Grit

by Gillian French

  The light is on above the tool bench, and everything smells like sawdust and motor oil. This is where we do our drinking when Kat has people over. The Levesques run a furniture business, and Mrs. Levesque is all about yoga classes and spa weekends to center herself or whatever, so the twins basically have the run of the place most of the time. I lean against the chest freezer, watching him prowl. “They got your prints where?”

  “Off the car. The stupid Fit. I had it.” He sees my look. “I didn’t take it. She gave it to me.” I wait as he scrubs his hand across the top of his head, making his cowlick stand up in the back. “God, I’ve already explained this nine thousand times.”

  “Better make it nine thousand and one, bub.”

  He speaks slowly, like maybe I’m touched in the head. “She gave me the keys that night in the barrens. After Kat took you home.”

  “She gave you her car.”

  “Basically. She didn’t give a shit. You oughta know. That car was just her parents throwing more money at her to keep her out of the way. We were the last to leave that night. She said would I do her a favor and take the car.”

  “How was she gonna get home?”

  “She said she had a ride coming. I don’t know, I thought she wanted to freak out her mom by not bringing the car home that weekend or something. When I left, she was sitting by the fire alone. I slept it off at our camp on Alamoosook that night. Sent my dad a text, let him know where I was and everything. No big. I done it before. Next morning, Kat called me saying nobody can find Rhiannon, and had I seen her.”

  “So, what—you were too scared to tell anybody you had it?”

  He gives me a naked look. “I’m not stupid, okay? The cops know me. They would’ve had my ass in lockup so fast, asking me where I put the body or whatever. They never would’ve believed I didn’t steal that car. God, I was shitting bricks.” Nervous energy sends him over to the heavy bag hanging in the corner, which he shoves and throws a left into, pulling his punch at the last second so it lands with a muffled whump.

  I walk as far as the hood of Kat’s pickup. “Come on, you could’ve told somebody. Kat would’ve tried to help you.” He ignores that. “Where’d you hide it this whole time?”

  “In the camp shed. Left it there all winter.” He snorts. “Then back in June Dad started talking about opening up camp again for the summer. I freaked.” He rubs his eye. He and Kat are built the same, thin as whips with long-fingered hands they can’t seem to keep still. “I thought if I left it somewhere they could find it easy, right? But nobody did, for like, weeks. I couldn’t take it anymore and called in a tip. I’d wiped down the steering wheel and door handles and stuff, but when they dusted for prints—ding-ding-ding—bells and whistles.” Another punch. “I’m the only person with a record who ever touched that car, I guess.”

  Kenyon was busted for possession of a tiny bag of weed at a school dance sophomore year. They let him off with community service and some drug counseling, I think. “They gonna charge you with something?”

  “Probably. But I told them I don’t know where she is.”

  “Do they believe you?”

  He tosses a dark look over his shoulder. “Do you?”

  “Duh.” And I do. Sounds like whoever picked her up that night was the last one to see her alive. “I wanna know why you threw me under the bus. I told the cops Kat and I were out driving around that night.” Kat backed me up, too. She didn’t want to get busted for trespassing any more than the rest of us did.

  He won’t meet my gaze, and I think of all the times he tickled my sides in the school hallway, or lugged me over his shoulder through the parking lot while I shrieked and laughed. “I gave them other people’s names from the party, too. Not just yours.” He finally glances at me. “Sorry. Seriously. I had to give them something . . . you know, to get them off me.”

  My nails dig into my palms. He can’t know why this matters to me so much. He can’t know why Nell called Kat looking for me that night, hysterical, why I had to leave the party ASAP. He can’t know what he’s turned the cops onto, how this jar I’ve put over Nell could crack at the slightest pressure. But I know one thing. No matter what the cops did to me, I never would’ve thrown him under. Ever. All I say is, “Yeah.”

  We stand in silence for a long time, Kenyon pushing and punching the bag and watching it swing. When I’ve got my voice under control, I say, “Do you think Rhiannon’s dead?”

  “She must be.”

  It clicks, then. His sullenness, not asking any questions when Rhiannon told him to take her car. “You liked her, didn’t you?” No answer. “Did she know?”

