I let him think on that one. When I glance at him next, his cockiness has faded into watchfulness. He gets back to work, but he’s moving slower, sizing me up.
At lunch break, I wait until Mrs. Wardwell makes her usual mosey over to the Porta-Johns before grabbing the bags of donations from Mags’s car. I carry them up to the camper and set them inside the open doorway—the Wardwells will figure out who they’re for—mostly because I don’t want us to look like kiss-asses in front of the locals who were basically told not to show their faces here next harvest.
I go back down the steps. Everybody’s eating lunch in the grass below. I see Nell’s blue bandanna, the sun shining gold off Mags’s hair. Then somebody grabs my arm hard enough to make me gasp, pulling me into the shadows behind the camper.
Shea presses me back against the cool metal, leaning down to get in my face. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
I push on his arms. “Let go, idiot.”
“Not till you tell me what the hell you were hinting at back there.”
“What do you think?” Our noses are almost touching. “I know you’re cheating. We’re all busting our asses while you pull in double—” I jerk against him, then go flat against the camper, breathing hard. “Tell Duke to stop, and I won’t say anything to anybody.”
“You think we’re dealing? You want to, like, shake on it or something?”
“Fine. Then I’ll tell everybody. Hope you like washing dishes at the Harbor View diner next summer—”
This time he slams me back so hard that the aluminum ripples. I curse, lunging at him until he grabs my wrists and pins them. I’m strong, too, and I don’t make it easy for him. “You’re not telling anybody.” He’s breathing hard on me. “You just love screwing me over, don’t you? You been after me all summer, giving me shit.”
“You got that backward.”
“Bouchard told you, right? He’s the one.” I fix my gaze on sunlight caught in a spiderweb. He swears. “Knew it. He can’t keep his mouth shut. Just like he can’t keep it in his pants when some little hoochie like you shakes her ass at him. I don’t even blame the guy.” He turns my chin back. “That’s the plan? You’re gonna spread for all my friends before you work your way back to me?”
“I’m never gonna touch you again. And just so you know, I liked Jesse way before I ever hooked up with you. But I never liked you.” Using all my strength, I twist my wrists free and push past him. “Stay away from me.”
A few seconds later, he says, “Hey, Darcy,” and when I glance back, he catches my upper arm and pulls. I stumble. He sweeps my left foot out from under me. I go down.
I don’t remember seeing the trailer hitch, but I guess I must’ve, because I almost get my hands up before I hit it. My forehead and nose slam metal. My teeth clamp down on my tongue.
I see fireworks, smell blood, taste blood, and gag as I roll onto my side.
Cradling my face, I ride the wave of pain until it drops me, and I can breathe again. Sitting up, I wipe away tears—I’m not crying, it just hurts—and see a watery image of Shea walking away across the field. He didn’t even stick around to see how messed up I am; going by the warm wetness on my face and the way my head is throbbing, I’m guessing very.
I’m too dazed to do much more than put one foot in front of the other, touching my fingertips to my nose, wondering if it’s broken, how you can tell. All I can think about is getting to Mags’s car so I can lie down in the backseat where nobody can see me, but I’ve got to cross the field to get to the road. A big hazy shape closes in to my right; must be Mrs. Wardwell coming back. She drops whatever she’s holding and says, “Holy crap.”
I try to hide my face, skirting the boulders, going faster and faster until I run smack into Mason. It’s like he’s been waiting for me. I try to go around him. I’ve got blood trickling down the back of my throat now, making me cough. He leans down, says, “God,” under his breath, holding my shoulder as he checks me out.
Then Mason, all six-four, two hundred and thirty pounds of him, goes after Shea. Shea’s standing around with some guys, shooting bull like any other day, when the heel of Mason’s palm hits him square in the chest, knocking him back. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Mason’s voice booms across the barrens.
Most everybody scatters, only a couple heroes stepping between Mason and Shea, trying to keep them apart.
I haven’t moved, watching this whole thing like it’s happening on TV. Then Jesse runs up. The moment he sees my face is awful, almost worse than hitting the trailer hitch in the first place. His expression goes slack, like somebody in shock. I can see him putting two and two together. Everything that makes him Jesse—my Jesse—falls away, and he loses it.
He’s on Shea, grabbing for his throat, smashing his fist into Shea’s face twice before the other guys can tackle him to the ground. He rolls free and throws his head into Shea’s stomach, bringing him down, where they roll, punching each other’s ribs, really ripping each other apart, not like some fight in the school hallway that’s mostly for show.
Mags has me, then, and Nell presses in on my left. I let Mags hold my head to her chest, worrying my hair with her fingertips, her heart pounding beneath my ear. She yells something at Shea, but I can’t understand it.
For a few minutes, not even Bob and Duke can pull the boys apart, and it looks like we’re going to have to let them fight it out. Finally, Duke gets his arm around Shea’s neck in a sleeper hold, and it’s either Shea lets Duke drag him back or passes out. Jesse gets slowly to his feet, wiping his face with his forearm, one eye already swelling shut.
There’s nothing but the sounds of breathing, bugs humming in the bushes, and Nell’s tear-choked voice as she says to me, “Oh no, oh, your poor face,” and dabs at my lips and shirtfront with her unrolled bandanna.
Bob’s deeply flushed, his eyes snapping. He stoops and grabs Shea’s ball cap, throwing it at his chest. “You do this to her?”
Shea’s dusty, bleeding at the mouth, and the collar of his T-shirt is ripped. He looks at me with this remote expression, like he doesn’t even know me. Underneath that, though, there’s a hard smugness that blows my mind, a real satisfaction. All I can do is stare back as he says, “She wasn’t supposed to land that hard.”
Jesse makes a choked sound and takes a run at him, almost getting ahold of him before the guys pull him back. Bob walks up to Shea. “Get your ass off my property.”
Shea pulls out of Duke’s hold, spits blood into the dirt, and walks away without looking back. Duke squints after him, rubbing the back of his neck.
Bob turns to me. “You want me to call the law, dear?”
“No,” I say quickly. With my luck, they’d send Edgecombe, and I can’t deal with him right now.
Mags draws back. “Darcy. You have to press charges.”