2. Strange Boys & Beloved Toys
Strange Boys they’re special.
Uncle Rodney said these colored pencils would make me a great artist one day.
If I used them all up already, that can’t possibly be true.
I shove the dark green back in the case, deciding these trees will have to do when the sound of a car pulling up grabs my attention.
Miss Bell storms out of the family's Oldsmobile, wiping her face furiously before Gideon and his dad follow.
Mr. Bell cringes as she slams the door shut behind her.
The sound jarring in the misty woods that surround our homes.
“It’s both of you! The both of you have made me this way!”
“Abby, lower your voice. The neighbors will—"
Gideon's mom whirls around, her dark hair wild. “They’ll what? Huh, what will anyone do, Jason?!”
She cuts off as Gideon stalks past her in his unique, awkward way, like he’s always got somewhere very important to be, back straighter than my colored pencils.
He never looks around, never drags his feet, never lingers.
I can’t tell if he said something to her or not, and I know I shouldn’t be nosy.
When he glances over his shoulder, his deep eyes meeting mine, I flush, having been caught.
He hasn’t spoken to me since that first day in the woods.
I’d missed the first week of school because of my concussion, and every day I’d waited for him right here as he got off the bus, thinking maybe my new friend, my only friend, would walk over, that maybe he still had Krissy.
That was two weeks ago. Even on the bus, he barely glances at me.
Mom said to give it time, that his mom had scolded him pretty badly for letting me get hurt.
He was probably embarrassed, but Gideon didn’t look embarrassed.
I refocus on my picture, blending different grays with pale blues until the sky looks right when footsteps on the weathered porch jerk my head up.
Gideon is dressed in a dark blue T-shirt, staring at the picture on my sketchpad. My eyes widen as I snap it closed. “I—"
“Here, I fixed her for you.”
I gasp as my eyes lower to my Krissy held haphazardly in his outstretched hand, wondering how I’d missed her.
My sudden movements displace my notebook, sending my case of pencils scattering as I lurch up to take her.
She looks brand new, her arm snugly back in place.
I can’t stop the smile that floods my face as I tug her to my chest. “She looks perfect, Gideon!” There’s not a trace of blood or dirt anywhere.
I bolt toward him, throwing my arms around him in a tight hug, Krissy along for the ride. “Thank you so much!”
I don’t miss the way he goes still before hesitantly hugging me back. I don’t even mind when he holds on a little too tight, beaming up at him when he finally lets me back up for air. “You’re welcome.”
He shifts awkwardly, stooping to pick up my colored pencils. I’m too caught up in Krissy to help until he delicately places the case back on the porch swing with my sketchpad. “Want to go for a walk?”
I pause, my hands tightening on Krissy. “In the woods?” It’s odd, a place that was so scary weeks ago holds nothing but excitement now.
He nods.
If I smiled any harder, my face would crack. “Yeah, let me tell my mom!”
Audrey, Present Day, 1994
I wipe my palm on my paint-covered overalls as Mrs. Browers waddles out of the Fork & Fuel diner, taking her hourly stock of my work.
I’ve tried ignoring her before, but it never works for long.
I turn toward her with a smile that's only slightly forced, my braid tickling my neck where it’s hung over my shoulder, probably getting paint all over it too.
“Penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Browers?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t you think the hamburger could look a little… happier?”
A deep sigh leaves me as I turn back toward the cafe window I’m painting. “Do you suppose he’d be thrilled about being eaten?” How am I supposed to make the cartoon hamburger look happier? There’s already a huge grin formed by layers of lettuce, tomato, and a patty.
She gives me a halfhearted chuckle that I know she doesn’t mean before she heads back in.
No doubt on her way to tell her husband I’m not worth the money.
Because fifty bucks is worth sweating to death in the sun for hours while I paint and then repaint cartoon food items on her windows.
The sound of squealing tires on pavement barely breaks my focus as I scrape off my hamburger for the third time.
Determined to make the next one happier.
Determined to ignore the lunch hour rush around me until a heavy arm settles across my shoulders.
“Why are you removing it? That looks great, Auds.”
“It’s not happy enough,” I grumble.
Jess struts around, leaning against the dry part of my happy food mural. “Mrs. Browers is just a bitch.”
I roll my eyes at her, ignoring the way she tries to catch my eye.
Her frosted pixie cut, adorned with butterfly clips she colored black with a Sharpie, her already plush lips overlined and glossy.
Ignoring the secretive look in her eyes is easier when her brother presses a hot kiss to my cheek, demanding my attention.
I’ve been officially dating Bryan for months now, rounding up on a year, and I’m closer to bone-deep exhaustion than anything remotely joyful.
Mom thinks I should’ve been married with three kids by now, but I guess at twenty-five, she’s not entirely wrong.
The idea of building a life tied to Bryan Jordan is enough to keep me fervently religious about taking my birth control pills.
So, no hope for me yet, might as well let her add to her growing list of disappointments.
Bryan tugs me into him, making me drop my paper towel. I curse, trying to fight my way from his grip to grab it. My teeth dig into my inner cheek as he finally releases me, letting me snatch my wad up from the pavement, the wet sections clinging to parking lot dirt like industrial adhesive.
“Did you hear about Bell Funeral Home?”
My head snaps up, my disturbed paper towel forgotten. “What happened?”
Jess raises a thin brow, her piercing reflecting the brutal summer sun.
“Old man Jackson finally up and died yesterday. There’s nobody left to run the place.
They’re probably shutting it down if they can’t find a replacement.
Our mom said there’s not even a mortician on hand to take care of him.
” She laughs, but my heart is thudding in my chest. Wispy and aching pictures of an awkward, intense boy fill my mind.
My heart aches for Mr. Jackson for an all too short period before I rethink crashing at Jess and Bryan’s backyard shack for the third week in a row.
Suddenly, I’m desperate for a glimpse of dark woods and chipped white paint.
For a home that stopped feeling that way years ago.