What You Hide

by Natalie D. Richards

“I guess I didn’t teach you much,” he says softly.

  “It’s okay. That was cool.”

  He shrugs, the familiar Spencer grin returning. “It’s an easy route. I was just showing off my muscles.”

  He’s not wrong, but he’s not being honest either. He wasn’t thinking of me when he was climbing that wall. I don’t think he was thinking of anyone at all. I wonder how often he gets to let go like that or if he’s ever realized that’s probably why he likes it so much.

  When he approaches the wall again, he dips a hand into his bag and then shows his fingers.

  “For better grip,” he explains. “I need it when my hands get sweaty. Now everybody approaches climbing a little differently, so don’t worry about doing things right. Besides, once I clip you in, you’ll probably forget everything I’m going to say.”

  “Not reassuring.”

  “It won’t matter. I’ll tell you again if it’s important. I forgot everything my first time too.”

  “And what happened?”

  He laughs. “Uh, I fell.”

  “What?”

  He tugs the rope at his waist. “That’s what this is for, remember? Do you have any questions about the belay system?”

  “God, no.”

  He laughs and tells me about holds as he climbs again, slower this time. They have interesting names: jugs and pinches and crimps. He talks about straight arms and the swinging that he does. It’s all about center of gravity. I nod like I’m listening, and I am. But my focus drifts. I’m watching his body, the way his feet flex and point, his arms stretched up, nothing but sinew and muscle. He’s good at this.

  He’s only halfway up the wall, then drops down. When he hits the ground, I’m startled.

  “Okay, you’re up,” he says as he hooks my harness to the belay.

  I bite my lip. “I really don’t know if I can.”

  “Don’t think about it. Find your starting point. Focus on the purples and blues. Those are mostly jugs and mini-jugs. Easy to hold. Take a look and pick your path.”

  I do as he says, trying to find a plan. Looking for a place to start. I shift closer to the wall, reaching for a bright blue knob. A mini-jug.

  I’m painfully aware of my body, of the inescapable fact that it will be my arms and legs pushing and flexing when I begin to climb. I wonder if I’ll do it wrong. Then I wonder what I’ll look like while I’m doing it and immediately hate my brain for going there.

  “Hey.”

  He touches my shoulders from behind with warm light fingers. They leave smears of chalk on the shirt Ava insisted I take along with the pants.

  “You’re too tense,” Spencer says, hands still on me. He pulls back, pointing at the wall. “Get over there and pretend you’re eight years old again.”

  I take a step closer but wince. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Yes, you do.” He laughs. “You, of all people, always know what to do.”

  I force myself to grab the jug and then another with my left hand. I find two good perches, one blue and one red thing I think he called a slope, and my bare feet grip and grip hard. Okay. It’s different, but it’s okay.

  “Let yourself sink into your knees. You’re aiming for straight arms,” he says.

  I nod and look up, a maze of holds spreading to the ceiling. A trail of giant jelly beans, and suddenly that’s what does it. I don’t think about appearances or whether or not I can do it. I focus on the burn in my legs and learn the reach of my arms. I marvel over the strength in my hands, and how quickly it fades.

  Spencer calls out a few encouraging thoughts here and there—swing your hip to the wall, that’s it, there’s a crimp to your left if you can use it—but mostly it’s me and the wall. My hands ache, and my feet cramp on the perches, but I make it halfway up before my hand slips, my knee jabbing into a tiny hold I didn’t notice. For one second, my breath catches hard in my chest, bracing for the fall.

  But I don’t fall. The auto-belay kicks in, and I sink back to the soft padded earth, where Spencer is waiting for me, beaming. I feel amazing, like sugar and fire are burning under my skin. I’m breathing hard when he checks the double-eight knot holding me to the auto-belay.

  “See? You know what you’re doing,” he says.

  I want to kiss him.

  The impulse is so sudden and strong I have to take a step back. Because it isn’t like that in here for him. That’s not what climbing is about, and I don’t want to ruin it. I want to learn.

  “Want to go again?” he asks.

  I nod and he laughs. His laugh is bigger and brighter in here, like his smile. I’ll never get enough of it.

  We climb until we’re both gross and sweaty. I hurt in places I didn’t know existed. My hands are the worst, chafed and throbbing. Spencer buys two bottles of water and we sit side by side, my shoulders on fire and my feet bruised from pushing against countless holds.

  When he points out how high I climbed, I’m disappointed. It seemed higher.

  He smiles at me, eyes luminous. “I think you did great.”

  “Not like you. How long have you been climbing?”

  “Four years. A little less maybe.”

  “You seem…different here.”

  “You mean disgusting and sweat-drenched?”

  “No, happier. Like you belong here. Like you were born to do this. Is it this way when you climb outside?”

  “It’s better.”

  I grin. “You should teach people how to do this. You love it enough to make everyone love it.”

  Spencer’s smile pinches tighter. “Not much money in professional climbing instruction.”

  “Maybe not, but is money what you’re after?” I grin. “I mean, you’ve already conquered pillows. Maybe you’re not meant for a cushion kingdom.”

