by Adam Cesare
Instead, she found the dance floor, the party’s pulsing, writhing heart. There must have been thirty or forty kids, drinks raised, bouncing to the rhythm (or close enough), singing along with songs spinning from the DJ’s dueling iPad setups.
The DJ, a hooded figure too skinny and small to be much more than a sophomore, bopped and shook over a table. Strobes flashed from either side of his kit, heavy-duty amplifiers forming the base of the platform that stood him taller than the partygoers.
Cole came up behind her and yelled over the music, “So . . . what do you think?”
“I don’t think I’m in Philadelphia anymore,” Quinn yelled back, smiling. She meant it to be funny, a Wizard of Oz reference in reverse, but she could tell by Cole’s expression that he took it as an insult. “This is much better,” she added quickly. “It’s lit.”
“We try,” Cole yelled, smiling. He had a faint liquor mustache that Quinn wanted so badly to wipe off for him.
“How do you guys pull this off? Isn’t this someone’s backyard?”
They moved away from the speakers, but still needed to shout.
“Not really. The house is, like, a mile away from here. But Janet really did do the legwork. She planned the party during the farming expo. Tillerson has packed up his family in the RV. They vacation, checking out the tractors and fertilizer nozzles, while we party.”
He stood tall, smiling. “If we do a good enough job picking up after ourselves, nobody will ever know we were here. A victimless crime.” His hair fell over his eyes in a way that made him look sad. Beautiful, but sad. And Quinn knew in her heart that if her mother were alive, she would warn her. Cole Hill was broken. He was trouble in every conceivable way a boy could be trouble. And Quinn already wanted to save him from himself. And she could hear her mother’s voice say: “Exactly. Look how well that worked out for your dad.”
Quinn broke away from his stare as the DJ transitioned from one of those eighties synth hits with the melt-in-your-heart chorus to something catchy-but-still-ratchet by Cardi B.
“I love this song,” she shouted into Cole’s face. A white lie but a necessary one. “Let’s dance!”
“Oh, I’ll dance,” he said, looking uneasy, already looking busy thinking of boy excuses. Quinn furrowed her brow. “I will. But I think I need a drink first. Can I get you one? What do you like?”
“Screwdriver,” Quinn said. “I’ll come with you.” She followed Cole as he stomped across the barn to a table in the corner that housed what appeared to be an endless supply of plastic liquor bottles and mixers. Quinn may have trusted Cole, but trust wasn’t the same as stupidity. Glenn Maybrook hadn’t given his daughter very many “facts of life” talks. But when he did, the talks were often in the form of things he’d witnessed firsthand in the emergency room. One such talk that had stayed with her ended with the words: “And that’s why you always mix your own drinks.”
Across the barn, Quinn could see beer pong tables. A big guy belched and bellowed, throwing his arms up in triumph as Matt Trent—still with his clown jumpsuit cinched around his waist—pounded him on the back and then stumbled off. At the other side of the table Ronnie, still with her plunging Frendo neckline, grimaced. She sniffed her cup and fished a ping-pong ball out with a manicured finger before drinking.
Janet had found a ledge to sit on. She had a drink in her hand and her legs crossed. She looked like the Queen of Hearts, already bored with her kingdom, searching the crowd and deciding which of her subjects would be next to lose their head.
Quinn watched Janet’s expression change and followed her gaze to the back doors.
Ruston Vance was the last kid in Kettle Springs that Quinn had expected to see at this party. Everything about him, including his yellow-and-green John Deere hat and red plaid shirt, seemed out of place.
Rust spotted her spotting him, then began his way toward her. She poured some plastic-bottle vodka and some paper-carton OJ into a cup, not paying enough attention to the proportions of either.
Beside her, Cole was shuffling with some bottles, scrutinizing labels.
She didn’t know why seeing Rust here made her stomach drop. Why she didn’t want him to come over and talk. She barely knew him—and if anything, she belonged here less than he did.
Cole ducked down, apparently searching for a bottle opener he’d dropped.
