Sweetly (14 page)

Samuel shakes his head and looks down. “They always leave after her festival. They go and see her, and then they sneak off without telling anyone, without… saying good-bye. I tried to tell Kelly about them. I tried to tell
everyone
about the wolves—I just made the poor decision of trying to tell them in a bar. All it got me was a reputation for being crazy, even when other people started to suspect Kelly.”

“No one believes you,” I say softly. It’s a statement, not a question, and a sentiment I know all too well. No one believes a little girl about witches; why would they believe a boy about werewolves?

“Of course they didn’t believe me. But belief in the Fenris or not, Kelly knows the girls disappear. Even if she doesn’t know about the wolves, even if she isn’t convincing girls to leave, they still vanish without a trace. And Kelly doesn’t care.”

“She does. Really,” I answer defensively. “Sophia acts happy and bubbly most of the time, but she’s sad—I mean really, genuinely sad—about something. I think part of it is that girls keep disappearing and people are blaming her.”

“Then why keep throwing the festival?”

I don’t know what to say—Samuel is right, but then, I still can’t bring myself to blame Sophia, to think she’s the first sign of Live Oak’s end days. Sophia can’t know about the monsters—she wouldn’t live alone in the forest if she did. She must really think the missing girls are just skipping town. She has to be innocent.

No one just lets girls vanish. At least, not on purpose.

I grimace and fire nine more times.

“Better. Kind of. Try again.” His voice is still angry.

I reload the gun and aim, but end up shaking my head and lowering it. “Someone I love disappeared too.”

Samuel scowls at me. “What?”

“My twin sister. I’m just saying, I’m not asking about Layla because I think you’re crazy. I’m asking because I get it. One day my sister was there, and the next she wasn’t, and I never even knew why until that wolf chased me here. I just knew there was something with yellow eyes chasing us, and then she vanished.”

Samuel looks at me, as though he thinks I’m tricking him into giving up something. “What was her name?”

The question startles me, throws me off balance. We don’t say her name.
It upsets your mother—just don’t say her name
. Though in the end it didn’t matter—not saying her name couldn’t keep our parents alive. But still. We don’t say her name.

Layla. Emily. Whitney. Jillian. Danielle. Allie. Rachel. Taylor. They all get to keep their names. Some little part of them, however small, never fully disappears. But half of me is forgotten.

I’ve hesitated too long; Samuel sighs and looks away, and it tugs at something in me, anger and sadness at once.

“Look, I don’t want to go home thinking you’re all mad because I found out about Layla,” I say, trying to sound bold.

He folds his arms. “Why do you care?”

“Well”—I stumble for words—“I just… I don’t want you to be mad at me.” Samuel is the only one in Live Oak who knows about the monsters. The one who saved my life in the forest. The one who believes me about witches when even my brother doesn’t. I don’t want that person hating me.

Samuel meets my eyes for a long time, as if he’s hoping to find more information. He sighs and takes the rifle from my hands.

“I’m not mad,” he grumbles, checking the gun to make sure the safety is on.

“Promise?” I say, shoving my hands into my shorts pockets.

“Sure,” Samuel says sarcastically, but then continues in a gentler tone. “Besides, it’s hard to be mad at someone with clown-colored hair.”

I exhale and smile a little as we walk toward the target. Samuel pulls out his marker and circles the bullet holes.

“Not bad. Three odd shots,” he says, motioning to three bullet holes on the bottom left of the target, “but the rest of the group isn’t bad. Close to the center, anyway.”

“Better than yesterday?” I ask.

“A little. You might as well start aiming for the head now, though,” he says, drawing a line through the bullet holes.

“The head?” I look at the small gray space between the gray man’s line-drawn ears. Far smaller than the center of his chest, where I’d been aiming.

“That’s where you have to hit them. Square between the eyes.”

“To kill them, though, right? Can I slow them down if I just manage to hit them?” I ask as we walk away from the target.

