The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1)

by Sarah Wathen

  “Oh, you should have seen the reaction at the first hint of a foreigner here. They’re gonna lose it when they find out his age,” Frank predicted with glee, his eyes glinting. “Marge Tillman, that old cow—I thought she was gonna blow herself right out of her seat with that fart when she heard about the new Pakistani doctor—”

  “Indian, Dad.”

  “Ejector seat,” George exploded with laughter, wiping his eyes and turning to root in the cupboard for the coffee grinder. “Thank god I was on the other side of the room, so I didn’t have to smell it. And then after Abe Waste-of-Good-Oxygen Becker found out about the Italian boy yesterday at the shop, he got all blustery and red-faced and said, ‘We gonna have an eye-talian man living here for the whole dang year?’ What an ignoramus. Then, the widower…” George shuffled around the kitchen, gradually retrieving his coffee supplies and gathering them around the grinder. Without stopping, he transitioned into a tangential topic. “But you know, I’ll bet that we could work in some real-world experience at the shop for him. Part of the Andrew Jackson-Shirley County experience.”

  Amazing. He’s trying to find a free labor angle with this poor foreign exchange student. Her dad was so cheap.

  “Since this boy has work experience, and obviously a lot more work ethic than most kids around here….”

  Great. She settled in for a long conversation. Didn’t he hear her say she had to leave? Ms. Willow would be pissed. Candy always met her at Dad’s shop on Monday mornings and brought the stuff she had worked on all weekend to Big Joe’s; the poor old lady couldn’t drive anymore and she depended on it. She would freak if Candy didn’t get those drawings there before they opened; who knew why? She was old.

  And, now I’ll have to run all the way there and get sweaty.

  She had let her dad’s new assistant mechanic, Jo, borrow her dirt-bike the night before, but she had promised to have it back at the shop in the morning.

  It had better be there—I can’t run all the way into town for god’s sake.

  She hoped the ride down into the valley would dry her off after a jog to the shop. She looked wistfully out the glass doors in the next room that led onto their deck. The sunlight was blazing down, lighting up the plank floor as if it was on fire, the early dew long evaporated and the morning mist chased away.

  Her dad was chattering on, not registering the stiffness of his daughter’s back, her arm clutching the back of her chair, poised to go. “I always thought it would be cool to have real, die-cast replicas of the old classics. You know, like the ’53 Chrysler—the New Yorker, maybe,”

  “Yeah, that would be cool,” Candy said absently.

  “Well, it’s good business to have more varied inventory.”

  “Uh huh…”

  “You know, I always wanted to expand the shop into…”

  She really hadn’t wanted to arrive at Big Joe’s sweaty that day. She was hoping to run into Sam—she had to. He usually had deliveries scheduled in Buffalo Square on Mondays. She pictured him hauling in bags from the supply truck, as she replayed each delicious second from the last time she saw him. She felt like she’d go crazy if she didn’t at least talk to him for a minute. A blush started creeping into her cheeks as she thought and she started thrumming her fingers on the table.

  “Oh, sorry,” said George, “I know. You’re going be late.”

  “It’s okay. I’m good, Dad,” she blurted stupidly, pushing thoughts of Sam out of her mind before they leaked out her ears. She stood and shoved in her chair, “I do have to go, though.”

  “Oh, and I saw Beth Robinson in town yesterday. I mean Beth Bennett. Guess she’s married now. Has been for years—”

  Candy froze. “Really? And?” I know who “Aunt Beth” is—what?

  “She said John’s coming with his dad next week.”

  “John?” Her heart seemed to have stopped.

  “Yeah. I guess James is planning to take a sabbatical and run the family business for a few months, until his dad is himself again. Really, I think ‘a few months’ may be wishful thinking, a man Joe Robinson’s age. Seems to me, James might need to think of a more permanent situation.”

  “Permanent? With John?” She almost choked on the words.

  “Well I don’t know about that,” George corrected hurriedly, “But, I did hear that John will be attending Andrew Jackson High this fall.”