  Kenyon puts his fist out very slowly and presses his knuckles against the leather, holding them there. “Wasn’t gonna happen.” His voice is quiet.

  I say, “See you around,” though I hope I don’t, and leave. As I walk to Mags’s car, the songs of crickets and the smells of a hot day cooling down to night strike me differently. In some way, everything’s changed since I stepped into that house.

  FOURTEEN

  THE FAIRGROUNDS ARE deserted except for a line of cars belonging to the Princesses parked in a dirt lot behind the central pavilion where they hold the sheepherding trials every year. I hesitate for a second, watching Nell run to the gate, turn, and wave for me to come on.

  Things just got real.

  Mrs. Hartwell sent out an email telling everybody that the stage was good to go, so Sunday’s rehearsal would be held here, where this whole crazy coronation is going to go down. My legs actually wobble as I follow Nell, crossing the track that runs around the huge sheltered stage, up the steps, into the thick of the other girls. The air smells like the ghosts of last year’s onion rings and cow flops. I feel Nell’s arm link through mine. She doesn’t say a word, just squeezes and gives me a small smile that dents the dimple in her left cheek. For once, I’m not too stubborn to squeeze back.

  Mrs. Hartwell wears electric blue and her cheeks are rosy. “A lot more impressive than the town hall, am I right?” Murmurs from us. Maybe everybody’s as nervous as I am. Except Bella, of course; she’s whispering with Alexis like Mrs. Hartwell doesn’t rate the attention she’d give a mosquito.

  Mrs. Hartwell points to a folding table set up on the ground below. “That’s where the judges sit. Expect them to take lots of notes and talk among themselves as you go through your choreography—don’t let it shake you! They’re getting their first impressions down. During the interviews, they’ll take turns asking each of you a handpicked question based on your bios, meant to learn a little more about you and your worldview.”

  That almost takes my knees out. I curse under my breath.

  “Darcy? Is there a problem?”

  I can’t believe she heard that. I clear my throat, my voice drifting up into the rafters. “Uh . . . in front of everybody? I mean, they’re going to ask us right in front of—?”

  “Don’t worry. We’re going over all that today. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.” She smiles. “I won’t leave you hanging. Now, Princesses, split into the same groups as last time, and I want to see two single-file lines waiting in the wings for my cue.”

  Once we figure out where the wings are, we’re ready. Her cue turns out to be scratchy theme music blasting from two giant speakers. Each line hops out onto the stage like they’ve been poked with cattle prods.

  For the most part, we all remember what we’re supposed to do. Sounds silly, but it’s hard work, thumping up and down those big risers, remembering when to pivot, all the while being loomed over by the huge grandstand across the track. I’ve seen the crowd at the coronation before. Most of Hancock County comes, and then some. Those bleachers will be packed.

  We take a fifteen-minute break at the one-hour mark, and Mrs. Hartwell steps away to make a call. She brought juice and doughnut holes, which I scarf down, glad to have something to take my mind off how freaked out I am. I didn’t sleep so great last night, either, my conversation with Kenyon running around
in my head. Rhiannon. She really knew how to win people over. I think of all the time I wasted watching anime with her, trying to see what was so great about Kiki’s Delivery Service or Wolf Children. I never figured out how she did that, got you to bend your rules for her and then feel good about doing it because it made her so bouncy-happy. Wonder who picked her up that night. Where they took her, how they hurt her. If we’ll ever know.

  “Now that’s a healthy option,” I hear Bella say quietly, but when I fix her with a death glare, she’s facing away from me, checking out the food with Alexis. “Because they definitely hand out a crown for most cellulite.”

  Alexis giggles. “I know, right? Like I’m going to touch sugar.”

  “I’ve got a fitting for my dress today. Three weeks of cardio better have me down to size four or I swear to God I’ll kill somebody.”

  “You went with the peach?”

  “Obviously. It’s my signature. People, like, expect it. Remember my Homecoming gown? Fitted bodice, lots of tulle?” Alexis mm-hmms like it haunts her dreams. “This is way hotter. That was so, like, classic? This one’s backless, slit up the side, spaghetti straps. Looks kind of amazing.”

