“I like the one you did of the eagle,” he says.
“Osprey,” I tell him.
“Right, right. Massive bird. The one you made looks like it could carry away small children. You should sell it, you know? You could make some scratch.”
There’s no denying the osprey is one of my better pieces. I made it from reclaimed wood, hacking at it with a hatchet and a saw and then nailing and gluing it together. It has a six-foot wingspan and I mounted it on top of our sugarhouse. Kinda works like a scarecrow, except it scares mice and rats away. Also reminds me of summers kayaking on Champlain, so it’s got sentimental value. That’s not to say if someone offered me serious cash, I wouldn’t part with it.
“We’ll see,” I say. “I’m keeping it for now.”
I put the cup to my mouth to drink more and remember it’s empty, but I keep it against my lips to play it off as Esther Green walks by. She’s got this silky way about her that maybe goes along with being clever. I don’t care who her parents are, or if people call her trash; that girl knows that she knows more than the rest of us.
I follow her, because she’s pied-pipering the hell out of me. I don’t say shit to Paul, just toss my cup and start walking. I’m not looking where I’m going and I bump into this kid, Gus, who’s standing by a potted mum.
Gus Drummond, yeah, of all the luck. This scruffy motherfucker was Cole’s best buddy from way back. As if I need another reminder of what we did.
“Sorry,” I say.
And you know how that little stain responds? “You’ll be sorry all right,” he says under his breath. “Stupid duck.”
Did he just call me a duck?
“Ha,” I say back to him. I literally say the word “ha,” because shit like that isn’t even worth laughing at. He must’ve put on some beer muscles tonight, but trust me, the kid is harmless. All obsessed with fantasy books and Minecraft shit. Only time he’s thrown a punch is in a video game.
I fake like I’m going after him and he flinches, then scurries away. No surprise there. Holly would be pissed if she saw this, what with Gus being Cole’s friend from way back. But it’s probably been two years since he and Cole have even talked. I’m not worried in the slightest about him. Kid can’t even swear right. Stupid duck? Ha.
I’m back to trailing Esther, at least until she stops by the firepit and I’m standing right behind her. She senses me there and turns around, puts a finger out and pokes my chest.
“Not cool, Gray,” she says.
I grin and ask, “What?”
“Sneaking up on me.”
“Wasn’t sneaking. You were going where I was going.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
A fat kid from Southfield, who I only know as Rumson, tosses a log on the fire and sends a bunch of sparks in the air. Pretty—the opposite of rain. They dance and disappear, and when I’m done watching them, I notice that Logan is there too. All intense, staring across the fire at me. I put my hand to my forehead and flick off a tight salute, the type my sister, Greta, learned in the marines. The way Greta does it, it’s like she’s saying “Yessir!” and “Fuck off!” at the same time, which is what I’m going for, even if Logan doesn’t realize it.
He answers with a little nod. I have to admit, he’s been handling himself better than I expected. Hasn’t been hounding me about anything. He’s letting time go by and that’s what we need. The further we get from it, the better. It rained yesterday and washed away any puke or hair or skin or whatever evidence was still left behind in the rail trail lot. At the grave, the leaves are probably matted down, and when the snow comes, it will look like any other spot in those endless woods.
“You two all right?” Esther asks.
That’s when I realize Logan and I have been staring at each other for too long, so I cluck my tongue and say, “Mr. Charitable owes me twenty bucks is all.”
“Do I, now?” Logan says with a huff.
“Lemme guess,” Esther says. “You’re one of Logan’s Heroes. Gonna open a pie shop. Two young men, making the world a better place. Through pie.”
She’s not being serious. She’s flirting. I’d like to say she’s flirting with me, but . . . yeah, that ain’t it.
“Twenty bucks is ’cause this bitch owes me money for a Thule roof box,” I tell her.
That gets a reaction from Logan. It’s like I took a piss on his leg. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” he says.
“Just fucking around,” I say, and I turn to Esther. “You know Logan is the sorta guy you can trust. He’ll do anything for his friends. Anything.”
“Good to know,” she says. Then she kisses her fingertips, blows us both a kiss, and walks back to the house.
Logan stands on the other side of the fire, mad as I’ve ever seen him. I wink and walk away.
HOLLY
I’M GETTING SICK in the upstairs bathroom. It is so very nasty, but I have to admit this is a really nice remodel. Dull slate and shiny chrome. I can’t imagine Becca’s parents—God, anyone’s parents—would be happy to know what I’m doing to their perfect porcelain. But they probably won’t ever know, will they? I can clean this up. I can clean up anything.
Meeka is sitting on a stool, the type that toddlers use to reach the sink. “You can come back to my house,” she says. “Sleep off all that booze.”
“I don’t want to be there or anywhere near that place,” I say as I take a breath.
Besides, what is there to sleep off? I had one drink, a splash of screwdriver in a plastic cup. Which was enough to push me over the edge. How did I become so sensitive? Am I literally falling apart?
“I understand,” Meeka says as she traces the lines between the tiles with her foot. “You know you’re always welcome, though.”
I massage my brow and tell her, “People will start saying I was drunk the night before a game. What was I thinking putting anything in my body?”
“You wanted to be calm,” she replies. “You wanted to be normal.”
“I’ve never wanted normal,” I tell her.
I wipe my mouth with some toilet paper and lean back against the wall. The baseboard radiator is on. It’s warming my back, which feels good, but I wish it would burn me. Mark me. Punish me.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Beat it, peasant,” Meeka yells. “We’re making babies in here.”