Pop’s Peaches is in one of the northern parishes, a solid two-and-a-half-hour drive away, and not near any of Louisiana’s swampy lands.
“This looks perfect.”
“When should I pick you up?” he asks.
“Are you sure you can go? I don’t want to get you into any more trouble.”
There’s a pause and I’m sure he’s going to say no. He probably should say no. I’ll be the equivalent of a wanted criminal when I sneak out of my house tomorrow.
“I’m in trouble, Sterling. We are in trouble.” I can hear blankets rustle as he gets up to pace. “I know this is hard for you, but stop thinking I’m going to disappear. Please, trust that I’m here. I’m not going to run away when things get hard. I’m going to meet you tomorrow, get those peaches, and then I’m going inside the swamp with you to help find your brother and Nathan.”
“Heath,” I say, remorseful and grateful all at once.
Our relationship started backward, with all the important things coming first and all the silly, inconsequential details shrouded in mystery. I don’t even know if he has a favorite color or what he likes in his coffee. Everything I know about Heath I’ve gathered by accident, from the floor of his truck or simply by existing in the same small town all our lives.
Maybe it’s easier to not know the little things. They’re what hurt the most when they’re gone. What does it matter that Phin loves old cars and painted that ’68 Chevelle red because it’s my favorite color? It doesn’t matter a damn, but looking at that car in the driveway is a knife in the stomach: the guts of my relationship with Phin all cut open and rotting in the sun. I don’t want to feel this way about someone else. I don’t want to get so close that losing them means losing a piece of myself. But I ask anyway.
“What’s your favorite color?”
He makes a noise of confusion.
“It’s important. I mean, not really, but I need to know because I know all of these really serious things about you and none of the little things. So what’s your favorite color? Food? Sport?”
He takes a quick second to think. “It used to be orange, but this week it’s blue. I can eat twice my weight in catfish. I think you probably knew that one. And baseball, which is also probably obvious. You?”
“Red, broccoli, and volleyball. Okay,” I say, breathing a little easier. “It says the orchard opens at ten, but my parents won’t be gone until nine so be here at nine thirty. I mean, be down the street. Just in case. And I’m paying for gas.”
He laughs, but agrees, and before we hang up asks, “What I said before, do you believe me?”
I don’t know why I hesitate. I’ve trusted Heath with so much. Why is it so hard to believe he’d want to help me? I know he does, but I can’t say the words.
“Sure,” I say, and then, “Good night.”
My parents don’t disappoint. Darold’s off promptly by eight and Mama comes to check on me once before leaving to meet Mrs. Tilly. I lock my door and slip through the window. If anyone beats me home this afternoon, hopefully they’ll assume I’m enjoying my internment with a nap. Or that I’m just being willful.
Heath and I pass the first hour in silence, both of us lost in our own heads, sipping the coffee Heath so kindly thought to provide. As a rule, I try not to trust facial expressions before coffee, but I find myself analyzing every movement his face makes. Is he upset about yesterday? Did he even notice my lack of commitment? Is he irritated at being on the road this early on his first day of summer? I decide to check and lift his coffee to my lips for an unfortunate taste.
“Why bother with the coffee at all?” I ask, rushing to sip my own, mercifully unadulterated cup as Heath breaks into a laugh. “Lord. May as well drink straight-up milk and sugar.”
I wear a disgusted face when Heath laughs again, but make a note should I ever have occasion to dress his coffee for him.
We take Highway 15 straight up Louisiana’s side, slowing for towns with more churches than houses and more liquor stores than churches, all of them bigger than Sticks thanks to the highway. Fields open and close around copses of old oak trees and miles of pine saplings drowning in kudzu vines. The farther north we get, the more the land rolls and relents to being tamed. It’s early yet for most crops, but cotton and soybeans and corn are already reaching up in thirsty green.
To find Pop’s Peaches we have to turn off the main roads. I spend the second hour directing Heath down a series of increasingly smaller streets. The Ford heaves in all directions, proving there’s nothing like a country road to test the willpower of a seat belt. By the end, the truck looks like something the dirt road hacked up.
