Beware the Wild

by Natalie C. Parker

  “It’s nothing. Flour. I had a fight with Lenora May and she took off. I . . . need to find her.”

  She doesn’t press, but I have the sense that she gleans more than enough. It’s as difficult to hide from her as it is from a military drone. “Lucky for you,” she says, “I’ve got a good idea where she might be.”

  We turn up Candy’s road and zip past rows of one-story brick houses on lots too big for a push mower. The Pickens residence is skirted by millions of blooming fuchsia and hot pink azaleas, and stone sculptures of everything from frogs to strange bird-gods peek through bushes. After a few miles, the houses give way to piney woods, and the road gets narrow and dark. There’s an old bicycle reflector nailed to a tree, marking the barely-there road that leads to the track. It’s only wide enough for one car and thankfully it’s only a half mile long. If you meet someone coming the opposite direction, you either practice being pigheaded, or you practice driving in reverse. It’s early enough that we don’t have to do either. We drive straight to where the track’s already buzzing with test runs.

  Thursday night at the racetrack is a typical hangout in Sticks, but it’s only special during finals week and Mardi Gras. That’s when absolutely everyone goes. Candy actually likes the cars, or so she says, but except for Phin’s, I couldn’t give a fig about them. I like the track because it’s dark and loud and exciting. This is exactly where Phin would be, so there’s more than a good chance Candy’s right and this is where Lenora May is, too.

  A few reconstituted telephone poles surround the track, each supporting powerful floodlights. There’s seating in the shape of a short stack of rusty bleachers that barely stretch the length of the track. Cars are parked sporadically around the western bend, all of their noses lit up and pointing inward. Dust and moths float in and out of the streams of light, lazy and frantic.

  Candy parks a short distance from the field. She stopped parking with everyone else the day Mitch Lome lost control of his car and slid into the cluster of trucks at the bend.

  She asks, “You gonna tell me what the fight was about? Or am I just here for emotional support?”

  I pause before answering. She’s always been the sort of friend I could call in the middle of the night. No matter what the problem was, I could count on Candy to break things down to their simplest parts and give me a plan of action. She’s decisive even if she’s not always compassionate. That’s why it was my first instinct to call her, and also why I shouldn’t have.

  “This is about your supposed brother, isn’t it?”

  She’s also not forgetful.

  But I can’t bring myself to make this easier by lying. “Yes. And my intruder sister. I know it’s not your fault that you can’t see what’s really happening, but think about it, Candy. She and I are nothing alike. I doubt she knows a volleyball from a basketball and the only dresses I own are somewhere in the darkest corner of my closet. She doesn’t even look like me!”

  Candy’s shrug is obstinate. “Not all siblings look alike and it’s totally normal for sisters to behave differently. But.” She presses one hand to my shoulder the way people do when they’re trying to stop a conversation. “You’re my friend and so I support you in having a different view of reality, no matter how strange.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  This is a useless battle. Nothing will shake Candace Pickens away from a truth. Nothing except a charm. I think of Heath’s bracelet and where he got it. Next chance I have, I’ll get another from Old Lady Clary somehow and force it on Candy’s wrist.

  The crowd is nearly full when we leave the car, the air charged with growling engines and anticipation. I don’t know what the stakes are tonight, but that doesn’t really matter. I follow Candy into the stands where most of our friends have gathered. The air smells like cigarettes and beer and exhaust. I don’t like it, but there’s something comforting about the combination: at least it hasn’t changed.

  “Do you see the Chevelle?” I say into Candy’s ear.

  Candy squints over the crowd. “Nope, but I spy Quentin Stokes over there with my cousins. Rumor has it he’s planning to make a move tonight.”

  The first set of cars moves onto the track and everyone cheers. I recognize Cody’s yellow Charger, a green Mustang I think belongs to Jeremiah Rae, and the other two cars are familiar but I can’t recall faces to go with them. Only in a place like Sticks are cars more easily recognizable than people.

