Beware the Wild

by Natalie C. Parker

“What are you talking about? Who, now?”

  “Your best friend? My brother? Phineas? You’ve been helping him rebuild his Chevelle all year?” His shrug pulls my throat tight. “He disappeared into the swamp yesterday when you were supposed to go to the track, remember?” My mouth is hot and my hands cold, but I keep going. Last chance. If Cody doesn’t remember . . . “He loaned you thirty bucks two weeks ago because you said you needed gas money, but really it was because you thought Samantha was preg—”

  “Hey!” The near-mention of Samantha’s scare has him on his feet. Samantha’s cheeks go red and she smacks his arm. “I give, okay. I really don’t know who you’re talking about. I wish I did,” he says with a nervous glance toward Samantha, who’s looking fit to be tied. “I’m sorry,” he adds, but it’s more for Samantha.

  My tears are too fast for me. The first one is falling down my cheek before I can stop it.

  “You have to believe me,” I say, pleading. “The swamp took Phin and I just need someone to give a damn!”

  Cody looks stunned, like I’ve called his mama a whore. He opens his mouth, but it’s Candy who speaks.

  “What the hell is going on?” she asks, inserting herself between me and the table. “Why don’t we grab a Coke and sit for a minute?”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. I should do as she says, but frustration is a waterfall and I’m already plummeting.

  “No! Candy, you have to remember Phin. You had a crush on him in sixth grade. He’s always in trouble, but he’s stupid smart. He’s planning to leave in the fall because he got that scholarship to Tulane and I’ve been mad at him for months. The swamp took him, Candy. The swamp took him away, it took his whole life away. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not crazy. You know I’m not.”

  “Yeah, I know that, but honestly, Saucier, you’re sounding a little crazy right now. Let’s—”

  “Candy, please!” Tears get in the way. “You have to believe me. Just say you believe me.”

  Candy looks away. I can’t bear her silence. As students gawk, I head straight for the doors.

  The little courtyard is full of noon sun that pulls the AC right off of my skin. I keep moving, slashing at the tears that fill my eyes. We’re not supposed to leave the campus, but no one’s around to enforce it the last week of school and I move easily through the courtyard, out the rear doors, past the teacher parking lot, and around the bleachers. I keep going until I’m on the far side of the football field, running right into the pines and all the way to where the swamp fence curls around on this side of things.

  My breath catches painfully in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on trapping my tears there, but they push through my lids and slide, hot as sunlight, down my cheeks.

  Phineas is gone. He’s not in any of the places he should be and the whole world acts as if it’s fine and dandy for Lenora May to be here instead. Am I crazy? I think, and panic smacks my heart into skipping a step.

  No, I decide, twisting the bracelet on my wrist. Phin is as real as I am.

  I slam my open palm against the fence. “Give him back! I swear on my life I won’t let you have him!” I cry, and slap the plank again.

  I’ve bruised my wrist bone by hitting the bracelet against the fence. I study the piece of silver, the blooming red beneath it. I wonder if Phin really believed it would keep me safe.

  Long minutes pass until somewhere far behind me, the first warning bell trills. The sound calls to mind the chatter of friends, the smell of lunch lurking in the air, and a hollow feeling in my guts.

  I let the walk up the hill take as long as I dare. Inside, the hallways are crowded and anxious. Too many eyes follow as I pass. Not only does news travel fast in this school, but I probably couldn’t have picked a better time to have a spaz attack or a better person to have it on. Even people who’ve never bothered to notice me take the chance to get in a good leer.

  I’m trying so hard not to notice everyone noticing me that I don’t hear the person calling my name as I walk into trig. I only stop because he pulls on my shoulder. Lightly and just once. His hands are already in the pockets of his faded jeans when I turn.

  “Sterling Saucier,” he says again. It sounds like an invocation and I think if he knew my middle name, he’d have included that, too.

  “Heath Durham,” I answer. One corner of his mouth twitches, a feint at a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  We’ve shared a number of classes in the past two years. In fact, near the end of ninth grade, there was a moment when I thought we were heading toward a first date. Heath wasn’t a talker, but when he did talk, the words we shared were sweet and supplemented with notes of the flirting variety.

