Chapter Five

There was the allegory of my whole life:

I, in the shadow, at the ladder’s foot,

While others lightly mount to love and fame!

–Cyrano de Bergerac


“Dearly beloved, thank you for bringing us all together for this fine meal.” Granny pauses for a moment, clearing her throat before adding, “of which I did most of the preparing.”

Grace, sitting to my left, squeezes my hand while I press my lips shut in an effort to suppress a bubble of laughter threatening to break free.

“Except for Beast who prepared a wonderful . . . what was it? Potato rosaries?”

“Potato rissole,” Jude says, somehow completely straight faced.

“Right, right. Rissole. Some fancy French food,” she continues in a grumble. “It’s a good thing you’re handsome,” she tells Beast.

His lips tighten. Granny can even get the marble statue to crack.

“Please bless this family and all our friends, and in your infinite wisdom, if you see fit to compel Elaine Kilgarriff to share her fried chicken recipe with me, it would be most appreciated. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

“Amen.”

There’s a slight pause and then the table erupts into a flurry of activity, hands grabbing for plates and passing the food around.

“What are your plans for summer, young man?” Granny asks Jude. “You can’t get by on your good looks alone, and idle hands are Satan’s misfits, as I always like to say.”

“I reckon I’ll stay busy. No Satan hands here.” He holds up both hands with a grin. “I signed on for some freelance computer work for people around town.”

Grace’s eternal teen slouch straightens. “Can I help?”

“No,” at least three people say at the same time.

Her shoulders slump and she goes back to pushing food around with her fork.

“I need your help around the farm,” Granny tells her. “Fred’s new job will keep her up all hours of the night, so I’ll need someone to feed the chickens in the morning and milk the goats.”

Grace groans.

“Perhaps you could invite some school friends over to help you while away the lazy dog days of summer.” Jude pours her a glass of tea from the pitcher on the table.

Grace shrugs. “People at school were mean. I didn’t really make any friends.”

“I find that hard to believe considering your sunny personality.” Jude winks at Grace.

She rolls her eyes. “I shouldn’t be in school anyway. It’s not like I’m learning anything new.”

“You promised to try,” he reminds her. “And you’ve said on countless occasions that you want friends your own age.”

“Whatever.” She shovels a big forkful of potatoes into her mouth.

Reese nods at me. “Fred, I heard you made peach pie?”

I love Reese. She’s almost as dorky as I am, but less of a fandom nerd and more of a science geek. Plus she’s a whole lot smarter. She reminds me of home, too, since Scarlett is her older sister, even though they don’t exactly look alike. It’s only when I look closely that I can tell they are even related. Reese is tall and slender with dark hair, and Scarlett is shorter and a redhead. But they have the same refined nose and full lips, and some of their mannerisms are nearly identical. “Yep. From the trees out back.”

“You are a goddess. Or a devil. Between you and Beast I’ve gained twenty pounds since Christmas.”

I shoot a quick glance in his direction on the other side of Grace, and my stomach twists. He’s focused on his plate. He probably thought I was laughing at him earlier. I have to explain. Without sounding like a freak.

Too late, you filthy muggle, Delores Umbridge tells me.

Last night I was drunk and emotional and he got a front-row seat to my stupidity. Then even more foolishness today, and I don’t even have the excuse of being drunk. He probably hates my guts, especially since he had to carry them upstairs last night.

“Where are you working this summer?” Annabel asks me.

“Bodean’s.”

Jude reaches for a biscuit from a bowl in the center of the table and points it at Beast across from him. “Beast here got a summer job at Bodean’s as well. He’ll be working security.”

I glance down the table at Beast again. What are the odds? Actually, probably pretty high, since there are literally less than a handful of eating establishments in the area. And I know he’s on the culinary track at school . . . but security? Did he apply for the kitchen job, too?

“I’ll be in the kitchen mostly,” I say quickly. “But also helping the bar after food service ends. We probably won’t even see each other.” Our gazes lock.

I don’t know if I’m reassuring him or myself. I force my eyes down to my plate, forking a bite of pulled pork into my mouth. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Is he angry we’ll be working in the same building? Ambivalent?

The table has been silent for too long.

Can they feel the tension?

