Except that Tempest hadn’t really faded away, not from my memory at least. I couldn't quite erase her from my past, no matter how hard I tried. I spent every spare minute of my senior year in high school wrestling, angry at her. Angry at the damn world. And the time I didn't spend wrestling, I was at my coach's place. He knew my father was working as a janitor at our high school, drunk off his ass most of the time. So my coach took me under his wing.
He was the one who got me started doing wood-working stuff in his garage. He spent his spare time building furniture and carving stuff out of aspen. He showed me how to use the lathe, and how to judge a good piece of wood. When the arthritis in his hands started making it too painful for him to continue, he'd told me the space was mine.
Tempest had blown into West Bend, and stirred up everything. She had breathed life into me. And then breezed out of town, taking everything that was good in my life with her. I was convinced that she was my good luck charm, and that she'd taken that away with her when she left.
But my coach had set me on the right track, told me there was no such thing as luck. You make your own way in life, he said.
Even so, it still took a long time for me to realize that luck was something for suckers.
Kind of like love.
I tucked my bare feet up underneath me in the oversized arm chair, turning the medal over and over in my fingers, the repetition of the movement combined with the sensation of the cool metal against my skin soothing.
Iver handed me a flute filled with champagne, and I took it, despite the fact that it was at odds with where we were at in the con.
“Champagne?" I asked. "It doesn’t seem like we have anything to celebrate. Am I wrong?”
“There’s always reason for champagne, darling." Iver sipped from his glass. "You and that coin. Are you going to ever tell me what - or who - it's from?"
"It's not a coin," I said, distracted by my thoughts. "It's just for luck." Embarrassingly, my thoughts weren't even focused on the grift, the way they should have been. Instead, all I could think about was the unexpected appearance of Silas in my life.
I looked down at the medal in my hands. The sight brought back the painful memory of the day I'd left West Bend.
"I'm not leaving!" I protested. But I continued to throw my clothes into the suitcase, preparing for the inevitable.
Of course I was leaving. I couldn't possibly stay.
"What?" My mother stood in front of me, her hands on her hips, shaking her head. "You think you'd last a minute in this town after we left? Your father and I are running a con. The bottom is about to fall out on that. Do you really think you think you could stay here and escape the aftermath?"
"I'm eighteen next year," I pleaded. "Can't we stay somewhere for one year?"
My mother gestured toward my father. "Talk some sense into her," she said, disgusted. "Is this about that Saint boy you've been mooning over for months? Do you really want to give up everything in your life for him?"
"Everything in my life?" My voice sounded high-pitched, as if it belonged to someone else. "Yeah, all of this is everything I could ever want, isn't it? Moving constantly, from place to place, with no more than a minute's notice, lying to everyone about everything? It's like living in paradise. No one even knows my name. This time I'm Mariah. What's my new identity going to be?"
No one knows my name except Silas, I thought. I'd told him that my name was Tempest. He thought it was just a nickname between us.
I wanted him to know the truth. It was important to me that someone knew who I was, even if he didn't know that Tempest was anything more than a nickname. I wanted to give someone that part of me that I couldn't give anyone else - some semblance of the truth, even if it was just a sliver. If I couldn’t give him anything else, at least I could give him my name.
"You're coming with us," my father said. "Be reasonable. Do you know what will happen if you stay? When it comes out that we've run a game on a group of families in town, you'll be arrested."
"I'm a kid," I said. "No one's going to arrest a child."
"A child who's very close to turning eighteen," my father said. "Remember that. Do you think the authorities will believe you had no actual part in this?"
I stood there, silently protesting my fate, even though I knew in my heart that leaving was the only option.
"You're stealing from good people," I said. "Decent people. It's not right."
I don't think there was a more hateful thing I could have said to my father, even if I'd have told him I wanted him dead.
He looked at me, shock etched on his features, before turning to my mother and then back to me again. "Have I taught you nothing?" he asked. "Anyone who allows themselves be conned deserves to be conned. These people - these good people - they have plenty more where that came from."
"It's not right," I said. "What about Letty? What's she going to do here after we leave? I could stay with her."
"Your grandmother is not fit to take care of you," my mother said. "She's struggling as it is. She doesn't have enough money to worry about another mouth to feed."
I swallowed my pride, stepped forward, and hugged my father. "Obviously I'm coming with you,” I lied. “But I won't be thrilled about it."
"I'm glad to see that you're being sensible," he said.