Chapter 2 #8
The yard of the school was also open. I crossed it to the football field. On the way, I snuck a glance at the park and saw that the white van wasn’t in its usual place. This was reassuring—at the same time, an intense emptiness tore at my heart.
By the time I arrived at the stands, the practice had been going on for a while. Even though I was still far away from the players, I saw that Billy was shading his eyes, furtively looking for me. I lifted my arm high and waved to him.
Their coach didn’t go easy on them. The T-shirts of the boys were sticking to their bodies, drenched in sweat, and they were visibly out of breath. I was hot even though I was sitting in the shade—I couldn’t imagine how they felt in the scorching sunshine.
As soon as their coach blew the whistle, indicating the end of the torture, Billy immediately sprinted toward me. All the other boys were whistling and cheering. I felt embarrassed with all those eyes on me.
Billy ducked under the thick white metal rails and got to me in an instant.
“Weren’t you bored?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his face with his T-shirt before kissing me on the lips.
His lips tasted salty, and the sour tang of his sweat hit my nose right away. Come on, Grace, don’t be so picky, I chided myself.
“The whole time, I kept wondering how crazy you have to be to run around with a ball in this heat,” I said honestly, making Billy smile.
“Yeah, you aren’t wrong,” he laughed. He looked me up and down and coughed into his fist. He might have blushed, but I couldn’t tell.
“You’re looking very pretty today.”
“Thanks,” I replied—and I was definitely blushing.
“Can I introduce you to the others? They can’t wait to meet you. And I can’t wait for you to meet them, either.”
“Sure,” I said, nodding firmly.
Billy took my hand.
His palm was slippery with sweat. I tried not to think about it—and about Chase’s masculine hands, which kept intruding into my thoughts.
I didn’t memorize all the names. It would’ve been impossible to remember that many, and by the end I’d lost track. I figured I could always ask Billy if I needed help.
“Wanna hang around for a bit? We’re practicing passes,” one of the guys said, spinning the ball on his index finger.
“We’ve already got plans—and Grace doesn’t like football,” Billy replied.
“Maybe this’ll help her like it a bit more. Yeah, it can be boring to watch, but you’ll get the hang of it, and then it’s fun,” he pressed.
“Grace?” Billy asked, glancing at me.
I felt like I needed to get my head out of my ass.
“Okay,” I agreed. Billy kissed my cheek.
“She’s my girl, so go easy on her, guys.”
His timid warning made me laugh. There were much taller, bigger guys on the team who could’ve swatted him away like a fly with one hand.
In the end, Billy’s teammate turned out to be wrong: I neither got the hang of it nor enjoyed it at all. Still, I told them I did—for Billy’s sake, I allowed myself a white lie. Thankfully, we didn’t stay long.
After practice, Billy and I decided to cool off with an ice cream. Some of the guys joined us, the others went home.
We were walking off the field hand in hand when we noticed Mr. Miller sitting in the stands. Alone. Billy’s grip tightened around my hand.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered. His face was red, and a rivulet of sweat ran from his black hair down his neck.
“My brother said that Mr. Miller is… a pedophile,” he finally blurted out, after searching for the word, visibly aghast at what he’d just said.
“I mean…” He stopped and shook his head, sending droplets of sweat flying—a few landed on my face. It was a little gross, so I wiped them away discreetly.
“So this rumor’s been going around for five years. My brother says he watches girls for way too long.”
I instantly remembered what Chase had told me—and his kiss, which had saved me.
The whole thing grew more and more uncomfortable. I’d still have to attend Mr. Miller’s classes with all of this in my head. When he looked at me, my stomach twisted into a knot, a chill running down my spine despite the scorching heat.
Once we passed him, the gloomy, tense silence evaporated.
However, not much later, he reappeared at the ice cream parlor. He stood near our table and struck up a conversation with a few kids he taught. He acted relaxed and natural and didn’t look at me—but my heart was still in my throat. Being around him made me nervous.
Things were beginning to grow awkward but one of Billy’s friends made a remark suggesting he should leave us alone. Mr. Miller must have heard it. He looked at us with disapproval, which shifted into disappointment. He decided to take the hint, then turned and left.
After our ice cream, Billy and I took a walk through the park, kissed, and decided to meet again the next day—just the two of us.
