Grit

by Gillian French

  A little nod. Her breath catches, and I realize she’s crying, and has been for a while. I touch my head to hers, and we lie there with moonlight across her sheet in patchwork squares. “We got to do something,” I say. I’m talking to myself, though, because now Nell’s asleep.

  After a while, I dream that I’m at Elise Grindle’s wedding, and for some reason there’s water pouring down the middle of the guest tables, swirling through place cards and favors, sweeping flowers and floating candles down the white cloth into my lap.

  I make it back into my own bed before morning, and wake up with a crusher of a hangover and a forearm I carry around like it’s equal parts ground glass and rusty nails. I accidentally touch it off the bathroom door before I’m fully awake and yelp. So much for feeling better in the morning.

  I wash up and put makeup on my bruises, which have started to fade and turn yellow around the edges, then dress carefully in nicer clothes than usual, jeans and a three-quarter-sleeve shirt that hides most of the scrapes on my arm. It’s a gray, wet day, but the rain’s holding off for now, and I hear Hunt’s ladder ka-thump against the clapboards now and then as he paints.

  The house is quiet, mellowing after the past couple days of drama. I eat breakfast alone, wishing somebody would come talk to me but not holding my breath; Mags’s car is gone and Mom’s out in the garden, giving me the cold shoulder. Nell will probably be on house arrest until she’s thirty, unless Libby can get her into a good convent first. Me, I know what I have to do, even if it turns my guts to water. I just need to find a way to get myself out there.

  Hunt comes inside around noon, washing his hands and filling his mug with what’s left in the coffeepot. I quit channel surfing and straddle a kitchen chair, watching him move around, knowing his way around the kitchen almost as well as I do now. “Can I ask you something?”

  He glances back at me. “Shoot.”

  “Did you really buy this place so you could live here with your wife?”

  Mom would skin me if she could hear this, but Hunt doesn’t get all huffy. He takes a swallow from his mug and pulls his bag lunch out of the fridge. “I did.”

  “How come it didn’t work out?”

  He’s got ham and Swiss, looks like; he eats it right from the wax paper. “Well”—he chews—“sometimes, after you been together awhile, you don’t fit the way you did when you started. Life gets in between. If you let it.” Another bite. “We let it.”

  “I heard you started building her a barn so she could have horses.” Sounds like a spoiled-brat thing to want, if you ask me. He nods. “How come you planted all those lupines on the foundation?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. “Lupines were my mother’s favorite flower.” The way he says it, I know his mom must be dead. I guess he’s pretty old to still have a mom kicking around, anyway. He’s got some grays and all.

  I watch him eat, then scrub my face and hunch over the table. “Everybody’s mad at me. Mom and Mags aren’t even talking to me.”

  His gaze is sharp, but not judgey; quiet or not, I don’t think Hunt misses a trick. “They got good reason?”

  “No. I mean, yeah, there’s stuff I can’t tell them right now. Not because I don’t want to, because I can’t. And they all hate me for it.”

  “Nobody hates you around here.”

  “Libby does.” That trips him up. “She thinks I’m turning Nell into some kind of tramp. Stupid.” I start to lean my elbows on the table, then pull back, not wanting him to see me wince. “I’m not what she tells everybody I am.”

  “No, you’re not.” He brought a chocolate snack cake with him, and he takes the plastic off, offers me half, then takes a bite when I shake my head. “I was hoping maybe you’d win Queen. Show ’em a thing or two.”

  I laugh. “Were you there?”

  “I caught some of it.”

  “Then you know how bad I tanked it. Whatever. I don’t care. I’m not really Queen material anyway.”

  “I thought you deserved your shot.” The way he says it makes me sit back. He starts balling up his trash.

  “Was it you?” I watch him push back from the table. “Hunt, did you put my name in for Princess?”

  His embarrassment shows only in the set of his shoulders, and how he keeps himself busy rinsing his mug, swiping crumbs off the place mat into his hand. “I was in the town office getting the sticker for my truck, figured what the hell. You’re as good as any of those girls on the ballot. And you’re funny and you got some grit, which ought to count for more than it does.”

