“Next Saturday, up pulled Tommy Prentiss on the same Indian, but the exhaust was fixed and there was an inspection sticker on the plate. Grampie took one look at him in his jacket and said, ‘Son, if you think I’m gonna let my girl go anywhere with you dressed like some kinda bum, you’re crazy.’ And he kicked him out.
“Saturday after that, Dad showed up wearing some shiny Goodwill suit with a pink handkerchief in the pocket and two-tone wingtips. Came to the door smelling like Aqua Velva, gave me a rose, and asked Grampie’s permission to take me out for a nice time. Grampie says, ‘Where you planning on going?’ And Dad said, ‘Demolition derby over to Fort Kent.’”
I laugh. “And he let you go?”
“You know he did. Grampie was speechless. Stayed that way clear through our wedding day.”
I trail off to giggles, feeling the day’s tension rolling off me. “House is coming along.”
“Mm-hmm.” Hunt’s scraped the clapboards completely bare on this side. He was here working this morning, gone by the time we got home from the barrens. Looks like he took our trash to the dump and did some weed-whacking around the shed, too.
There’s another huff, and then Libby comes around the trailer, lugging a laundry basket. She calls over, “It wasn’t stupid, Sarah. I had a perfectly good reason to get mad at you that night.”
Mom cranes her neck. “Like what?”
“You blew me off for some fool in a lumber jacket.”
I call Kat again. It goes straight to voice mail, same as before. When I turn around, Mags is on the porch, looking in at me through the screen door.
“No luck?” She could care less how Kat’s doing, but it’s nice that it doesn’t stop her from caring about me. I start to ask her something, but she cuts me off. “Lemme guess. You want to go over there. You won’t be able to sleep tonight unless you do.” She sighs and slides her feet into her flip-flops. “It’s going on your tab. Nobody rides for free.”
Nell’s lying on the porch floor, examining her hand in their game of Spit. Mags tells her where we’re going. “Better stay here, hon. Your mom wouldn’t like it.”
Nell surprises us by saying, “Okay,” and climbing up into the swing without any questions. Usually she hates being left behind, especially when it’s because Libby wouldn’t approve.
Mags tells Mom what’s up, and then the two of us drive into town together. I don’t try to explain how it is between Kat and me. It’s not like we’re BFFs or anything, but she was my friend when lots of people at school wouldn’t be seen with me on a bet, thanks to Rhiannon’s mouth.
Okay, so maybe Rhiannon wasn’t the first one to spread the rumors—the seniors we met up with at the soccer fields Halloween night of sophomore year told people, too, I’m sure—but she said enough. Even now, my face gets hot remembering a girl’s voice, maybe Georgia Cyr’s, drifting into the bathroom stall where I sat, trying not to breathe: said he almost asked Darcy Prentiss. I don’t get it. She’s not even that pretty. Rhiannon, with this dry little laugh: Don’t worry about it. He just wanted to get some.
And I remember how much I still hate her for that.
Mags says, “So spill. Why are you racing Shea at work?”
“Because he’s a jerk.”
“Well, yeah. You must have a better reason than that.”
I scan through radio stations. “He gave me a bunch of crap about the Princess thing, so I told him I could rake more than him.”
“Can you?” Mags sounds like she really wants to know. “You’re good, Darce. Your paycheck’s almost twice the size of mine, and I’m no slacker.”
Mags doesn’t go around handing out compliments like Juicy Fruit; it means a lot. And it’s the first time I’ve thought about this thing without anger. “I dunno. He’s stronger than me. But I might be faster.”
She lets loose a rare cackle, tossing her head back. “Ooh, he must’ve hated you calling him out like that in front of his buddies. Bet it got his panties all in a twist.” She glances at me. “Then this means that you guys definitely aren’t—”
“No,” I say flatly.
“Just checking.” Then: “Good.”
I’m nervous when we pull into Church Street. The Levesques live in a nice white two-story house with a renovated barn they use as a garage. I walk up to the door and knock. After a minute, Kat opens it, her eyes half-lidded, hair tangled around her shoulders. She wears a tank top with no bra, her teeny-weeny boobs pitching pup tents against the fabric.
“Hey,” I say. “I called you.”
“I know. Sorry.” She squints at Mags’s car, scratching her hip through a pair of droopy boxers with the Playboy bunny printed all over them.
“It’s just my sister.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” She blows out a sigh, and stares back.
“Are you and Kenyon okay?”
She hesitates. “He’s sleeping.”
“He’s here? I thought he got arrested. Everybody’s talking about it.”
She snorts and checks out her black toenail polish, disgusted with me or the world or all of the above. “They questioned him. It’s not like they cuffed him or anything.”
She’s about to shut the door on me. I put my palm flat against it. “Well, I need to see him.”
She opens her mouth, then glances back as a shadow steps from the stairs into the hallway.
“Kenyon?” I push past her into the house.
He’s shirtless, wearing his baggy-ass skater jeans and nothing on his feet. Kenyon’s blond—Kat’s been dyeing her hair black or blue for years—with soft brown eyes and a sketchy attempt at a goatee. He stands with his hand on the newel post, maybe wondering if he can bolt upstairs before I catch him.
I’m not sure how to start, but pissed-off and yelling is out the second I get a good look at his face. The boy is tired. He’s got shocked hollows under his eyes and his cheekbones are sharp, like he’s lost weight. I have an edge to my voice all the same. “Why’d you tell the cops?”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?”
“Why’d you give them my name, Kenyon?”
He goes off. “Because I didn’t do anything to her, but they think I did and—I’m like Leatherface or something because they got my prints.”
“Dude! Shut. Up.” I’ve never seen Kat really mad before, and it’s strange to actually see the whites of her eyes as she gets in her brother’s face. “You’re not supposed to talk about it.” When he just stands there, looking beaten, she says, “You’re such an idiot,” and stalks off to the kitchen.
Kenyon and I look at each other. Mrs. Levesque’s voice drifts down from upstairs. “Kenny? Who’s here?”
He makes a frustrated sound in his throat and pushes through the door that opens into the garage. I don’t know if he means for me to follow, but I do.
The light is on above the tool bench, and everything smells like sawdust and motor oil. This is where we do our drinking when Kat has people over. The Levesques run a furniture business, and Mrs. Levesque is all about yoga classes and spa weekends to center herself or whatever, so the twins basically have the run of the place most of the time. I lean against the chest freezer, watching him prowl. “They got your prints where?”