by Jette Harris
“As long as he has a good reason.”
Witt scoffed. He looked at her for the first time. “What do you think?”
Heather’s throat grew tight with years of bitterness. He hated her; Why was he asking her what to do with his future? Her eyes dropped to the letterhead—the same letterhead on her acceptance letter, as well as her mother’s diplomas. Heather had always wanted to go to UGA; She had dreamed of nothing else since she before she could remember, first nursing, then—only in the past three years—linguistics. Witt had led everyone to believe that he felt the same about Auburn, to get his MBA (although Monica had confided he really wanted to go into early childhood education). Heather could not sympathize with his dilemma, and she could not understand why he looked so scared.
“Witt,” she sighed, handing him the letter, “do you really want to be like your father?”
Witt blanched. It was too late for that question. She rose to her feet and continued down the hall. Part of her mind begged her to pause, to turn and look at the pathetic boy crouching on the floor, but she did not.
5
Heather entered the coffee shop armed with her French book and a copy of 501 French Verbs. She didn’t enjoy tutoring the cheerleading squad, but it was extra credit. She also found it had been useful in preventing her from being treated like a complete pariah. Thanks to Witt, outside of the track team, she did not have many friends. Besides, it was amusing teaching a gaggle of girls how to say scandalous things in the Imperfect.
As their coffees cooled and the conjugation grew more difficult, the number of people sitting at Heather’s table dwindled. Nearing nine, she returned from topping off her coffee to find Monica was the only cheerleader left.
The coffee shop was almost empty: Z was behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine with a rag. He had been working there for three years, helping to support his mom, who worked double-shifts at the Waffle House down the road. Witt, the real reason Monica chose to study here, was on his computer, sitting in the corner. Everyone knew his ultra-conservative parents kept a child lock on their internet, even though Witt was nineteen, and his youngest sibling, Carly, was now fourteen. He crashed at the coffee shop to browse the more controversial sites.
Z was knocking coffee grounds into a trash bin, and Heather was coaching Monica through the conditional tense in a hushed voice when the door scraped open. Avery Rhodes walked in with a leather jacket held over his head as an impromptu umbrella. He shook it off as he approached the counter.
“Am I too late for fresh coffee?” When he recognized his barista, he added, “Z?” with a smile.
“You’re never too late for fresh coffee here.” Z glanced at the office door and lowered his voice. “But don’t mention how fresh it is, because I’m just going to give the leftovers to the girls.” He winked. Rhodes glanced over at Monica and Heather. Monica was already preening, pretending she hadn’t noticed him walk in. Heather snapped her fingers in her face to draw her attention back to conjugation.
“Sounds like a solid strategy.”
“How would you like it?” Z picked up a cup and a Sharpie.
“Big and black,” Rhodes replied. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Z tried not to laugh as he noted the order. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Rhodes paused by the girls. “Just Heather,” he greeted her with a pat on the shoulder. His fingers lingered for a moment before he pulled away. “Congratulations on a race well-run. You’re extremely agile.” She glanced at Monica, who looked down at her French notes. He nodded at her. “Moné-sha.”
Heather chuckled into her coffee as Monica wrinkled her nose. “That’s not really funny outside of school.”
He cocked his head to one side. “What’s not funny?”
Monica’s retort was precluded when Z announced Rhodes’s coffee was ready. He didn’t give her an opportunity to elaborate, but grabbed his cup and went straight to a table in the back. “Quel connard!” she spat.
“In class, you wanted a piece of him,” Heather reminded her. She heard Z snort behind the counter. Monica rolled her eyes, and turned to stare at him with her best do-you-mind? glare.
Turning back, she picked up Heather’s 501 French Verbs and flipped through the pages. “Do you think…” she began en français, “you will ever…” she found the right word and stumbled through a variety of conjugations before finding one that sounded right. “Do you think you will ever forgive Z?”
