Grit

by Gillian French

  We nod. Nell says, “The cops came.” Her eyes widen when she notices me and Mags staring at her. “Well . . . they did.”

  “What did they want?”

  Nell glances at us, then blurts, “They talked to the Wardwells. Mrs. Wardwell said, ‘Oh, Jesus.’” She purses her lips, but the rest of the words bloop out like sour candy: “Cops were looking around in the woods, too.”

  You could hear a grain of salt fall. Mom turns to me. “They give you any trouble?” I was the only raker who was questioned twice last year, because they didn’t believe my answers. I shake my head.

  “Could be they found her.” Libby butters her corn. “Animals might’ve dug something up.”

  “I can’t see the cops and the search party missing something so close to where they turned up signs of that fire.” Hunt uses the ketchup. “That was about all they had to work with for evidence, paper said.”

  A scorch mark in a nest of boulders, like someone had wanted to hide the firelight from the road. A blackened forty-ounce bottle and some crushed beer cans. And Rhiannon’s messenger bag that had once been army green before it was fed to the fire, with a few smart-ass buttons pinned to it. You could still read one shaped like two cherries on a stem that said Eat Me.

  Berry bushes around the rocks had caught, smoldered, and gone out in the early-morning drizzle. The Wardwells could’ve lost half their harvest if it wasn’t for the rain. I saw the scene myself, me and the other rakers who were working that section of the field the morning after Rhiannon disappeared. Her mom must’ve called the Wardwells that morning, too, because when Bob saw that bag in the ashes, he called the cops.

  “I don’t know about this, Nellie Rose.” Libby shakes her head, and Nell looks up quick. “I told you I didn’t want you raking again this year. It’s a trashy job, hanging around with a bunch of drifters.”

  “She doesn’t,” Mags says. “She works and then she comes home.” Maybe I didn’t want to rake this season, but Nell did. This is her only chance to earn money for herself all year, because Libby wants her to focus on her schoolwork the rest of the time. Except for drama, of course. Got to make time for that, it being Nell’s passion and all. Nell’s tearful and blinking hard now.

  “All the same. Everybody knows that Foss girl got mixed up with one of those migrants and got herself killed, and one of these days they’ll turn her body up in the Penobscot, just like they did that fella who jumped off the bridge last winter.” The river tends to give people back one body part at a time.

  I hate the scared don’t say I can’t go anymore look on Nell’s face, and I feel like I have to speak up. “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would Rhiannon be hooking up with some migrant? She didn’t do stuff like that. And a migrant wouldn’t start a bonfire down in the field, anyway. They have their own pit up at the cabins.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want anybody knowing he was carrying on with a sixteen-year-old girl. They got laws against these things. Little girls aren’t supposed to be out drinking and screwing.” Libby gives me a cool stare. “Doesn’t stop some people, though, does it?”

  My hands slowly curl into fists. Mags and Nell stare at their plates.

  Hunt clears his throat. “Now this,” he says, taking a bite, “is how you make a burger.”

  NINE

  FROM THE ROOF, we can hear the argument grow and fade as they move around the kitchen, slamming chairs into the table, scraping plates.

  Mom: “Who you were trying to embarrass more, me or him or the girls? Real nice talk, Lib—”

  “—think he’s always coming around for?”

  “He’s the landlord, for God’s sake—”

  “Oh, please. You’d have to be blind . . .”

  Nell lies with her head on Mags’s lap, staring off at the woods. “I’m sorry I told about the cops.”

  “It’s okay.” Mags pets her hair. “It wasn’t really a secret. I didn’t tell you not to say anything.”

  “But I should’ve known. I should’ve known it would ruin everything.” I recognize the clenched, concentrated look on her face; she’s angry at herself for always being a half-step behind. I’ve seen it on and off all year long, whenever she’s remembering and the words almost slip out in front of Libby or Mags before she catches herself, probably flashing back to the way I shouted at her that night last August. The way I shook her, and shoved her back against the car door and nearly hit her for the first time in our lives because I was so crazy-mad, aching all over with the truth of what she’d done. “You didn’t have to tell Darcy not to say anything.”

