CHAPTER 27 #2
“I know.” He looked down then, and for the first time since she’d met him, she wondered if he was about to start crying. His brows pressed in tight, and she could see him swallow thickly.
Louanne’s words came to mind, about keeping the stories going once school started again. They were still a couple weeks off from that, but she wondered how they could pull it off, decided to mention it. Maybe it would keep his mind off his sadness to talk.
“Say, what Louanne said about continuing the stories into the school year, what do you think about that?” She took a bite of burger, tried to act casual.
He took a breath and then another bite of his own burger, chewed thoughtfully.
“I think it could work. I know the kids like sharing their stories.”
She cocked her head. “Can you help me? I don’t think I can do it without you.”
He cut his eyes at her. “You can too.”
“Well, maybe I could, but not as good as with your help. I mean it—can you help me? Can I count on you?”
She could tell he knew what she was doing, but he smiled anyway, nodded.
“You can count on me, Miss Becca.”
She giggled, held out a hand. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
As they clasped hands, his thin jacket scrunched up a little, and she glanced down at his wrist, saw a deep plummy-black splotch on the underside. She held onto his hand a moment, peered at it. She saw his face change, shut down, the smile gone.
“Devon, did you get hurt or something?”
“No,” he said too quickly. He pulled his hand back, tucked it between his legs beneath the table. “I mean, it’s nothing.”
Well, that was a strange reaction. She peered at him, remembered the bruises on his torso.
“It doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’”
“It’s fine, Miss Becca, really.” He gave a little laugh, started to shrug on his backpack. “Slammed it in the locker at school. Seriously—no big deal. It hurt a day or so but it’s fine now, I promise.”
“Can I see it?”
“Nah, come on. Let’s go—I have some homework to finish tonight.”
“They give homework?”
“I mean, not homework-homework. I mean like my own work I gotta do at home. That kinda homework. To help with the camp. Like, for the committee.”
He’s lying. Her stomach knotted. “Gotcha.” She watched him carefully as she gathered the check, headed to the little counter to pay.
Waving another goodbye at Louanne, they headed to her car.
He kept up a steady stream of talk all the way back to the school, some wildlife presentation the forestry service had done that day with eagle and beaver skulls, and she listened and nodded in all the right places.
He kept his wrist close to his side, near the car door, so she couldn’t get another peek.
A thought struck. Maybe she could get his address. If he had nothing to hide, surely he’d give it. Or if not, she could follow him home.
“You sure you don’t want a ride?”
He laughed. “You ask that every week.”
She stuck her tongue out. “And every week you say no.” She looked at him. “But seriously, you don’t live far?”
“Not far at all.” He slid out.
The words were out before she could stop them. “Which street is yours?” She tried to ask it real casual-like.
“Two-twenty-one Baker,” he said, thumbed that way. “Just a short ride.”
She glanced over—there goes that theory—and nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s not far at all.”
Two-twenty-one. That would be easy to remember; it was Granny’s birthday: February twenty-first.
A beat passed, then another.
“Well, gotta go.” He grinned at her, slammed the door. “Thanks!”
She watched him walk off, the wrist still close to him.
“See you tomorrow night!” she called.
What are you doing, Rebecca? Kids got bruises all the time. Her own legs had been various shades of black and blue and skinned knees until she was maybe fifteen, from climbing trees or falling off her bike.
But it wasn’t the bruise that got her worried. She bit her lip, puzzled over it as she watched him unlock his bike from the rack, slide on, and pedal off.
No, it was his reaction to her questions that raised her concern.
That and the jacket, which was entirely out of place in this weather.
Her neck prickled. Was he being bullied?
He mentioned some kids picking on him. Or something at home?
He didn’t talk about his home life, or at least not his current situation.
When he talked about home at all it was couched in memory—Mama said this, Mama showed him that.
She realized she didn’t know much about his home life at all.
He lived with his grandmother. Memaw, he called her.
There was some on-again, off-again uncle. That was really all she knew.
Maybe she needed to make a visit, introduce herself.
See for herself what was really going on.
She looked at her watch, remembered she’d promised Granny she’d grab cinnamon on the way home.
Granny was making some dinner for a shut-in, plus had mentioned needing her help loading meals for a church event.
Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow was Friday. Giveaway night. She’d volunteer again, then insist on driving Devon home after. Weather reports said it was supposed to rain over the weekend, anyway, some hurricane starting to form off the coast, and surely he’d want a ride.
And putting the car into gear, she pulled out and headed back to town.