Not knowing the subjunctive very well, her translation failed, but Heather understood. She leaned back, knowing Z could understand French almost as well as she could. “Forgive Z for what?” Monica’s eyes cut to Witt, then back to Heather, who glared at her over her coffee. “He’s never done anything to me.”
Monica lifted her brow. “I know what I saw.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know Witt can be a real asshole, and I’m sorry for telling him, but you don’t need to hold that against Z forever.” She stumbled over her words as she tried to string them all together.
“I don’t.”
“Then why don’t you forgive him?”
“Because there’s nothing to forgive.”
Monica threw her hands up in the air and slumped back in her chair. She glared at Heather for a moment, then stood up. “I go hang out with Witt,” she said as if it were some form of punishment.
“‘I am going to go hang out with Witt’,” Heather corrected her. Then in English, she scolded, “Come now, you should know that.”
Monica stamped toward Witt. Rhodes beckoned her over with a finger. “Bonne chance pour votre examen final,” he said.
Monica’s face reddened. Huffing over to Witt’s table, she plopped into the chair across from him. Startled, he snapped his laptop shut.
Heather watched, torn between amusement and humiliation, and tried not to laugh. She had spied once on what Witt so zealously guarded: it was a chat room where kids complained about their parents. She wondered what could be possibly so scandalous that he felt the desperate need to hide it.
When Heather turned back around, Z had slid into Monica’s seat. She stared at him, torn between her racing pulse and her wounded pride. He slid a cup of coffee in her direction, pretending he had understood nothing of her foreign conversation.
“Try that,” he said. “Lemon and honey.” As she picked up the cup and sipped at it, he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “Don’t tell anyone.” It was watermarked with the seal of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
“Oh, my God!” She put the coffee down and flipped it open. It was an acceptance letter. “Unbelievable! Why don’t you want anyone to know?”
Z shrugged. “Last time everyone learned my business, I regretted it.”
Heather did not acknowledge this weak attempt at an apology. She slid the letter back across the table and resumed sipping the coffee. “This is good.”
He could tell by her tone he wasn’t going to get anything else out of her; He had tried before, but always hit a wall when she took that tone. Heather was amiable and helpful, but never willing to acknowledge they had ever been more. She was skilled in the arts of denial and using his words against him.
“When are you moving to Athens?” he asked after an uncomfortable silence.
“Early August.”
“Are you going to—”
“Z,” his manager called, pushing the office door open, “almost time.”
Z sat still for a moment, chewing his lip, then got up without another word. He took the nearly-full pot of fresh coffee and topped everyone off. When he returned behind the counter, he dumped the remainder into the sink, splattering the counter and his clothes with dark stains. Heather began to collect the notes scattered across the table and clip them back into her binder.
“You should take me home,” Heather overheard Monica saying to Witt.
“Why?” Witt asked.
“Heather lives next door to you. I’m in the opposite direction.”
Heather sipped her coffee like it was none of her business. When they returned to school for seventh grade, Witt had leaned out and shot up several inches. Monica had become smitten, and no matter how much he degraded her best friend, that crush never went away; It was why she called the race like she had. Witt never seemed to get the message. Heather knew he was sharper than he acted. She often wondered if he were acting so dense as a method of dismissing Monica without insulting her. If so, it was a brilliant strategy, because Monica returned to their table, sulking.
“Allons-y.” She stuffed her French book into her purse.
“Why don’t you ask Colossus for a ride?” Heather whispered behind her coffee, winking.
“’Cuz he likes it big and black,” she hissed back, turning for the door.
“One outta two ain’t bad,” Heather called as she followed, “but I’m not sure about one-third.”
Z began laughing so hard, he had to duck behind the counter.
6
The only thing that was not old and beat-up about Heather’s Honda sedan was the stereo system she had installed herself. Despite Monica’s sulking, Heather popped in a Nelly Furtado CD and had her belting out the lyrics in a matter of minutes. Music was always the best way to cheer Monica up. She continued singing as they climbed out of the car and into the driveway. A blood-curdling shriek cut her off.