  I hear the faucet go on full blast and dishes clunk into the sink. Mom sent us out of the room after Hunt left, so I guess I have him to thank for getting me out of dish duty tonight. I’d rather be scrubbing than wondering if Hunt will ever speak to any of us again after the world’s most awkward meal. “That’s sister stuff. Don’t you know all sisters are psychic?”

  “Quit it,” Nell says.

  “Swear to God.” I look over at Mags. “See? Right now, she’s thinking how much she wants to go to Gaudreau’s and get me a butterscotch sundae with whipped cream and lots of jimmies just the way I liiike it. . . .” Mags shakes her head. “Then give me your keys and I’ll go.” She laughs. “Whatever. Wait till this fall. I’ll get my license.”

  “Yeah, you and that three-legged dog hangs around the dump,” Mags says.

  Nell’s smiling again, which means we’ve done our job. I sit back, feeling the grit of the shingles against my elbows and palms. Below, voices rise. Libby: “You going to play blind with your own daughter? Everybody knows, Sarah. Everybody sees.” I run my fingertips over the grit, grinding it into my skin. “How long are you gonna let it go on? Till she winds up like that Foss girl?”

  “All right, stop it.”

  “It could happen. She’s asking for it. Every time she walks out that door in those skimpy little shorts with her shirt cut way down to here, she’s asking for it. It scares me knowing that my baby’s out there with her sometimes, running with God knows who. It’s not the same world it was when you and Tommy used to go out raising hell, you know. You better get your house in order and fast, or—”

  “Stop telling me my business.” Mom’s voice is ferocious, making all of us jump. Nothing but shocked silence from the kitchen. “I don’t need you telling me my business.”

  We sit, staring at each other, waiting. The next sound is the screen door banging as Libby walks out.

  They found Rhiannon’s car.

  When I come downstairs the next morning, our daily American is already lying on the kitchen table. That’s the front-page story: Missing Sasanoa Teen’s Car Found in Woods. There’s a photo of a silver Honda Fit being towed out of the trees. It’s funny; I expect it to be rusty or covered in mud or something, but it just looks like a car, and it’s only been missing a year, anyway. I look for the sticker in the back window, some manga creature from one of those graphic novels she loved, and find it, sure enough.

  Mom walks in and sees me standing at the table. We don’t speak as she reads over my shoulder. Smelling the simple powder scent of her, I remember how she shut Libby down last night. Over me. It doesn’t seem quite right to say thanks, and it sure as hell would be the wrong thing to tell her that we were listening in, so I stay quiet. She grazes my shoulder with her hand as she moves to the bread box. “You eaten yet?”

  “No.” I watch as she pops two extra slices into the toaster.

  Mags comes downstairs. She stops when I show her the article. “Somebody called in an anonymous tip.” I lay the paper facedown so I won’t have to look at the Fit anymore. “Paper says her car looks like it’s only been in the woods for a few weeks.”

  “Makes sense.” Mom pushes the toaster lever down. “Hate to think that the search party missed a whole car.”

  “It’s creepy. Where’s it been all this time?” I push the paper away. “Why’d somebody want it found now?” My skin prickles at the thought of it: Rhiannon’s litt
le silver car moving through the night while Sasanoa slept. Tires rolling down into pine needles and dead leaves. A door shutting. Footsteps fading away.

  It reminds me of the headlights I saw in the darkness from my bedroom window, but that was days ago, not weeks. “I don’t even get what this means. Did a migrant do it or not?” I try to put a familiar face on the night driver in my imagination, but the features swim and blur.

  “Could be.” Mom brings her breakfast to the table and sits, reaching for her Kools and the ashtray. “If he came back to rake for the Wardwells again this year, he could’ve moved the car from wherever he hid it last summer.” She exhales through her nose. “Wanted to scare everybody all over again.”

  “Nell’s gonna freak.” Mags puts on her sneakers. “That’s the part of the woods her group searched.”