  I sit there, blinking, not sure what to do until it comes to me to say, “Thank you,” for something I didn’t even know I was thankful for until I found out it all happened because he thinks I’m worth something.

  I tap my fingers on the table, almost letting him escape back to painting before I catch him at the door with, “Are you sorry it didn’t work out with your wife?”

  He shakes his head. “That was some other guy. Some kid. Couldn’t speak to it either way.”

  “Then you should go out with my mom. Don’t wait around anymore, or she’ll think you don’t like her enough.” He stands there with his fingers on the door handle. “Trust me, girls hate that. Guys are always saying we’re impossible to figure out or whatever, but it’s pretty simple. Let her know how much you like her.”

  He has to clear his throat twice before saying, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Good.” I hesitate, then decide to go for it. “Listen. I guess you probably don’t have any reason to go into Hampden today. But if you’re going, I could use a ride. I’ll give you gas money.”

  He turns, considering me, resting his shoulder against the door.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not scoring weed or anything. It’s just something I have to do.” I look up at him. “But if you’re not going, it’s okay.” Part of me really hopes he’ll say no.

  “I need some things from True Value. Could swing by the one on Main Road North.” He opens the door. “Run and tell your mom.”

  Mom glances up when I stop beside her. When she sees it’s me, she goes back to yanking weeds, her brows drawn.

  “I’m going into Hampden with Hunt.” Nothing. “We’ll be back soon.” Nothing. “Okay?”

  She talks to the dirt. “You checking in with me now, Darcy?”

  “Do you want me to?” She rakes her gloved fingers through the soil, digging at a root. I’m ready to stand over her all day until she answers me, but Hunt starts the engine, and I know if I waste another second, I’ll never do this. “Whatever. Bye.”

  As we leave, I watch her sit back on her heels, her hands on her thighs, but she never lifts her gaze from the ground.

  We have to cross the bridge to get to Hampden. Thump, the pickup tires cross the meshed steel teeth binding Route 1 to the bridge, the vibration sending a sick ache through my arm. Gray girders fly by, railing streams past. I stare down into the Penobscot, daring it. Come and get me. The water’s the color of rusty iron today, churning and boiling and paying no mind to Tommy Prentiss’s youngest girl.

  Hunt doesn’t talk. He’s probably the only person on the planet who wouldn’t push for answers on this little joyride. I sit close to the door, blood roaring through my veins, knee jumping. At first, I think I’m psyching myself up. Maybe I’m glad this is finally happening. I’m gonna face it and end it, slay the dragon, like in that Saint George picture book Nell used to check out of the library when we were kids, running her fingertips over the drawings of the beautiful knight lying bleeding in his armor.

  We drive through Frankfort and Winterport, and cross the Hampden town line. My nerves are on fire. Hunt slows to twenty-five. “Where do you need to go?”

  “Irish Lane, up here on the left.”

  “Which house?”

  “Just drop me at the store.” He pulls into Chase’s lot, and I can almost see Nell, half-hidden around the side of the building like she was that night, curled into herself like she’d been punched in the s
tomach. She’d lifted her hand to block the headlight glare, not recognizing the silver Fit until I honked. She got in slowly, like everything hurt, her shoulders shuddering and twitching. I’d never seen her cry like that. “I’ll meet you back here.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  I’m so cranked up that I have to clench my teeth to keep from snapping at him. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  I know stubborn when I see it, so I turn and walk stiffly away down the sidewalk, sucking air in short bursts. Why can’t your body remember how to breathe when you’re scared?