  What? Candy turned away from her dad’s goofy, searching smile, and headed for the front door. “Wow…that’s so awesome.”

  “It’ll be nice for you two kids to be together again,” George chuckled and turned his attention back to his coffee. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

  Candy was already halfway across the house. “Thanks, be home late,” she hollered, grabbing her backpack and shooting through the open doorway. She slammed the door shut just in time to muffle a surprised sob. She shuffled down the dirt driveway, her eyes blinded by sudden tears.

  Prick. Now, I’m late. She knuckled her wet eyes with her fists. Stop crying, you idiot.

  Instead of taking the path by the river that she usually preferred, which was rocky and winding, forcing a pedestrian to poke along, Candy took the longer, paved road to the shop to make some time. She slung her backpack over both shoulders and broke into a jog, willing herself to breathe more evenly and calm her racing heart into a comfortable, regular rhythm.

  John.

  She was overjoyed to hear that he was coming, and would likely stay for a while. Maybe even the entire school year? They had been close friends since childhood, when he had started spending summers with his grandma. Candy’s Grandma Catherine lived on the property adjacent to the Robinsons’ house, and since she spent most of the summer playing there, and in the surrounding countryside, it was natural for two kids of the same age to become summer buddies. John was a city boy, and he had been clueless about how to play outside in the country. The first time she brought him down to play in the creek that bordered her grandma’s backyard, he walked right into the nettles growing along the bank, the stingy leaves and creepers tangled up and threaded through every toe.

  He actually cried, Candy remembered, with a healthy measure of compassion. Those nettles stung like heck. He was embarrassed, but she showed him how to squeeze the juice out of jewelweed flowers and cool down the rash, making barfing noises, like the flowers were puking up the juice, so he’d laugh. They were best friends in an instant.

  Candy reigned as queen of the countryside, with her superior knowledge of the flora and fauna, and John demurred to her leadership outdoors. She knew about the caves on the hillside where the foxes made their dens. She taught him how to climb the maple trees with a pocket full of hundreds of helicopter seeds, and then toss them into the branches to send them swirling down like pink snowflakes. She also knew how to creep up behind a horse named Popcorn, who lived on her uncle’s ranch, and open up her umbrella so fast that the horse farted when it jumped and ran away, neighing with indignation.

  John was the best at telling stories, especially scary campfire ones, and he was even better than she was at building a fire. He started attending Boy Scout meetings with his dad after he went home that first summer. Candy suspected he wanted to impress her, with his new knowledge about nature, when he returned to Shirley the following year. She let him build the first campfire of the summer, with his dad watching from afar. She was impressed. John didn’t need any help at all. That was when Candy realized John was smarter than she thought, his brain filled with exact knowledge that he could always recall with ease. At the age of eight, he had methodically and precisely built a beautiful campfire, ringed by river-smoothed stones in a perfect circle. He placed neatly sawn logs for sitting safely beyond the spark zone. After the fire was well underway, he called to his dad to bring out the s’mores, and they all roasted marshmallows on hickory sticks gathered from the yard.

  That was the first o
f many campfire nights over at the Robinsons’, the summer air cool on their backs and their faces heated by the fire, melted chocolate running down their hands, filthy from a day of playing in the woods. John was an endless supply of long, drawn-out scary stories, embellishing them anew every telling. He always had surprise endings and loved to use sound effects.

  And all that stuff with Uncle Brian. He never made me feel weird about it. Candy’s thoughts turned sour, and she pushed her unsettling dreams of the past several nights away again. Anyway, campfires were when we were kids. And we aren’t kids anymore.

  About the time they were both entering their teens—and puberty—John had started spending the better part of his summers as a counselor at Camp Wekeima. The first summer he worked at the camp, he had bugged her for months and months beforehand, emailing her links to the website and writing tales of adventure awaiting. She had no intention of joining him there, and she told him so, but he wouldn’t believe her until a couple weeks before school let out for the summer. She remembered the phone call vividly.

