That hurts worse than the slam I took against the pavement.
Dad remains in his seat at the head of the table. I rub the back of my head. “Can we do this tomorrow?” I ask him. “I’m wiped.”
He nods to my seat. “Sit.”
Sitting it is.
The clock ticks in our silence as he looks me up and down, no doubt taking in the beating Matt dealt. Leaning forward, he folds his hands on top of the table.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, his voice low. Measured.
My side of the story? Gladly. I tell him every last detail, right down to the swing I took because I am, if anything, honest. Besides, if I was tossed into a cell, I think it’s clear that I wasn’t exactly a saint tonight, either.
He nods slowly, processing everything. “And last year,” he says, even more quietly. Which is a million times more frightening than him yelling. Here we go. “Let’s see if I understand this: You got drunk at a party. You got behind the wheel of your truck, while drunk. You could have killed—”
“I know it was stupid, Dad, but I didn’t—”
He slams his hand against the table, and I nearly jump out of my seat. His face flushes as he points at me. “You do not get to make excuses. You do not get to talk back. You get to sit there, and you get to take this like you should have a year ago. Do you understand me?”
All I can do is nod. “Yes, sir.”
Another moment passes before he finally says, “Grounded. A month, at the very least. School, practice, church—that’s it. You’re damn lucky we’re letting you even step foot on that field this year.”
A month. A month will take us to the first game of the season. Thank sweet Jesus they’re still letting me have that. I nod again. “Okay.”
“And now, punishment.”
My head snaps up. “But I’m grounded.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Yes. That’s what we call a natural consequence for getting arrested. Twice. And lying about it once.”
The man has a point. I settle back against my chair. “I’m doing community service,” I tell him. “At the community center outside Summerville. On Saturdays, with Bri. She offered so that Coach would let me stay on the team.”
Pursing his lips, Dad nods slowly. “Well, that’s real nice of Bri. Really generous. Except that sounds like your punishment for Coach Taylor, instead of us.”
I had to throw in the Coach part.
Dad leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “The church’s cleaning team works awfully hard every week. I think it’s time they got a little vacation.”
Oh, no.
“So if you’re so interested in community service,” he continues, “you can clean the church every Saturday night for the next month, while you’re at it.”
We have the biggest Baptist congregation in Lewis Creek, which means we have the building to match. On my own, that’d take me half the night. “Dad—”
“And if you want to argue,” he cuts in, leveling me with a glare, “I don’t care what kind of deal you made with your coach—you will not touch another bat between now and graduation. Is that clear?”
Swallowing hard, I nod once. “Yes, sir.”
He leans onto the table, his eyebrows furrowing. “And let me speak very slowly, and very plainly, so you can hear me loud and clear: If I catch a hint of alcohol on your breath between tonight and the day you’re twenty-one, the Lewis Creek jail will be the least of your concerns.” He tilts his head toward the doorway. “I’ll drive you to Joyner’s to pick up your truck tomorrow. Bed. Now.”
Gladly. I push away from the table and head to my room, careful not to wake my sisters as I close the door. In the darkness, I glance at Brett’s bed before I flop back onto my mattress with a grunt, the springs screeching beneath me.
Yeah, it’d definitely be good to have him here. And considering I left my phone in my truck—and my keys are probably in the middle of the Joyner’s lot—there’s no way I’m talking to him tonight.
Damn it all, dude.
The door to my room opens, light from the hallway spilling into the room. Momma steps inside and tosses her phone onto my bed. “Your brother wants to talk to you.”
Well, if that isn’t the work of the angels, I don’t know what is.
I pick up her phone, which is lit with Brett’s picture in the background, and call her name before she leaves. She pauses in the doorway, arms crossed. “How long are you gonna be mad at me?” I ask.
She sighs. “Tonight, I’m pissed. Tomorrow will be better.” She closes the door and her footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving me in the darkness.
“Hey!” Brett shouts through the phone.
Blowing out a breath, I bring it to my ear and lean back against my pillows. “Not that I’m complaining, but how did you know to call? Divine intervention?”
“Momma called me and said you need someone to straighten your ass out. And since you made Momma say ‘ass,’ now I’ve got to know what actually happened.”
I guess I better get used to telling this story. The entire night spills out: the fight, what actually led up to the fight, landing in jail, and Bri coming to the rescue. He’s quiet for a minute before finally saying, “Well. Damn.”
I stare at the ceiling, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Yep.”
“You’ve gotta think about stuff before you start swingin’, bro,” he says. “I know Harris is a dick, and he had it coming, but you won’t always have people saving your ass. You know that, right?”
I swallow hard.
“You’ve got a good thing going,” he continues. “You wanna mess with Harris? Fine. Stick toothpicks in his yard. Cover his truck with cow shit. You’ve got an entire arsenal of things you can do without screwing yourself over.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, rubbing my eyes. “Yeah, I’ll try.”
After telling him bye, I toss Momma’s phone onto the nightstand and relax into the pillows. My eyes close on their own, sleep barreling toward me with the force of a freight train.