  And then he shut up.

  For about three weeks, I cursed his name, but by the time sophomore year started, he’d taken a turn for the stoic and unattainable. Drugs are the popular theory, which only serves to make him that much more appealing to most. Not me. I’ve avoided him like death all year. Yet, I can’t deny there’s something about the cut of his honey-gold hair and the uneven slope of his shoulders that makes my mouth hunt for a smile.

  “I heard about your—um—conversation with Cody,” he says, and I stop him right there.

  “It wasn’t anything, okay? A mistake and frankly, none of your business.” I’m more than a little irritated that the time he decides to break his stupor and talk to me again, it’s to take a cheap shot at the girl who’s losing it.

  I turn so fast my hip slams into a desk hard enough to tip it. It crashes to the ground in cacophonous glory. Any eyes that weren’t already on Heath and me surely are now.

  “Sorry,” Heath says loudly so everyone can hear. “I can be such a klutz.”

  I can recognize a kindness even when I’d rather not.

  “It’s okay,” I say, turning to face him as he rights the desk. “And thanks.”

  His nod is barely visible, a quick wink of movement.

  The room begins to fill around us. The imminent exam has siphoned their attention from the crazy girl. Now they frantically review equations and rules, rapidly quizzing each other. I should be doing the same, but Heath catches my hand and pulls me as far from the crowd as we can go. Dusty afternoon light warms my shoulders. But it’s something else that makes my cheeks heat when he bends to speak in my ear.

  “I believe you,” he says, his breath stirring my hair.

  “What?” I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but hope is a weedy thing.

  Just as close, he adds, “About the swamp.”

  I lean away enough to see his face. His eyes are tired but earnest.

  “You believe me,” I repeat because I want it to be true.

  “Can I drive you home?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer without bothering to think about it.

  His brassy eyes brighten. “Okay. Meet me by the magnolia tree after school.”

  “Yeah,” I say again.

  Candy is full of significant glances when I sit down. Thankfully, there’s no time to talk before the exams are passed around. And extra thankfully, this is trig and I can work most of it in my sleep, which is good because there are only three words in my head right now and they’re the best I think I’ve ever heard: I believe you.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  IN STICKS, THERE AREN’T MANY people who actually need to drive to school. Regardless, the student parking lot is a boiling pot of alternately pristine and peeling chrome. Heath stands in the shade of the tall magnolia at the edge of the lot with his hands in his pockets, studying the ground with a steady gaze. He’s oblivious to the ruckus around him as students tumble toward freedom. One boy gives Heath’s arm a friendly punch as he passes. Even that gets little reaction. Just one slow nod of acknowledgment.

  I contemplate the drug rumors.

  I consider the talk that must be going around about me af
ter today.

  “Hey,” I say, stepping from the sidewalk to the grass.

  His eyes are glassy when he looks up, a statue coming to life. “This way.”

  Heath’s truck is one more hand-me-down Ford lost in a sea of trucks. Green and cleaner on the outside than most, he hasn’t made any attempt to fancy it up the way others have. No tacky license plate frame, no fake balls swinging from the hitch, no fancy rims on the tires. The only thing resembling decoration is a faded decal of the sun plastered perfectly in the middle of the rear windows.

  Inside, the cabin smells vaguely of leather and lemons. The floors are lost beneath homework assignments, crushed soda cans, and the summer AP Literature reading list. Baseball caps, maps, and food wrappers cover the dash. I have to slide Fahrenheit 451 and a seriously abused iPod out of the passenger side to make room for myself. I try not to notice the B’s and C’s on the papers at my feet. If they were mine, I’d have burned them, but they’d never have been mine.

  Heath heaves his bag into the little space behind the seats. It lands on a duffel bag and a baseball bat, and I remember that he’s big into baseball. A pitcher, and not a bad one. Before our year of silence, I used to go to the games with Candy and Abigail and watch how calm and sure he was at the center of all that tension.

