Chapter twenty-five
CAUGHT UP
SABAN
“Almost done.” I say to Marashay as I finish filling the wings of the butterfly on her right shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she kind of singsongs. “Ow,” scrunching up her face when I clean and covered her artwork with a bandage.
“Girl hush. You’ve got an entire tattoo of a butterfly flying over a book that’s covering the back of your right shoulder. This little cleaning ain’t nothing.” I laugh at her antics.
“Humph.” Faking a pout, she looks out into the street beyond, her face taking on a worried expression.
“How’s school?” I ask knowing she just started at the local private Shelby University.
“Good, I guess,” she mutters. “I have to do work-study now — admin for Dean Fane, but I guess it’s cool.
They didn’t say that was part of keeping my scholarship, but now with the new rules, they have to make it look like I’m earning my place.
Daddy wants me to quit and go to the University of Alabama.
I told him it doesn’t work like that. I can’t afford to take more time off since I took a gap year.
Since his MS diagnosis, he’s been getting more and more ornery.
” She sighs, sitting up, fixing her blouse so it drapes loosely over her shoulder.
“He’s going through a lot. Be patient with him. This is a new normal for him. Just go to that highfalutin school and get the best education their money can buy.” Squeezing her unbandaged shoulder, I step back so she can take her leave.
Wiping down the space, I realize I have a father waiting for me to contact him. Peace told me she informed my parents, and though they’re excited to learn I was alive and well living in a small town in Alabama, and want so badly to see me, they understand my need to take it slow.
So many questions plague me. Knowing I can only get those answers from them should be enough to spur me into action, yet I hesitate, and I don’t know why.
Therapy is helping me work through some of my reservations, but even my therapist, Dr. Kensingston, told me to think of it from my parent’s perspective.
“New trauma unlocked.” I was only half joking when I quipped. “Who knew I had abandonment issues?”
She assured me that many survivors feel the same, even if the adults around them were victims themselves. “We think of adults as all-powerful when we are little and fully expect them to come to the rescue.”
The door chimes. Thinking it’s Snake, I smile.
“Oh, hi.” I smile at the girl wearing a pretty poplin summer dress of pastel flowers.
“Hi.” She seems a little demure and shy.
“Is this your place?” Eyes lighting up as she takes in the design photos of my work I just recently added to the walls.
Walking over to a life-size picture of Ben’s Superman tattoo with what’s coming to be known as my signature metallic ink, she takes her time admiring the work before turning to look at me with curiosity.
“Yes, it is. Would you like a consultation? I’m closed for appointments today, but I can see if I can make something for you next week. You are eighteen, yes?” I ask because she could honestly be anywhere from sixteen to twenty-five with her beautiful dark brown flawless skin.
“Yes.” She shows me her license with the name Reverie Petterson on it. Seeing Birmingham on it, I assume she’s at one of the local universities.
“So how can I help you?” I ask.
Taking out a piece of paper that looks like it was folded and refolded many times, she places it on the counter. “Can you make this exact design?”
Looking down at the design, I feel like the foundation of the shop has fallen from beneath my feet. I stare at the picture for a long time, feeling like one of those Spike Lee movies where the world rushes by or is rushing toward you — I could never figure out which.
“Sure.” Swallowing past the enormous lump in my throat, I try to keep calm but fail miserably. “Is it for you?” I force my tone to keep the light edge, keeping my eyes on the artwork, tilting my head this way and that, pretending to look at it from different angles.
“No, I already have one. It’s for my bestie.” She beams so innocently, showing me her wrist with pride.
I’m so thankful the last time I ate was at noon and it’s almost five because I would spew everything I consumed onto the counter space between us and all over the picture of the phoenix rising from the flames of a crown.
“Let me just take a quick pic, so I can make some preliminary sketches.” Just as I begin to take out my phone, she snatches the paper back.
“That’s okay. I can tell from the work on display that you’ll do an incredible job.” She gives nothing away, and for the life of me, I’m not sure if I’m telling on myself.
