Lurlene McDaniel (8 page)

The desk is taking shape in my bare hands. Mark has created the four sides out of perfect boards of Honduran mahogany and now he's given me the top with a heavy bull-nosed edge to sand. I work for hours first with an eighty-grit sandpaper and a sander, then with smaller, finer grades, rubbing by hand until the top is as smooth as silk. Mark drags his hands across the wood and I stand aside, eager for his approval.

“Good job, Jer. Palmer's coming to take a look-see today.”

I can tell Mark's not happy about this. It's like looking at a half-finished painting—unfair to the artist to have work judged before it's complete. “He'll like it,” I say.

“Maybe. People with big bucks think the world owes them something.”

I understand what he's saying. It's the same
with Spence Palmer's son—with a lot of the senior jocks. They act as if they're better than us. More talented. More entitled.

“How's your girl?”

“They put a feeding tube in her stomach. It's good because they can feed her better, but it's more long-term, you know?”

Mark squeezes my shoulder. “Hard, yes, I know.”

“And they've put her in special boots. Contracture boots that keep her feet and ankles straight, and splints on her wrists and elbows too.”

Mark shakes his head and I see pity in his eyes.

“But she's still pretty. To me.” A lump wedges in my throat. Every time I see her, she looks different, less like herself. I want to cry.

“Are the police making any progress?”

I shake my head. “Jack says they're hitting stone walls. They've visited every body shop in Asheville and the surrounding area but haven't turned up one lead.”

“What are they looking for?”

“Someone who's had body work on a late-model black Cadillac. They know that much about the vehicle.”

“Can't they just check owner registrations?”

“They need probable cause.” I use the legal
term that Jack used. “They can't just go knocking on doors and checking garages without a court order. It's possible that the car isn't even from this area. It could have been someone just driving through.”

“On Thompson Mountain? In the middle of the night?” Mark blows air through his lips. “Not likely.”

“According to dealer records, more than thirty-four black Caddies are registered to people in these mountains.”

Mark glances out of the partially open barn door at his old beat-up Suburban parked in the icy gravel driveway. “Tourists. The place is full of them. Used to not be this way.”

Our mountains have scads of summer people who show up every year, many who don't board up their second homes and leave until late fall. Anybody could have hit Analise.

“So, are the cops giving up?” Mark asks.

“I don't think so. But they have to widen their search of body shops, and that takes men and time. One detective told Jack they may have to look as far away as Charlotte.”

Mark lets out a low whistle. “Lots of territory to cover.”

“I wish I could help them out. I'd love to get my hands on the jerk who—”

“Anybody here?” Spencer Quentin Palmer III comes into the barn.

Mark shakes his hand and I step back. Palmer doesn't acknowledge me. I'm like the sawdust on the floor to him. I go into Mark's office, where the coffeepot is brewing, and pour a cup for myself. I look out through the small window at the two of them talking over the freshly sanded desktop.

Spence looks like his son. Or, I guess, Quin looks like a young version of his dad. The old man is fleshy, with sagging jowls. It's hard to believe I'm looking at one of the most influential men in our area. But I am. I think of my brother in Iraq getting shot at. He's a bigger man to me than Spence Palmer. And turning wood into beautiful pieces of furniture is a whole lot more worthwhile than being able to throw a stupid baseball.

“I have an idea to share with you.”

Judie's voice on my cell fills me with gratitude. I've been on pins and needles for days, ever since I unburdened myself about the trip home from the party on the lone date I had with Quin Palmer. I think,
I shouldn't have said anything.
Then I ask myself,
Why not?
Quin treats me like I'm a nothing. He's dumped Tesa. For the second time, according to the grapevine.

I say, “Can you come over?” It's Saturday and Mom's off showing a house, so we'll be alone.

Judie says, “I'm on my way.”

We sit on the floor of my room, huddled over popcorn, candy bars and colas. I want Judie to eat anything she likes because I want to make her happy, and because I know her mother rations these things at her house.

“So what should I do? Tell Mom?”

“I don't think so.” Judie munches on a fistful of buttered popcorn.

“Then what? Who?”

“I think you should use this to your advantage.”

My brain freezes, just as if I'd eaten a spoonful of ice cream. “How so?”

“How would you like to be Quin Palmer's exclusive girlfriend?”

“That's crazy talk.”

“Is it? Let's recap. You and Quin are coming home from a party. He's been drinking. He hits something. Says it's a deer. You believe him. He swears you to secrecy. And you, thinking you're doing the right thing, keep his secret. He returns to school, pointedly ignores you, dates and beds anything with a skirt, goes his merry way.

“In the meantime, a poor girl from our school lies in a coma because her bike ‘fell’ off a mountain. The same mountain where Quin hit a deer. Coincidence? Maybe not.”