  It’s hard to remember how brilliant he was back then. He was the sun and everything revolved around him until one day he went dark. And then he started showing up in the back of Darold’s cruiser.

  “Uh,” he starts. “Sorry about the mess. It’s sort of a chronic condition for me.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say, carefully setting my feet on top of his discarded assignments. “I prefer the disasters you can see.”

  He smiles and just like that we’ve reconnected.

  “Coke?” he asks. “My treat.”

  I’m not much of a Coke drinker, but I find myself nodding. “Sounds great.”

  We have three options: Flying J, the only gas station for thirty miles; Sonic, the town’s sole representation of mainstream dining; or Clary General, home of infuriating encounters with Old Lady Clary. He heads to Clary General. I’m unsurprised. He’s a Clary General type of guy.

  As we approach, I see that Phin’s Chevelle is already parked in the gravel lot. My heart boils at the sight.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know how to hot-wire a car, would you?”

  I feel Heath’s eyes settle on me. The truck slows to a crawl, but doesn’t turn in to the lot.

  “No. But I’ve got ten minutes and a smartphone.”

  It doesn’t take ten minutes. In less than five, we’ve discovered that classic cars like Phin’s will turn over for a screwdriver, and have parked Heath’s truck as far from the Chevelle as possible. We don’t have to look any farther than the truck bed to find the same little red toolbox all the boys and men of Sticks seem to carry.

  Heath taps the screwdriver against his leg, considering me or the car, I can’t tell. He says, “You gonna tell me why we’re doing this?”

  “It’s my brother’s,” I say, hoping he’ll let this be enough. “The one the swamp took. I want to keep it safe.” I want to keep it away from her, but I can’t explain that, yet.

  He nods once and steps into action. He retrieves his wallet from the truck, cracks the windows, locks the doors, and joins me, all with the same level of care. Mercifully, the Chevelle is unlocked. Heath slides behind the wheel.

  Clary General is still quiet, but the sun is high and there are plenty of people passing on the street. I remind myself that it’s not theft because the car didn’t belong to Lenora May in the first place. It doesn’t do a whole lot for my nerves.

  Heath has his screwdriver poised for crime.

  “Wait. Let me do that.” I reach for the tool. “Scoot over.”

  He doesn’t argue. I take his place behind the wheel, settling into the wide, leather seat, and verifying my feet reach the pedals. If this were a normal day, they wouldn’t. Phin’s legs are a foot longer than mine, but apparently, Lenora May and I are of comparable height. I grind my teeth at the thought.

  With a little extra pressure, and one disturbing sound, the screwdriver fits neatly into the ignition.

  Wincing, I twist the handle. The engine rumbles to life as the door of Clary General swings open. I catch a glimpse of Lenora May’s dark curls as I reverse out of the parking spot. Without another glace at the door, I kick the Chevelle into third as fast as I can. Gravel sprays behind us as we peel away.

  Heath slouches in his seat, one hand on the window frame, the other on his thigh, a picture of calm in my speeding car.

  “What do you intend to do with this vehicle?” he asks.

  “Put it someplace it won’t be found.”

  We take the side road by the swamp. Half a mile past my house, the road forks; in one direction, an ancient wooden bridge brings you over a wide swath of the Mississippi River, and in the other a gravel road bends around the far side of the swamp. I take the gravel road, slowing to accommodate the choppy, disused terrain.

  No one comes here. Most folks don’t even know it exists.

  I turn down another narrow road that’s nearly invisible below a sprawl of oak trees. The air is cooler here, the branches crossing every which way overhead to veil the sun, each of them bleeding Spanish moss. Fallen twigs snick and pop beneath the tires.

  “How did you ever find this place?” Heath peers through the open window at the canopy above. I’m pleased at the appreciation in his voice.

  “I didn’t.” Heath looks at me, an eyebrow arched in question, but I shake my head. He doesn’t know what kind of story he’s asking for. “This isn’t even it. Just wait.”

