Sliding On The Edge

by C. Lee McKenzie

  I snap the book closed and stand up. That’s all I can take. I walk directly to the picnic table and tap Casey on the shoulder. “I just wanted to conclude our conversation. Don’t even come near me anymore. You smell like troll, and troll is a turn-off.”

  “Who is she?” The blond with the boobs asks.

  When I look at her and then at the other girl next to her, I choke. They look exactly alike.

  The Troll mumbles something about my being a new student.

  “What’s your problem?” one twin asks.

  “Hold on, Deanna.” Casey says, and he turns to face me. “I get to ask that question. What is your problem, Shawna?”

  “I don’t have a problem as long as you stay away from me. Your present company stinks, and I don’t want it to rub off on me.” I look at the twins and at The Troll. “Spell stink with a capital S. I leave them all with their mouths open.

  I cram the books I don’t need for my next class into my locker and go to the girls’ room. When I come out, Casey is propped against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Hold up,” he says.

  I stop a few feet away and face him. “Guess you don’t hear too well. I told you—”

  Casey steps toward me. “I hear better than you think. I hear a city freak wise ass trying to out shout a cornered kid. If you can’t hate it, you’re afraid of it. How close am I?”

  Our eyes lock onto each other. The end-of-lunch bell rings, and kids pour around us like we’re boulders in a river current.

  “I’ll meet you after school today. We got business to take care of.” He pushes past me, brushing my shoulder with his hand.

  “Business? What’s that supposed—?” He’s already down the hall. I shiver, but I’m not getting my old shakes. This is totally different.

  Chapter 25

  Shawna

  That afternoon at the end of class, I jump from my seat before the bell stops and push out of the door ahead of students who sit in the front of the room. I run to the exit and take the steps two at a time.

  I already have one shrink in my future and don’t want Casey, the wanna-be shrink, coming down on my head about the two sides of me he hears whenever I talk to him. The air is warm. A breeze whips dried leaves into little tornados across the lawn, and I think about what winter might be like in Sweet River. That reminds me, Kay’s talking about more shopping. Gawd! And the word parka crept into the conversation, so I already see myself wadded up in an Eskimo suit.

  “Escaping?”

  I don’t have to turn around. I know Casey’s voice. “I have to meet Kay.” I try to look busy, searching for Kay’s truck.

  “I told her I’d pick you up and bring you home today. Hop in.”

  It has to be a conspiracy, Sweet River against Shawna. “Why? And who do you think you are, anyway?”

  “The guy with the wheels who’s going to get you the six miles to Kay’s ranch.”

  He wouldn’t look so smug if I hauled off and socked him in the jaw, something I consider while gritting my teeth to keep from telling him to get lost. But six miles is one hell of a hike. I swing my backpack off my shoulder and walk to the curb. He stands next to his black Chevy pickup and holds open the passenger door. His truck looks a lot better than Kay’s. It’s clean inside and out, and the upholstery doesn’t look like a cat has shredded it.

  With his free hand, he ushers me inside and closes the door. When he climbs in the driver seat and starts the engine, he looks at me.

  “What?”

  “Seat belt.”

  Does every driver in this place follow DMV seat-belt rules one hundred percent of the time? I pull the belt around myself and shove the buckle into the clasp.

  When I look out, The Troll is on the lawn, watching. I close my eyes as we sweep past. But I think she waves as we go by. Is she dim? Or is she like a dog that always noses people who hate dogs? What do I have to do to keep her and her stench away from me?

  Once in the cab, Casey doesn’t say anything. And I’m so used to not talking when Kay comes to pick me up that I don’t even notice. I do notice that he doesn’t take the turnoff to the ranch, and instead drives into Sweet River, where he pulls up in front of Rural Supply and gets out

  “Come on.” He opens the passenger door and waits for me to climb down.

  “Why are we going in here?”

  “I told you, business. Do you have some money?” He walks inside the store and leaves me standing by the truck.

  “Money?” I follow him into the store. He’s at the counter, talking to the guy Kay says owns the place. Max? Moe? Something with an M.