A small shadow darted across the front lawn of Monica’s house, emitting a high-pitched scream.
“Devin?”
Heather jumped the little white picket fence between the yards. Monica followed close on her heels. A larger shadow flew from around the corner of the house. Heather reached out an arm, pulling a small child from the darkness and hoisting him over a shoulder. The screams broke into laughter.
“You scared the bejesus out of me!” Monica shouted. Her eyes were wide with shock. “David!”
“He took Br’er Rabbit!” David cried, trying to climb Heather to get to Devin.
The porch light flicked on and a girl pulled open the front door, illuminating the four of them. “I told him not to!” She crossed her arms and leaned on the door frame.
Heather spun the child on her shoulder from side-to-side until she caught sight of the stolen item: A felt rabbit about eight inches tall. He wore tattered overalls and a straw hat. The felt had faded and an ear had been torn off and re-attached, but she could swear mischief still glinted from its little button eyes.
“Give it here, Devin.” She tugged it free from the three-year-old.
“Can I keep him?”
“No, sweetie.” She handed David the doll. He clutched it to his chest. In the light from the porch, his face was distorted by glistening scars.
“I’m Br’er rabbit,” David said. “He can be Br’er Possum!”
Heather snorted at the sly insult. She carried Devin up the stairs and deposited him into the living room.
“Where’s Mom and Dad?” Monica asked.
“On a date.”
“On a Tuesday?”
“Uh-huh. It’s classic movie night at the Movie Tavern.”
The oldest Shatterthwaith boy, Xavier, lounged across the couch, apathetic about the drama in the yard. Unlike Monica, the younger Shatterthwaiths were all pale, with straight, copper hair. Despite the fact that there were ten years between Sterling, the girl, and Devin, they looked almost identical.
David was the only one that stood out, due to the scars marring his face, permanent reminders of a dog attack two years previous that had resulted in twenty stitches and a paralyzing fear of going outside. She had made him the doll as a kind of security blanket. He ran upstairs to hide it from the covetous toddler.
Heather knelt down to whisper in Devin’s ear. “I made another one. If I can find it, I’ll let you have it.” A smile broke across his face. His head bobbled. She pulled him into a hug and squeezed him until he was bursting with laughter.
Standing, she put a hand on Sterling’s head. She was almost as tall as Heather now. Heather wrinkled her nose in mock-distaste. Sterling wrinkled her nose right back.
“Heather?” Monica was standing at the mouth of the kitchen with her phone to her ear. Her face was drawn, her mouth open. She beckoned Heather over. “Repeat what you just said,” she said into the phone.
“I just passed the coffee shop,” a girl—most likely one of the other cheerleaders—said. “It’s swarming with cop cars. Blue lights everywhere. It’s gotta be every cop in Cheatham Hill.”
The girls looked at one another, wide-eyed.
“I’ll call you back.” Monica hung up without waiting for a reply. She stared at the screen for a moment as if she could not remember how to use it, then scrolled down to Witt’s name and hit “Call.” It rang through to voicemail. She hit “Call” again.
“Try Zachariah.” Heather had no idea why she was whispering.
Monica called Witt one more time, then hung up. She scrolled down to Z and hit “Call.”
“It might not work,” she warned. “The phone company keeps—” Before she could finish, the phone was answered mid-ring. Heather leaned closer.
“Z?” Monica asked.
They heard a long, faint gust of wind, like someone exhaling.
“Hello?” Heather said.
There was a clatter, followed by a crunch. They both jumped. After a moment of silence, the line went dead.
7
Z leaned over the counter to confirm everyone had gone, then popped in his headphones. He let the industrial rock distract him from the heavy sense of shame that stirred in his chest whenever he was reminded of how shallow he had behaved when he first moved to Cheatham Hill. Despite his penitence, he cringed every time he thought of Heather’s icy expression the moment she shut him out.