Once Judie lays it all out in a straight line, I see how obvious it looks. Why has it taken me so long to see the big picture? I feel stupid. And frightened. “I—I can't just accuse Quin Palmer of hitting Analise. I have no proof. I wasn't fully awake when it happened.”

“True. But he doesn't know that.”

“I—I told him as much.”

Judie shrugs. “So you lied. Tell him you saw everything.”

“Why would he believe me? Especially after two months?”

“He'll believe you.”

“How do you know?”

“He has to protect himself. He's a big name. He has a future. He has college coaches calling.”

I weigh what she's said.

“You want to be popular with his senior crowd, don't you?”

I feel shame—not because of what might have happened to Analise, but because Judie's right: I want to be popular. “I—I guess so.”

“You have leverage, girlfriend. You've got him by his gonads. Now squeeze.”

Judie's eyes glitter and I see more malice in her than I would ever have imagined. My mind is spinning. What she's suggesting is … well,
blackmail.
I wait for my conscience to kick in, to rise up and be noble, to tell Judie,
“I can't do such a thing!”
My good girl lies dormant as I picture myself at Quin's side.
“There go Quin and his girl.”
I can hear the whispers in the halls. I see myself sitting at the hallowed senior lunch table, going to the movies
with Quin and his friends. Me. Laurie Stark. Freshman nobody. Bigger news than Lindsey Duvales ever was.

I drop my gaze demurely, not wanting Judie to see the beast within. “I—I don't know …”

Judie leans back on her elbows. “Sure you do,” she says. “You know exactly what to do. I don't even have to spell it out.”

It takes me two days to get up my courage. On Thursday, Judie and I arrive at the commons early and wait. When Quin arrives, he's surrounded by his friends and I feel my courage fade. Judie elbows me. I straighten. Clutching my books, I head straight into the enemy camp. If he sees me coming, he refuses to look at me, and that makes me mad. Mad enough to close the remaining distance between us in a few steps.

I say, “Hello, Quin.” His friends turn to stare at me. Their expressions all but shout,
“Who's the skirt?”
I ignore them, lock my gaze onto Quin's.

“Um—yeah?” he says.

Cool. So cool. I want to wipe the smug look off his face. “Remember me?”

He looks me up and down, like he knows what I look like naked, but he doesn't, and I'm so glad that he doesn't. At least I did something right
that night. “I'm Laurie.” A couple of his buds snicker.

“Yeah, sure. I remember. What can I do you for?”

More laughs over the way he's scrambled the words into a lewd suggestion.

Anger builds again and my sagging courage is boosted. Judie's right. He
so
needs to be shot down. I say, “We need to talk. It's important.”

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't watching Quin turn as white as chalk and look sick to his stomach over my pronouncement.

I hardly ever get taken out of my game. But Laurie's words did it.
“We have to talk.”
My mind flashes back to the long-ago day I heard them fall from Corrine Ochoa's lips. It was at the end of eighth grade and I had just made the first-string All-City All-Stars senior baseball team. A big deal because no fourteen-year-old had ever made it before. Dad made sure every paper in the area carried the story. My parents let me throw a pool party. Everyone came—my friends, their friends. And Cory came too. Beautiful, dark-haired Cory, the girl I loved.
My
girl. And in the middle of the party, she walked up to me and said, “We have to talk.”

“Can't it wait? Dad's passing out burgers.”

“It can't wait. And I'm not hungry.”

And something in her voice, in her face, told
me that what she had to say was serious. “Let's go in the house. Less noise.”

I was wet from swimming, and when we stepped inside the air-conditioned family room, goose bumps covered me. I pulled Cory to me, kissed her like I had a hundred times before. Her body went rigid. “Hey,” I said, “where's my girl?”

“She's here.” Yet Cory pushed away and I saw tears in her eyes.

“What's wrong?” She was scaring me, because Cory was always sunshine and smiles and softness in my arms. She was the first girl I had sex with, the only girl I've ever loved. Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Quin, I'm pregnant.”

Her words fell like dark raindrops on my heart. “Are … are you sure?”

“I took the home test three times. I'm sure.” She started to cry. “My parents will kill me.”

I took her in my arms. “Hey, it's not the end of the world.”

She looked up at me, her eyes brimming. “You're not mad?”

“I—I don't think so.” I held her tight. I wasn't mad. I wanted her so much.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don't know. We'll figure it out.” My insides
turned to jelly. I would have married her the next day. I knew I had to tell my father. And that scared me more.

Laurie won't tell me what's on her mind. She says she needs more time than five minutes before first bell. I indulge her, throw her a bone. “I'll drive you home.” She agrees and walks away. I watch her, remind myself that she's still good-looking and that I'd like to sample the parts of her she kept hidden on our first date. I'm between girlfriends, and I like a challenge.

When she gets into my Mustang after school, she's quiet, so I try to get her talking. When I pull into her driveway, she sits sideways, leaning against the passenger door. Just out of reach.