Rust approached. He stopped in front of Quinn and shifted his hat on his head in lieu of a hello. He tried to smile but must have felt as awkward as he looked. “Quinn. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Maybe because you didn’t invite me?” Quinn shot back, not meaning to be rude and yet, there it was. But really, if he’d known about the party and was planning on attending, why hadn’t he?
“I don’t usually, uh, come to this kind of stuff.”
Cole returned, looking surprised to see that his spot beside Quinn had been taken. He slapped Rust on the back, an aggressive hello, his demeanor shifting. What was Cole really feeling, or was he always performing, the role shifting depending on who he was with?
“Rusty,” he began, “how the hell are you?” Cole made to stick out his hand, but Rust kept both of his own around a bottle of Coors, warming it like a baby bird, and they didn’t shake. Instead Cole popped open his own beer, a local brand Quinn didn’t recognize. “You been to the Point yet this season? Thompson says he caught a three-pound rock bass.”
“Bullshit,” Rust said, pulling a long drink off the bottle. “Record is two pounds and ten ounces. Something like that.”
“Exactly what I said,” Cole added, clinking drinks with Rust. “But you know him. Always compensating with fish for what he doesn’t have . . .” Cole nodded down. The boy in plaid laughed politely, and Quinn stood there smiling, sipping her drink, thinking to herself that boys everywhere are dumb.
“You two know each other?” Cole asked, swiveling over toward her and drinking deep.
“Rust is my neighbor,” Quinn explained. “He’s walked me to school.”
Cole’s eyebrows went high, and then he nodded to show he was surprised.
“Just being friendly,” Rust said. “Hard to be new in a place like Kettle Springs. Without a friend,” he added, and the look he fixed on Cole told her that it was more than just a pleasant observation.
“Me and this guy,” Cole said, pausing to take a big sip, then motioning to Rust. “We used to be thick as thieves. Little hellions, running around.” Cole twirled his free fingers to mime running around like little hellions.
“Long time ago,” Rust said, his voice deeper suddenly.
“Oh yeah, what happened?” Quinn asked, because they seemed to want her to.
“We grew up,” Cole said before Rust could answer. “Rusty got too cool for me.”
“Nailed it,” Rust said flatly. “I got so cool.” And then, realizing that Quinn was getting fed up with all the passive aggression, he explained, “We drifted. Cole started playing football, and I didn’t quite have the skills.”
“I’m sorry. That sucks,” Quinn said.
“Yeah,” Rust said, taking a deep breath and then a long drink. “Stinks.”
“What position did you play?” Quinn asked.
Rust smiled and answered, “Quarterback.”
“Oh.” Quinn began to ask, “You still play, Cole?” before sensing that the boys weren’t really listening to her anymore. She took a long sip of her drink to cover.
Woof. She’d mixed it too strong.
“You still got the Ford?” Cole asked, changing topics gracelessly.
“You know I do,” Rust answered. “Seats’re mostly duct tape, but she still runs—most of the time.”
Cole’s face brightened. “If we don’t get too shitfaced tonight,” Cole said, “maybe we drive up to Devil’s Den before sunrise and see if we can’t bag a duck or two. An unlucky rabbit.”
Rust laughed, made uneasy by the suggestion. “I . . . I don’t think so.”
“It’ll be fun. I know you’ve got g
uns in the rack. If she’s up for it, we can show city girl here the ropes. I bet she’s never even fired a round.” Cole’s expression got fake-serious. “Unless she was in a gang. Were you in a gang, Quinn?”
But she couldn’t reply—she was too hung up on the thought:
Ruston Vance had brought guns to a high school party.
Quinn cocked a brow, started to say something, but Cole held up a silencing hand. He was still performing a bit.
“Holding the gun like this”—he made pistol fingers and then turned the invisible gun on its side—“doesn’t count.” One of Cole’s arms had snaked around Rust’s shoulders, was making her neighbor visibly uncomfortable.