  “You’re kidding me. You haven’t signed up yet? Candy, there might not be any spots left for counselors anymore. They have to do background checks and everything.”

  “I know, John. I’m not going.” John hadn’t spoken for several seconds, the silence on the other end making Candy’s flesh crawl with guilt and impatience. “Hello…?”

  “Why not?” He was still insistent. “We would have so much fun. I know so many other people that have done it and they go every year, it’s such an awesome summer. We would have such an awesome summer—”

  “Look, I just don’t want to,” Candy had snapped. “Why can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

  She instantly regretted saying it (and still did), but there was no way to take it back.

  “Fine, I guess I’ll see you around, then.” John was obviously hurt, but he wasn’t one to act brashly, and he held the line to say, “Bye, Candy.”

  It was Candy who hung up without saying good-bye. She didn’t know what she got so pissed off about, but she remembered her blood was boiling. She felt oddly panicked by being forced to go that far away to do something that…well, actually sounded fun. But, anytime she tried to reason with herself to explain why she didn’t want to go, she felt blank.

  I just didn’t want to. I just don’t like to leave home. She was confused about it but there it was.

  Even though John had come to Shirley for a quick visit before the camp started, the two had avoided each other. Candy blew off efforts to unite them, and she was sure John did, too. She wondered if his grandma was as embarrassing as hers was.

  “Pearl said John’s in town, honey. She invited us for lunch—don’t you two want to play together?”

  “Grandma, please. We’re too old for playing.”

  “Oh, is that what it is?”

  “What do you mean ‘that’?”

  “He’s a good looking boy, isn’t he?”

  “What? Gross, Grandma.”

  “Well, what? You don’t have to sleep over or anything.”

  “Forget it.”

  “If you want to, though, I’m sure Pearl could put you in separate rooms for the night.”

  “Ugh.”

  “I think it’s sweet, and it would all be very proper.”

  Candy’s face still went hot just thinking about it.

  John had returned for a few days at the end of the summer, right before school started, and they saw each other briefly, each of them ready to forget the fight after a few months of cooling off. Things were awkward. They kept in touch over email during the next school year but John decided to make Camp Wekeima an annual event. He said he was saving money for a car and that the Wekeima job paid well. Candy doubted John’s reason for keeping the job and jealously clicked through pictures online that were obviously his girlfriend, more often than she was proud to admit.

  John and Clara, picnic at the lake.

  John and Clara, fun at the derby with her family.

  Clara with birthday cake on her nose, John laughing beside her.

  That summer, he hadn’t come for a visit to his grandma’s at all, and hadn’t bothered to supply a reason. Candy tried to shrug it off, but she was crushed. She had pushed him out of her head, until her dad sprang the news on her. She had no idea how to feel about the prospect of his actually living in Shirley and going to school at Andrew Jackson.

  Does he already know? Did he email me about it already? Candy wasn’t too big on email after she and John had lost contact. Who else would she get mail from besides him? All the people she knew lived in Shirley and email was usually all garbage and school stuff. She often received messages weeks after they were sent, so John might have already sent something. She couldn’t wait to check.

  Nearing the Eastern Mountain foothills, where her father’s shop lay in view, the road started to level out and Candy picked up speed. She rounded the last turn at an all-out run, dashing off the pavement through the trees, the slick soles of her worn sneakers slipping in the dirt. She lost her balance and caught herself on an outstretched yellow buckeye limb, upsetting a couple of its low-hanging, overripe fruit. They bonked her in the forehead and almost tripped her, the smooth balls rolling between her feet down the last stretch of hillside. Steadying herself and wiping the sweat from under her hair, she winced at the smell on her hands. Stinky sap. Whew. Without thinking she wiped her hands on her cargo shorts. Too late, she remembered where today’s errand would hopefully lead, and how badly she didn’t want to be wearing stinky shorts.

  “Nice,” she panted and shook out her tank-top to let her armpits breathe in the breeze.