  Alexis oohs, and then they both stare narrow-eyed at Nell as she pours herself a cup of juice and picks out a chocolate-glazed doughnut hole, not paying them any mind. “Then there are the people who wouldn’t know style if it bit them in the ass.”

  Bella smiles, tilting her head. “You mean the people who will be wearing a piece from the Salvation Army’s latest line to the coronation?”

  They laugh. Nell looks up, aware of them for the first time, and I move in.

  Bella’s wearing a sundress, and I close my fist around the neckline, twisting it. She takes a stumbling step backward in her platform sandals. “What’d you say?” She puts her chin up, but her eyes give her away. She’s scared of me. “Say it again.”

  “Don’t touch me.” Bella’s gaze jumps around to the other girls who are watching.

  “Now, that’s not very nice.” I’m so mad that I want to keep twisting, but considering where we are, I hold for a second more and let go, smoothing out the wrinkles before Mrs. Hartwell sees. I grab another doughnut hole and pop it into my mouth whole, then take Nell’s arm and lead her away from them.

  Nell shakes free before the steps. “Why did you do that?”

  “Huh?” I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes. “Forget it. They’re bitches. You should’ve heard—”

  “It doesn’t matter, Darcy. I don’t want you doing stuff like that for me. I don’t need you to.”

  Some part of me tightens like the last crank on a dial. My voice comes out low. “Bullshit you don’t.”

  She looks at me, lips pressed together, like she’s thinking a hundred things she can’t say because I’ve made her swear on her life not to. She turns and runs up the steps, joining her group and shutting me out.

  Great. Now she’s mad. Only because she doesn’t understand. She’s got no idea how much little things like that matter. Letting people dump on your family, letting people dump on you. How can anybody take the high road with crap like that raining down?

  Watching Bella walk her prissy self up the risers brings back everything Shea said about me the other night. How I could dress up as pretty as I wanted, but I’d still be trash. Maybe what I did to Bella proves him right.

  Shea made it sound like he was coming to the coronation, like he’d be sitting right out there in the audience, watching me. I have a feeling he took the festival booklet home with him after Gaudreau’s, too. Brought it home so he could keep twisting me in his hands.

  Nell’s still mad at me when we get home. She goes back to the trailer with Libby. I pour some iced tea and wander out onto the porch, where Mags sits on the floor, dealing solitaire onto the wicker table.

  “How was Princess training?” She looks up. “Can you turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight? ’Cause I’d like to see that.”

  “Jealous much?”

  “Nope,” she says simply, and it irks me because she means it. Mags has never been jealous of anything I have. Must be nice to be so steady and levelheaded that nobody can get a rise out of you, no matter how hard they try.

  “Anyway,” I say, “the coach turns into a pumpkin in ‘Cinderella,’ not her. That’d be dumb.” Mags shrugs, and I blow out a long breath, propping my feet on the railing. I must look exactly like Mom.

  Scraping sounds come from overhead, and I hear paint flakes sprinkling down onto the porch roof. “How’s it going, Hunt?” I call.

  The scraping stops. “Can’t complain.” Scrape, scrape. “Wouldn’t do me any good if I did.”

  I nurse my tea, pulling on my lower lip, wishing something, anything, would happen to make me forget about being an awful person who wanted to beat up Bella Peront again because I could and it would be easy. Nobody’s better at making me feel like this than Nell.

  Maybe I’ve got a fairy godmother after all, because awhile later I hear a dual exhaust bellowing in the distance, getting closer all the time. Jesse’s pickup blows past our house doing a good sixty miles per. He brakes hard down by the logging road and reverses onto the shoulder in front of our house.

  There’s somebody sitting in the passenger seat beside him, but I can’t see who. Doesn’t stop me from running up to the open window.

  Jesse grins, leaning forward to see around Mason. It’s like the weirdness after the quarry never happened. “Bored?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Figured once you got out of Sunday school, you’d have some time on your hands.” I laugh. “We’re running over to Agway to pick up some stuff for my uncle. Wanna come?”