  Nell really wanted to help find Rhiannon, like she owed her or something. They weren’t friends, and I’m pretty sure that Rhiannon thought she was weird, even if she never said so. Rhiannon was a Gemini through and through; you never knew what kind of mood you’d find her in, but you lived for her good days, because she was bubbly and so much fun when she wanted to be. Whenever Rhiannon came over to our house, Nell would hang out, too, as usual. One time, when Nell was in the bathroom, Rhiannon whispered to me, “Isn’t she in special ed?”

  I said yes. Rhiannon didn’t bring it up again. After a while, we started spending more and more time at her house without ever talking about why. But in the back of my mind, I knew. And I hate that I never called her out. I hate that I wanted her friendship more than I wanted to stand up for Nell.

  Now Nell comes to the door, opening it a couple inches and peering at Mom like she’s nitro in a bottle. I guarantee she’s been listening to her mom gripe about her aunt Sarah all morning. “Hi,” Mom says without looking up, and Nell’s shoulders relax. She isn’t wearing the necklace anymore. Thank God.

  As we head out the door, I glance at the trailer. No Libby walking over this morning with her mug in hand. The windows of the trailer are dark as we drive away.

  The day flies by, with me keeping track of Shea from the corner of my eye all the time, working hard to match him if I can’t beat him. He knows what I’m doing, I think, and pushes harder.

  I bump into Mason at one point while I’m rushing around, stacking boxes. We’ve been working side by side for hours. “Sorry,” he says right away, keeping his eyes down.

  “My fault.” I watch him dump his rake into a now-full box, stack it on top of four others, and walk off to grab more boxes from the pile that Mr. Wardwell and Duke dropped off the last time they drove through. I wonder if Mason hates me because of lies—or maybe truths—that Shea’s told him. Or maybe he’s somebody who makes up his own mind about people. Either way, it’s a distraction I don’t need, so I train my eyes back on raking.

  I walk over to headquarters during lunch, standing in front of Mrs. Wardwell with my hands in my back pockets. She squints at me. She looks bad, pale, with bags under her eyes, like she was up half the night. “Yeah, missy?”

  My gaze goes to the green chalkboard, smeared from being erased and rewritten every evening at quitting time. The name Gaines has been bumped up to the seventh slot, with 6,675 pounds raked in three and a half days. “Has a girl ever made top harvester?”

  “You gonna throw in?” She gives a lopsided grin. “You know you can’t keep up with them boys, right? Just talking facts.” She gives her grunty laugh. “Like to see ’em last through a thirty-hour labor, though, huh?” She seems to remember that I’ve never been through labor, either, except as the one being pushed out, and gets moody again, chewing her lip. Never thought about her and Bob having kids. They must be all grown up, probably living as far away from Sasanoa as possible.

  I step back, glancing toward the woods where Rhiannon’s car was found. I feel like we’ve all been trying not to look there today, like it’s an open grave or something, but everybody’s whispering about it. I want to say something to Mrs. Wardwell, like maybe that it sucks, them getting pulled into this again, all because Rhiannon decided she wanted to prove something by working in the fields one summer, but the words won’t come, so I step away.

  “Prentiss.” I turn back and she’s studying me. “No. A girl’s never made it.”

  We stop to gas up at the Irving station after work, along with half the other rakers from town. While people pile out to make Gatorade and jerky runs, I see a black pickup pull into the lot behind us, bass cranked so high I can feel it through my sneakers. I grab Mags’s shoulder before she opens her door. “I’ll pump.”

  “Go for it. You’re paying.”

  I round the bumper, looking straight into Jesse’s windshield as he pulls up to the pump behind me, revving the engine twice before cutting it.

  He gets out, hooking his shades into his collar. “Hey.”

  I feed a twenty into the machine and pull the nozzle free, glancing back at his truck. “Where’s the wolf pack?”

  “Riding with Duke.” He locks the nozzle, letting it fill while he turns to face me. “You got plans?”

  “Not really.”

  “Want some?”

  I bite my lip so he won’t see the smile creeping across my face. “I thought you meant this weekend.”

  He grins. “I can’t wait that long.”

  His pump shuts itself off; he couldn’t have been more than a couple gallons low. I focus on the digits scrolling by in front of me, then screw the gas cap on tight, making him wait. “Hold on.” I poke my head in Mags’s window. “I’m going with Jesse.”

