Chapter 6

Saturday morning found the Wilcott family eastbound on I-70. Dad was driving with one hand, while he jumped around the AM dial looking for news with the other. Mom was flipping through Elvis albums, getting ready to pop one into the CD player whether any news came on the radio or not.

The only thing to be seen for miles on either side was flat farmland. Sometimes wheat, sometimes sunflowers, sometimes cattle. Occasionally a barn or windmill, but those were usually far off in the distance. It was still most of a day's drive before they would start to see and smell the familiar sweet green cornfields again. Then the interchange with I-41 eastbound, and another two hours to the exit for Highway 147. With any luck, they'd pull into their driveway before sunset.

Ryan Wilcott sat in the backseat, hot wind whipping in his face and hair through the open window, a paperback open to about the middle. It wasn't very good. He kept losing his place and re-reading the same line over and over again. His big sister Amy was sprawled across the middle, her head resting on his shoulder, her bare feet poking out the other window.

Big sister. Little brother. She loved to say that, and it always made him smile. Amy was older by four minutes. They were twins, both sixteen, both going into junior year. They had the same hazel eyes, the same sandy hair now sun-streaked, the same brown freckles across sunburned noses. Right now, the way she was leaning back against him, he had a great view down the front of her shirt. He was trying not to look too hard.

She held out her hand, palm up. He gave her a Starburst. A yellow one, her favorite kind. Their fingers brushed as she took the candy. She tipped her head further back, eyes rolled up to smile at him upside down. "Thank you," she said sweetly. She popped the yellow square into her open mouth, and grinned as she blew him a kiss. He took the crumpled paper she dropped back into his waiting hand, and put it in the little trash bag under the seats.

The back of the SUV was overflowing with suitcases and pillows and ice chests and bags of food and hats and extra shoes. Up in the car-top carrier, there were two tents and four sleeping bags packed in with the hiking boots and walking sticks, and the Coleman gas lantern and camp stove. They were on their way back from the Tetons. Back from the deep blue skies and cool clear air at the top of the world, back to the cloudy humid heat of a Midwest summer, on the first day of August.

The speakers in the doors and on the dash hissed, and then the sounds of the open freeway and traffic going by were joined by the recorded voice of Elvis Presley:

I got a woman, mean as she can be
I got a woman, mean as she can be
Sometimes think she's almost mean as me

Up front, Mom and Dad were both twisting back and forth in their seats, dancing in a way that might have been cool in the fifties. Ryan and Amy shared a look. He made a face, and she giggled.

A double-semi screamed by in the fast lane. Ryan re-read the same sentence again: Paul and Jessica were trying to keep the sandworms from hearing their footsteps as they fled across the desert. He loved reading sci-fi, but this one was just weird. He couldn't keep it all straight in his head. Maybe it was on the college-level reading list for a reason.

Amy had out her camera, a little black PowerShot that looked like a scaled-down version of what she called a 'real' camera. It had been a Christmas present last year, and she was already hinting about wanting a better model. Especially on this vacation. Now, she was flipping through her photos from the trip on the glowing LCD.

"Look at this," she said, leaning farther back. Her head slid from his shoulder down to his lap.

Ryan let go of the paperback without marking his place, and rested his hand across his sister's flat stomach. The tip of his pinky felt warm flesh, where the hem of her tee shirt had ridden up just a little. With the other hand, he lightly stroked her hair, letting the locks of sun-streaked sandy brown spill over his legs and onto the seat. He looked at the camera.

"See?" she smiled up at him. "Cascade Creek." The photo showed towering conifers, green at the tops against a vertical sliver of blue sky, and shadowy along the banks of crystal clear creek that splashed happily among huge white and brown boulders.

"Wow," he smiled back. "You'll have to frame that one."

She beamed. "This is when we stopped for a rest on that bridge, remember?"

"I remember opening my trail mix and finding out you took all my M&Ms," he said, and she stuck out her tongue. "I didn't see you have your camera out."

"I had it out for the whole hike," she said, rolling her eyes at him. "See?" She clicked forward a few times. "Here's a picture of your butt after we started walking again."

"Gee thanks," he said, and she giggled.

"It was a mistake," she said. "I forgot to turn it off, and I was playing with the buttons."

"You could delete it." He reached for the camera, but she held it out away from his fingertips.

"Yeah right! I'm gonna send this one to the yearbook!" She laughed when he started tickling her ribs. "Maybe they'll put it on the cover!"

Ryan grabbed his sister's wrists and pulled her arms in so the camera would be in reach. Her whole body was sliding closer to him, up on his lap. He was getting a hard-on.

"Ow, lemme go!" squealed Amy, still laughing. "You're gonna make me drop it!"

From the front, Dad said, "Would you two knock it off back there?"

Mom turned around. "Amy, you need to sit up in your seat."

