The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1)

by Sarah Wathen

  “You went off with that foreigner, didn’t you?” her cousin sulked. He was trying to seem tough, but he sounded like the bratty child he was. “Where’d you go?”

  “Listen, I don’t mind you sock-hoppin’ along when I’ve got some business to attend to. But don’t try to foxtrot, little brother.”

  “I ain’t your brother, and you know it. We’s just cousins. We could even get married, if we wanted.”

  “What?” Charlotte laughed, familiar with her cousin’s little crush. “You’re so cute, Ty.” She bent to give him a kiss on his cheek, but he swatted her away.

  “Stop it.” He twisted away from her and stalked down the path to the river. She could hear him muttering about finding out what she’d been up to.

  “Look, Buster Brown. You had better stay outta things that don’t concern you.”

  “Stop baby-talking me!” he screeched, enraged.

  “Stop throwing baby-tantrums, then.”

  His voice was smothered by forest undergrowth as he tramped towards the river in a string of muttered obscenities.

  “Or I’ll give you a spanking,” it was mean, but she couldn’t help it, “you little twerp.” She heard him scream with fury in the distance, before silence fell around her again. “Oh, come on, Tyler. How you gonna get home?”

  Charlotte waited, listening for his answer or the sound of returning footsteps. She hoisted herself up onto the low courtyard wall, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. Her feet dangled, and she blew smoke into a cloud of gnats nearby, watching and waiting for Tyler to return.

  chapter thirty-three

  Candy watched wet clay blur into glassy smoothness as it rotated on the potter’s wheel. She poked a thumb down into the center of the flattened ball to make a doughnut, then eased the hole out wider. Two fingers under the outside pinched a lip and she pulled up a thick, spinning wall between thumb and fingers. She dug her fingernail in and pressed with her thumb. Instant patterns encircled the cylinder. So graceful. When the clay wall became too thin to support its own weight, the tower began to buckle. Candy let her hands go limp and heavy, and the little structure was crushed. “Good-bye.”

  It was such a satisfying feeling. She cupped the mound of clay in both hands and braced her elbows against her knees. Her palms forced the rotating clay back into a smooth, centered ball, and she began again. She reached over into the bucket of slip sitting next to her stool and brought out a handful of water for sprinkling. Approving of the next song in her playlist, she shifted her hips to get more comfortable, and noticed her butt was starting to fall asleep.

  Jeez, how long have I been throwing? Throwing pots settled her mind. Her insides felt calm and connected to the earth, enough that she could stop thinking for a while—stop beating herself up for saying all the wrong things to Sam. Stop feeling like an exposed nerve. A live wire. It was over two weeks since she spoke to Sam and she hadn’t seen him once. The empty chasm his absence created felt dulled when she was calm, at least. The pain wasn’t quite as sharp.

  Louis bent sideways into her line of vision, hanging his head almost upside down, with his features twisted into a clown face.

  “Is that supposed to be funny? You’re freaking me out,” she said over the music playing in her headphones.

  Louis clamped his hands over his own ears and pretended to scream, to indicate she was yelling. She decided enough was enough. She wiped her hands on the towel in her lap and shut off her music.

  “Candy’s back on Earth. Are you coming to lunch, or are you going to work through it again?”

  “No, I’m coming. Let me clean up.” She dumped the bulk of her clay into her bucket and used a rubber rib to scrape the plate before flipping the switch under her wheel.

  “Didn’t get any good pieces, after a whole hour?” Louis asked.

  “Huh?” Candy realized she hadn’t saved any of her pots, though she’d pulled several beautiful specimens. “Oh…nah. I have all the pieces I need for this week’s assignment already.”

  Louis frowned. “You’re so gloomy lately, what’s up?”

  Candy shrugged, collecting her tools and not bothering to answer.

  “Hey, you should come to youth group this Wednesday—that’ll cheer you up. Pastor Dave even has a live band playing. Why won’t you go anymore, girlfriend?”

  “Maybe…” She couldn’t think of anything less cheery than youth group.