  A skinny blonde with melon boobs walks in front of the cars to catcalls and whistles. Her long legs flash in their headlights as she passes, a not-so-narrow strip of her hips and belly exposed beneath the knot of her shirt. She raises a black-and-white-checkered flag. Engines rev. The air thrums with static and stillness, this sense of waiting and wanting. I feel it echoed in my bones, humming through my blood.

  She brings her arm down and everything screams into motion: the cars, the people, the air around. Gradually, the noise settles to something less intense. I scan the crowd again and this time I get lucky.

  Lenora May’s not in the stands, but in the light of the trucks on the field past the track. She has her arms raised and she spins in a cloud of dust. Her mouth is open and joyful, her head tilting up to the sky, her dark curls swaying behind her. Like earlier in the kitchen except now she moves in a slower, languid way. More eyes than mine have found her there. She doesn’t notice. She spins and spins, pretty as a star and just as rare. She’s standing not twenty yards away, but she’s lost in the sky above.

  I don’t know that I’ll ever be so brave. To stand in front of a crowd and take a moment that’s only for me. Lenora May doesn’t care that she’s in the dirt or that she’ll have to wash her dress three times to get rid of the stubborn smells that follow you home from the track, and not caring makes her both vulnerable and beautiful.

  She stops spinning suddenly, turns toward the headlights, and darts between two of the trucks to disappear in the dark beyond. I feel a surge of panic. Is it possible the swamp prepared her for everything that comes with being a pretty girl in Sticks?

  “I see her. I’ll be right back,” I tell Candy and pick my way down the stairs, careful to avoid kicking over bottles or stepping on hands.

  My eyes don’t adjust quickly. The light on the track makes the dark field harder to navigate. Shadowy figures slouch against tailgates. Cigarettes wink like red fireflies. And bottles of gold and clear liquor catch stray bits of moonlight. I pass the first two trucks, turning down three offers to pull from random flasks. There’s a little bit of everything happening here, drinking, smoking, kissing, and more, all of it smothered in the roar of engines and a cheering crowd. It makes the night feel darker and smaller than in the stands.

  I glance at each figure long enough to determine it’s not Lenora May. There’s a group of people clustered in the bed of the fourth truck, lounging and laughing and sharing drinks. A few of the laughs sound familiar, including Lenora May’s. I edge to the tailgate for a closer look and spot her smashed between a boy and girl. I can’t see either well enough to recognize them, but the boy has his arm draped over Lenora May’s shoulders in a way that makes me bristle.

  “Lenora May, can I talk to you for a second?”

  Her voice is cloudy when she responds, “I’d rather not.”

  Someone snickers, but I don’t move. There’s one surefire way to annoy a sibling and that’s to stand around their friends while being young.

  It only takes a minute before she speaks again. “Oh, fine, Sterling, fine.”

  Her voice is weary but she climbs awkwardly to her feet. Somehow she manages to keep her skirt down, but it’s only luck preventing this entire truck from sneaking a peek where they shouldn’t. I raise my hand to help, but she refuses. The smell of alcohol and smoke scoot with her, and we make our way a short distance from the den of iniquity, far enough that the racetrack is more of a buzz than a constant roar.

  I wait until we’ve stopped to ask, “You’re drinking?”

  Nearly everyone
at Sticks High does or has, but it doesn’t seem ladylike enough for sweet and pristine Lenora May.

  “Sterling,” she says with a bleak laugh. “You aren’t really going to talk to me about drinking, are you? I may not be your brother, but I’d be surprised if you were to tell me you’d had even a sip in all your sixteen years.”

  I don’t drink. The smell of alcohol is loaded with too many bad memories. Phin made the same choice and it was harder for him because if there’s one thing bad boys are supposed to do around here, it’s drink. Many of the fights Phin found himself in were with guys who’d had too much. They were always the worst. A man on fire, Phin would say, feels no other pain. It was a lesson we learned well from our dad.