  “Sure.” I know I should tell Mom, but instead I step back so Mason can climb out and let me slide onto the bench seat. I look back at the house, see Mags watching, wave bye. Hunt’s watching, too, turned partway around on his ladder as we drive off.

  “Was that your dad?” Jesse says.

  “No. My dad’s dead.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I think I heard that somewhere.”

  This is one story I don’t like to tell. I keep it short: “He worked on the crew that built the bridge. He fell.”

  “Jesus, that was him?”

  “Yeah.” I leave out that it was on account of a bet, that some of his buddies put him up to it, that his whole life turned out to be riding on fifty dollars and a round of beers at Ramona’s.

  It’s hard to know how to act with Mason sitting silently to my right. Did Jesse tell him about us? I’m not sure what there is to tell. It feels like an awfully long time since he’s kissed me.

  Mason’s hair is bleached almost white from the sun; he’s so big that our thighs can’t help but press together as Jesse tears up the asphalt between home and town. Mason’s got his heavy forearm on the open window frame, where he drums his fingers, one, two, two, one.

  Agway smells like cedar shavings and alfalfa. As Jesse holds the door for me, his hand finds its way to the small of my back, surprising me, so I don’t keep my distance, either. Inside, Mason seems fascinated by the floor, and I wonder what he keeps in those pockets of his. Sounds like he’s jingling change against keys. Guy’s twitchy, something I’ve never noticed before, and when I catch a look he shoots Jesse over the top of my head, I can tell that he does know about Jesse and me. And seems to be warning him with his eyes.

  Ignoring him, Jesse drops bags of mulch onto a flatbed cart. “I heard you’re a Festival Princess. How come you didn’t say anything?”

  “Shea tell you about that?” I give a short laugh when he hesitates. “I bet he did. I bet he really talked me up.” I swat at a peg full of trowels, making them clink together. “How can you guys stand hanging out with him?”

  Another look goes between them, and Jesse shrugs. “He’s all right. Sometimes.”

  “You just get used to him, huh?” I drop my gaze from his uncomfortable expression and look out the plate glass window. “I hope I never get used
to him.”

  Jesse cashes out, and then we drive around back to help load the big order of five-grain chicken scratch that his uncle called in. By the time we’re done, I’m sweaty and feeling a lot better. Screw Shea and Bella. Nell will get over being mad at me by suppertime and everything will be fine.

  We hop in and Jesse clears his throat, tossing his wallet onto my lap as he pulls out into the street. Giving him a funny look, I open it, not seeing anything special until I part the billfold and laugh. “Aww.” I pull out the little photo of me that Jesse clipped from a Festival booklet, flushing. “Think I look like a dork?”

  He laughs. “No. You look beautiful.” He flips my ponytail. “You’re gonna win. I know it.”

  I can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, right. You see the other girls in the running? It’s really Nell who—”

  The bloop-bloop of a siren cuts me off. We all look in the rearview mirror to see a cop cruiser following us, lights flashing.

  Jesse swears and pulls onto the shoulder, watching the cop park behind us and sit.

  “You weren’t even going ten over.” Mason’s deep voice startles me. It’s like having the steering wheel jump into the conversation.

  Jesse takes his wallet back and gets his license ready. We wait as the cop’s footsteps crunch across the gravel, then look up to see a broad chest in a dark uniform shirt, a belt heavy with gear. Edgecombe leans down until he’s eye to eye with Jesse. He’s wearing aviator shades like a screw in a prison movie, and his salt-and-pepper crew cut glistens with sweat. I stare at him, but he ignores me, saying to Jesse, “Going a little fast today.”

  “Didn’t know I was.”

  Edgecombe grinds his gum in his molars for a couple seconds. “License, registration, proof of insurance. Please.”

  It takes Jesse a minute to dig the slips out of the glove box. By then, sitting in the cab with no fan or breeze coming through the windows has caught up with us. Sweat slides down my temples and my shirt sticks to me. Mason props his elbow on the window frame again and squeezes his forehead like he’s got a headache.