  “Shawna.” Casey calls. “You know Max, right?”

  I nod.

  “He has your bill ready. You got twenty on you?”

  What’s he talking about? I narrow my eyes, knowing something is coming down and I’m not going to like it. Take it head on. Look like you know what this is about. I walk to the counter and open my backpack. I’ve tucked Kenny’s generous salary, all of twenty a week, into the outside pocket. I pull it out and drop it on the counter.

  Max gives me fifteen cents in change, writes on a piece of paper, and shoves it across to me, saying, “Account settled. Next time I’d appreciate your paying when you take the merchandise.”

  I don’t look at him or the paper, but I fold it in half and stuff it into my backpack, along with my change.

  “I’m sure she’ll do that. Right, Shawna?”

  I swing my backpack over one shoulder and pretend I didn’t hear.

  “Bye, Max. See you next week when I pick up Kay’s order,” Casey says. Then he puts his hand at my back and pushes me out the door. “Come on, Shawna, I’ll buy you a Coke now that you’re down to your last fifteen cents!”

  I can’t believe it. He’s laughing at me.

  “I don’t drink Coke.” I climb into the truck and stare out the side window.

  “Then I’ll buy you a 7-Up.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Then you can watch me drink!” He steps on the gas a little hard and we squeal away from Rural Supply.

  How did Casey find out about the vitamins? This is the first time I’ve ever been caught, and it has to be by a guy named Max in Podunk Sweet River and a Sunday Boy. I must be slipping.

  The café in Sweet River reminds me of an old movie set. Brick walls and ruffled curtains are the main decorations. The tables wobble under red-and-white checked cloths, and when I pull out a chair, flakes of four different paint layers come off on my hand. Casey orders a Coke and a glass of water with a lemon slice on the side. When the waitress brings our order, he squeezes the lemon slice into the water and shoves the glass in front of me. “I don’t want your sour level to go down.”

  Before I can push up from the table, he has me by my wrist and I can’t move.

  “What is wrong with you?” I say between gritted teeth.

  “That’s the question I keep asking you, remember? And I’m not the only one around school who’s asking it.” He sips his Coke, but holds onto my wrist like a rein on a runaway horse. “What is wrong with you, Shawna? The first day I saw you from the barn, I thought you looked like someone I’d like to know. I’ve tried to talk to you every time I see you, to let you know who I am. And you... you’re plain nasty in return.”

  “It’s my middle name. Now do you mind letting the blood back into my hand?”

  He lets go and sits back, staring at me. “Okay. I’m finished.”

  He goes to the cash register and pays the check. Without looking back, he opens the door and walks out to his truck. He starts the engine and waits until I get in and click my seat belt in place, but he never looks at me or speaks until we reach Kay’s.

  “End of the line,” he says, when he pulls to a stop at the house.

  I climb out and hold the door open. “End of the line,” I repeat. “Are you a prophet and a psychologist, Casey?”

  “I’m neither one, but I’ll tell you this, if you lift s
omething from Max’s again, he’ll go to the cops. Max has his eye on you, and I’m not running interference for you again.”

  I glance toward the barn, where Kay is working a horse on a line in the open arena.

  “Kay doesn’t know,” he says, and before I can close the door on the truck, he reaches across and slams it. He does a one-eighty in the driveway and tears down the rutted road, a brown comet trailing behind.

  Chapter 26

  Shawna

  Sunday, again! Arrrg! In Sweet River there are more Sundays than any other day of the week, I swear. I decide that instead of staying at the ranch to watch the manure pile heat up, I’ll hitch a ride into Sweet River and do a little exploring on my own. It’s like decades since I’ve had some time without Kay or Kenny riding herd on me.

  See? You’re even starting to think like them, Shawna

  I get up early before Kenny comes to the house and before Kay makes her coffee. I say adios to Buster, who needs a few rocks thrown his way before he gets the picture and turns around. Then I walk down to the main road. I no sooner stick out my thumb than a truck pulls to a stop and the man hooks his thumb at me to jump in. Cool.

