoe, who’d just run in carrying two bags of groceries, heading straight for the kitchen.
“Don’t slam the door and no running in the house,” I called after him.
Cletus leaned away from the wall to move past and I stepped in his way. “What’s going on, Cletus? You know I’ll help, no matter what it is.”
He shook his head, agitated, and then shoved past me. I watched him walk up the stairs. The heaviness in my stomach returned, different, fiercer. I wouldn’t be able to shake it off so easily. Over the weekend, I’d have to get him alone, make him talk somehow. An agitated Cletus was liable to cause trouble.
“Billy! Help me and Ash with these bags. And you should wash your football stuff before it starts to stink,” Momma’s voice called from the entryway. “Duane and Beau, come get the rest out of the car!”
Frowning after Cletus, I returned to the front door and dutifully took several shopping bags from my sister, pausing in front of my momma to give her cheek a kiss after I took her load too. “What’s all this?”
Before she could answer, Duane and Beau ran past, out the door, and into the night.
“Don’t y’all think you can stay outside and play and pretend it’s not time for bed just ’cause Momma asked you to get the bags!” Ashley hollered after them. “I mean it. It’s almost ten. Time for brushing teeth!”
Leaving Ashley to deal with the twins, I walked with my mother to the kitchen, depositing my load on the island and peeking in the bags. “Hey, don’t forget, I need my birth certificate for those school applications. Hey, what’s this stuff? Clothes for Ash? Shoes? A jacket? I thought she had a jacket.”
“Something like that.” My mother turned, reached inside the fridge and withdrew a plate of food. Roast chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, greens. Good. I was hungry.
I reached for it, but she held it away. “Ah uh-uh. This isn’t for you. Hands off. You want something, there’s chili and cornbread in the fridge. Help yourself.”
Rearing back, I glanced between her and the plate. “Who’s it for? An army?”
“It’s for the fairy,” Roscoe announced as he ran back into the kitchen, tossed his arms around me for a quick hug, and then ran back out while calling over his shoulder, “Dibs on taking the plate out. I’m getting the crate.”
Fairy?
Frowning at my momma, because her eyes were downcast and she looked guilty, I straightened my back and glared at the huge plate of food. “Fairy?”
“Let me get some cornbread too.” She turned again for the fridge. “Want any?”
I followed her. “Fairy? Since when do we have a fairy that eats roast chicken?”
She pulled a basket out of the fridge, set the napkin on top to the side, and placed two corn muffins on the plate, studiously keeping her gaze downcast. “Now, Billy—”
“You told Roscoe that Scarlet St. Claire is a fairy?” I leaned close, lowering my voice. “And now you’re feeding her?”
“Yep.”
“Momma.”
“William.” She huffed, setting her hand on her hip and finally looking at me.
I ignored the bored expression she wore and whispered, “I told you about her last week because I wanted you to do something about it.”
She gestured to the food and the bags of clothes on the counter. “And look, I’m doing something about it.”
“Not feed her!”
“Why not? She needs to eat, doesn’t she?”
“You know why not. If Razor or Darrell—” she flinched at my father’s name, and I hated that I’d brought him up, but it needed doing “—or Jethro finds out she’s back there, they’ll come for her. And they’ll assume you or Cletus had something to do with hiding her.”
She reached in the bag of clothes and took out a pair of jeans, ripping off the tag. “Don’t worry about Jet. He won’t say anything. We can trust him.”
Now I flinched, my temper rising, grinding my teeth. “We cannot trust Jethro. He’s—”
“It’ll be fine.”
“It won’t be fine! She’s a threat.”
My momma peered up at me through slits for eyes. “Now you stop it. Scarlet St. Claire—tall as me, sweet as pie, face like an angel with a personality to match—is not a threat.”
“No. But who she is means being anywhere near her makes us all a target. You want Roscoe to be a target?”