  “Your buddy Antonio played drums last week.”

  Candy walked over to one of the slop sinks to wash out her tools. She felt someone watching her and glanced up to find a couple of girls sitting together at one of the drawing tables. They had been studying her, but when Candy looked over, their eyes darted away and one of them made a shushing hand gesture. She looked at Louis, her mind fully alert. “What was that about?”

  His face apologized for the two girls. “You haven’t heard the rumors yet? Tell me it ain’t true—you’re supposed to be in love with me.”

  “What’s not true? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Louis.”

  “Someone’s spreading the word that you’re gay, darling.”

  “What?” Candy almost choked on the irony of it. There she was pining away for Sam, still weak in the knees with her memories, and people were saying that she was a lesbian? She snatched up her things and dragged Louis to the door. “That’s ridiculous, who’s saying that?”

  “Some catty bimbo, some catty bimbo’s friends?” He walked out into the hallway and she followed in a daze, her mind reeling.

  “You know I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay,” she stopped to face Louis. She wanted him to know she was not upset about the “gay” part. Louis had come out to her at the beginning of that summer; he felt out of place about it in Shirley County and she wanted him to feel comfortable with her. She was the only person who knew, though, so she checked herself in case the little birds were listening. “You know, my Aunt Melinda is gay.”

  He laughed and hugged her against him as they walked. “I know what you meant, Candy.”

  “If only I didn’t care so much for stupid boys, honestly.”

  “I hope I’m not included in that assessment of the male gender.”

  “You know you’re not. You’re a man, not a boy.” She stopped talking when a couple of girls ducked their heads into an open locker, giggling as she and Louis walked past. “Oh please. Gimme a break.”

  Louis scoffed in wholehearted agreement, then a female voice rang out behind them. “Hi, Tonio.” Candy turned around to see Antonio striding past a pretty senior girl with long, curly blonde locks. He ignored the girl, his eyes fixed on Candy.

  “There you are, honey.” He gave Louis five, then took both of Candy’s hands in his and kissed first her left cheek, then her right. The blonde suddenly decided she had forgotten something, and turned a clumsy pirouette. The gigglers gaped at each other in shock and dismay.

  “‘Nough of this bull-dookie. I’m starved, let’s get lunch,” Louis insisted.

  Antonio held out his hand and said with remarkable fluidity, “Yeah, let’s get outta here.”

  Candy accepted and the three of them made their way to the cafeteria. She glanced around for signs of Sam (fruitlessly, of course), simultaneously relishing the jealous eyes darting away in theatrical unconcern. The surprised appraisals of her apparent couple-hood with Antonio were easy to savor. Once in the cafeteria, he even pulled her chair out for her.

  The Italian macho thing has its perks. She sank into the chair, trying to stifle her smile.

  He sat down, saddle-style, and scooted his chair closer to hers. Louis made a hasty retreat. She didn’t want Antonio to get the wrong idea, no matter how grateful she was of his chivalry. “Um, Antonio. Thanks for that back there, but you know I don’t…I mean, we’re not really…”

  “We are just friends. I know this, Candy.�
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  “Oh. Well. Good.”

  “Your heart belongs to another.” His face revealed no ill feelings, only kindness.

  “You know?”

  “I know women.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice, his big brown eyes creasing at the corners. “You have the…” he gazed far away in the distance, clutching his chest with feigned desperation, “the look in your eyes.”

  Candy laughed. His imitation was probably spot-on. “Distant looks? Yeah, I guess I’ve been a little melodramatic lately. Don’t know who it is, though, do you?”

  He cocked his head and squinted, considering. “Not John.” She shook her head, smiling. “Though your eyes, eh…” He mimed an explosion with his hands in front of his own eyes, searching for the right word.

  “Light up?”

  “Yes. Light up, when John is here.”

  “I love John, he always makes me happy. Well, usually…” She was still feeling the fool, after John dug up Sam’s history and threw it in her face. She was mostly mad at herself for not knowing what to say in Sam’s defense, though. John was always correct with the details, but he missed the point sometimes. “You’re not disappointed or anything?”