“I think I’ll pass, but thanks,” Quinn said when she realized Cole was being at least half-sincere about going hunting tonight.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Cole whined. He was definitely not used to being told no.
“Leave it be, Colton,” Rust said, ducking to extricate himself from the hold.
Colton. That sounded . . . like they really had been friends.
“Guns just aren’t my thing,” Quinn explained. “I don’t think I’d like shooting things.”
“But you do eat meat?” Rust asked.
“Sure, but that’s different. I’m not putting on an apron, getting out the sledgehammer, every time I want a burger,” Quinn replied, crossing her arms.
“Well,” Rust began, “I only use my guns to hunt and only hunt what I eat.”
“Here we go, sounding like the NRA duders in town—” Cole said, throwing his hands up.
“No,” Rust shot back. He was clearly tired of Cole’s puckishness. Quinn was getting there herself, and she looked at the mostly empty beer in his hand. “I’m not some gun nut,” Rust continued. “I don’t have any bump stocks or semi-automatic weapons. I’m not sitting in my basement with a bowie knife, carving rounds into cop killers. I eat what I hunt. I think if you’re going to eat meat, you should know where it comes from and what you’re taking from the world.”
Quinn blinked. This was a far cry from the courteous, awkward boy who’d walked her to school. Was it because Ruston Vance was more comfortable around Cole or less?
“I just don’t believe in killing, okay?” Quinn said, feeling her cheeks flush. She hadn’t come out to debate anyone, wasn’t prepared to. “I don’t think it’s humane.”
“Okay,” Rust told her.
“Okay?” Quinn said, staring him down hard.
“Yeah, okay.” And like that: understanding. Different strokes, different worlds, reconciled. It was easier IRL than in comment threads; you had to look the person in the face, still wanting to like them.
“Great, so we’re all besties again,” Cole cut in. “Quinn and I were about to go dance, but if you’re still around later, we should talk, drink. Catch up?”
“Was good seeing you both,” Rust said. “I’ll probably be heading out early. If I don’t see you: stay safe.”
And like that, the neighbor boy in flannel turned and disappeared farther into the barn.
Stay safe.
The sounds of the party resumed, and Matt came bounding over, hooting with his arms raised. “I am the king of ’root!” he declared. “Three matches and undefeated! Not even buzzed.” He belched like that couldn’t possibly be true and pointed to Cole. “What about you, QB? Or you, new girl?” A steely look from Cole and he corrected himself: “Quinn—I mean Quinn, you two think you can beat me?”
But Quinn wasn’t giving the question her full attention. She was thinking about what Rust had said: stay safe. The way he’d said it. Was that a warning? About the party or about Cole or just something people in Kettle Springs said instead of goodbye?
“You-hoo! New fish,” Ronnie said, poking Quinn in the shoulder, “we’re talking to you?”
“Sorry, I’m not very good at pong,” Quinn said, snapping back to it. Ronnie didn’t seem to like her answer.
“Beirut, but . . . fine,” Ronnie said, giving a long blink, then playing with her jumpsuit’s pom-poms. All the motions said “drunk,” but Ronnie’s eyes looked clear to Quinn, like the girl was only pretending to be tipsy. Ronnie nuzzled into Matt’s squat frame, keeping a hard stare on Cole, who couldn’t be giving her less of his attention. If this was flirting, the girl was bad at it.
“I mean, maybe later, but Quinn said she wanted to dance,” Cole said, flashing that smile that’d probably defused a thousand arguments. “So . . . let’s dance.” And he grabbed her hand and guided her toward the dance floor.
As Quinn was pulled along, she spotted Janet marching out the back of the barn, throwing a look over her shoulder. Matt found a freshman to beat at flip cup. Ronnie stood at the edge of the throng, phone out, filming it all, the eye of the camera always seeming to settle back on Quinn and Cole.
Eleven
Glenn Maybrook stood at the sink and considered his cell phone. His hands were soapy to the point of ineffectiveness. And he’d lathered them up like this on purpose. With these hands, he could barely work a plate from the stack beside him without it crashing to the floor. But clean dishes weren’t the point. Being at the sink was an excuse to kill time, get his mind off things. If he were scrubbing, he’d forget that his daughter was going to be out all night partying. A party he’d encouraged her to attend.
