When I’m fourteen, Bennet Springfield breaks my nose.
Every Sunday, after church, Miss Lissa visits with the other ladies, and Will and I are supposed to go to youth group, but most of the time I slip out without anyone noticing—or maybe they do, but they don’t want to bring it up to Daddy.
It’s only three blocks and across the street to the graveyard. Daddy doesn’t visit Momma’s grave, and whenever I go with Uncle Jake, he ends up drinking afterward, so I’ve stopped asking. I’d rather go alone anyway, just Momma and me.
The graveyard’s old as California, there are stones that say nothing more than railroad worker, and in the Wilson Tomb, four cracked and ancient graves labeled infant are dated ten to twelve months right after the other.
I slip between the iron gates and make my way up the grassy hill, toward the west end where the McKenna plot is.
Momma’s family is buried here too. They’re on the south side of the graveyard. Uncle Jake had wanted her with them, but Daddy was having none of that. She died a McKenna, in a McKenna’s death, and she’d be buried as one, next to all the others.
The grass is wet from the sprinklers, slippery as I trudge up the slope. The plot’s one of the biggest, edged by redwood fencing and a neatly carved gate that has the family name burnt into the wood. I push it open and step inside.
Momma’s headstone is at the end of the long line that starts with the first McKenna, Franklin, his wife Mary Ellen, and their five children. I kneel down, brushing off the yellowing leaves that speckle the green grass.
Talking always feels silly, even though I’ve seen Uncle Jake do it, so mostly I sit instead. When I can, I bring her things from the forest. This time it’s an arrowhead I found last week when Will and I went fishing. Before I get up to go, I place it on top of her headstone, which is scattered with my other gifts: blue-jay feathers pinned beneath river rocks, a vial of gold flakes I’d panned from the stream under Uncle Jake’s careful instruction, a dried hornet’s nest she would’ve shrieked at and dropped if I’d put it in her living hands.
As I leave, I pass by the two spaces next to her.
They’re unmarked. For now. But I know who they belong to.
One is Daddy’s.
The other is mine.
I cut across the graveyard with the intention of going out the back exit. Will knows to meet me there. Even though Carl Springfield’s been locked up for years, I’m not allowed anywhere in town by myself, but when I’m on Will’s watch, he looks the other way.
As I make my way down the hill, I realize I’m not alone. About fifty feet ahead of me, a boy’s standing near a grave. Even in the shade of the great oak looming over him, his red hair shines bright.
I should stop. I should back away right now.
I know whose empty grave he’s standing over, and I know who’s responsible for that empty grave.
We both know.
Which is why I should go the way I came. Get out of here before he sees me.
You ever see one of those Springfield boys outside of church, Harley-girl, you back away fast.
I walk forward instead.
When he hears my footsteps, Bennet looks up. His lips press together and disappear into his pale skin. His freckles and pimples are like flashing lights against it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I keep walking. All I want to do is get to the back gate.
“Bitch, I’m talking to you.”
I pause. I dig my heel in the hard red dirt and turn. He’s right up close, trying to use the few inches he has on me to his advantage.
“You’re not the only person who has family here, Bennet.” I turn back around, but he lurches in front of me, blocking my way. I fold my arms and try to look as bored as possible. He lays a hand on me, and all bets are off. But I’ll wait for that moment.
I’m not gonna throw the first punch.
“My dad would still be around if it weren’t for yours,” Bennet says in an icy voice, his words slurred a bit, and the scent of beer wafts over me.
Great. He’s drunk and angry.
He’s also fiddling with something in his pocket.
So: drunk, angry, and possibly armed.
“Lots of people would still be around if it weren’t for either of them,” I say carefully.
His face twists in pain, pure and simple, when he says, “We couldn’t even bury him.”
Later on, I’ll kick myself for that second when I lower my guard because I know what it’s like, visiting an empty grave.
There hadn’t been enough left of Momma to bury.
Bennet’s fist smashes into my nose. My head pops back, pain explodes underneath my eyes, and I can taste blood in my mouth, running down my chin, at the back of my throat. I stagger, losing my balance and catching my hip hard against a grave marker.
I gasp, but I force myself to ignore the pain. He’s coming at me again, and this time I need to be ready.
I sidestep his angry half-tackle, grabbing one of his outstretched arms with both hands. I knee him in the crotch to get him to behave before yanking his left arm out, getting him by the elbow. I should twist it up and take him down to pin him safely.
Cooper taught me how to fight. But Daddy taught me how to brawl.
I shouldn’t hurt Bennet bad.
“Cunt,” he snarls at me, finally finding his voice.
My fingers tighten on his arm. I pull, hard and fast, knocking him off balance enough to slam his palm to the ground and step down hard on it with my boot.
He gasps as his fingers crunch underneath it.
And then he screams when my other boot slams down onto his elbow, once. Twice.
There’s a horrible snap. The sound of a branch cracking, a gun going off, a bone breaking—they aren’t much different. It makes your stomach drop, just the same.
Bennet sags on the ground, dirt smearing against his forehead as garbled sounds come out of his mouth. Tears streaking down his face, he cradles his broken arm to his chest.
I wipe away the blood dripping from my nose, flicking it onto the dirt. It’s swelling up already. Daddy’s gonna rage when he sees me.
“I’ll do more than break your arm next time,” I growl at Bennet, my throat clogged with blood and what would’ve been tears if I hadn’t been trained out of crying years ago.
I leave him there at the foot of his daddy’s grave, and as I pass the headstone, I press my hand against it.
A taunt?
No.
An apology.