"Kay, Mom," Amy answered, struggling out of Ryan's grip.

"It's not safe to sit like that," said Mom as she faced front again.

"Sorry," said Amy. She stuck out her tongue at her brother, waggling the camera from across the backseat.

Including today, it was three days until marching band started. Come Tuesday, their summer vacation would be officially over. Ryan played the Sousaphone, and Amy played piccolo. The largest and smallest instruments in the entire band. Alike in so many ways, the twins also tended towards opposite extremes sometimes.

On the speakers, Elvis was singing:

I don't wanna be a tiger,
cause tigers play too rough
I don't wanna be a lion,
cause lions ain't the kind you love enough

Outside, a pair of Harleys roared past. Sunflower fields on the left and cattle grazing on the right. The interstate was straight as an arrow all the way to the horizon.

Today was going to be a long day.

"Can't fucking believe it," said Steve, shirtless, covered in sweat and grass clippings. "Man, I tell you..."

"Come on," said John, "at least you got the one."

They were inside the old barn south of Rock Hill, where Steve kept his tractors. Wearing leather work gloves, they grunted as they each lifted an end of a heavy wooden tire ramp and carried it out into the overcast August heat.

"No shit," said Steve, walking backwards. "One. I can't even remember the last time I had a Saturday with just one."

"Who was it?"

"Pickins' place. You know out past Jefferson? Up near Winter Tree. Man, I had to haul all this shit out to Winter Tree, and the property was too fucking steep for the riders. Had to use the push mower for the whole thing. Almost wasn't worth the trip."

They walked the ramp right up to the back of the flatbed trailer, still hitched to Steve's dad's Silverado, and set it in place.

"Fuck me, it's hot," Steve said, squinting up at the sky. "How can it be cloudy and bright at the same time?"

They walked back to the barn to get the other ramp.

Steve kept ranting: "I mean, next weekend we're moving. Next fucking weekend. Nobody wants their grass cut in November. Or April. Can't keep any of this shit in a fucking dorm room, so I can't take it with me. It'll be the end of next May before I can make any more money."

They hefted the second tire ramp, and started back toward the trailer. A cloud of gravel dust kicked up in the distance as a truck went by.

"I'm gonna be seriously hurting for spending money, I tell you..." Steve stumbled on a root sticking up above the hard-packed soil. "I mean, how are supposed to party if we can't get beer?"

"I'm sure we'll get plenty of beer," said John. "I'll get a job if we start running out of beer."

Steve snorted. "You. A job." He laughed. "Now I heard it all. You, with them fourteen hour practices, you're gonna get a job." They set the ramp down, parallel to the first. "Man, I still don't know how you talked me into this college shit."

"You wanna cut grass all your life?" said John, unbuckling the first of the heavy nylon straps.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve sighed. "I sat through that same assembly you did."

"I mean, if you're happy cutting other fuckers' yards till you cut off your own foot, then go ahead and stay here."

"I ain't gonna cut off my foot."

"Or till one of your tractors breaks down."

"I can fix a tractor. I can buy a new fucking tractor." Steve hauled the last of the nylon lengths through the last corner tie-down, and started coiling the straps around his palm and elbow.

"Or till you run over someone's poodle and get sued for all you got."

"Okay," said the shirtless Steve. "So what am I gonna do. Learn how to wear a suit? It's alright for you, you're the brains of this outfit."

"Plenty of people go to college and don't wear a suit."

"Plenty of people ain't me. I could just stay right here and go to MCCC."

"Yeah," said John. They'd been having the same argument for most of the summer. Especially now, since they were about to pack up and move, only a week left before they were supposed to check in on campus. He looked at his friend, the guy who got him into trouble so many times. "You could stay right here in Mason County," he said. "You could be a mechanic and fix tractors and cars."

"And make good money at it too," said Steve. He climbed up onto the trailer, onto the big red and black Toro, and started its engine.

John climbed up and took his seat on the much smaller green and yellow Deere. "Or," he said, "instead of learning to fix engines, you could learn how to design them." He turned the tractor's key and pulled down the ramps first. He was halfway to the barn before he heard his friend pull down from the trailer and follow.

"Yeah," said Steve, when he had parked the Toro in its spot and switched off. "Damn right. I can design engines."

"Why not?" said John, smiling.

"Yeah, why the fuck not!" Steve raised his hand for a high five. "I knew you were the brains of this outfit." They smacked palms in midair.

"Fuck yeah!" said John.

"Shit, I'm going to college. I need a beer." Steve grabbed his shirt and headed back out toward the pickup.

John followed him. "Good thing too, since you already paid tuition."

"Man, I don't know why I let you talk me into things." Out of the ice chest stuffed inside the truck's toolbox came two bottles of Coors. "Tell you what," said Steve, holding out one of the bottles. "We chug it all, and hit that tree with the empties."