  “By love? Never. Seriously, you know I sign the contract?”

  Candy swung her knees around to face him. “I heard about that, but I thought it was a joke. Like, you promised not to have ‘relations’ with under-aged girls or something?”

  Antonio’s maturity manifested in an instant. “Is no joke. Candy, I come here to learn. My studies are very important, yes?”

  She thought about his work-study program in veterinary medicine the previous year, and considered the level of commitment necessary to undertake a year-long foreign language immersion program. He really did seem much older than most of her friends. “I understand. I’m sure they are.”

  “But, you are beautiful girl. I cannot tell you this?”

  She searched his face for a few beats. He was being genuine. “Yes, you can. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome. And,” he clapped his cheeks in mock surprise, as he rose from his seat, “Maybe, I have woman on the side, eh? You never know.” Her eyebrows shot up in astonishment. He sauntered away towards the hot-lunch line, winking at the girls and making hip-level, shooting-gun gestures to the guys.

  “Hey, Candy.” She was jerked out of her reverie when Erica dumped her book bag and plopped down in the seat across the table. “I am so glad it’s lunch time.”

  “Rough day, already?”

  Erica groaned. “It’s just that I already have so much homework, and we’ve only finished fourth period.”

  “Yeah, they’re really piling it on this year.” Candy agreed, but she wasn’t in the mood to chat.

  “My dad says if I don’t get a better handle on it, then he won’t let me go out on school nights anymore. Even open studios in Ender’s—hey, where were you at the last one, by the way? You never miss First Thursdays.”

  “Eh.”

  Candy actually had attended, lingering in the outskirts and looking for Sam. After their fight at Rachel’s that day, she skulked around the area for a while, trying to work up the courage to go back and apologize for blowing up on him. She lost the battle, but she went back for the open studios. When she didn’t see any sign of Sam outside once the party started, she figured he was purposely making himself scarce and she took off.

  “I saw Sam at Rachel’s studio,” Erica said, barely audible. “Last night.”

  Candy froze. Erica knew, of course she knew. She kept her eyes on her lunch bag, excavating its contents and placing sandwich, water bottle and apple before her with care. She wished Erica would say something and end the torturous silence. “You see him more than I do these days, then.” She finally shrugged, trying for nonchalance. She knew it wouldn’t work—Candy never wasted her time with stupid friends.

  “I guess he was working. You know, doing Rachel’s bidding,” said Erica, testing the waters. “She keeps him busy.”

  Candy rolled her eyes, chopping on her sandwich. I bet she does.

  “Well, I was done in my dad’s workshop, so we talked for a while. He said Rachel helped him get enrolled into a work-study program, and he’ll be doing that for the rest of the year.” Erica seemed to want to add, “I’m sorry,” to her revelation.

  “That’s nice to know.”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s why he…hasn’t been around much, lately.” She trailed off awkwardly.

  Candy tried to cool the blush that was surely blooming in her face. How infuriating that Erica had to tell her about the work-study—that she hadn’t already known herself. She sighed, resigned to give up her pride for the reward of more information. “So…I guess he’s doing really well with the glass apprenticeship?”

  “I think he is, yeah. I heard Rachel say he really has a knack for it, and he’s willing to work hard, and put in long hours.”

  “He’s always worked a lot.”

  “Yeah, and Mr. Davis helped push the paperwork through, even though the school year had already started. That’s weird for him to help like that—Mr. Davis is usually such a dick. You should have seen him lecturing his daughter, Missy, right in front of everyone the other day. Poor thing, she looked so embarrassed. I’m so glad my parents don’t work at school.”

  “Well. I’m glad Sam’s found something that he likes. He must be really happy?” ventured Candy. Erica had a tendency to get side-tracked. Just a little more info, please?