“Not really,” Samuel says, shaking his head. “They hardly even notice. Maybe if you managed to get your hands on some sort of machine gun, but last I checked, those were a little out of your price range. Your best bet is to aim perfectly and hit them on the first shot.”

“Between the eyes.”

“Yep. That’s why I use a rifle. I can aim best with a rifle. Aim is worth more than size.”

“Great,” I mutter as we approach our starting spot. I pick up the gun and prepare to fire—Samuel reaches forward and adjusts my arm. Ten more shots, aimed between the gray man’s ears. I already know I did a lousy job before we even go to check it out—one hit him, and not even centered. I groan and start to complain, but Samuel shuts me up and I try again.

In a few hours, I haven’t improved—I think the prospect of hitting such a small target is psyching me out. I glumly gather my things and prepare to start back toward the house.

“Monday, same time?” Samuel asks as we cut through the field.

I look at him in surprise—he had said one or two lessons. I thought I was lucky to get the second lesson out of him, much less a third. I’m not stupid enough to point that out, though, so I nod and pretend as if a third lesson isn’t unexpected.

“So,” I ask, because I want to change the subject before he remembers the two-lesson promise, “are you going to the Fourth of July block party?”

“Me?” Samuel looks surprised. “No. I went once with…” He stops, and I silently fill in the name:
Layla
. He sighs and continues. “But not anymore. I told you—everyone in Live Oak thinks I’m a lunatic. You’re going, I assume?”

“Yeah. Sophia does a booth or… something. I heard it’s a big deal,” I say, feeling a little guilty.

“It is,” Samuel agrees. “The tourists love it. People hit up Live Oak on the way to the beach; it’s all small-town feel with fireworks and American flags on all the storefronts. They try to make the town look like something out of the fifties instead of mostly abandoned.”

“Do you at least watch the fireworks?” I ask.

Samuel shrugs. “Yeah. But from the roof of a building near my house. It’s just as good a view without the snide remarks from Live Oak’s finest. But have a deep-fried Snickers bar for me.”

I’m not sure if I should feel bad for Samuel or not—he’s not exactly the most welcoming person I’ve ever met. I imagine some of his reputation is warranted.

But then, the same people who hate him are the ones who aren’t killed by monsters because of him. And if he’s right about the monsters killing the missing girls, he fights them only to watch the festival happen again and again, girls happily skipping to Sophia’s house to eat candy while monsters lurk. No wonder he’s so angry. I watch him, looking for any indication of self-pity, but he walks with self-assuredness, solid footed, eyes straight ahead. I’m not afraid of him, but I understand why some people are.

We reach the edge of the field and Samuel turns and walks away, toward his motorcycle, without saying good-bye. Just like last time.

CHAPTER TWELVE

S
ophia is hanging on to an oak tree limb.

Luxe is not pleased about this.

She’s perched near the top with the confidence of someone who has climbed this particular tree many, many times before, but that doesn’t make me any less nervous. Or Ansel—he paces below it, ready to catch her if she falls. Luxe is running in circles around the tree, golden hair flying, barking angrily at Sophia to get down.

“Okay, Gretchen, can you tighten that wire?” Sophia calls between Luxe’s rants.

“What do you mean?” I ask, squinting into the sunlight that looms behind her.

“Just run toward that corner of the yard with it,” she says, swinging off the branch. I think she’s going to fall, but no—she’s completely sure-footed, even twenty feet off the ground.

I take the wire to the far corner of the yard as Sophia reaches the bottom of the tree. Ansel moves to help her down, but she just jumps, landing squarely in the dirt right beside him. She jogs across the yard toward me, dog at her heels. She’s fully dressed—I’m still in pajamas that are now covered in morning dew. Apparently all this setup is easier with more people, and Sophia woke me by bounding onto my bed and begging for help. The festival is still about a month away, but Sophia seems determined to make sure she’s well prepared—the more she gets done now, the less she has to do the week of the festival, according to her.

