His gaze returns to the little notebook. He clears his throat and begins reading. “‘Nine a.m. on October seventh. Young blond girl asks for help with horse. Target replies, “I don’t have time for you. In this barn, you either sink or swim.”’”
His strange wolf eyes bear into mine, searching for my reaction. I don’t want to feel ashamed; I don’t want to feel anything. I want to stay in strict control. But I do remember saying that. The girl, Natalie, wouldn’t stop pestering me. If I stopped to help her every time she asked for help, I wouldn’t get my own work done.
“‘Nine thirty a.m. on October seventh. Young blond girl goes to the other teens to complain about Target. Other teens say, “Don’t worry about Ruthless.”’”
I had no idea they called me that. It doesn’t entirely surprise me. What’s hitting me harder is the label he’s given me: Target.
“They went on to say that you weren’t nice to anyone, cared only about winning, and had no friends.”
But I do have friends. Not many. Mostly just Becca and -Courtney, because Becca swims and Courtney plays soccer, and they know what it is to give your life to your sport. But it’s not like we never have fun. We do. We just put our sports first. And there’s Caleb. I’ll always have my Caleb.
“They went on to tell the young blond girl to stick with them, as they all have fun together at the horse shows, root each other on, and ignore you.”
Which is fine by me. I don’t go to competitions to play around. I go to win.
“‘Nine forty-five a.m. on October seventh. Target’s mother walks in on conversation. Young blond girl relays Target’s words. Target’s mother says, “It’s my fault she’s nasty. Blame me.”’”
Again he looks to me, waiting to see my expression. I do everything I can to keep my face set, but my cheeks grow warm, something he can probably see. My pale, freckly skin glows like a neon light when I blush. Would Mom really say that? It can’t be the truth. She wouldn’t sell me out like that.
“‘Eight a.m. on October eighth. Target’s mother asks -Target’s father to talk to Target about the way she treats riding students at the barn. Target’s father says, “It’s not worth getting into World War Three over. You know how she is; if she thinks she’s right, she’ll fight to the death, and she always thinks she’s right. You try dealing with her this time. See how you like it.”’”
Do my parents really talk like this behind my back? I don’t want to believe Dad would say those things. It especially hurts that he said it where this man could hear him. He let this hired hand, this monster, know exactly what he thought of me. But I do believe it, because it makes sense. He’s always the one who talks to me, and I always defend myself. I just didn’t know he considered me such a burden.
“‘Four p.m. on October tenth. Caleb helped Target (at her request) with chores for several hours. Then he wanted her company. Target asked him to leave and then complained to the mother that he had overstayed his welcome. Target is a user.’”
But Caleb will stay forever if I don’t ask him to leave! We’re best friends; I help him out too. Sometimes. I’ll help if he asks for it, anyway. It’s always been like this. This is how we are.
The Wolfman picks up my cell phone. “I found this to be of interest.” He holds up the phone and shows a picture of me and Becca at her mom’s pool. We’re in bikinis. “You sent this photo to Caleb. And also this one, and this, and this,” he says, scrolling down. “You use him whenever you’re feeling insecure. You know he is going to tell you you’re beautiful. You know Caleb’s feelings go beyond friendship and use this knowledge to your advantage. I suspect you have feelings for him, but you’d never date him. You’re ashamed of him because he’s a redneck and lives in a trailer.”
I don’t know how the Wolfman knows all this, but he’s not wrong. My warm cheeks turn scalding hot.
“Your shame is a good sign. You may break sooner than I thought. The breaking is good. It purifies.”
He’s getting inside my head. I can’t let him get inside my head.
“Look down,” Wolfman says.
I look at the floor.
“Not that low. Look at the table. There’s a drawer in it. Right in front of you. Open it.”
The last thing on earth I want to do is open it. I don’t want to know what’s in there.
“Open it.”
I’m so frightened of what’s in that drawer I think I’m going to throw up again. Using my left hand, I open the drawer.
Cards. Playing cards.
“Count them. See if there are fifty-two.”
Somehow this surreal twist makes it all worse. I don’t want to be played with. He’s the cat and I’m the mouse.
“Count them and see if there are fifty-two.”
He picks the gun up and cocks it.
As I count the cards, a question beats against the inside of my head, until I can’t stop the words from spilling out of me.
“Why me?” I ask. “Why’d you start following me?”
“Whenever I spot a redhead, I take a good, long look.”