We pull into a small haphazard lot and park in front of a sign proclaiming, POP’S PEACHES ARE PRETTY FINE! PICK YOUR OWN, THEY’RE ALL DIVINE! There’s a single-story brick house squatting in a field to the right. To the left, is a produce stand made to look like a traditional red barn with dusty, white trim all the way around. Behind the barn, peach trees run away in neat rows.
The only person around is the barely twelve-year-old boy watching the shop from a nearby tree fort. He races to greet us with a curious “Y’all here for peaches?”
When we say that we are, he carefully explains that there’s not much ready for picking, but we’re welcome to try. Thanking him, we grab a basket and follow the bright green arrows leading to the trees with the ripest fruit. Up close, the trees aren’t as tall as they appeared from the car. They’re low, bushy things with long, scratchy branches. But even if they’re not much to look at, the air in the orchard smells green and sweet as syrup.
It takes ten minutes to reach the first tree with a blue ribbon marking it as prime for picking. By that time, my legs and arms are so full of itches it demands all my willpower to keep from scratching.
Peaches cluster around each of the unruly branches, every one yellow or pink as a sunset. I leave the paler fruit alone and reach for one that’s turned so dark, pink doesn’t describe it. Neither does red—it’s a between color that makes my mouth water. I give it a firm twist, and it releases with a sigh.
“Looks perfect,” Heath says, holding branches wide to keep them from assaulting me.
I bring the fruit to my nose and inhale. “It smells so good.”
Again, the branches shiver. I hear the snap as the tree releases another peach. Following my lead, Heath inhales the scent of fruit he’s holding. His eyes close for a moment and he smiles.
“Yeah,” he says in agreement.
And with that smile still on his lips, he takes a bite. Juice runs down his chin, dripping onto his shirt and the grass below. He laughs and I do, too. The scent of peach saturates the air.
It’s too much to resist. I take a bite and am consumed by the taste of spring-sweet peach. Juices spill down my fingers and chin. I take another bite and another until I’ve eaten the entire thing.
Heath watches me, licking juice from his fingers. Sunlight seems to burn away the last vestiges of the Heath of last year, the boy in the back of the classroom with dull, blank eyes. But more than that, he stands with his shoulders back and his chin higher than his collarbone.
“You’ve changed, you know,” I say.
His expression is quizzical and I realize how strange that must sound coming from me, the girl who’s really only known him for a week. It’s so little time we could still count it in hours—168. Hardly long enough to judge changes in character, but then, how long do transformations really take?
The Heath of last week kept his truths hidden and never would’ve found himself in a fight with the Brothers Wawheece. This week, he’s been by my side when no one else knew how to be and he’s taken physical punishment for it.
“I know you don’t think you’ve been brave, but that’s not the way I see it.”
“It’s probably that I’m not drugged anymore. That’s why I seem different.” One shoulder climbs into a half shrug as he speaks, shielding himself from the compliment. “Everything else I’ve done because you were
brave first.”
It’s almost painful to watch how neatly he sheds any suggestion that he’s behaved admirably.
“You’re dead wrong. Shall I tell you why?”
My tone startles a smile from him, as sweet as the peaches around us.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, climbing out of the knee-high grass and resting my hands on his chest. “It’s because I was too stupid to know what I was risking when this all started. I was angry and scared and rash when I made a scene in the cafeteria. But you’d been living with this for a year. You knew what you were risking when you shared your secret with me. That’s real bravery, Heath Durham. Knowing the risks and taking them anyway.”
“I hope you’re listening to yourself,” he says, catching my elbows to keep me from dodging his words. “Because you’ve changed, too.” I fight the urge to squirm as he continues, “You may have been afraid when this started, but I couldn’t have done any of this without your example.”
There’s a feeling in my chest, a lightness I don’t know what to do with, but it’s expanding like a balloon and I’m afraid it’ll crack me open.