My mother sighed tiredly. “Billy, now you know I would never do anything to intentionally put any of my babies in danger. That said, I cannot stand by while that sweet girl suffers. And I will not toss her off our land just in case Razor or Dar—” she huffed “—or someone else finds out she’s here.”
Taking a step back, I glared at her.
“I see you’re angry with me, but she needs our help,” she added, beseeching. “When people are overwhelmed, they can’t see past their own campfire. I’m asking you to look past your campfire, Billy.”
I shook my head, frustrated. So frustrated. My momma and her soft heart, she made me so crazy.
Closing the distance between us, she placed her hands on my cheeks and held my face. “My sweet boy, you need to have faith. The Lord would not have put her in our path if He didn’t want us to help. I believe that. We are being called. And when you’re called, you answer, even if it’s inconvenient, even when it’s scary. Actually, especially then.”
We stared at each other, neither giving an inch. But what could I do? There was no reasoning with her.
“How’re we going to pay for all this stuff? The twins need new shoes,” I reminded flatly.
“I picked up their shoes just now, so don’t worry about that.”
“But—”
“I said not to worry,” she said, using her don’t you argue with your momma voice.
She’d made up her mind, clearly.
But that didn’t mean I had to be happy about it.
“I need to go wash my football stuff.” I moved to leave.
She wouldn’t let me go and her gaze turned searching. “You should trust more.”
“You trust too much.” I glanced over her head and huffed a bitter laugh. Her trust of people meant more messes for me to clean up.
My mother pulled my head down and placed a big kiss on my forehead, murmuring, “That’s ’cause I’ve got to trust for both of us.”
I took Roscoe to the edge of our field, set up the crate, put the plate inside along with the clothes and things my momma had bought—including a giant, thermal, expensive sleeping bag—and then I waited. I brought a flashlight and my trigonometry book so I could study, waiting for an hour. And then I waited for another half hour.
When I started to feel the cold and my eyes couldn’t fight the weight of the day any longer, I went back inside. I had work in the morning; it was dangerous to be sleepy at the mill.
Saturday, before my alarm went off at 6:00 AM, I was informed by my littlest brother jumping on my bed that the fairy had come. He showed me the empty plate as proof.
Great. Hoo-fucking-ray.
Saturday night, after work, after dinner, after finishing boy scout stuff with Roscoe and trying—and failing—to get Cletus to talk, I dragged my tired ass outside. Again, with my flashlight and trigonometry book and my notebook and a pen—but this time also with a camping chair and a blanket—I waited. Seven beget eight, eight beget nine, nine beget ten, ten beget eleven, eleven beget me falling asleep in my chair.
I woke with a start in the middle of the damn night and immediately checked my watch. It was past three in the morning. Rubbing my eyes, I hunted for my flashlight in the dark. We Winstons can see pretty well in the dark. I didn’t need the flashlight to get back to the house, but I did need it to read and study.
The flashlight was easily located, sitting in the cupholder of the chair. But curled around it was a note. I clicked on the light and scanned the tidy lettering.
“A Fairy Haiku just for you:
Thank yo
u for the food.
No need to guard it, Billy
Don’t snobs sleep indoors?
- Forest Fairy”
I read it three times. Once my sleep-weary mind comprehended the message, I barked a surprised laugh and closed my eyes, leaning back in the chair and shaking my head. What a—
She was such a—
I swear, she was . . .
I yawned, unable to come up with a word for what Scarlet St. Claire was. She’s something else, that’s what.
Nodding at that, I stood, stretched, and searched around for my trig textbook and notebook, which had been on my lap. Apparently, the “Forest Fairy” had stacked them in a neat pile next to the chair. She’d even stuck the pen in the spiral binding of the notebook, I suspected to keep it from getting lost or rolling away.
Curious, I spared a glance at the crate. The empty plate laid inside, clean, as though she’d washed it. Except, she’d placed a little yellow flower in the center of the dish. Frowning, I left the plate for Roscoe to find in the morning and picked up the flower, studying it, and then absentmindedly placed it between the pages of my notebook.