  “Where you off to, honey?” he asks.

  “Just to town for a few hours.” I use the voice that always distracted tourists while Mom lifted their wallets.

  “Where d’ya live?”

  “Down there.” I point toward Kay’s. “You know Kay Stone?”

  “No. Can’t recall that name,” he says.

  Everybody for twenty miles knows my grandmother, so right here I think, you should get out, now. But do I? No. It’s Sunday, a day that’s longer than a freight train. I’ve got nothing but escape on my mind.

  We pull into Sweet River, and the man asks me to join him for coffee.

  “I’m buying, sweetheart. You can’t pass up a free cup of java, right?”

  To give myself a little credit for not being entirely loopy, I check inside the café and see four people inside. I figure there’s safety in numbers. I shrug. “Sure.”

  So by nine o’clock, I’m sitting at one of the wobbly tables, my elbows on red-and-white checkered plastic, sipping coffee. He orders waffles, but I stick with coffee and turn down food.

  “So, Shawna, what’s a pretty young thing such as yourself doing in Sweet River?” The waitress brings his waffles and he buries them under butter pats and an inch of syrup. He cuts off big chunks of the fried dough and stuffs them into his mouth. When he chews he smacks his lips and syrup seeps out and slides down his chin.

  I make up a story. “I’m visiting my grandmother while my mother tours Europe in a Shakespearean play.” His eyes glaze a bit on the Shakespearean reference, and I smile.I stop smiling when I feel his hand slide up my knee.

  I’m on my feet so fast that the people sitting near us jump and look under their tables to see if something is crawling across the floor.

  “Oh, come on. Sit down,” the man says, licking his lips and slugging down the last of his coffee. “I was just being friendly.”

  “I don’t do friendly,” I say. I’m at the door and pulling it open. The glass panes rattle when I shut it behind me, and my insides rattle the same way.

  Stupid! Stupid! I clench my fists and take a deep breath. Sweet River has a population of eight hundred and sixty-one. Eight hundred and fifty-nine people are like Kay and Kenny, but do I hitch a ride into town with any of them? Noooo. I get the one pervert in town.

  In Las Vegas, I’m a cat. I can slink along the wall so nobody sees me if I don’t want them to, and I never get caught by some skank jumping out of the alley and grabbing me like I always read about in the newspapers. Nobody’s going to stuff me into the trunk of a car! But what just happened is pathetic. Sweet River is acting like tenderizer. I’m getting soft—Sweet River soft.

  I burn where he touched me, five fat fingers spread across my knee and I have to get it off. I pull up my jeans, spit into my hand and rub on the place, but it’s a brand and it’s getting hotter. I’m freaking. The shakes are bubbling to the surface.

  I look both ways along the main street. A drugstore, a market, a hardware line up to my left. The Sweet River barbershop, a bank, and the fire station are on my right, and if I go in that direction, I’ll wind up on the highway back to Kay’s. Straight across the street is a grassy area with a plastic slide and a couple of rusty swings. A narrow street circles up from the main one and winds up the hill behind the park, so I cross over and climb the hill, thinking that at least I can get out of the old pervert’s line of sight.

  I reach the top of the first turn in the road and look back on the grassy park and across at the café. His truck is still parked in front.

  Still stuffing his fat face.

  I turn and walk up further, until I can’t see the town anymore. I come to what I guess is the residential part of Sweet River, but the houses look more like small rooms, leaning every which way like crooked teeth. They’re tucked under trees and behind shrubs that nobody’s hacked back since the last century, so I can only see a door or a window, and sometimes a corner of a place peeking through branches.

  I have to duck where the vines or the tree limbs dangle low over the road, and I keep tripping on roots that bulge out of the dirt.

  I didn’t plan a hike!

  I should go back down, but I don’t want to run into old waffle lips again. I’ll give him enough time to eat the café out of supplies; then I’ll head back to the highway and hitch a ride to Kay’s. I need water. I have to wash my knee. I have to wash the coffee out of my mouth. I have. . . The shakes. I’ve got ’em now. Can’t stop. Keep walking. That usually helps.