He wanted to ride home with me, but I insisted there was no need. He lived on the other side of town, and I didn’t want him biking that far.
Later, I regretted that decision. I had the distinct feeling I was being followed—someone’s eyes on me. Even the thought of our next date lost its flavor. Wanting to get home as fast as possible, I left the main road and cut through smaller streets that offered a shortcut.
You’d think that in small, middle-of-nowhere communities—like Willow Creek, Oklahoma—nothing truly horrible could happen.
When kids disappear, people usually assume they just ran off to live in a big city.
Because only losers and sissies stay here.
What could possibly happen in a small town where everyone knows everyone?
I remember riding the new bike I’d gotten for my fifteenth birthday down the street.
The neighborhood was nice: small but neat houses, white fences, and apple trees in the backyards, their branches heavy with fruit.
On the other side of the road stretched a gray, stubby field—the fall wheat had already been harvested.
The sun was at its highest point, and the air around me simmered with heat.
Sweat trickled down the side and nape of my head, making my scalp itch.
My thin cotton dress stuck to my body, clinging to me in places where it was completely soaked through, my sweat leaving wet patches on the fabric.
My thighs trembled from the exertion—I was going as fast as I could because I wanted to get home as soon as possible.
I needed to get rid of this suffocating feeling.
I tried to focus on my breathing—in through my nose, out through my mouth—but the hot air, smelling of pancakes, pie, and sticky maple syrup, burned my nostrils.
As I glanced around nervously, I almost rode straight into glittering shards of glass scattered across the road.
I yanked the handlebars to the right, then left—and hit the wheel against the curb despite my efforts to regain control.
I saw my wounds before I even hit the ground.
I knew they would hurt like hell, but there was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable.
My bike tilted and went down with me. I hit the ground with a loud thump. I’d only scraped my elbow, but my knee wasn’t as lucky: a sharp stone tore a deep gash into it. The burning wound seeped blood, grass and dirt stuck inside it. I bit my lower lip to keep myself from screaming in pain.
Salty tears ran down my face, mixing with thick, odorless sweat.
I’m going to look gorgeous on this date, wrapped in bandages… The curse I swallowed stung my tongue.
I stood up, lifted my bike, and started pushing it. Every movement tugged at the gash on my knee.
When I imagined how much the warm water would make the wound burn, a chill ran down my spine.
Still, I knew it had to be cleaned—otherwise it would turn into something like last year’s injury, the one that smelled and oozed pus.
This wasn’t the first time I’d fallen. I always did.
Either off my bike or from the willow tree at the end of our backyard.
I stopped for a moment and looked around.
Again, I felt like someone was watching me, but I didn’t see anyone on the street.
Everyone was inside, where it was cool—I was the only idiot outside in that scorching heat.
I shrugged and kept going, slowly. Even though I felt on edge, I turned into a street that was even emptier.
I was almost home—I could already see the old willow tree at the back of our yard.
Only a few more steps. I calmed myself and forced myself not to look down at my wound—the sight of blood would only make it hurt more. Instead, I steeled myself and walked on.
Run, Grace! Run! Something inside shouted at me, but my legs didn’t obey my command.
The cut skin on my knee pulled with every step.
I needed to be careful—hasty movements could make the wound even worse…
and I couldn’t leave my bike behind just because I had a bad feeling.
This part of our town was peaceful, there hadn’t been any break-ins in the past nineteen years.
This was part of the reason why my family had moved here when Jamie got four, when Nikky was still in Mom’s belly.
But I wasn’t in our street, but on the other side of the houses, behind the backyards, on the dirt road where there was not a car or soul to be seen.
Wheels screeched, smoke billowed, and the smell of burned rubber hit my nose. That kind of braking had to have left a black streak on the gray asphalt. Then I saw the huge cloud of dust the van kicked up as it veered off the road onto the dirt shoulder.
I saw a shabby cargo van with flaking gray paint, and my heart slammed against my ribcage.
I let go of the handlebars, and my bike clattered to the ground as I broke into a run.
I was far slower than usual. I didn’t look back, but I could feel him behind me.
Sweat and tears streamed down my face, dark red blood soaking my shin.
A sharp pain stabbed my knee. My foot caught in a tuft of grass, and I went down. I threw my hands out to break the fall and keep my face from slamming into the ground.