  I walk only a couple minutes before I recognize the place. Nell told me all about it sophomore year, back when the world revolved around Mr. Ellis, the drama coach and ed tech who helped Mrs. Hanscom out in the resource room. She grubbed every detail of his life, keeping them like a magpie hoarding shiny, precious things. Mr. Ellis lives in an apartment house in Hampden. Mr. Ellis is gonna get married, and it’s gonna be beautiful. Mr. Ellis says I diagram sentences faster than anybody in class. Talk, talk, talk, till we all rolled our eyes and teased her about it. We should’ve known something was wrong when she went silent.I should’ve known.

  His car’s parked in the side lot. I picture him driving the half hour to our road once a week or so, sitting there in the dark, waiting for that fairy light to drift out to him. I stand on the sidewalk, hugging my good arm across my middle, looking up at all the windows. If Elise is home, I’m outta here. But there aren’t any cars near his, and they’d probably park together. Most people do. I step over the curb onto the lawn.

  The metal mailboxes fixed to the siding by each entrance have numbers and names spelled out in reflective stickers. #2 Ellis/Grindle. There’s green carpeting that looks like Easter basket grass covering the steps. My air slows to a trickle. I ring the bell.

  Chimes play inside. I want the place to be empty, but somebody’s coming.

  Brad Ellis opens the door and we look at each other. He wears this half smile, looking tolerant, like he expects me to tell him I’m selling Christmas cards for the senior class fund. He must know who I am. Even if he didn’t get a good look at me in the rain the other night, I used to wait for Nell at the resource room door before lunch all the time. Then it hits me. I’m standing on a teacher’s doorstep, about to nail him to the wall. Christ on a crutch.

  “I’m . . . Darcy.” Mouth’s too dry. “I go to Sasanoa?” Stupid. He knows that. “Nell’s cousin.” He keeps right on looking. “I need to talk to you.”

  He smiles, giving a puzzled tilt of his head, and steps back. “Sure. Come on in.”

  I figured I’d say it right here on the steps, tell him how it was gonna be, and then go. But he’s waiting.

  I slide past him into an entryway, passing a spindly little stand with a basket of potpourri on it under a sign reading Home Is Where the ♥ Is. I smell a pumpkin spice candle burning somewhere. I don’t want to go any deeper and I stop, turning to him as he brushes by me into the next room.

  Living room and kitchen, separated by an island. Nice leather furniture in the living room, more folksy decorations. “Take a seat,” he says over his shoulder, walking around the island into the kitchen and pulling back a chair for me at the table.

  I sink stiffly into it, knees angled out, fists in my lap. Should’ve stayed standing. The candle burns on the countertop, the jar smudged with soot. By the stove, some wrought-iron hangers dangle just-for-looks oven mitts. I don’t get the point of that.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” He moves the same as he did in school, quick and loose, kind of absentminded or something, like a poet or an artist. Maybe that’s why he directs the plays. His hair’s all over the place, brown and wavy and long enough to push back behind his ears, and he isn’t dressed much differently than at school, either: light-blue oxford shirt untucked over khakis. But he’s in his stocking feet. Gray argyles.

  “No.” What am I gonna do, sit at his table drinking iced tea? He must know why I’m here. I straighten my spine, but my voice doesn’t sound right. “I’m gonna say this and then I’ll go.”

  He looks back at me, kind of puzzled, kind of amused. “Okay.” His brows are thick, his gray eyes intense, trying to give me the feeling that he’s listening very closely to my every word.

  “I know what you been doing with Nell.” He doesn’t blink. “You can’t see her anymore. Or message her, or anything. I won’t tell if you promise to leave her alone.”

  He gives his head a small shake. Still the smile. “What?”

  “Stay away from her.”

  “Stay . . . ? What do you mean?”

  Heat jets up into my face. I stare at him, out of words. When I swallow, it makes a click.

  He sits back slowly, his hands loose on the table. He’s not a big guy. Much shorter than Shea. He’s maybe got an inch or two on Jesse, but slender, fine-boned. Probably ran cross-country or something when he was my age. “Nell was my student,” he says slowly, like he wants to understand. “We haven’t seen each other since I took the job at Hampden High. Am I missing something here?”