  I intend it as a joke, but his face shutters like a window. It happens so quickly that I follow his gaze, sure he must have seen a disturbing commotion in the waiting room outside. There’s nothing out there, though, so it must have been me.

  “Spencer?”

  The flash of agony in his eyes is so clear it steals my breath. Before either of us can speak, a service door opens nearby and someone emerges.

  “Mallory?”

  My head turns toward the voice. I can’t place it, until I see the man standing at the wall near the back door with a patchy graying beard and a tool belt around his hips. My stomach constricts like I’ve been zipped into a too-tight dress.

  “Mr. Andrews,” I say, voice breathy. “What are you doing here?”

  “Shoot, I’m only at the high school Wednesday through Friday these days. Budget cuts, you know, and a man’s got to make a living. Why are you here? I didn’t think Whitestone was out today.”

  “It’s not. I…”

  Mr. Andrews looks at Spencer and then me, and my alarm spikes every time his gaze shifts back and forth between us.

  “I’m actually in an alternative school now.” My voice is chirpy and strange.

  Mr. Andrews’s brows lift, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Well, I’ll be. Alternative. Charlie didn’t mention it to me.”

  “He must not have had a chance to tell you,” I say. The world is swaying dangerously, going dark at the edges. I have to get out of here.

  “Well, we sure had time for it to come up.” His laugh is warm and genuine, but it makes my stomach curdle like milk in the sun. “Friday was a long one. Some kid spilled a mop bucket on the second floor. Soaked right through the tile and dripped through the ceiling! We had to rewire the whole media center, and boy-o, Charlie was in a state by the end of it.”

  “I bet,” I say.

  “Didn’t you see him?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Of course.”

  His eyes narrow. “So your new school isn’t in today?”

 
“Holiday. No school all week because of Thanksgiving.” My voice catches. Cracks. I can’t be here. I can’t talk to this man for one more second.

  “Uh-huh. And this is one of your new classmates?”

  “I’m Spencer Keller,” he says, and I shoot to my feet, panic firing through my veins.

  “I’m so sorry. We have to go,” I say. Before Spencer can push to his feet, I edge away, moving for the door. I flash Mr. Andrews what I hope is an apologetic smile. “Lots to do for the holiday. You know how it is.”

  “Well, all right then.”

  “It was great seeing you!”

  “I’ll tell Charlie we bumped into each other. He’ll get a kick out of that, won’t he?”

  I force myself to utter a cheery response. To fake it. But I can’t. The name conjures my stepfather’s image outside the bathroom door, his cold, cold eyes promising terrible things.

  I don’t stop to see if Spencer is following me. I don’t stop until I’m outside, under a sky the color of skim milk and a wind so cold it cuts right through my clothes.

  I turn around at the car, panting, in time to see Spencer push the door open. The stony expression I saw earlier is replaced with concern. He’s carrying both of our harnesses and jackets. I bolted out and didn’t even think about grabbing my stuff.

  “Did he watch me leave?” I ask.

  “Not really. He told me it was nice to meet me and went back to work. Who is he?”

  “No one. A guy that works at my old high school.”

  “I got that. But who is he? Why are you so freaked out?”

  “He works at my school. He knows Charlie. We have to go. Please, Spencer.”

  He hesitates for a second before he nods. We get into the car. I’m shaking so hard my knees knock together. He pulls my coat around me and cranks up the heated seats, a furrow forming between his brows as he watches me.

  “Please drive?”

  Spencer pulls out of the lot, and I watch the building in the rearview window until it disappears.

  Spencer

  Monday, November 20, 12:08 p.m.

  Mallory goes silent while I drive. Which is good, because I’m not sure I could hear her over the sudden barrage of chirps from my phone. My phone blows up with seemingly a million messages at once. I finally check it at a red light. A stupid group text about the team we’re playing tonight.

  Jarvey: They’ve got that goon Smiths on the roster.

  Alex: Number 14?

  Shawn: Thought he was disqualified.

  Jarvey: No, 24. No, not disqualified.

  Isaac: He’s probably 24 years old. It’s bullshit.

  Alex: Truth.

  Shawn: Need to rethink the lines?

  Jarvey: No. But defense better be ready to put this bitch on his knees. You hear me?

  Alex: I’m down.

  “Everything all right?” Mallory asks.

  “Yeah. Just…” Just what? Am I really going to tell her my hockey problems when she’s scared shitless her stepdad is going to come after her. “It’s not important.”

  Jarvey: Spencer? Where the hell are you, man? Don’t you dare tell me you’re sick and bailing.

  Me: I’ll be there, and I’ll pound him plenty.

  “Sorry about that.” I shove my phone back into my pocket, and the light turns green.

  “He’s going to tell him,” she says, sounding breathless. “Mr. Andrews will tell Charlie where he saw me, and then he’ll snap. What if he hurts my mom? Oh my God, if he remembers your name—”

  “He won’t remember my name. Breathe, Mallory.”

  “He might remember. He might. Oh my God, Mom told me they would call the police because I’m a runaway, so they’ll never believe anything I say.”

  “Wait, she hasn’t already reported this?”