I then trekked through the dead field while wondering where she’d found a blooming flower in the middle of November. By the time I got back to the house, I’d arrived at the conclusion that Scarlet St. Claire had been avoiding me. For years.
Mrs. Hill, our school secretary, gave me back my letterman jacket on Monday. She said she’d found it on the counter in the office, just sitting there. I didn’t see Scarlet once—not once—this last week, and I’d been looking.
As loathe as I was to admit it, her singing voice had stayed with me.
I’d catch myself thinking about it and remembering the sound at the oddest times. Driving to school in the morning, eating lunch with my teammates, working the saw at the mill after school. In bed at night, before I go to sleep.
I would’ve said it plagued me except I liked the memory. Afterward, if I was able and it was nearby, I’d pick up my guitar and play for as long as I could spare, always a bit calmer, able to breathe a bit easier after.
Green Valley wasn’t that big of a school. It was crowded for its size, but less than eight hundred kids in the whole school meant everybody knew everybody, more or less. I should’ve seen her at least once this week, but I didn’t.
Fact was, Scarlet wasn’t coming out of the tree line if she saw me there (awake). Seeking her out at school wasn’t an option. She was just too good at avoiding.
I needed a plan. Someone needed to explain things to her, get her to move on, go somewhere else. Since that person was not my momma, it would have to be me.
At Sunday service the next morning, as I worked to hide my yawns, our pastor talked about the story of David and Goliath. I began to tune him out, but then he said something that got my attention.
“. . . story of David defeating Goliath isn’t about a man defeating a giant. Did y’all know that?”
I frowned, certain I’d misheard, because I was pretty darn sure that’s what the story was about.
He continued, “The real meaning of the story is about who is fit to rule, who is fit to lead. Saul is nearly as tall as Goliath. His armor is equal, he has all the right weapons and tools and yet he refused to fight the giant.”
My frown persisted because, Who the heck was Saul? I thought we were talking about David?
“Saul has no faith in his own success, in his people, in God. And then David comes, a boy who resolves to fight the giant, though he has no armor and no spear. By comparison, he has none of the right tools, taking only a staff, sling, and five stones from a brook. But he also takes faith. All the right tools in the world can’t measure up to the power of faith.”
The pastor paused here, dramatically, his eyes sweeping over the congregation before asking, “Who, then, is better fit to lead? Saul or David? A man with no faith? Or a boy who trusts?”
I felt the weight of someone’s eyes on me and turned to the right, finding my momma giving me a small, self-satisfied smile across the heads of my brothers and sister. I didn’t roll my eyes. Instead, I faced the pulpit again.
The old pastor needed to wrap it up. I had things to do. I had a plan.
Chapter Six
*Scarlet*
“If you don't receive love from the ones who are meant to love you, you will never stop looking for it.”
Robert Goolrick, The End of the World as We Know It: Scenes from a Life
I had a plan.
It wasn’t a foolproof plan, or even a solid plan. But, with my father, there wasn’t any such thing as a solid plan.
This Thursday was Thanksgiving. I’d almost forgotten. I didn’t usually keep track of such things, but I did need to keep track of when school was off. We had a half day on Wednesday, and the school would be closed both Thursday and Friday. This weekend was supposed to be record setting cold. Even with the thermal sleeping bag Mrs. Winston—Bethany—and Billy had left for their forest fairy, I knew I’d been feeling the chill.
Anyway, the plan was as follows: Instead of going to school on Tuesday, I’d go to the Dragon (the biker compound where my father and his men lived and socialized). The earlier the better. Less people would be up early, but my daddy would be. I’d act like I was hungry, see if I could stay for a meal, and I’d dress in my dirtiest, most torn up clothes.
And I’d ask him for money.
. . . I think I’m going to throw up.
I shook my head, clearing it, chanting in a whisper, “You can do this. You can do this. It’s no big deal. You’ve done it before. You can do this.”