  I work my lips over my teeth. My voice is hoarse. “You’ve been messing with her.”

  He blinks twice, quickly. He pushes back from the table, looking down at his stocking feet on the linoleum for a second. “Uh—wow. Darcy.” He goes to the fridge and pulls out a carton of soy milk, leaving the door open as he reaches into the cupboard for a glass. “I think you’re confused about some things.”

  I watch him pour a glass of milk and set it in front of me. “I think . . . Nell may have misconstrued what I said to her before I left SAHS. She was always one of the best kids we worked with in resource. Really special. And I told her so. I said we’d always be friends.” Staring fixedly, he sits, putting his fingers to his temple and rubbing lightly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  Disbelief crackles through me. I sit forward. “I saw you.”

  He presses his lips together, nodding. “Mm-hmm. What’s happening here is coincidences and appearances adding up to look like something more. I . . . must’ve fed a need in Nell that I didn’t realize was there. A crush.” He looks at me with clear, startled eyes. “It’s my fault. She sent me a friend request last year. I accepted it. I wasn’t her teacher anymore. There was no ethical reason not to. I just . . . didn’t know.”

  I’ve never seen lying like this. He’s almost got me believing, questioning everything Nell told me as she cried, how she’d fibbed to Mags that night about wanting to go to the summer theater production of Anne of Green Gables happening at Hampden High School, how she’d said she was meeting a couple girls from drama class so Mags would drop her off there before going over to Will’s house. How she’d walked to Irish Lane, up these steps, and rang the bell, because she’d decided she had to tell Brad that he couldn’t get married because she loved him and he loved her, bursting with her pure and wonderful decision.

  She’d told me how she’d fibbed to Libby so she’d pick her up late from play practice sophomore year because Brad had begged her for alone time. How he’d kissed her that first afternoon, and it led to fooling around in the prop closet, backstage, in his car, and twice in this apartment, in his bed, before Elise asked to move in and he’d told Nell that she had to step back and get some perspective. He’d made a commitment to Elise. That was a serious thing.

  “It’s really too bad.” He shoves his hair back and it wings out over his left ear, the waves separating, making him look young. “I’m not so much worried about myself. The administration knows me. It shouldn’t be difficult to explain the situation. But if people believe this story . . . well, you know how bad it will be for her. What people will say. It’s not fair and it isn’t right, but it’s always, always harder on the girl. Nell doesn’t need that kind of stigma hanging over her.”

  I can’t decide if he’s way smarter than me, a really good actor, or both. My mouth’s open as I watch him slide sideways in his chair, hooking his arm over the back, fro
wning. “I’d hate to see it. There was this girl in the high school I went to. She made some . . . questionable decisions with a teacher, and . . .” A soft, bitter laugh. “Let’s just say there were far-reaching consequences.” He flicks his hand as if pushing the memory away, then says distractedly, “She ended up transferring. Drink your milk, Darcy.”

  In another room, a clock chimes. The kitchen’s still, and we’re even more still in it. My nose and throat are choked with cinnamon-spice. I look down at the milk I didn’t want, off-white, in a dimpled glass.

  I throw the glass. It slams against the cupboard doors under the sink, shattering, and milk sprays everywhere: cupboards, linoleum, a splash across the oven door. I look at it, breathing hard, then look at Brad, who’s staring at the spot where the glass had been a second ago.

  I get to my feet. Milk’s still dripping. “If you mess with her again, I’ll tell everybody.” My voice is uneven, but it sounds like my own. “I swear I will.”

  He lifts his gaze to me, eyes half-lidded, his expression perfectly flat. Footsteps thump, and the front door opens with a scrabble of claws on hardwood. I turn to see Elise come in with the yellow Lab on a leash, both breathless. She sees me and smiles, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, wearing shorts and running shoes. “Oh! Hi. I didn’t know anybody was here.” She glances at Brad, but he has a new face on now, one she’s used to seeing. Her gaze goes straight to the puddle of milk and the broken glass on the floor.