“There’s a hook on that tree… somewhere,” she mutters as she arrives at a birch tree and scans its trunk. “Here!”

“So this is for…?” I ask.

“Lanterns. Paper lanterns,” Sophia says with a breathless grin. “Because I put a table right at that tree, so it’s like the lanterns are sliding into the table.”

“No expense spared, huh?” I ask, struggling to come up with an enthusiastic response. It’s hard to be excited about the chocolate festival after hearing Samuel’s theories on how it relates to the missing girls.

Sophia shrugs. “It’s fun. I don’t get to do all the things most girls do, you know? Like… I don’t expect I’ll ever get to plan a wedding. So instead I plan this.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask as Ansel ducks back into the storage shed to get another loop of wire. I bend down to scratch Luxe’s belly when he flips over and wiggles in the grass.

Sophia smiles a little. “I don’t know. Who’d want to marry me?”

“Says the girl who’s dating my brother,” I remind her. Sophia blushes.

“In the end, he won’t want me,” she says softly.

“Don’t be stupid,” I say, nudging her gently. “Any boy would want you.”

Sophia laughs it off, though the humor doesn’t reach her face. “Yeah, yeah. But your brother is different from any boy.”

“He’s more annoying than the rest of them combined?” I tease.

“Nah. He’s serious. I mean, I think he just thought I was a pretty face at first, but now it’s like… he wants to help me to
help
me, not to get closer to me. I don’t know that I can explain it.”

“I think I get it,” I say. “But keep in mind I’ve never had a boyfriend. So I know nothing.”

Sophia laughs. “Seriously? Never?”

“Not one. I was too… preoccupied to date. And I was always the weird girl who used to have a twin…” I drift off, and Sophia gives me a gentle look.

She twists the wire around her fingers, chews on her lips. “You’re way more than just a pretty face too, Gretchen. You just have to find someone who knows that.”

“How very motherly,” I tease her gently, and Sophia laughs and finally meets my eyes again.

“Yeah,” she says, “I’m contractually obligated as the oldest person here to say things like that to you. But I’m good at giving advice! You should believe me!”

“Here,” Ansel says, stepping out of the storage shed. My mind flickers to the extra bed and the seashells in there, and I wonder about mentioning them to Sophia, but before I can say anything, she’s off, sprinting toward another tree. Ansel watches her, grinning.

“You’re staring,” I tell him.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, face turning dark red even underneath his tan. “Can you blame me? She… gets me. She gets you too. Most people don’t understand either of us, much less both.”

“True,” I agree, and turn to run the wire to the opposite end of the yard. I manage to find the hook on another tree without Sophia’s help, and before long, Ansel, Sophia, and I are standing in the middle of the yard, staring up at the X the wires make above us.

“Well, that’s done,” Sophia says. “This is all a million times easier with help, just so you know. It usually takes me twice the time.”

“You know we’re happy to,” Ansel says.

“Well, then,” Sophia says, dusting her hands on her pants. “More to do, more to do. If I show you those tables from last year, will you help me refinish them, Ansel? Although I really should make sure I’ve got enough solid milk chocolate bars for the Fourth of July first…”

“Sure,” Ansel says, springing up. “I bet you’re dying to help, right, Gretchen?” he adds, tugging my ponytail.

“I’d love to, but I have some very important hair washing to attend to,” I joke.

We enter the chocolatier and Sophia immediately busies herself with checking on how a tray of truffles is setting. I hurry to my room to kick off my pajamas—blades of grass cling to my legs and fingers when I try to brush them off. It’s hard to appreciate hot showers when the air outside is so warm, so I run the water on nearly cold and get out as quickly as I can.

The sound of Ansel and Sophia’s grappling with some new task outside rises to my ears as I dart to my bedroom. I tug on shorts, then grope around inside the top dresser drawer for my brush but come up empty. Holding my hair into a ponytail, I hunt around—and then see it. In Luxe’s mouth.