He’d ask me about Ben, most likely. I’d tell the truth, because why not? I’d say I knew of Ben McClure, but did my daddy really think someone like Big Ben McClure, golden child of Green Valley and surrounding areas, only son of the local fire chief and sainted chorus teacher at GV High would be interested in me? I was only fourteen for hootenanny’s sake! And Razor Dennings’s daughter!
Hahaha.
. . . No. Not interested.
If I came on my own, then he’d see I had nothing to be afraid of. I had no secrets, nothing to hide. I’d remind him that I knew better than to ask anyone for anything other than him. He’d see that I was alive, but not doing so great, and definitely not too fearful or desperate to visit. He’d get what he wanted—what he always wanted—and I’d be flying under the radar again. Plus, I’d have five whole days to heal and recover.
There. Done. Easy. In and out. Think of it like a tune-up. You’ve got to visit and submit every once in a while to keep things from falling apart.
Yep. That was my plan.
I had to be sure to look bored rather than scared. If I was scared, he’d keep me. If I was indifferent and greedy and desperate, he’d let me go.
Worst-case scenario, he’ll keep me for a few days to show me who’s in charge, and at least I’ll sleep out of the cold in a warm bed. There. That wouldn’t be so bad.
I shivered, my mouth suddenly dry, and reached for my CD Walkman with shaking fingers. I’d just taken the closest thing to a bath as could be had in the woods and my body was still cold. I probably should’ve waited until school on Monday, when I’d have access to the gym showers, but I couldn’t resist getting clean before wearing the new clothes the Winstons had brought me.
Placing the headphones over my ears, I turned on the CD I’d borrowed from the library and lay back on my new, fluffy sleeping bag. Throwing an arm over my eyes, I let the music fill my head, replacing my pointless apprehension and fear with Evanescence’s “Bring Me To Life.”
Gosh, Amy Lee sure did have some impressive pipes. I opened my mouth and sang along after the word numb, wishing not for the first time that I knew how to play the piano. I’d been listening to the CD nonstop since Friday night, needing something in my head other than the dread and frustration.
At the first wake me up inside, I sat up dramatically, my hair—which was loose around my shoulders, because I’d just washed it and
it needed to dry—fell forward in my face. I shoved my fist in the air and just really belted it out. With feeling.
After the first chorus, I jumped up and on my feet to sing the next stanza, running out of the tent, using full on jazz hands, rocking my hips, pointing at invisible people in my imagination, and demanding that they save me from the nothing I’d become. I was frozen without his touch—whoever he was—and I really, super-duper needed my darling’s love.
And then, holding that last note—the dead—for an eternity before the fella did his thing, I balled my hands into fists, tucked them to my chest, dropped my chin to my collarbone, and waited.
One.
Two.
Three.
Almost.
My turn!
I flipped my head back theatrically, about to tell everyone that I’d been sleeping for a thousand years, but then I spotted Billy Winston standing on the edge of my campsite, his hands shoved loosely in his pockets, his eyes uncharacteristically warm, watching me with a big old smile.
I screamed.
He took a step back, flinching like I’d startled him, lifting his hands, his eyes wide. He was saying something, but I couldn’t hear him because I still wore my headphones.
Meanwhile, I stumbled on a pile of firewood behind me, and landed on my ass. He winced, and then set something on the ground before rushing forward and kneeling next to me, still talking.
“What?” I snapped, taking off my headphones and glaring at his intrusion. “What the hell, Billy? You scared the shit outta me!”
He pressed his lips together in a line that wouldn’t hold still, his suddenly bright eyes moving between mine. And then, like he just could not help himself, he leaned back and busted out laughing.
He was laughing so hard, he held his stomach.
Held. His. Stomach.
I huffed, blowing hair out of my face and doing my best to hold on to my anger. But I couldn’t, not after thinking about him all weekend and what he’d done for me with his momma. Plus, I was too busy being mesmerized by stone cold Billy Winston laughing his darn head off. Goodness, my heart was racing and my cheeks were red. I could feel them. I was so embarrassed, I felt like I was about to come out of my skin.
