“Yeah.” I leave out that it was on account of a bet, that some of his buddies put him up to it, that his whole life turned out to be riding on fifty dollars and a round of beers at Ramona’s.
It’s hard to know how to act with Mason sitting silently to my right. Did Jesse tell him about us? I’m not sure what there is to tell. It feels like an awfully long time since he’s kissed me.
Mason’s hair is bleached almost white from the sun; he’s so big that our thighs can’t help but press together as Jesse tears up the asphalt between home and town. Mason’s got his heavy forearm on the open window frame, where he drums his fingers, one, two, two, one.
Agway smells like cedar shavings and alfalfa. As Jesse holds the door for me, his hand finds its way to the small of my back, surprising me, so I don’t keep my distance, either. Inside, Mason seems fascinated by the floor, and I wonder what he keeps in those pockets of his. Sounds like he’s jingling change against keys. Guy’s twitchy, something I’ve never noticed before, and when I catch a look he shoots Jesse over the top of my head, I can tell that he does know about Jesse and me. And seems to be warning him with his eyes.
Ignoring him, Jesse drops bags of mulch onto a flatbed cart. “I heard you’re a Festival Princess. How come you didn’t say anything?”
“Shea tell you about that?” I give a short laugh when he hesitates. “I bet he did. I bet he really talked me up.” I swat at a peg full of trowels, making them clink together. “How can you guys stand hanging out with him?”
Another look goes between them, and Jesse shrugs. “He’s all right. Sometimes.”
“You just get used to him, huh?” I drop my gaze from his uncomfortable expression and look out the plate glass window. “I hope I never get used to him.”
Jesse cashes out, and then we drive around back to help load the big order of five-grain chicken scratch that his uncle called in. By the time we’re done, I’m sweaty and feeling a lot better. Screw Shea and Bella. Nell will get over being mad at me by suppertime and everything will be fine.
We hop in and Jesse clears his throat, tossing his wallet onto my lap as he pulls out into the street. Giving him a funny look, I open it, not seeing anything special until I part the billfold and laugh. “Aww.” I pull out the little photo of me that Jesse clipped from a Festival booklet, flushing. “Think I look like a dork?”
He laughs. “No. You look beautiful.” He flips my ponytail. “You’re gonna win. I know it.”
I can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, right. You see the other girls in the running? It’s really Nell who—”
The bloop-bloop of a siren cuts me off. We all look in the rearview mirror to see a cop cruiser following us, lights flashing.
Jesse swears and pulls onto the shoulder, watching the cop park behind us and sit.
“You weren’t even going ten over.” Mason’s deep voice startles me. It’s like having the steering wheel jump into the conversation.
Jesse takes his wallet back and gets his license ready. We wait as the cop’s footsteps crunch across the gravel, then look up to see a broad chest in a dark uniform shirt, a belt heavy with gear. Edgecombe leans down until he’s eye to eye with Jesse. He’s wearing aviator shades like a screw in a prison movie, and his salt-and-pepper crew cut glistens with sweat. I stare at him, but he ignores me, saying to Jesse, “Going a little fast today.”
“Didn’t know I was.”
Edgecombe grinds his gum in his molars for a couple seconds. “License, registration, proof of insurance. Please.”
It takes Jesse a minute to dig the slips out of the glove box. By then, sitting in the cab with no fan or breeze coming through the windows has caught up with us. Sweat slides down my temples and my shirt sticks to me. Mason props his elbow on the window frame again and squeezes his forehead like he’s got a headache.
Edgecombe goes back to the cruiser to run the VIN. We wait a long time. A horsefly gets into the cab, bouncing around, buzzing crazily against the windshield.
Edgecombe comes back and hands Jesse his ID and papers. “The speed limit on this road is forty-five. That’s the law, not a suggestion.” He steps back and hooks his thumbs into his belt. “Step out of the vehicle so we can have a chat.”
Jesse’s eyes widen. “Uh—”
“Darcy. Let’s go.” Edgecombe crooks his finger at me and puts his hands on his hips as a sedan passes us, throwing dust.
My pulse pounds at my throat as Jesse lets me out on his side; I can tell he doesn’t like this, but there’s not much he can do. I follow Edgecombe around the tailgate, squinting in the sunlight as I stand in front of him.
“These boys your friends?”
“Yeah.”
He sucks air through his teeth, making a small sssfft sound. “Your friends let you ride around without a seat belt?”
I stand there, speechless. I was so busy talking when we left Agway that I didn’t even think of it.
“It’s state law that everyone wear a safety belt while riding in a motor vehicle. Did you know that?” I nod. “And you’re under eighteen, which makes the operator of the vehicle responsible. Your friend is up for a fifty-dollar fine.”
Did I say I was feeling better? I feel like roadkill on a stick.
We stand there in silence, our clothes rippling as another car passes. Edgecombe pulls his glasses off and hooks them over his chest pocket. His eyes are a deep shade of stump-water brown. “Darcy, I want you to think about something for me. Rhiannon Foss’s parents, Charlie Ann and Jim, I’m sure you know their names. There’s probably nothing they wouldn’t give to see their daughter again. She’s that precious to them. Most parents feel that way about their kids, wouldn’t you say?” I nod again. “Imagine your mother in their position. How she’d feel if something happened to you.” He waits, maybe for me to bawl and beg for mercy, I don’t know. “You seem to keep putting yourself into dangerous situations, and I’m curious why.”
“I forgot about the belt, okay? I usually wear one.”
“That’s just one example. Not telling the truth. That can be dangerous. Especially when somebody’s life is riding on it.”
I clench my jaw, biting down until I think I can answer without screaming. “I don’t. Know where. She is.” I breathe in through my nose. “Have you been following me?” It’s hard to believe somebody with the rank of corporal would be sitting at a speed trap. When he doesn’t answer, I burst out, “I’m telling you the truth, okay?”
He studies me. His mouth pulls into a grim smile. “But you’re not exactly being honest with me, either. Are you?”
When he sees I’m not going to budge, he finally steps back and waves me to the pickup. Once I’m between the boys again, Edgecombe takes in the three of us for a long moment, then says to Jesse, “If I have to stop you again, I’ll do more than ticket you. Understand?”
“Yessir.” I’m glad Jesse doesn’t try to be tough.
Edgecombe goes back to his cruiser, where I figure he must be making out the ticket, but then he starts the engine, pulls into the road, and drives away. I sag against the seat and say, “Sorry.” Pathetic.