"That tree?" John looked where his friend was pointing. "From right here?"

"Fuck yeah, from right here!"

"You're on!"

They both twisted the caps and up-ended the brown glass. John grimaced as the cold brew sloshed down his gulping throat. His eyes burned. Beer spilled out around the opening and dripped off his chin. Steve finished first with John a few swallows behind. They both wound up and flung the heavy bottles in the direction of a tree trunk that was a little fuzzier now than it had been a minute ago. They both missed.

A mosquito started buzzing in John's ear, and he swatted at it half-heartedly.

"Dude, I really gotta ask you?" said Steve, as if he had been waiting all day.

"What?"

"You went over to see Sara last night..."

"Oh, right." John wasn't sure he really wanted to talk about it.

"Well?"

"Yeah, I went over."

"And? You bag her?"

"Yeah, I did," John admitted after a moment.

"All right!" Steve cheered. "We need another!" He reached into the ice chest for two more.

"Thing is," said John, taking the bottle, "I think I'm in love with her. I mean for real this time."

"Aw, come on, man! It's just cause you ain't had her all summer is all. You just need to drink some more and chill out."

"Yeah." John took a drink from the new bottle, thinking. "Yeah, maybe."

It was getting dark outside, and the evening was finally cooling off a little. The all-day clouds brought an early dusk, and made it feel much later than seven-thirty. Most of the girls were already here. In the TV room, a whole stack of horror movies had already been started, and every couple minutes the shrill screams drifted out into the rest of the house.

Seventeen year old Aisha Neybet was refilling the ice, pouring a heavy stream of white cubes over the tops of dozens of cans of Coke and Sprite and Nestea. The chip bowls were already getting empty too. She ripped open a bag of barbecue and another of sour cream and onion, and filled the bowls to overflowing. She grinned. Put a bunch of tiny teenage girls together overnight in their PJs, and just watch the junk food vanish. So far, she was managing to save the ice cream for later.

She heard the front door open, and voices, as Tiffany Caldwell and Ashley Burns were both playing the role of greeter, dressed in matching pink and blue pajamas. They did most things together.

"Hey," said Ashley's voice. "Come on in." The door closed.

"Wow!" It sounded like Breanne. "Cool place!" The sophomore Breanne Murphy had never been to Aisha's house before. She was probably looking at all the African artifacts hanging on the walls in the living room.

"Most everybody's watching movies right now," said Tiffany's voice, punctuated by a chorus of new screams from down the hall. "I think Aisha's in the kitchen."

"Aisha's done in the kitchen now," Aisha said of herself, smiling, walking out to greet her latest arrival. "Hey Breanne."

"Hey. What's the story with all this stuff?" Breanne asked in her small voice, gesturing around the room. "Is it all authentic?"

The black girl nodded. "Yeah, my parents brought it all here with them from Zambia. Most of it's really old." Aisha was sometimes uncomfortable with the subject of her ancestry. Never about the color of her skin--she was proud of that, even if it made her look like a midnight shadow in a room full of ghosts. It was easy to be black and be American. But a black person with a broad British-like accent always drew extra stares. Most people just didn't know what to think about that. At school, at her friend's houses, she could suppress the speech patterns she had learned as a child almost perfectly, without anyone raising an eyebrow. Here in her own living room, surrounded by a museum of carved wooden masks and painted shields and iron-tipped spears, it wasn't so easy.

Tiffany grabbed Breanne's shoulders and pointed her toward a particularly wicked looking spear with barbs on either side of the head. "See that one?" she said. "They use that one to disembowel you."

"And they pull out your intestines and eat them while you're still alive, watching," added Ashley with an evil grin.

Breanne looked a little pale, and she jumped violently when the girls watching the movie all screamed again. "Is that true?" she asked, and the other two laughed.

"No, don't listen to them," Aisha said, guiding Breanne toward the brightly lit kitchen. "Honestly!" Then, not bothering to hide her natural accent, she added, "Everybody knows we eat your heart while you're alive and watching, and then we disembowel you." She heard Tiffany and Ashley behind her howling.

"Are they picking on you?" asked May Callahan as she walked into the kitchen and dug her green-painted fingernails into the chips. The shade of her nails matched exactly the Hannibal-green oversized tee shirt she was wearing. The flag captain crunched loudly and said, "They do that to everyone." She gave Aisha a quick wink.

"Yeah, don't pay any attention," added the saber captain Heather Metz, following her friend in. Heather's idea of a comfortable pajama top was skin-tight, and did nothing to hide the pair of hard nipples poking out. It seemed like she always had hard nipples. She tossed a crumpled coke can into the trash, and scooped up her own handful of chips.

The front door opened again. Ashley's voice exclaimed, "Sara!"

Aisha grinned and spun around toward the living room, leaving the poor sophomore in the hands of the other two seniors. She heard Heather say, "Later on we'll show you the torture chamber in the basement."