  The trees open; behind them the sun splashes over a tall, long-forgotten plantation house. White paint peels away in long scrolls, exposing pale, aged pine beneath. Wide-open porches and balconies crawl around every corner. It’s remarkably intact: the roofline’s square and not a window is broken.

  I tuck the Chevelle around the side beneath a low-bending oak branch and then together, Heath and I get out and climb the five steps to the front door. An old metal plaque nailed to the right of the door says LILLARD HOUSE, 1778.

  Heath tries the door. The lock rattles securely. He cranes his head, following the arch of the door frame. “Ever been inside?”

  “No. Everything’s locked up tight and has been for years.”

  Heath’s lost in the grandeur of this place. He walks the length of the porch, peering in windows, his hands cupped against the light.

  I remember the first time I saw the house. It was late one summer night. Phineas and I had escaped one of Dad’s drunken rages. Neither of us was brave enough to try the swamp. Instead, we ran and ran, and when the Lillard House loomed ghostly white in front of us, it was a relief. I collapsed on the porch and Phin sat with an arm around me while I cried myself dry.

  But standing on the porch now, I feel an invasive memory creeping in. One of running through those same woods with Lenora May. She gripped my hand, helped me up when I stumbled, and when I couldn’t stop crying, she held my face her in own trembling hands and said, “This is our place. It’s safe.” She pulled me away from the house, beneath the dark canopy of oak trees and said, “We’re so safe here, we can scream our hearts out.”

  And then she screamed at the sky. It was a vicious and brave noise. At first, it frightened me. I thought Dad would hear, but when she did it again and nothing happened, I joined her.

  She held both of my hands and we tipped our heads back and screamed.

  Except we didn’t.

  It’s not real.

  The real memory is Phineas wrapping his thin arms around me and telling me I was safe, safe, safe as long as he was with me. The real memory is Phineas saying it was Mama’s fault for not being strong and, even as he said it, we both knew it wasn’t true. The real memory is leaning into that porch like it had arms to fold around us and falling asleep there.

  Behind the house a little
field spills away toward the edge of the swamp. This time of year, clusters of wild sweet William grow in blue patches, like the sky dropped down and left bits of itself behind. Heath eyes it all with a quiet focus that I suspect means he’s thinking. If he wasn’t, he’d pick a point for his eyes to stick to and fade away the way I’ve seen him do a thousand times from the last row of the classroom.

  “Jezuz,” he says, having explored the back porch from one end to the other. “How does a place like this fall off the map?”

  That idea doesn’t seem as strange as it might have a few days ago. If a mother can forget her own son, a town forgetting a relic of the past century seems easy as dying.

  “The swamp’s down there.” I point to where a few pine trees mark the edge. They’re older and more dense than the trees behind my house, the fence is hidden beneath their heavy, needled boughs.

  A small shudder passes through Heath’s shoulders. He doesn’t speak right away. Just watches me with a little distance in his eyes. Then he says, “I don’t know who you lost, but I remember what it was like. When no one believed me.”

  Quickly, I run through what I know about Heath and his family. The Durhams live in the wealthiest part of town, in the faux plantation-style homes, which sit on a few cozy acres of land, none of which touch the swamp. His dad’s a farmer and his mom’s an engineer or something else fancy like that, and he doesn’t have any siblings. At least, none I’ve ever heard of.

  “Nathan Payola,” he says. He waits for me to react, but there’s nothing for me to react to. Angrily, he adds, “He was my best friend.”

  Because I know what it feels like, I wish I could tell Heath I remembered Nathan, but the name sparks absolutely nothing inside me. So I say the same thing Heath told me that I found comfort in. “I believe you.”

  I commit the name to memory, Nathan Payola, anchoring as firmly as I did Phin’s. It’s only familiar because there are Payolas in town. But Doc Payola and his wife never had childr—

  As soon as the thought crosses my mind, a fog I hadn’t known was there begins to clear. A memory shakes itself loose: a boy lurking behind his mother’s desk with a stack of old books in Doc Payola’s waiting room. His name was Nathan. The more certain I become, the more he settles in my mind. As with Lenora May, there are memories of the Payolas being childless sitting side by side with memories of their son.