  “Mmmm…” Erica screwed up her face in calculation as she chewed her lunch. “I don’t know if he seemed happy, exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, after everything was closing up, you know? Rachel lets my dad store his bigger instruments in her studio for the night sometimes—Dad was kinda toasted last night, and she has such a big space.” Candy knitted her brows together in frustration. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I was putting Dad’s stuff in the front room and I heard piano music coming from the back.”

  A prickle ran up Candy’s spine, from a memory just at the edge of her consciousness. “Piano music?”

  “Yeah. So, I kinda crept back there—”

  “Why did you creep?”

  “It just sounded…I don’t know, like something no one else was supposed to hear. Private, somehow.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it was sort of...melancholy.” She searched the ceiling with her eyes. “Really melancholy. Chopin, I think, but I don’t know his music that well. A nocturne or something. Plus, it was pretty late and Ender’s was deserted. Even Rachel had gone home.”

  “And it was Sam,” Candy said flatly, certain of it. The memory of his odd behavior when they found that grand piano at the Buffalo Lodge finally clicked into place.

  “Did you know he could play?”

  She raised her brows and shoulders in defeated admittance. “He never told me he couldn’t.”

  “He’s very good. He played in the sort of way that a person does when they really love their instrument, and have been away from it for too long.” Erica would know an accomplished musician when she heard one.

  “What did he say when he saw you?”

  “Oh, he didn’t. No, I felt sure that he would not have liked me being there—like I had walked in on a personal moment. I crept back out as quiet as I could.” Erica smiled at her own deviousness, proud to deliver an important chunk of information to her friend.

  “Thanks, Erica.” Oddly, Candy was unsurprised by the new piece of the Sam puzzle. She was almost comforted; Erica said the music was melancholy. Could he be missing her as much as she was missing him?

  “You’ve really never heard him play?”

  “Nope.” How could she have heard something for which she had never bothered to listen?

  “Here come the menfolk,” Erica warned.


  John and Antonio banged their cafeteria trays down, deeply involved in conversation about an imminent football game. She smiled but tuned them out, imagining how Sam would look playing Chopin. She knew that music and there was one that was her favorite: Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op 23. Was it sick to hope he was playing that one? It was the saddest song in the world.

  Candy finished her food, nodding and smiling, her mind detached. A glance at her watch showed her the lunch hour was dragging by at a turtle’s pace. She snapped to attention, however, when she noticed how red Erica’s face had become. Her friend was smiling ear to ear and practically catching fire with embarrassed pleasure, averting her eyes from John. Conversation crept back into Candy’s awareness. Had John just asked Erica to the Homecoming dance, after she complained of never going? Antonio was leaving his chair to bend a knee, next to hers.

  “La mia bella amica, you would please to company me to the ball?”

  Oh, shit. “Homecoming is over a month away, guys. Isn’t it a little early for this?” She hesitated, looking for support, first at Erica who was still gushing, and then to John. His face was unreadable.

  “Please, Candy.” Antonio was wearing a brotherly smile. A dozen heads were turned toward their table in anticipation.

  “Okay.”

  chapter thirty-four

  Sam looked through the window on top of the sand blasting cabinet. He couldn’t see a damn thing. The protective film covering the inside had been blasted along with the ornament. Again. He set the glass piece on the venting grate, pulled his hands free of the long rubber gloves, and opened the door for a better look. A fine cloud of sand and glass dust wafted out, and he was glad he’d kept his face-mask in place. Rachel was right; it was a hard, dirty job. But steady, and he liked that.

  Dangerous, too. One day, when he’d been polishing the lips on a line of champagne flutes, he lost his grip and the grinding wheel yanked a glass out of his hand; it flew past his face and shattered on the wall behind him. Sometimes, pieces couldn’t hold up to the blasting and would break apart in his hands. Or, he’d bump something delicate while pulling it out of the cabinet and it was broken glass everywhere. The concrete floors of the studio were often wet and slippery (everyone was too busy to stop and clean throughout the day, and it was messy work), and he’d lost his footing more than once. It all added up to the same thing: lot’s of shit broken, all the time.