Just closing the door, Sara Clark was saying, "Are you guys sure I should be here?" The blonde adjusted the overnight bag slung over her shoulder.

"Yeah!" said Ashley.

"Definitely," added Tiffany.

"I feel like I'm intruding." Sara's eyes met Aisha's, and she smiled. "Hey you," she said, opening her arms to meet the black girl's hug.

"Hey you," Aisha said to her friend. "And no, you're not intruding. You're our honorary guard dog." She smiled her own dazzlingly white smile.

"You're one of us," said Tiffany, and she and Ashley also hugged the only girl ever invited to a guard party who had never been in colorguard.

"Guard dogs always stick together," Ashley said, poking the tip of Sara's nose with her finger.

"Right now," said Tiffany, "most of us are sticking together watching a movie."

"And later," added Ashley, "most of us will stick together while we eat pizza."

"And maybe we'll jump on the trampoline." Tiffany.

"Or play Truth or Dare." Ashley.

"Or paint each other's toenails." Tiffany.

"Yeah," Ashley said, nodding her head, "the point is we always stick together."

"And now you stick together with us too," Tiffany agreed.

"Okay, got it," said Sara, giving a thumbs up that managed to avoid looking dorky.

Aisha, still smiling, said, "And just like the rest of us, you have to follow the rules."

"Oh, right," said Tiffany, clearing her throat. "The guard party is a sacred event."

"No boys," said Ashley. "Just us guard dogs."

"No drinking or smoking," said Tiffany. "Just junk food."

"And the most important one," said Aisha, with a hand on Sara's shoulder. "We all wear our PJs and stay up all night together." She struck a pose to model her own sleepwear. "You can change in my room."

"Hey, I think they're about to start Evil Dead," said May, leaning in from the kitchen. "Hi Sara," she added, and disappeared.

Sara went off down hall, and Aisha turned to the two door-girls. "Who are we still waiting for?" she asked.

"Stacy," said Tiffany.

"And Caitlin," said Ashley.

"The freshmen are all here? I didn't see them come in," the guard captain said.

"Yeah, they're here, they came together. All three," Ashley told her.

"They're in there now cuddled up around Zoe," Tiffany put in, smiling.

"Okay," said Aisha. "Well I know Caitlin had to work, so she'll be here in a couple hours. I don't know where Stacy is."

"We'll wait for her, don't worry," said Ashley. "We'll paddle her butt for being late."

"Yeah, and we'll make brownies while we're waiting," Tiffany added. "Do you have brownie mix?"

"Sure--" Aisha started, but then turning toward the kitchen, she saw Heather and May escorting their sophomore captive toward the TV room. "Hey!" she said. "Breanne, come over here."

The fifteen year old looked nervous, being marched forward by the two seniors. The guard captain looked her up and down with a frown.

"Do you know what I want?" asked Aisha, running her fingers along the girl's shoulder, standing quite a bit closer than she knew was comfortable.

"What?" said Breanne.

"I want you to take your clothes off," Aisha told her. Tiffany was snickering. Heather was trying her best to put on a serious face. The girl's look of shock was priceless. Then Aisha smiled and said, "This is a pajama party, sweetie. You've got to go change."

"Oh," said the little sophomore, visibly relieved and more than a little red. "Oh yeah."

"Go down the hall, my room's the last door on the left," Aisha said.

Shooing Breanne out of the living room, Heather warned her, "And I'll come help you change if you don't get back out here fast enough." She and May went back in to watch the movie.

"Brownies," said Tiffany firmly, after they had gone. Ashley giggled.

"Yeah, I'll show you," said Aisha, and she led the pair into the kitchen. She pointed to the cabinets. "The mix is in here, the pans are down there. Everything else is in the fridge."

"Yay!" Tiffany clapped her hands, and started scooping things out onto the counter.

Just then, Sara came in, looking awfully cute in a tight tank top and a pair of polka-dot boxers, her blonde mane released from its pony tail. She had little pink and white striped toe socks on her small feet.

Ashley gave a wolf whistle and Tiffany said, "Damn, you look even better than these brownies are gonna. We might have to eat you."

Sara grinned.

Aisha grabbed her friend's hand and led her toward the back door. "Come with me," she said, twisting the knob. Humid air swallowed them as they walked across the backyard and sat on the edge of the large trampoline. Still not that late, the dusk was already very thick, and the black girl knew everything but her teeth and her eyes would become almost invisible in another hour. The crickets were making a racket, and fireflies were busy pretending to be little stars.

They sat there in the darkness, facing back toward the house, still holding hands. Sara stared at the ground and wriggled her individually sheathed pink and white toes, pinching blades of grass between them.

"So?" asked Aisha, simply. Her voice had changed again: she never hid her accent when it was just the two of them. She waited.