  Lenora May has the same memories. I know she does because in all my memories of running from home, she’s there running with me. But if I needed any additional proof that she’s not really a part of my family, it’s the languor in her speech.

  Still, the hurt in her eyes when she bit into that tart was real.

  “I didn’t come here to talk about drinking. I came for answers. I want to know what you want.”

  “What I want?” She turns in a circle, throwing her arms wide and her head back, crowing at the sky. “I want to be reckless! Sterling, I want to drink until my head swims, I want to dance and laugh—do you know how long it’s been since I laughed like you and I did today? I don’t!”

  She stops twirling, sways a little, and takes my hands in hers. Her cheeks are flushed, her smile both delirious and innocent.

  “I’ve found life again.” She gives my hands a small shake for emphasis. “All the things I gave up without intending to, I have them again. I have a home, a sister, and friends. I can bake and scream and run. All the things the swamp took from me. And I’m not giving them up. I can’t give them up, Sterling. Please, don’t ask me to.”

  All her laughter is gone, and I can see she’s trembling on the verge of tears. I’m torn between sympathy and rage. This life she’s loving is not her own, but she’s holding on to it tightly. She loves this life as fiercely as she fears losing it.

  I know something about living in that kind of fear. I know something about taking the good moments as they come because you never know what the next will contain.

  “But why my family? Why Phineas? Why are you doing this to us?”

  “It isn’t about you! I know you won’t believe me, but I’m not your enemy.” She clutches at her chest. Frustration twists her features into something less pretty. “But, fine. You want answers. I’ll give you some. You want to know why it happened this way? Because Phineas wanted it to. When he ran into the swamp, he wanted to disappear and never come back. He was tired of struggling, tired of being angry and afraid. He was running away, Sterling. Away from you.”

  Her words hit me like a truck and I stumble backward.

  “Oh,” she says. “Oh, Sterling, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I evade her grasp. Was it really my fault? I can’t think about it. I can only hold on to this numb feeling for so long, and I don’t want to be here right now.

  Distantly, I hear myself saying, “Be careful, okay? Don’t go anywhere alone.” Sister or not, there’s a long list of bad things that can happen at the track and I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.

  Her smile is strange and her voice quiet when she says, “Thank you.”

  Cheers rise from the track. One by one, the first cars stop racing. There are shouts and whoops, horns honking and guns firing as race night goes about business as usual.

  I find Candy in the stands. I sit next to her and without a word she takes my hand in hers. For the rest of the night, I watch the cars go round and round the track until I can’t hear the thoughts in my own head.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  MAMA SAYS IT WAS GRANDPA Harlan who liberated us from Dad. Gave the last of his good health to getting rid of him. But I know different. Grandpa Harlan played a part, but he wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on if Phin hadn’t spent every minute of his waking life defying Dad. Sometimes in little ways. Emptying the chamber of his shotgun and hiding the shells behind the dictionary on the bookshelf. Sometimes in bigger ways. Shouting at him and taking the blows meant for me or Mom. I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t shielding me from one thing or another. He wasn’t the sort to run away from anything.

  Right?

  I toss in bed. Lenora May’s words are sticky and insidious. I try to recall the scene from Sunday morning. Though it was only a short time ago, it feels muddy and fluid, partly obscured by a memory of fighting with Lenora May over a pair of sandals I’d borrowed without asking. Beneath all that, Phin’s there, giving me the bracelet, looking crestfallen when I didn’t love it, and furious when I accused him of not caring what happened to me. I search each moment for some hint that Lenora May is wrong and I’m not the reason he left, but it feels possible.

  It’s also possible that she was being spiteful. Her motives are far from trustworthy, but I don’t feel like I know anything anymore. Five days ago, I knew she was the devil incarnate and the only way to banish her was to follow Fisher’s advice. Today? I can’t quash the part of me that wants to slide into her bed like I did when we were kids and tell her I’m sorry for not trusting her.

  I know what Phin would say. “Trust yourself, Sass. When things get tough, you get tough right back and always, always trust yourself. And me,” he’d add with a grin.