  I look into the yards as I pass, until I find one with a hose hooked to a spigot in the front. I turn on the faucet and hose off my knee. I don’t care if my jeans get soaked. I gulp the cold hose water, spit, and douse my face. When I look up, I about drop my upper teeth.

  “Hi, Shawna.”

  It’s The Troll. She’s standing on the front steps, looking at me.

  I put the hose down and back away. “Sorry. I was thirsty. I didn’t know I was taking your water.”

  “It’s like all the other water around here. It won’t kill you just because it comes out of my hose.”

  “No. I didn’t mean it that way. I just—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  I really hate it when someone says that to me. Nobody knows what I mean unless I tell them, and I’m not telling her a thing!

  “Thank you for the water. That’s what I mean and nothing else.” Great, Shawna. You went and told her what you mean and you just said you weren’t going to do that. What’s wrong with you?

  “If you’re not scared to come inside, I can give you cold water in a glass.” The Troll leans against the doorjamb. “The glass is clean.”

  “I never said it wasn’t!”

  She laughs. I’ve never seen her do anything except stare at me or whisper warnings, and now she stands there laughing!

  “You don’t have to say it, Shawna. Who knows, maybe I read minds.” She turns to go inside, and then looks back. “Coming?”

  Today is not working out as I’d planned. First I get a ride from a fat-handed freak, and then I get cornered by my high school troll buddy. Man, I shoulda stayed home and watched the Sunday Boys. No, I can’t do that anymore. Casey might stab me with a pitchfork.

  I follow her inside.

  I swear, the house is smaller and darker than a broom closet, and marbles would roll into the back corners of the living room if you put them in the center of the floor. I feel like I’m visiting Puzzle World, where nothing’s actually level.

  “Come into the kitchen.” The Troll calls from the other room, and I back through the doorway, still trying to make sense of the living room. When I turn, she’s holding out a glass of water. “This house is really old.”

  “How old?”

  “A hundred and fifty years. All of them are about the same on this road. Miners built rooms to
live in during the Gold Rush. Other people came later and added on to them.”

  I drink the water and give her back the glass.

  “More?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “You want to see my room?” The Troll doesn’t wait for me to answer. She presses past me, back into the living room and turns right, down a short, narrow hall.

  I duck my head and fold my arms across my chest before I follow her. The low door and ceiling make me feel like a giant.

  Her room is big and it has light from windows along the back wall. The bed is small but neat, and covered with a pink flowered bedspread and one pink pillow. The Troll in pink. Who would have thought? Her desk stands against the opposite wall, and it shines from so much polishing that the dark, sleek wood reflects my face.

  “Nice.” I’m trying to get over what I’m seeing. The Troll has a great room. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Ten years. My mom has a job at the bank. It’s close, so she can walk to work. Saves money on gas.”

  “You and your mom live alone?” Not that I’m really interested.

  She nods. “My dad left before I was born.”

  “Uh-huh.” I could add stuff about my dad, but I don’t. Keep to yourself, Shawna. Play your hand close. It’s the only way to win. “What’s your real name?” I ask before I think how that’s going to sound, but she misses the point, and I don’t have to walk around the slur.

  “Marta. Don’t you hear Mrs. Heady all the time? Marta, stand up straight. Marta, go to the board. Marta, do this. Marta, do that.”

  “Guess I wasn’t listening.”

  “That’s what I thought. You’re someplace else most of the time.” She sits on the edge of her bed. “Sit down.” She motions toward the desk chair. “I know you don’t like me, but it doesn’t really matter. You don’t like anybody, so I don’t take it personally.”

  I open my mouth to tell her to stuff it, but instead say, “I’m new, so I don’t know all the ropes yet.”

  “You know a lot more ropes than the rest of us. You’ve got to. I mean Las Vegas!” Marta laughs like she did before, kind of nervous.

  I stand up and almost tip the chair over.