“Can we set up a time early next week? She’s only going to be in town for a few days.” This girl can sell ice to an ice mountaineer. I honestly don’t know what is about her — the disarming smile or her presence, but Reverie doesn’t strike me as a trafficker.
“Sounds good.” I say, doing my best to keep up the pretense, even managing to return her wave as she leaves a few minutes later.
Going to lock up, I notice her get into an older Mini Cooper, which I have to admit tracks with what I’ve seen about her.
She won’t be too hard to follow since most of the townspeople around here drive trucks.
Hurrying, I get on my bike, shooting Snake a message before kicking my stand up and revving my engine.
I don’t want to lose her. Not being one hundred percent sure if I scared her, I decide to just follow her and then let Ulysses and Snake know where she is.
My hunch is there will be another raid like the one Oz recently got injured in.
Hanging back half a mile or so, knowing she can’t be aware that I ride a chopper, I follow her through two counties, taking a back road through Gainesville.
There is nothing but small farms, and a Mennonite community living out this way.
One thing it has in common with Shelby-Love is the Tombigbee running through it.
Riding past the turn in the road she takes, I continue to the city center, which, if I blink, I’d miss.
I stop at the little gas station and turn around, heading back in the direction I came, figuring she’ll be ahead but not have gotten too far.
After making the turn, I continue onward, seeing nothing, not even a single homestead, for miles.
I’m about to turn around when I see a dilapidated home.
It’s giving plantation, which is not unusual for this part of the state, and I almost bypass it when I see it’s under construction.
I’m far enough away that they can’t see my bike.
I pull off the road just to be on the safe side.
There is a copse of trees ahead of me. Going over to it, I park my bike in a thicket. Snake is going to be mad if I scratch it up, but I don’t worry too much about that or the yelling fit he’s going to have when he reads my text.
Already knowing it’s futile to try to reach him out here where there are hardly any cell towers, I pull out my phone wishing I’d got one of the big ugly satellite phones he keeps around his office for his nefarious dealings.
“Dang.” Stuffing the phone in my back pocket, I rummage through my bag, pulling out a knit cap I use when it’s cold. Needing it more to keep critters out of my hair than anything else.
Taking to the woods, I keep my focus on the house ahead, making sure I stay hidden from anyone who happens to look outside.
I’m about fifty feet away when the same girl from the shop emerges from the house, looking straight in my direction and screams. “Run.”
A familiar-looking white man rushes her, knocking her to the ground.
I don’t wait despite the horror of watching Reverie fall to the ground in a boneless heap.
“Get that nosy little bitch,” he screeches as boys of varying ages and sizes pour from the house in pursuit of me.
I don’t bother looking behind me but take off in the direction of my bike.
I think about going out to the main road, but that would take time I don’t have, and there hasn’t been a soul coming in this direction since I’ve been hiding in the trees.
Nearly there, I cut through the trees, ignoring the stitch in my side, when a blur sideswipes me to the ground, knocking the air from my lungs.
My head smacks the hard ground, and I see stars.
A sandy-haired boy, who looks like he should be a lineman on the local high school football team, grabs my neck and starts to squeeze.
Black dots dance before my eyes when I hear someone out of breath say, “No, use this.” handing him a soaked cloth.
Leaning down over me as my vision clouds, I recognize James Fitch, Senator Mathias Shelby’s disgraced former opponent, looming over me, sweating like a red-faced pig.
The first sensation I feel is the pressing need to use the bathroom. My stomach cramps, and I wonder if it’s my period that’s due any moment or if they did something to me. Quickly, I take inventory of my body. I don’t feel any different other than the cramps.
Shifting, I feel a gush between my legs. Yes, definitely my period starting at the absolute worst fucking possible time.
“Dammit,” muttering as I sit-up only to clutch my head when it swims.
“Shhh, he’ll hear you.” Comes a voice out of the darkness.
Turning, I look into the bruised, worried face of Reverie.
“Are you okay?” I ask, dropping the register of my voice to a whisper.
“This?” Touching the nasty bruise on her cheek, she shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”
It takes one cursory look around and one sniff to know we are in a root cellar. I don’t have to ask if there’s a way out, because I’m sure if there were one, she’d have left by now.