By the time he was done sweeping the floors, the shame had bedded back down. Z gathered the trash bags, checked once more to ensure the building was empty, then kicked open the back door. He could not help but feel the irony that a brilliant mind like his—a mind accepted to MIT—was pouring coffees and taking out the trash. Hoisting the bags up, he tipped them one-by-one into the dumpster that squatted in the back corner of the parking lot. Brushing his hands as he turned, he was surprised to find Witt’s pearl white Nissan Titan still sitting in the far corner of the parking lot, next to an old red Jeep Cherokee. His brow furrowed. He had been sure everyone was gone.
That’s when he saw Witt.
Witt was lying prone next to his truck. Z thought at first he was playing a prank. Then he noticed the blood seeping from Witt’s forehead, staining his strawberry-blonde hair a deeper shade of red.
“Witt!” Z ran to crouch by his side. “Witt?” He pressed on his chest and shook him. “Witticus Maximus, wake up!”
“What’s wrong?”
He found Rhodes behind him. “Call an ambulance!” Z said, “He’s hurt—He’s bleeding.”
Rhodes already had his phone in his hand, and dialed 9-1-1. “What intersection is this?” he asked as it rang.
Z had to think for a moment before he could recall the street names he repeated every day. “Dallas and John Ward,” he finally stammered.
“Yes, medical emergency,” Rhodes spoke into the phone. “Please send an ambulance to Dallas and John Ward. There are two boys here, injured… They’re in great danger.”
“I’m not hurt; It’s just Witt,” Z tried to explain as Rhodes ended the call and tucked the phone into his pocket. Slowly, the pieces fell together in Z’s mind. He jumped to his feet, turning to confront Rhodes, but was hit in the chest by a bolt of lightning.
He hadn’t noticed the Taser in Rhodes’s hand.
8
“I am missing two letters of the alphabet,” Rhodes observed the next morning as he looked over the roll, “Z and the D.”
No one laughed this time. No one let the substitute in on the rumors. They exchanged uneasy glances. If he was curious why his joke fell flat,
he did not show it. He raised an eyebrow, however, when Dr. Magee came to the door with a police officer, the day-shift detective, Sgt. Young. She swept the classroom with her eyes. They landed on Heather. Heather’s face flushed. She lowered her pen onto her 400-word essay on hypotensive shock and sank down in her chair. There was only one reason they would want to speak with her.
“Excuse me,” Dr. Magee said to Rhodes. He beckoned Heather. She looked from him to Monica. Monica’s eyes had dark circles under them and she had trouble hiding her sniffles. They exchanged a brief glance before Heather slid out of her seat and stepped outside. Sgt. Young put a reassuring hand on her back.
“Thank you for working quietly,” Dr. Magee told the class before pulling the door shut. “Now,” he told Sgt. Young, “this is one of Cheatham Hill’s best students, and I’m sure she’ll cooperate with any questions you have.”
“Oh, we know each other well.” Sgt. Young exchanged a glance with the girl.
“Oh.” Dr. Magee’s confident expression fell. “Of course. I’ll leave you to it, then.” He hurried away down the hallway.
They watched him for a moment before Sgt. Young raised an eyebrow. “Cheatham Hill’s best student?”
Heather slumped against the wall. “He’s new.”
9
When Heather ordered a coffee with lemon and honey, the manager looked at her like she was insane, but did not refuse her request. Z had a reputation for experimenting with various flavor combinations. Since it tended to draw more customers than it scared away, she tolerated it with nothing worse than a raised brow or a forced smile. He was actually a barista genius, Heather thought.
Monica was already sitting in Witt’s usual seat. She clutched her coffee and stared out the window. She had spent a large part of the school day locked in a bathroom stall. Although good for a pat on the back, her fellow cheerleaders were not the best people to spill your heart out to. Monica preferred to cry in private, although her bloodshot eyes, pink nose, and pale face betrayed her. A small cup of coffee occupied the place across from her, waiting for someone to drink it. It also served to ward people off who might dare think she wanted company.