But then what was he supposed to do? Drag her away from her home, out to live in the middle of nowhere, and then tell her “No. You can’t go make new friends!”?
Quinn was fine. He knew she was fine. She was a smart kid. She was going to bounce back . . .
He cursed himself and pushed his glasses back up his nose, then cursed himself again as a soap bubble glided across his vision.
They hadn’t yet used these dishes for a meal in their new house, and the plates and glassware weren’t dirty from the move. Despite their plan to eat better and to cook more, all of their meals so far had been either at the Eatery or leftovers from the Eatery. Turns out that grocery shopping was exhausting and the takeout choices in Kettle Springs were . . . limited.
Tomorrow they would go to the supermarket! Even if it meant a road trip. As soon as he was done with the dishes, Glenn resolved to make a list. He’d text Quinn to make sure he didn’t forget anything. He’d make sure she knew it was not a rush. He’d write that first—“NOT URGENT!”—so she’d know she didn’t need to stop having fun and immediately text back.
He set a dish in the drying rack and rinsed his hands.
“Well. That’s done,” he said to the empty kitchen. He looked down at his phone, hit the home button to check the time. A single soap sud winked at him. Mocked him.
Placing both hands on the countertop, he looked out the window above the sink. There was the sound of—what? Crickets? Cicadas? Glenn Maybrook could hear them so well through the window that he idly worried about the house’s insulation.
He made a mental note to try to get the name of a good handyman. Glenn Maybrook was many things—but handy was not one of them. Having someone reliable who could fix the small things seemed essential now that they didn’t have a super anymore. Glenn looked out the window, adjusted his glasses. Carefully this time, using the dry part of his wrist.
The cornstalks were infantry outside the window, lined at the edge of their yard, forever on guard.
Looking out, Glenn made a mental note to get porch lights installed. The kind with motion sensors. He should put that on the grocery list. He caught his own reflection in the kitchen window, then glanced up at the light. Anyone out there could see him or Quinn, pillboxed in the window. He’d also get some drapes.
What time is it? He’d checked a second ago but clearly hadn’t internalized the info. He used a still-damp pinkie to wake his phone again and saw that it was only 8:57. A droplet of dishwater ran down his elbow and onto his new Reeboks. Earlier Quinn had teased him that his shoes were too new-looking and way too white. Her ride, Cole, seemed to appreciate them. He’d said, “I think they’re cool,” and offered G
lenn a firm handshake. Glenn decided to take it as a compliment, not some kind of teen boy power play.
Standing alone now in the kitchen, Glenn frowned. Glenn liked the boy, even if he didn’t like that he drove a muscle car that predated airbags and antilock brakes by thirty years or that his breath smelled too minty not to be covering something up.
No, no, Glenn shook away the thought. He would not worry. He couldn’t worry. He had to let Quinn have a life. That was the whole point of coming here. This was a nice, small town. People here took care of each other. Bad things didn’t happen in Kettle Springs. Nothing happened in Kettle Springs. Which reminded Glenn that the cable company hadn’t come yet, which meant no TV, no Wi-Fi. The reception in the house was so bad he could barely stream music. He’d have to figure out where he packed the books. He couldn’t remember the last time he read for pleasure—Tonight I’ll start reading for pleasure again.
But then he heard it. It was a sound like a soft crack or crinkle. Like footsteps but more careful, no rhythm.
He strained, leaned an ear toward the window, and thought he could almost—almost—hear someone talking, hidden out there in the corn. He couldn’t make out words, but it definitely sounded like someone was out there, whispering.
Then, the noises stopped.
Glenn was not really sure why, but he took a step back from the window. Without looking over, he reached a hand out, searching the still-unfamiliar wall, then flicked off the kitchen light switch so he was no longer on display. With no other lights on in the house, it took his eyes a moment to adjust.
