Two months after our mothers die, Will and his grandma move into the guest cabin a mile south of the main house. Miss Lissa’s short and baby-powder soft, fond of needlework, brightly colored sweatsuits, and revolvers over semi-automatics. I come by to watch Daddy’s men hauling in their furniture and boxes of belongings while I hang back, uncertain of this new woman in my life.
But when she sees me, she walks up and wraps me up in a hug that goes on so long I’m wiggling, uncomfortable, and prickly hot against her. She smells flowery—not the right flower, not the way Momma did, but it reminds me just the same.
One afternoon not long after they’re settled in, Daddy tells me to come along, and we walk across the meadow to the cabin.
He doesn’t tell me why or what we’re doing here, but he walks up and knocks on the door. Miss Lissa answers it like she’s expecting us, and she and Daddy send Will outside where I’m waiting on the deck to keep us out of their hair so they can talk.
It’s the first time since that day that Will and I are alone together. We stand on opposite sides of the back deck, the cedar planks distancing us like some kind of border under our feet. I scuff the toe of my boot into the wood. I don’t want to look up at him.
If I do, I’ll remember.
He’s the first to give in. “You okay?”
I shrug. “You?”
He shrugs too, and I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or if it’s something else. My shoulders rising off the railing, I step forward without thinking. Will stays very still, watching me carefully as he lets me come close, until we’re just a few inches apart.
Will looks nothing like Miss Lissa or the pictures I saw of his mom in the newspaper. She was pale and blond, but he has dark hair and eyes and skin. The black eye from that day has long since faded, and the burnt circles on his left arm have healed to lumpy pink messes stretching from wrist to elbow.
I reach out and run my finger over the rough edges.
Will doesn’t jerk his arm away. His breath puffs over the top of my head as he looks down at me and lets me do as I wish.
“Do they still hurt?” I ask softly.
“Sometimes.”
“Carl Springfield,” I say. “He did this?”
Will nods.
My thumb presses into the edge of a scar and it fades pale from the light pressure. “Why?”
“I disobeyed.”
“That’s a shitty reason,” I say.
“I know.”
“He’s mean, isn’t he? Springfield?” I don’t really have to ask; the proof is right there in front of me. But all I have is a picture and Daddy’s orders: Just follow the lessons, Harley-girl, and stop asking so many questions.
I can’t help but be curious.
“When he’s high,” Will says. “Or drunk.” He snorts, but his eyes aren’t laughing. “Or breathing.”
That day, when the fire department and the sheriff came and broke the truck windows after Will and I refused to let them inside, he didn’t let go of me the whole time. Not even when they tried to pull us apart.
He held on, like if we stuck together that tight, we’d be safe. I felt like that too.
“You gave me bruises that day,” I say.
Will’s eyes flicker to my arm and then down to his where we’re still touching. “I didn’t mean to. I was just—I was scared you were gonna get out of the truck. Your momma told me to watch you.”
“I’m not a baby!” My temper flares and my thumb accidentally presses down too hard on the still-healing part of his arm. He tenses, but doesn’t pull out of my grasp. He’s stronger than me, so much bigger, he could easily break free, but he doesn’t. He stays.
“Sorry,” I mutter, my cheeks going red.
“I’m older,” he counters. “I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says after a while. “I don’t—I’m not like that.”
I nod. “He’s not your daddy?” I say. “Springfield, I mean?” I know he can’t be, because Springfield’s white, and Will looks like his daddy isn’t.
He shakes his head quickly, but a second later it looks like all the air’s gone out of him, and he says in a small voice, “No. But he partied with my mom when things were good. And when things were bad…” He trails off. Will twists his arm under my grip so his hand cups my wrist. “He’s bad,” he says. “He’s really bad. But you shouldn’t worry.”
“Daddy says he killed our mommas. And he wants to kill me,” I whisper. I haven’t said it out loud ever, not in the two months since Daddy told me.
Will squeezes my wrist gently. “Your momma was nice to me,” he says. “I promised her I’d watch you.”
“She didn’t mean—”
“I know you’re not a baby. But I promised.” He stares at me, looking more serious than a kid should.
There’s something behind those words I can’t figure out. A question I’m not sure of, but I nod anyway. “Okay,” I say. “Then I promise to watch you, too.”
He smiles, and it’s not mean or anything like the way boys usually look at me, with my skinned knees and dirty hands. Instead it makes me feel taller than I am, steadier and strong.
“Never had anyone watch my back before,” he says thoughtfully. “Gonna be my sidekick?”
I smile, and it’s maybe the first time in months I’ve done that. “You can be my sidekick.”
Will’s smile grows wider. “We could flip on it,” he suggests, pulling a quarter out of his pocket. “Call it,” he says, and tosses it high in the air, so high it glints in the sun.
I reach out, lightning fast, catching it before he can. But I don’t look at it yet. That’d be cheating, and I don’t want to cheat with Will.
His mouth drops open in surprise, and I beam. I’ve always been quick. Daddy says I have a good eye.
“Heads,” I say.
I uncurl my fingers, and George Washington’s profile shines up at me.
“Looks like you win,” he says, smiling even bigger.
“McKennas always win,” I tell him solemnly.
I don’t know why that makes his smile disappear for a second, but it does.