  If only it was so easy.

  Too frustrated to sit still any longer, I send a predawn text to Heath, which takes five minutes to type, delete, retype, repeat. But finally, I send, u up?

  Though the clock reads 5:13 a.m., his response is immediate—what’s wrong?—and has an effect on my breathing I didn’t expect.

  My next five texts sound more frantic than I mean them to be, which is why he arrives at my house before the sun has risen high enough to mark its territory. Fog is wet in the air when I run down the gravel drive and climb into his truck. The cabin smells like coffee.

  “Yum,” I say, happy to see two Styrofoam cups tucked into the holders beneath the radio.

  “Isn’t that a second-date sort of comment?” Heath asks, his eyes uncharacteristically bright. His smile makes me bold.

  “Not when you look like that,” I say. Far too quickly. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I consider how true the comment is. We haven’t seen each other since the kiss and he’s looking unbearably sexy. He slouches in his seat with one hand on the wheel, not appearing at all like he rushed to get here, but the water dripping from his hair tells a different story.

  Heath’s laugh merges with the rumble of the engine. We drive through the middle of town, and beyond to where we’re surrounded by kudzu-covered pines. Sunrise is a narrow strip above the gray road, a streaky puddle of orange and pink and blue.

  I tell Heath everything that happened last night. Through it all he remains quiet, with his eyes focused straight ahead. By the time I finish, I realize he’s already turned us around. A quick glance at the clock tells me we’ve got under twenty minutes before the bell announces our final day of sophomore year.

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I add. “Yesterday, I had what I needed to fix this and today I’ve messed it all up. And some cursed piece of me is glad it didn’t work. She’s not my sister. I know that, but I don’t want to hurt her and that makes me so mad.”

  Again, Heath is quiet. Giving me the space I need not to lose it right here in his truck. I don’t want to cry, so I grit my teeth and stare at the passing trees until my eyes don’t burn. So much of this is my fault. Phin’s trapped because I drove him away, because I didn’t stop him, because I messed up and Lenora May didn’t eat the cherry.

  I nurse my coffee but no matter how much I drink, my hands and feet feel cold.

  “I feel crazy.”

 
; “You’re not crazy at all,” he answers quickly. The truck takes a turn with a little more oomph than necessary. “Don’t let anyone convince you you’re anything but sane.”

  “They convinced you.” I remember our conversation from the hallway, when he told me Old Lady Clary gave him the bracelet and told him to stop talking about Nathan. “What happened?”

  He parks in the student lot with a clear view of the swamp at the bottom of the hill. Sunlight splashes over the tops of cypress trees, leeching the Shine of its eerie light.

  Heath watches it, too, but his shoulders are tense and his fingers grip the wheel. There’s no mistaking the fear he feels. His motions and reactions are so quiet, so private, it’s as if I’m witnessing something I shouldn’t.

  “After Nathan disappeared,” he begins, “whenever I got close to the swamp, without even meaning to, I would wind up at the fence. I’d be out for a run or walking between classes, and I’d turn toward the swamp like it was where I meant to go all along.”

  I shudder. In all my recent obsession with the swamp, I’ve never felt out of control.

  “One night, I dreamed of going to look for Nathan. It was so real. I could feel the humidity. I woke up halfway over the fence, right down there.” He points, but doesn’t really look. “It happened a couple of times. My parents would call the sheriff, I’d get picked up, and they’d ask me what I was doing. It took me too long to learn that Old Lady Clary was right and talking about Nathan was a bad idea. I thought I was losing my freaking mind. So did my parents.”

  I remember how readily Mama reached for her phone to call Doc Payola. If I hadn’t found Heath so soon, I might have kept fighting at home, too. And that would’ve led me down the same troubled path.

  “I think antidepressants were the first thing my parents thought of. Doc Payola agreed to try it. I didn’t want to believe I was crazy, so I fought them over it. But the same day Old Lady Clary gave me this charm, she told me to take the pills.”