Chapter Seven
Eric
On Saturday morning, I head outside to feed the chickens before it’s time to meet Bri. All four of them wander out of their coop, eyeballing me before I even get to the pen. Oscar launches himself to the top of the fence, squawking as I approach. When we got them a couple years ago, Momma made building their coop and chicken run this massive summer project. And while it turned out good enough, I don’t think she realized one of the chickens was an escape artist who could clear a five-foot fence.
“Don’t even think about it.” I pick Oscar up and maneuver into the pen. He launches out of my hold, back to the ground, while I refill the feed inside their coop. He waddles past me, leading the way inside as the others fall behind.
A bottomless pit with an attitude. No clue where he gets it from.
I glance at my phone: eight on the dot. I shove it back into my pocket and start toward Bri’s driveway. She’s standing by the door of her tiny, beat-up Toyota, wearing a crimson Lewis Creek Soccer hoodie and a beanie. I’m pretty sure no girl has ever made beanies look that hot. The scowl she’s giving me, however, knocks down the hotness factor.
“What’s your problem?” I ask. “It’s eight o’clock. You said eight o’clock.”
She yanks her door open. “If you’re not early, you’re late.” She slides into the driver’s seat and slams the door closed.
That makes zero sense. And my chickens kind of needed food. Rolling my eyes, I get into the passenger seat. And—yeah, this isn’t gonna work. I slide the seat all the way back, but my legs are still smushed. The center’s nearly an hour away. I’d like to get there without my legs falling asleep.
“You know,” I say, “we could take my truck. That way, I could drive and have a heck of a lot more leg room.”
She gapes at me. “You’re serious right now?”
Did I say something wrong? All I can do is stare at her.
She takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she s
ays on an exhale. “Here’s how it’s gonna go: I’m doing you a favor. So if you want me to continue doing this favor, you can sit there and, as hard as it may be, not complain. Deal?”
Someone is clearly not a morning person. “Can we at least turn on the radio?”
“I’m getting there.” She cranks the engine, which makes this weird gurgling sound that can’t be good at all. The radio kicks on, sending “Carry On Wayward Son” blaring through the speakers.
Holy freakin’ crap. This may actually make up for the smushed legs. I glance at her out the corner of my eye as she backs out of the driveway. Since when is she into old-school rock? The Bri I remember couldn’t be pried away from her country music station.
Just to be sure, I ask, “Did you make this pre-set, or did your dad?”
She pauses at the stop sign before turning onto the highway. She settles back against her seat. “Are you complaining? Again?”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Just askin’ a question. No one in his right mind would complain about Kansas.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I did make the pre-set. And driver picks the music.”
“I thought shotgun got to choose?”
“Negative. Shotgun shuts his cakehole.”
That’s not the way it works in my truck, or my brother’s, or any other person’s I’ve ridden with, for that matter. At least she’s got good taste in music. I drop my head against the headrest, gazing out the window. The trees fly by as she speeds down the deserted highway. Normal people are either eating breakfast or still sleeping right now. My stomach rumbles. I turn my head toward her. “I’m missing pancakes, you know.”
She glances at me quickly. “Excuse me?”
“Pancakes. Momma always cooks them on the weekends. They’re just the kind that come from the box-mix, but she puts something in them that makes ‘em killer. Well, not killer, but—”
Her mouth drops open. Again. “What’d I say this time?” I ask.
“I’m so sorry you’re missing your pancakes while you’re on your way to help the less fortunate. Really. I can see how that would traumatize you.”
“Bacon, too,” I add. “And syrup. And more bacon.”
She blows out a breath. The car slows, and she pulls onto the side of the highway, her car bumping over the shoulder of the road. “Fine,” she says.“ Go home.”
I shake my head. “Huh?”
“If you’re so upset about your precious pancakes and bacon, get the heck out of my car and let me finish driving in peace.”
Well. That escalated quickly. Who pissed in her Lucky Charms this morning? “You’re serious right now?”
“I’m seriously serious. I’ve had a hell of a week, Eric. Don’t test me.”
She’s not the only one. But judging by the look in her eyes, testing her wouldn’t be the best idea. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s never had this much venom in her voice, let alone snapped at me without some hint of a smile. So instead of making things worse, I flop back against the seat and pretend to zip my lips. It must be good enough for her, because she pulls back onto the road.
Yeah. So this is going to be fun.
~
At five minutes before nine, Bri swerves into the parking lot of Serenity Valley Community Center. The car jerks to a stop at the back of the lot. Thank God for seatbelts.
She shoves her keys into her pocket. Grabs her Chapstick from the center console. Checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Does everything except acknowledge that I’m sitting right beside her.
“So,” I drawl. “What exactly am I doing on this fan-freaking-tastic Saturday morning?”
Without so much as a glance at me, she opens her door. “Just follow me,” she says, stepping out of the car. “Don’t say anything stupid. Be nice to people. It’s that easy.”
You know, for someone who volunteered to bring me here, she doesn’t exactly seem thrilled to have me. Glaring at her through the windshield, I climb out of my own seat. “That doesn’t tell me anything,” I call to her.
She turns, walking backward as she says, “We’re serving breakfast. And then you’ll have to fill out a volunteer application, agree to a background check for the whole working-with-kids thing, and do an interview with the head of the center.”