  “Uh, aren’t you grounded?”

  “Mom never said I was. Just tell her I’ll be home by ten. She won’t care.”

  “Yes, she will,” Nell says quietly.

  “Not if you guys sell it.” I hold up my hands, backing away from the window. “Counting on you.”

  Without another word, Mags guns out of the lot while Nell watches me through the back window, never looking away as long as I can see them down Main Street. Meeting Jesse’s gaze, I open the passenger door of his truck and climb in.

  He looks in at me. “They mad?”

  “Nah.” We stare at each other for a second. “Are we going or what?”

  He thumps his hand on the frame and climbs in beside me, smelling like sweat and heat and boy and making my whole body wake up and say yes, please. I hang my arm out the window as we take off, raking my fingers through the wind.

  Jesse drives too fast down back roads, passing on curves, trying to get a rise out of me. I just smile. I’ve played this game before.

  I sit with my knee bent, heel propped on the dash, never reaching for the oh-shit bar. He jerks the wheel, stomps the brake. I twirl the end of my ponytail around my finger. He works up a sweat. I wish I’d brought lip gloss.

  The next thing I know, we’re hanging a left onto a long dirt driveway that stretches arrow-straight to a farmhouse in the distance. Dust billows on both sides of us. Faster, faster. At the last second, when it seems like we’re either going to spin out or crash straight through into the living room, I lurch forward for the door handle—

  Jesse whips us to the right and we bump down a potholed drive you’d never know was there, hidden by the low branches of an oak. There’s a corrugated steel barn up ahead, a chicken house, and fields of blossoming potato plants on all sides as far as I can see.

  Jesse parks in a bald patch by the barn and cuts the engine, looking at me. A smile like that should be against the law. “Doing all right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Looking a little peaked over there.”

  I give in and laugh, punching his arm. “Ass.”

  Knowing he won this round, he surprises me by opening my door for me. I step out, pushing my hat back and looking around. “Whose place is this?”

  “My uncle Caleb’s.”

  “Nice.”

  “You want to see nice.” He goes through the open barn doors. A couple minutes later, he rides out o
n a dappled gray horse, bareback, no bridle or reins or anything. I step back fast. I went on pony rides at the Bay Festival when I was a kid, but never on an animal as big as this one. Jesse holds a handful of the horse’s mane as he leans down and thumps her side. “Climb on.”

  “Um . . .” I step forward, then back. “How?”

  “Not a horse person?”

  “I like them. I’ve just never . . .” If this is another test, I’m going to ace it. I set my shoulders. “What do I do?”

  I end up standing on a stump so I can grab her mane, swing my leg over her back, and sit in front of Jesse. His arms are snug around me as he nudges her ribs with his heels to get her moving down a rutted tractor path. We’re up high and swaying, and I’m glad that we take this ride slow.

  Jesse guides us out into the acreage, beyond the crops to the hay field. Giant bales are spaced evenly across the clearing. It’s quiet out here, no sound but insects buzzing, and the breeze moves the grasses in the distance like a wave. Pretty as hell. He gives me a hand as we slide down. The horse wanders off to graze. I brush her hair off my shorts and thighs, saying, “I heard you were haying for your uncle.”

  “Earning my keep and a little extra. I live with him.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My parents gave me the boot junior year. Couldn’t make it work.” I start to say I’m sorry, but he shrugs to show that it didn’t touch him. “Caleb’s okay. Pushes pretty hard, but he’s trying to make a living from this place. I come out here till sundown most days after we get done raking.”

  I turn, closing the space between with a slow lean. “You didn’t bring me all the way out here to work, did you?”

  I kiss him on his smile. He kisses back, hard, stealing my breath. We sink down onto the grass together, and everything goes out of focus except the feeling of his skin on mine, his hands running up and down my back, under my shirt. We taste each other’s salt and grit. I pull the elastic from my hair, shake it out, and roll over to straddle him, reaching for the button on his shorts.

  I’ve got his fly open and my fingertips on the fabric of his jockey shorts—knew it—when he makes a sound and pushes me back, laughing, wiping his mouth. “Damn, slow down. You got somewhere to be?”