But Heath isn’t done. “And Sterling,” he says, hands still secure at my elbows. “I should probably tell you that I’m about to be brave again.”
He’s become so serious, so confident in this sun-drenched field that I whisper, “Oh?”
He nods and pulls me close to speak against my lips. “I’m going to fall for you.”
When he kisses me, there is no world beneath my feet. There’s only Heath’s hands on my arms, his lips on mine, and the vibrant taste of peaches. This kiss is different from the others. It’s fast and bruising, one diving headlong into the next, stirring a wildness in me I’ve never felt. It’s hungry and substantial, and all the things I didn’t know I wanted to say to Heath.
This kiss is a confession.
When we fall to the ground I only notice the brief absence of his mouth from mine, but then it’s back and I lose myself in the press of Heath’s body, in the demanding pressure in my chest.
The sound of a tractor passing uncomfortably near makes us part and we lay there, our heads in the tall grass beneath the peach tree, our hands twined between us while we catch our breath. For minutes, I listen as the rumble of the tractor is slowly replaced by the more intimate sounds of the orchard, the quiet hiss of leaves in a breeze, the first chitter of afternoon bugs, the faraway bark of a dog. My mind is quiet by comparison, reluctantly returning from the rush of that kiss.
Between the branches, the sky is a piercing blue. The peaches stand out against it in bold colors. They look defiant and secure, but I know it wouldn’t take much effort at all to pluck them or for a strong wind to knock them from their perches.
“They’re just peaches.” Face-to-face with the small fruit, I’m less convinced of our plan. “How can we possibly think this will work?”
Heath’s answer is almost flippant. “Tell that to Eve. Fruit is power. Or, well, technically in her case it was knowledge, but the gist is the same. It makes perfect sense if you think about it.”
Where things come from matters. Fisher said it, Lenora May said it, and now Heath’s all but said it. I think of the cherry that was meant to pull Lenora May back to the swamp, of the bracelets that let us remember, of the single, paltry cherry tree in the center of a vast swamp.
I think of eight-year-old Phin staring down our callous father. Phin may have been the one to get hurt, but in the end it was Dad who went away. All because one little boy stood up.
I’m ready to admit that small, unexpected things can have big power.
“Okay, Heath,” I say. “I believe you.”
We leave Pop’s Peaches with a basketful of fruit and a reminder from the boy that July’s a better time for picking. The basket cost an extra two bucks, but neither of us thought to bring one along. With my belly full of peaches, I consider it a fine deal. If this works and saves Phin, it’ll be an even finer one. If it doesn’t work, having twenty-six dollars to my name will be the least of my worries.
The drive home feels fast. There’s an easiness between us that wasn’t there before, but also a peaceful sort of tension that urges me to sit close enough to press my leg to his. We spend the first bit developing a plan, which involves both of us going home for the evening, then meeting up at midnight to go into the swamp. From there, we’ll find Phin, Nathan, and Abigail, feed them all peaches, and all return for celebration and pizza. As long as we move quickly, we should be able to do the whole thing without attracting Fisher’s attention.
I decide not to imagine how difficult it’ll be to feed gatorPhin a peach. That’s a problem we’ll have to solve when we’re facing it.
For the rest of the drive, I play a wide selection from Heath’s iPod in a quest to discover his favorite song. Before I know it, we’re pulling off the highway and onto the main road of Sticks where half the cars we see are parked at Miss Bonnie’s for an early dinner. The other half are milling around the gas station and Clary General Store. I recognize several faces at the pumps, boys from school filling the tanks of their pet cars for another night at the track.
When Heath turns down the side road, I see there are more than the usual work crews about tonight. I almost missed them because the pines are darker than the sky above, and the swamp isn’t glowing as brightly as it was yesterday, but a few of the men are dressed in hunting orange and that’s what caught my eye.
They’re in the ditch by the fence, repairing fallen rails. Scattered over a full half mile, each of them is scowling and doing his best not to look worried. It isn’t working. It’s clear that even they know something’s unquiet in our little swamp.