  She shakes her head. “She agreed to let me go for a bit to let things cool off. Charlie thought I’d come back, but I didn’t, so now he’s changing the rules. He’s forcing her hand. And I don’t know what to do. If I don’t go home, he could take it out on her.”

  “You said he doesn’t get physical.”

  “He’s crazy. I don’t know what he might do.”

  My phone buzzes. Two more times. I pull it out and throw it in the back and then change lanes. “Try to breathe.”

  “I can’t sit here and breathe and pretend this isn’t happening.”

  “Okay, then come up with a plan. You’re good at that.”

  “I don’t know.” She sniffs, swiping at her cheeks. “What kind of plan can I have for a scenario like this? I have to go home. If he hears this at school, he could go home and blow a fuse.” She gasps. “He could hurt the baby. I have to get her.”

  “No. No chance are you going back there if this guy is dangerous.”

  “That’s not your decision.”

  “I know that.” And I hate it. But I keep my mouth shut.

  “I have to get her away from him.”

  I take the ramp off the freeway and head left, into Fairview.

  “You said you couldn’t make her leave before,” I say, trying to reason with her.

  It gets through a little because I see her squeeze her eyes shut. “I know.”

  “Maybe you need something more serious. Did you find anything on him?”

  “I found a name. He was engaged before.”

  “Okay, that’s something. Maybe one of the librarians can help us. They have access to databases we don’t. They know how to search court records.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  She nods, and I can see her settle. Her hands go still at the sides of her thighs, and her jaw unclenches. She stares straight ahead, but I’m pretty sure she’s focused on the plan she’s forming, the steps she’ll take to make it all happen. It’s fascinating watching her think.

  I wish to hell that ability would rub off on me.

  Then again, maybe she comes at life like this because she doesn’t have a choice. No one’s got a safety net under this girl, so she doesn’t require one. Mallory’s the kind of person who figures everything out.

  And what kind of person am I?

  My mind reels back to that moment at the gym. Her eyes drinking me in as she asked me if money is what I was after.

  What the hell else is there after high school? Am I going to go home and tell Dad I want to be like Connor, my Colorado climbing instructor? Sure, they’ll love that plan. The guy keeps everything he owns in three duffel bags, following the climbing season around the world.

  If I told my parents that my grand plan for the future was to climb rocks, they’d both stroke out on the floor. Who could blame them? They give me a winning ticket to the adoption lottery, and I chuck it all so I can be a free spirit? I owe them more than that.

  Truth is, I want more than that too. I don’t crave freedom like Connor or money like my parents. I crave purpose.

  “Wow, you really are a hundred miles away,” she says softly, bringing me back to my senses.

  “Sorry. I got lost in my head. I’ve been—” I cut myself off because I’m not doing this. Mallory is running from a lunatic and currently homeless. I am not going to whine about my non-problems. “Hey, I was thinking. When does this guy work with Charlie again?”

  “He said Wednesday through Friday, right?”

  “The Wednesday before Thanksgiving? Most schools are closed, right?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I didn’t think about that.”

  “So you can let this go until after the holiday.”

  “I guess so. He might work Friday. Sometimes they do updates and maintenance work on days like that.”

  “But you have at least until Friday. So a little time for this research.”

  “You don’t want to go to the library now?”

  “I just�
��”

  I don’t know how to answer, but there’s something about my jangling nerves that won’t settle in that building. I can feel that much. Looking at the window I broke and the wall I climbed is a pretty pointed reminder that this little life crisis I’m having is going to have to be dealt with soon. And I can’t face that right now.

  “I think I need a minute,” I say. “Maybe we can grab lunch and I can get a shower. Would that be okay?”

  “I could use a shower. If you don’t mind.”

  I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. I’m sitting in a car with a girl who asks permission to take a shower, and I need a minute? My stomach squeezes so hard I feel sick.

  Back at my house, the quiet isn’t comfortable anymore; it’s swollen and tense. Mallory is jumpy moving through the kitchen, her eyes darting as we eat turkey sandwiches at the counter.

  When we’re done, I take the dishes and put them both in the dishwasher. I close it tight and glance at a photo of my family next to the sink. They are a sea of pale skin and blue eyes. And me. I wasn’t born to any of this. I’m a motley mix of who-knows-what from who-knows-where. It must be some seriously cosmic shit show that landed me in this house while a girl like Mallory lands in the street outside.

  “What’s going on, Spencer?” she asks. She’s blocking my path, and her expression tells me she’s done taking my brush-offs. I can’t smile. I feel queasy and shaky.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, still insistent.

  “I’m sorry. I hate that all this is happening to you.” It’s true, but not the truth of the moment. And she knows it.

  She frowns. “Maybe I should go. I didn’t want to drag you into any of this.”

  “It’s not that.” I shake my head because it terrifies me, the idea that my badly timed freak-out would send her out into the cold. “You’re not leaving.”

  Fire lights her eyes, and her chin comes up. “I already told you that’s not your decision.”

  Panic flutters behind my ribs. “I know it’s not. I know that. But—”

  “But what? I’m not here so you can save me,” she says. “This is my life. My problem.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I know it’s your choice, but please make a good one here.”