I used to love this time of year—football, the scent of burning leaves hanging on the brittle morning air. Now it just reminds me of what happened. Of death. Tonight will be the one-year anniversary. I don’t need a calendar to remind me. I can feel it, the memory buried deep within my bones. I wonder if Jess can feel it, too.
I turn right onto Main Street and that sick feeling swells in my stomach as we pass the Preservation Society. The gleaming white paint, the manicured lawn edged with orange, yellow, and rust-colored flowers. People think it’s all ice cream socials, deb balls, and ribbon-cutting ceremonies, but there are secrets, too. I think my dad uncovered something … something big. He’d been acting strange for weeks, staying up all night poring over family Bibles and tattered documents, but it was that final meeting with Ian Neely and the Preservation Society that sent him over the edge.
The last time I set foot in the place was right after Dad’s funeral. Mr. Neely said he wanted to talk to me man-to-man. He told me everything happens for a reason, that it’s all part of God’s plan. “Clay, we all have our roles to play,” Mr. Neely had said. “And you’re very important to the Preservation Society. It’s time for you to take your place on the council. It’s time to move forward, into the future.”
Something about his words felt wrong. Like putting weight on a broken bone.
“I don’t have all day, Grandpa.” Jess drums her black nails on the edge of the window.
I press on the gas.
Some people say Jess’s gone goth, because of the nail polish and everything. They say she’s headed for a fall. I just hope it doesn’t take a world of hurt to bring her back to us.
“Pull over,” she says.
I stop the car in front of a boarded-up house with a foreclosure sign out front. “Why? We’re four blocks away from your school.”
“Exactly.”
I decide to take a more direct approach. “Why. Am. I. Dropping. You. Off. Here?”
“Duh.” She rolls her eyes as she gets out of the car and slams the door shut. “Because I don’t want to be seen with you.”
“Then ride the bus!” I yell back at her.
She doubles back to lean against the open window. “I don’t get you. You have a car. You’re going to be eighteen in a couple of days. Nothing’s stopping you from leaving.”
I take a deep breath, reminding myself she’s just a kid, trying to get a rise out of me. “Except a family I have to take care of.”
“We both know you could’ve sold the farm to Neely.”
I look up at her in shock. I had no idea she knew about that.
A sly smile curls the corner of her mouth. “I thought so. We would’ve been fine. You just don’t have the balls to leave. You’re going to live with Mom forever like that perv from Psycho.”
“Have a great day, Jess!” I lean over and roll up the window. She gives me the finger and kicks my truck as I pull away.
3
CRANKING UP the radio, I drive the half mile to Midland High. All I get is some lame soft rock station from Tulsa, but it feels good to numb out even if it’s just for a few minutes.
I park in the back of the lot—last one in, first one out. That probably says a lot about my personality. Tyler Neely, on the other hand, parks front row, center.
He’s the biggest dick at school, or at least he thinks he has the biggest dick. He’s got this beautiful ’66 Mustang, and he had to ruin it by painting bright-yellow racing stripes down the middle.
As soon as I cut the engine, Tyler looks back at me as if on cue. Normally, I’d turn away, pretend not to notice, but I’m sick of his shit. I hold his stare. If he had anything to do with that calf, I want him to know he didn’t get to me.
Ben says something to him, probably some stupid joke, and when Tyler finally looks away, I let out a huge burst of pent-up air.
It’s the strangest crew.
Ben Gillman’s a good guy, decent tight end, but dumber than a bucket of gravel.
Tammy Perry’s one of those girls you’d be hard-pressed to notice. Never in trouble, hardly makes a peep. Beige clothes … beige hair … beige freckles. The girl practically screams oatmeal.
Less oatmeal but still no prize is Jimmy Doogan. I swear he’s scared of his own shadow. One time a bird flew into the window of our fifth-grade math class and he pissed his pants, like a river of pee.
And then there’s Ali Miller.
It’s complicated.
I watch her cross the parking lot to Tyler’s car—legs for days. She has this way about her, I mean, she’s so far above all these hicks, and she doesn’t even know it.
I’ve known her since Sunday school, hell, probably since I was born. I don’t remember anything without her. Catching crawdads in Harmon Lake, turtle races, riding our bikes all over the county. One time we found ten bucks on the side of Route 17 and bought a whole mess of penny candy from Merritt’s gas station. Just a bunch of stale baby-teeth bait, but when we tossed it onto people’s front steps, we felt like Santa in the middle of summer. We talked about saving the world, or at least saving ourselves.
I try not to go there, but I can’t help thinking about the last time Ali came to see me. It was right after the funeral. She sat on the edge of my bed and cried.