She stops at the door, waiting long enough for me to catch up. The wind gusts around me as I slowly make my way to her. The drinking and driving was supposedly wiped off my record last year, but I have no clue if it would still show up on a background check or not. There was never an issue with my college applications, so maybe not? But if it does, I was right: this is going to be fun. Because now, not only will people in Lewis Creek think I’m a screw-up, but so will everyone here. Awesome.
Bri’s eyebrows pull together as I approach. “You okay?” Her voice is a heck of a lot softer than it was a couple minutes ago.
I shrug, taking in the building. “They won’t care if I’m kind of an eff-up?”
Her face falls. Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head. “The people here won’t care. If anything, they’ll appreciate you more for being real.” She pauses. “Give yourself some credit. We all make mistakes. Getting in a little trouble doesn’t make you an eff-up.”
She has no idea what I’m talking about—that whole shitstorm was miraculously kept under wraps—but her words do make me feel a little better. Somewhat.
She holds the door for me, allowing me in first. Stepping inside is like wrapping myself in an electric blanket. She walks ahead of me down the narrow hallway and turns into the first door on the left, which I take as my cue to do the same. And I freeze inside that doorframe.
The room, about half the size of the school’s cafeteria, is packed. There are tables set up throughout the room, complete with cheap tablecloths and metal foldup chairs. The open kitchen on the far side holds a handful of people dressed in aprons, scurrying around. All sorts of people—some kids, some my parents’ age, some older folks—are crammed into a line that wraps along the wall, waiting patiently. A girl about Emma’s age grabs her momma’s hand near the back of the line, dressed in too-short-pants and a thin excuse for a shirt. It’s barely thirty degrees outside, for crying out loud.
Now I know why they keep it so warm in here. And now I feel like complete and utter shit for complaining about leg room in Bri’s car. Dad’s talked about all the times he helped at shelters and soup kitchens, but I’ve never actually seen one.
Bri turns to me. “You want to whine about pancakes anymore?”
I’ll never whine another day in my life.
She stares at me for a beat longer before starting toward the kitchen. I trail behind her, my boots trudging across the floor, and stop at the kitchen’s entrance until she waves me over. She grabs an apron from beneath the counter and ties it on, smiling at some tall dude who looks old enough to be my grandpa. She gestures to me. The guy looks me up and down, studying me as he walks over.
“You’re Eric?” he asks, holding out his hand for a shake. “I’m Harry. Good to have you.”
Bri moves around him, her hands on her hips. With that smile plastered to her face, I swear the girl downright glows.
I clear my head of the thought. I’m not here for her smile—I’m here to get my ass out of hot water.
“Harry’s in charge here,” she says. “You’ll go to the office with him after breakfast.”
Harry claps his hands together. “Right. But first, eggs. Bacon. Waffles.” He points to the end of the counter, where there’s a bin full of wrapped plastic utensils. “Think you can handle those?”
Can I handle those. Give me a break. Emma could do something like that. Pushing up my sleeves, I walk toward the end of the counter.
“Eric, watch out—”
And trip over a box on the floor. And, arms flailing, slam right into the bin. And send utensils crashing to the floor.
And ow.
Pretty sure my cheeks are redder than a hot-house tomato. Using the counter
as leverage, I straighten and risk a glance to Bri. She’s staring on with wide eyes, her hand covering her mouth.
Forcing the most pitiful smile I can muster, I say, “I can totally handle it.”
~
After breakfast, Bri’s out the door in a flash, leaving me with the cleanup crew while she plays soccer with a bunch of kids.
I think I’m getting the short end of the stick here.
Once the room’s in halfway decent shape, Harry leads me down the hall to his office. It’s tiny, with a desk crammed between two beat-up leather chairs. I sink into the chair on the opposite side of his desk. He sits and yanks open one of his drawers, its screech piercing the silence.
Folder in hand, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Nice bruise you got there.”
My throat tightens. Please don’t let this screw me over before I even get started. “You should see the other guy.”
He chuckles lightly. “Let’s get down to it, son. Why, exactly, do you want to volunteer with our center?”
To keep my butt on the baseball team. “Because I want to help?”
He tilts his head, considering that. “Guess that’s as good a start as any.” He pulls a sheet of paper out of the folder. “We’re gonna need an application on file,” he continues, sliding the paper to me, “along with two references. Are you eighteen?” When I nod, he passes me another form. “Then we’ll need your consent for a background check, too.”
I scan the forms, zeroing in on the reference section. And it sucks to realize that I’m not even sure I know any non-family members who would vouch for me, other than Coach. I guess Kellen’s dad would be willing to put in a good word, as long as he doesn’t remember the time I got Kellen in trouble for that flaming bag of cow crap on Randy’s front porch.
“You’ll be working with kids who haven’t gotten a lot of chances,” Harry says. “Kids who come from the rougher sections of town. Some of them live in government housing, some in shelters, some…” He trails off, sighing. “Some have perfectly fine houses, but their families just don’t have the resources they need. We’re here for all of them.”
Game On Page 8
