Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Oh, look, our first customer!”

I glance up to see a silver car with wide tires and a loud engine pull onto the gravel shoulder. In the back of my mind, I’m hoping it’s a large family and they’ll buy two of everything. My heart sinks when I see the two teen-aged boys. When they shut down the engine, I hear the radio blaring some rock-and-roll music that’s all the more tantalizing because it’s forbidden.

They get out and start toward us. They’re older than Sarah and me. Probably sixteen or seventeen. Both boys are wearing blue jeans and T-shirts. Reflective sunglasses. The one with long blond hair is smoking a cigarette.

“Hi, girls.” The blond guy grins, revealing crooked teeth. “Whatcha selling today?”

The second boy hangs back slightly, but he’s eyeing Sarah and me with a little too much interest. He’s got dark, curly hair and a gold hoop in his earlobe.

“We have eggs, bread, and raspberries,” Sarah tells him.

“And apple butter,” I add, hoping they’ll buy.

Curly Hair laughs. “Wow. Did you hear that, Mike? Eggs, bread, and fucking raspberries. Shit.”

I glance at Sarah. “I don’t like the look of them,” I tell her in Deitsch.

She shrugs. “It’s okay, Katie.”

“Si sinn net kawfa,” I tell her. They’re not going to buy.

“Ruich,” she says. Quiet.

I start to go around to the back of the table, but the blond guy steps in front of me. “It’s rude to talk Amish to people who ain’t Amish.”

Heat flushes my face. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I try to go around him, but he steps into my way.

“I think she called you a homo, dude,” says Curly.

The blond grins at me. “You call me a homo?”

My heart rolls and begins to pound. “No.”

“I think she said fucking homo,” says Curly.

The blond dips his head, so his face is only a few inches from mine. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

I shake my head, unable to look at him. I don’t even care if they buy anything now. I just want them to leave.

“She’s kind of cute for an Amish girl,” Curly says.

“Except that dress.”

“Yeah, but it’s what’s under the dress that counts.”

Again, I try to sidestep the blond so I can reach the relative safety behind the table, but he blocks me, grinning. He’s standing so close I can smell the stink of cigarettes on his breath.

“You are kind of cute,” he whispers. “How old are you?”

Curly makes his way to the table and looks down at our display. “Hey, can we try these berries before we buy?” Without waiting for an answer, he snatches a handful of raspberries from one of the containers and crams them into his mouth.

“Damn! Those are tasty!” he exclaims, chewing messily so that the red juice dribbles down his chin.

The blond boy points at his friend’s chin, laughing, then picks up the container, tips his head back, and empties the remaining berries into his mouth.

Sarah shoots me a worried look. “Come around here, Katie.”

Again, I try to go around the boy. This time he grasps my arm. “Where do you think you’re going, Katie?”

“You owe three dollars for those berries.” I’d intended the words to come out strong, but my voice is shaking.

“Three bucks?” The blond boy spits out the mouthful of berries. Red juice sprays the front of my dress, specks of it hitting me in the face.

Curly bursts into raucous laughter.

“Don’t speak with them, Katie,” comes my sister’s voice.

The pounding of my heart nearly drowns out her voice. I’m frightened of these two boys, but I’m also angry, because Sarah and I spent all morning picking those berries and now these two are going to ruin everything.

“You owe three dollars.” I didn’t intend to say the words; they just came out. Surprisingly strong this time.

The curly-haired boy laughs harder. “Dude, I think she’s going to kick your ass.”

“Naw, she just wants my body.” The blond boy turns away and strolls along the table, running his fingertips over the tablecloth where Sarah displayed the bread and eggs and raspberries with such care. He pretends to accidentally knock one of the loaves of bread to the ground. “Aw, hell, look what I did!” he exclaims.

I go to the fallen loaf, snatch it off the ground. “Go away and leave us alone.”

“Or what?” The blond boy snags an egg from the basket and hurls it at our sign. Yolk and shell splatter, yellow dripping down its face.

“Damn, those are some fresh fuckin’ eggs!” Curly says, slapping his knees.

I make a grab for the basket, but he shoves me away with his forearm. I reel backward, land hard on my rear in the grass and dust. My temper kicks, and I’m on my feet in an instant. My vision narrows until all I see is the blond boy’s face. He reaches for another egg. Vaguely, I’m aware of the sound of shod hooves against asphalt. The boys hear it, too. They turn. I look over to see our neighbor Joseph King climb down from his datt’s old hay wagon.

An egg flies toward the horse, smacks it hard in the chest. The animal startles, snorting and stomping its hooves.

Curly and the blond boy double over with laughter.

Joseph gets an odd look on his face. Reaching into the wagon, he grabs the buggy whip and stalks over to the blond boy. Air whooshes as Joseph swings it like a bat. Leather cracks against the blond boy’s chest. The boy yowls, puts up both arms to defend himself. The curly-haired boy takes a step forward, but Joseph is ready. He swings the whip a second time, strikes the boy’s arm.

“That fuckin’ hurt!” Curly screams.

Joseph swings the whip again, rakes it across the front of his thighs. Curly raises his hands and dances away.

The blond boy turns tail and runs.

“Get out of here!” Joseph swings the whip again, nicks the blond boy’s back. “Both of you! Go on! Git!”

The curly-haired boy lurches toward the car, his sneakers sliding in gravel as he rounds the front. The blond boy yanks open the door, scrambles into the car. Once behind the wheel, he gives Joseph the finger. “Fuck you, Amish freak!”

Joseph darts to the vehicle, flips the whip around, and brings the heavy butt down on the hood hard enough to leave a crease.

“Fucker!” the blond boy leans out the window, his mouth open and flapping. “Look what you did to my car!”

The vehicle jets backward. Gravel shoots out from beneath the tires, striking the produce stand like a hail of bullets. Gears grind and then the car lurches forward. The tires squeal on the asphalt and then they’re gone.

Sarah has already come around the table with a napkin to wipe raspberry juice and spittle from my face and dress. I’m brushing grass from my skirt. But I can’t take my eyes off of Joseph. I can’t believe he did what he did. That he did it to protect me.

He takes the time to check his gelding before coming over, running his hands over the animal’s chest, scraping off the egg and shell with his palm and slinging it to the ground. Securing the whip in its holder, he pats the animal’s rump and then strolls over to Sarah and me as if nothing happened.