  Slowing down to a walk, she glanced around the front of the gas station, expecting to see Ms. Willow. Luckily, there was no sign of her, only her father’s mechanic, manning the counter inside. She spotted her dirt-bike leaning against the side of one of the mechanics bays in the garage.

  Thank you, Jo.

  Candy blew her damp bangs in relief and changed direction to wait under the shade of the sprawling Magnolia tree in a neighboring yard.

  “Okay…email…”

  She pulled her phone out of her backpack and swiped to the home screen. Concentrating on her phone, she stumbled on a creeping tree root and, realizing she was nearing the trunk, she dumped her backpack on the ground and leaned her hand against the ancient bark. Finally opening her inbox, she scrolled through the entries logged several days earlier.

  “Robinson, John,” was stamped like a beacon, twenty-something messages down. She exhaled in relief, and plopped down next to her bag to read.

  “Candy. You’ll never believe it, but I am transferring to Andrew Jackson this year. Weird, right? I’m sure you’ve already heard about my grandfather, and how my dad needs to come help run things for him. I decided to come with him, but mom’s staying here. Will explain more when I get there, but I’m really looking forward to seeing you and experiencing that “quiet” country life this year. John.”

  Candy savored a long, cleansing sigh, settling back against the solid tree trunk and trying not to think too much about the joy rushing over her. She let her head fall back against the old tree, looking up into its interwoven branches, the wide, oval leaves filtering the harsh sunlight overhead. Oblong, delicately scaled, green fruit that gave the Cucumber Magnolia its name were visible here and there; most of them already split open in places to reveal the bright red seeds within. John always said those seeds looked like poison jelly beans. She patted the tree above her head in reverence, always feeling more comfortable in the surety of such an old, constant presence. She closed her eyes, breathed in the sharp scent of leaves, and felt the cool earth under her hands.

  “Candace?” A jarring falsetto sounded around the corner of the shop. “Candace!”

  Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, she shook herself out of her fog and
stood, dusting herself off and waving lazily to the frantic crafter, Ms. Willow. “Hello, ma’am. I’m here.”

  At least half an hour later, after co-appraising each piece and listening to detailed instruction on how the artwork must be handled, Candy gingerly stowed Ms. Willow’s handmade treasures for transport. She really did make nice stuff, and Candy was happy to help her get it sold. Big Joe’s wasn’t an art gallery, by any means, but a fair number of tourists wandered into the grocery and the coffee shop where Mr. Robinson let artisans display their wares, and they always loved local crafts. Candy had heard the instructions many times before, however, and her patience to get on the road was nearing an end.

  Come on come on come on. She was desperate to get the morning errand over with. Her heart skipped a beat in anticipation of what hopefully awaited her at Big Joe’s, beyond Ms. Willow’s craft displays. She donned her backpack and hopped on her bike, assuring the good lady of her artwork’s safety on the ride into town.

  “Now, make sure to put them in the front window and in the case, Candace.”

  Yeah, yeah. Candy fired up the engine to speed the last of the conversation along. Ms. Willow was almost as long-winded as her father.

  “And don’t let Joe put pricing stickers on them—tell him to use the cards I made.” Ms. Willow launched into another repetition of her instructions. Nodding and smiling widely under her sunglasses, Candy gave her bike some gas. “Alright, thank you, Candace. You’re a dear…”

  “No problem, Ma’am. Glad to help.”

  Glancing toward the back door of the mechanic shop, as Ms. Willow finally took her leave, Candy wished once again for the foresight of leaving a spare of clean, sweat-free clothes inside for just such an occasion. Knowing it was her last chance to primp, she rolled her bike over to duck down and view herself in a window. She polished her teeth with the wrist of her leather jacket and ran fingers through her short hair, knowing it would just get crazy again on the ride. Looking around to make sure she was alone, she reached in her shirt and adjusted her breasts, smooshing them closer together in her sports bra to enhance her cleavage.