Jewel is making grilled cheese sandwiches. The smell of melted butter fills the trailer.
Jessup hesitates as he hands David John the keys to his truck. “Do we have to?”
“Yes,” David John says. They’ve already argued about getting rid of the truck. Jessup knows that David John is right, that it’s the one thing that can tie him concretely to Corson’s death, but it’s hard for him to let go of the keys.
He’s holding a garbage bag in his other hand, and he passes that over as well. His stepfather opens up the bag, looks inside.
“This all of it?” Jessup nods, and David John ties the bag. “Keys for the van are on the hook. Give me ten minutes.” Walks out of the trailer, already holding his phone, dialing his brother.
Jewel is oblivious, but Jessup’s mom is sitting on the couch, holding a book. Something from the library. Inspirational. She’s not reading. Just watching. Doesn’t say anything. Jessup wants to tell her not to worry, but he doesn’t say anything either.
He’s wearing wool socks and his sneakers, jeans, a Cortaca High School Football long-sleeved T-shirt: school logo with the word “Football” underneath, on the left breast, “One Team, One Family” on the back. His jacket is in the trash bag, along with his boots. He doesn’t have another jacket, so he’s got a hoodie. Cortaca Football, too, heavy and zip-up, black, warm enough until he can get to the thrift store for a new coat. He slips the sweatshirt on, zips it up.
“You got your shirt for work?”
His mom’s eyes are bright. She pays attention. She’s no dummy. At the stove, Jewel is humming something to herself. Happy. Her dad is home. All is right in the world. She slides the spatula under one of the sandwiches and puts it on a paper towel, hands it to Jessup.
“One grilled cheese sandwich, to go. Careful,” she says. “It’s hot.”
“It’s supposed to be,” he says. He takes a bite.
Jewel pokes him in the stomach with the handle end of the spatula. “I think you mean ‘Thank you, oh favorite sister of mine.’”
“You’re my only sister,” he says. They’re both smiling, and he lifts the grilled cheese up, an acknowledgment of thanks, a salute, a signal that he loves her.
She’s grown in the last year. She still looks like a little kid to him, but she belongs in middle school, in sixth grade. He knows that’s going to change, though, sees what the other kids look like when he drops her off or picks her up, girls turning into young women as they move from sixth to seventh to eighth, knows that before he can stand it she’ll be in high school, college, married, kids of her own. And he’ll be off somewhere, too, university, a job, a life away from here.
He can’t bear the thought that it might not work out that way. He’ll do anything to make sure she breaks free. The both of them.
“Jessup?” his mom asks again. “Do you have your shirt for work?”
“Shoot. No. Thanks,” he says. “Sorry.” He walks back to his bedroom, eating the sandwich, pulls his collared Regal Cinemas shirt off a hanger, and walks back.
“You’re off in your own world today,” she says. Her voice is quiet. Let Jewel stay in her own private world, her voice says, hasn’t it been hard enough for her with Ricky, with her dad? Not you, too, Jessup, not you. “You sure everything’s going to be okay? I don’t like any of this.”
“I’m sure,” he says.
When he and David John came inside, they sent Jewel to her room to listen to music while they told Jessup’s mom what was going on. Most of it. Didn’t tell her what he and David John talked about after the cops left. The soda-can crumple of Corson’s body against the truck. The dead weight of getting him into the Mercedes. David John looking at the dent on his truck. Didn’t tell his mother why he filled a garbage bag with his boots and coat, gloves, T-shirt and jeans, why David John has taken Jessup’s truck to the compound.
She’s not stupid, though.
“I’ve got to go. We’ll meet you at the Creamery, okay?”
His mother nods. Goes back to pretending to read her book.
Ricky’s not coming home anytime soon, David John back for less than twenty-four hours. She looks at Jessup, but she doesn’t ask any other questions. Afraid of the answers.
He finishes his grilled cheese, chucks the paper towel in the trash, stops by the kitchen table, where Jewel is sitting. She’s got a dog-eared book propped up in front of her plate. She’s near the end of the book. She drops her sandwich on her plate, wipes her hand on her pants, gulps at her milk, and turns the page.
“Here,” Jessup says, tearing off a clean paper towel and handing it to her. “Don’t wipe your hands on your pants.”
She rolls her eyes, but she takes the paper towel.
He puts his hand on her shoulder. “You reading that for school?”
“Yeah. Extra credit.”
“What is it?” She sticks her finger in to mark her page and closes it so he can see. The Penderwicks. He doesn’t recognize it. “What’s it about?”
“This family goes on vacation,” she says.
“And?”
“And a bunch of stuff happens. It’s really good. It’s funny and . . . I don’t know. I like the family. I’m going to get the next one out of the library on Monday. You should read it. You’d like it,” she says.
He kisses her on the top of her head. “See you soon,” he says, but she’s already back in her book.