Heath slows as we pass. “I think I see your stepdad. Better not speed.”
I slouch in my seat to avoid getting caught, but not before I spot Darold in the midst of the chaos, a sheriff’s star pinned to the brim of his hat. “I swear he polishes that star five times a day. You’d think he hadn’t been sheriff for the past five years.”
Except he hasn’t.
The fog lifts like a curtain, revealing Darold’s life as a deputy, not as sheriff.
“Heath?” I ask, but Heath’s already nodding.
“I remember,” he says. “Sheriff Felder. That makes four people the swamp’s taken.”
We don’t stop. Neither of us wants to hear how the swamp has rewritten history to obliterate Sheriff Felder.
It’s enough to know that it’s happened.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
I SLIP INTO MY ROOM as easily as I escaped it. My door’s still locked and sounds of the TV float up the stairs. Mama records her shows and plays them all at once while she cleans house on Saturdays. I’d usually do my list of chores at the same time, but she doesn’t mind when I do them, just that they get done. I’m not in deeper trouble, yet.
With more than six hours to midnight, I’ve got time. I change into a tank and knit shorts already splashed with bleach, wrap my hair in a bun, and go to tackle the bathroom. Once all the nastiness of a dirty toilet is behind me, the rest of the work always seems downright enjoyable. It’s not the truth, but there’s power in perspective.
I’ve cleared half the counter of toiletries before I notice the scent of lemons and how squeaky clean everything looks. The bathroom’s spotless. I check the hallway hamper to find it, too, is clear of the week’s dirty clothes. Mine and Lenora May’s. One by one, I discover that every one of my chores has been finished for me.
Lenora May’s in her room, curled on the bed with a book between her hands. It’s one of her horror novels, which she’s been reading far longer than Mama knows. She used to sneak them from Aunt Mina’s house and read them on the floor of her closet to avoid discovery. Even when they scared her to tears, she kept reading them because the thrill was too good to pass up.
Now, her eyes
are wide and she flips the page eagerly, as though afraid someone will come along and steal the book before she can finish. I suppose it’s a valid fear after living in the swamp for so long. I’m not book crazy, but even I can’t imagine what life without my favorite novels would be like.
I say, “You did my chores.”
She jumps at the sound of my voice, pressing her book to her chest. “I thought you might need the extra time,” she says after a few calming breaths. “I figured you’d gone for peaches and, after last night, I didn’t want Mama giving you any extra trouble.”
“You didn’t have to, but thanks.”
“You didn’t have to listen to me.” She gets up and follows me down the hall to my room. “It means a lot that you did.”
All the evidence has swung firmly in her favor, but there’s one thing that should have clued me in earlier.
“The song you were humming that morning was my grandpa’s,” I say, feeling a sudden swell of kindness. “It means you weren’t lying. You knew him well enough that he shared that with you. And he wouldn’t have given it to just anyone, so he must have trusted you.”
Her smile is so soft and so sad. “That’s not entirely true,” she says. “I gave it to him.”
A sticky breeze oozes through my open window, kissing my cheeks and fingertips. My stunned silence is broken by the sound of the screen door smacking against the frame and a cacophony of chimes.
Together, Lenora May and I lean across the bed, pressing our hands to the windowsill. Mama stands below us with a wicker basket perched on her hip. I recognize the basket—it’s been haunting the garage for the better part of a decade. The wicker is dry and splitting in places, but it has a wide bowl and a handle that’s tall enough to loop over her shoulder.
She cuts a quick path through the grass to one end of the fence. Reaching into her basket, she fusses with a clanging mess for a minute before a single wind chime emerges. She hangs it on the post, adding it to the collection of Mardi Gras beads, and moves down the fence to the next one. At each post she disentangles and hangs another chime, seven in all. When she’s done, she surveys her backwoods burglar alarm with cautious satisfaction.
Beware the Wild Page 15