“We need to go camping this summer, before Fred leaves and while school is still out,” Annabel says.

Fitz nods. “Our parents used to take us up to Lake Richardson every year. We know a sweet spot that doesn’t get too crowded on the south side of the lake.”

“We’ll have to go when y’all aren’t working.” Reese nods at me. “Isn’t Bodean’s closed Sundays and Mondays?”

“Yes.” I take a sip of sweet tea.

“I’ve never been camping.” Grace tilts her head, her posture perking up again.

“I’ve never been either,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

“My parents’ idea of camping is renting a cabin in the Poconos and having only one bathroom for a week.”

Grace smiles, but the movement doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That sounds fun, too.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I don’t know what happened to her parents and why she’s being raised by Granny. Even though I want to strangle my parents half the time, I’m lucky to have them.

“When do you start work, Fred?” Annabel asks.

“This coming Tuesday.”

Grace groans. “This Tuesday? In, like two days? I hate waking up early.”

“Then go to bed earlier,” Granny tells her. “Work is good for the soul. Like I always say, to make an omelet, you need to break a leg or two.”

A beat of silence while everyone at the table glances at each other, and then the room bursts into laughter. Except for Granny.

“What?” Granny squints at us. “It’s a sayin’, look it up.”

After dinner, it’s chore time. Every week, Granny press-gangs us into helping out around the farm. As a method of defense, Annabel, Reese, and I have volunteered as the regular dishwashers. In reality, it’s an excuse to stay in the kitchen and out of the heat so we can drink moonshine and talk.

I tell them about my conversation with my parents and how I misrepresented my job hunt.

“I’ve applied for nothing. I don’t even know what to do with my life.”

Annabel lifts a spoon out of the soapy water, waving it in the air. “I get it. It’s hard to decide and it feels like you’re supposed to know everything by the time you’re eighteen, you know? But sometimes it just takes longer to find your niche.”

“You should do something with your degree.” Reese hands me a clean plate and I dry it with a dish towel.

“I have a bachelor’s degree in psychology. There’s literally nothing I can do with that, unless I go for my master’s. I might as well have majored in English lit.”

“What’s wrong with English lit?” Reese frowns.

I shrug. “Nothing, if you’re not concerned with gainful employment. It’s a good thing I have experience in food service. Not only because food is awesome, but because at least I can do something. But unless I want to go back to school, I have no chance of getting a job that could support myself with my bachelor’s degree.”

“Something will come up,” Reese says.

“I have no real plan. Everyone has a plan. I’m a loser.”

“You’re not a loser.” She hands me a bowl.

I take it and scrub at it with the towel. “Says the genius.”

“I’m not a genius.”

“Sorry, says the person who’s like a bajillion times smarter than me and knows exactly what she wants to do with her life. I don’t know anything. All I know is that I need to prove that I’m not a useless drain on society.”

Annabel rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic. You’re only what, twenty-two? You still have time to figure things out.”

“I guess. It just feels like everyone else my age has dreams, goals, aspirations . . . I don’t know what I want to do other than go to Comic-Con at least fourteen times before I die.”

“Fourteen?” Reese’s brows lift to her hairline.

“At least.”

Annabel laughs. “That’s pretty arbitrary. Look, Fred, don’t stress. It will all work out. We’ll help you search for jobs, right, Reese?”

Reese nods encouragingly.

Well, if Annabel and Reese believe in me, that makes two of us.

“Hey.” I tap on the partially closed door before pushing it open. “Where’s Granny?”

“Granny went out,” Grace says, her fingers not missing a beat at the keyboard, eyes fixated on the computer screen.

“Where did she go?”

A half shrug. “Oh you know. Wouldn’t say.”

She’s been disappearing a lot, but I don’t question her anymore. At first, she would say it was “none of my never mind,” and then she told me I was “more interfering than a wet noodle.” Which didn’t make any sense and didn’t really sound complimentary either.

“I’m going to take a walk to the tree house. Wanna come?”

“No thanks.” More tapping. “Beast is still around. Maybe he’ll want to go. Have you seen him?”

I shrug. “Not since dinner.”

She frowns. “Maybe he’s in the barn then.”

“He’s staying tonight?”

Grace nods, distracted by something on her computer screen, so I leave her to it.

I need to clear my head anyway. It’s easier to do that alone. Normally, when I need alone time, I crawl out my bedroom window and onto the roof above—there’s a level spot perfect for stargazing, but the stars aren’t out yet. I try to soak them up when I can, since I never see anything like it back in the city. Too much light pollution for stars, let alone a sky full of them.

There is no sign of Beast as I exit the back patio. He’s hard to miss—a cursory glance is usually sufficient to locate him.

I take the narrow footpath between some trees and through the tall grass, shrieking and swiping at giant bugs flying around trying to attack my face.

The heat is oppressive and the bugs are plentiful, but still . . . Texas is expansively gorgeous. The sky is a giant dome that stretches on forever, a blue so brilliant it can hardly be real. And I can see for miles. My destination is a grove of trees about a half mile away. No concrete jungle here.

As if to punctuate that thought, a rooster crows nearby. Nope. Definitely not in New York anymore.

But I’ll be home soon, within the next two months. It doesn’t smell like fresh grass and wild flowers there. It smells more like sewer and hot dogs. It’s not quiet, not even at night. It hums with energy and opportunities. It’s where my family is. It’s where I’ve spent my whole life. It’s a city full of life and possibilities and, you know, jobs and a future.

Sometimes I wish I could stay here forever and just never go back. But what would I do in Blue Falls? I can’t live with Granny forever. As beautiful and quiet as it is here, as much as I’ve loved it, it’s not home. I don’t quite belong.

As I approach my destination, a weird bleating trills through the air, coming from somewhere inside the grove of trees.

Did Kylo Hen get out again?

I hesitate at the edge of the tree line for a moment and then step faster. What is that? There are other noises now . . . and it’s most certainly not a chicken. Growling and other odd sounds.

Maybe it’s an animal. Is it injured?

Injured animals can be dangerous. I slow my steps when it’s apparent the sounds are coming from around the next bend—near the tree house.

Someone coughs, not like choking but almost like forced coughing. It’s not an animal, it’s a person.

Leaning against the trunk, I peek around the tree toward the tree house and then jump back.

It’s not just any person. It’s Beast.

Is he trying to talk? Or make noises? He can make noises?

He’s sitting in the tire swing that hangs off of the thick branches. It’s a big tire. Hefty enough to support even Beast’s imposing frame, although he fills the space and then some.

What do I do? I can’t just stay here. I have to make my presence known.

Careful and quiet, I tiptoe back up the path a few yards and then turn around, stomping and whistling as loud as I can.

Except the song that breezes between my lips is the creepy one from Kill Bill. Which is also from the 1969 British horror film Twisted Nerve. Either way, I basically sound like a psychopath and a serial killer.

“Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were here.” The words jangle with insincerity even in my own ears. “Uh, what’s up?”

I am so, so bad at this.

What’s up? What’s up? Have I lost my mind? I should just shut up. Forever.

A flush of red creeps up his neck. A muscle in his hard jaw ticks.

We scrutinize each other across the short distance of crab grass and errant white and purple flowers that are probably weeds. A narrow creek winds through the trees about twenty yards off, the trickle of the water and the buzz of insects the only sounds between us.

He stands suddenly, forcing the tire to sway behind him, and then it swings back and hits him in the ass.

He flinches, using one beefy arm to still the spinning tire. For a long beat, he stares at me, the tips of his ears going red. Then he paces away, disappearing behind another tree.

Well, that was brilliant.

I sigh and walk over to the vacated swing.

Sitting in the center of the black rubber circle, I push myself back and forth with one extended leg.

I guess that cinches it. Yes, I do suck. Yes, Beast hates me. Or at least strenuously dislikes me. And he’s within his rights. I hang out on the tire swing for long minutes, pushing myself back and forth, closing my eyes to enjoy the trickling water flowing nearby.

But then a thumping noise invades my meditative thoughts. A pounding thwap thwap thwap getting closer and closer. Twigs snap, cracking in the hot air and then Beast comes barreling around a tree at a full run.

I stand up, heart hammering. What could make Beast run?

Feathers shimmer behind him, broad and angry red flapping wings.

Oh no.