Sweetly (32 page)
“Deal?” the wolf hisses. His grip tightens on Sophia’s shoulder, cutting into her skin. She’s so weak, she doesn’t notice the blood that dribbles down her dress. Samuel groans beside me; his eyes flicker open—but he can’t help. No one can help now.
Sophia whispers something under her breath. I shake my head—I can’t understand. She whispers louder, louder, until it becomes a chant.
“Do it. Do it, please, do it.” The words fly off her tongue like a prayer. I furrow my brow. She wants me to do it? To make the trade, my life for hers and Ansel’s? Even though I’m considering it, I’m still hurt, betrayed—and then I see her eyes.
And I understand what she’s really asking me to do.
Even though I hate her, I don’t want to do it.
I aim. The wolf ducks down behind Sophia. I adjust the rifle to match.
Forgive me, forgive me, please,
I beg her silently, but her face is peaceful, her eyes are shut. The smoke-heavy wind sweeps her chocolate-colored hair around her face. She looks magical. She looks beautiful.
I fire.
The bullet cuts through Sophia’s chest into the wolf’s head. He becomes shadows instantly, blackness that blooms around Sophia as she falls backward, falls through the papery wood that used to be her kitchen wall. I abandon the gun and run forward, ignoring the flames licking at my arms, scorching my clothes. My hands hit the edge of the oven, the iron sizzling against my skin, but there’s no time to draw away. I choke as I grab Sophia’s body, yank her from the hungry fire and into the grass. Blood is soaking through her dress; her skin is black in places from soot; she coughs violently—more blood spatters her lips.
Ansel shouts her name—no, Ansel pleads her name, shouting from his prison. There’s a scuffle behind me; I dare to glance back to see Samuel struggling to stay upright, hauling boards aside, flinging debris away with a sort of desperation, the power that must come only from knowing what it’s like to lose the girl you love. Blood is soaking the side of his shirt, but it doesn’t slow him down—he reaches into the darkness and emerges with Ansel’s wrist, then tugs my brother out of the wreck. Ansel is beaten, an eye is bloody, his leg looks broken, but he runs across the lawn and falls down beside me. Beside Sophia.
She’s still alive, alive for now. Ansel takes her hand. Tears drip from his face to hers.
I don’t want to look at her. Not like this. Her blue eyes are wide and cloudy, and how can there be so much blood? It looks like a rose blossom on her chest. She grasps for my hand, then turns her eyes to me. I can’t tell if she actually sees me or not.
“I’m so sorry, Gretchen.”
“I know,” I answer, words forced past the thickness in my throat. “Sophia…”
What do I say?
“I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean for it to go so far. I just… I didn’t know what else to do,” she whispers. A wet sound emerges from her throat, and she chokes for a moment before continuing. “Forgive me?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure I really forgive her, I’m not sure I can ever forgive her, but I won’t let her die knowing that. I
can’t
let her die knowing that. Her eyes lose focus for a moment, then wander to Ansel. His hand is tight on hers.
He opens his mouth several times before the words come out. “I love you,” he says. The words emerge on a sob.
Sophia squeezes Ansel’s hand as he brings it to his lips to kiss her fingers. Sophia smiles, and her lips part slightly to speak, to return the sentiment.
But instead, she dies.
E
veryone in the South has a family burial plot.
The Kelly family members are all buried in a section of the Live Oak cemetery that’s surrounded by wisteria vines. The scent of the flowers pours over us as an old and frail pastor talks about the kingdom of heaven, about Sophia’s beauty, about her kindness. All of Live Oak stands around Ansel and me; we sit up front, in chairs usually reserved for family, because we’re not sure where else to sit. Samuel’s hand rests firmly on my shoulder, squeezing tightly.
They blamed it on wild animals. Stray bullets. Some of the survivors tried to tell the truth, but who would believe them? They’re all here too, eyes wide and shaky, looking for wolves to dart out from behind headstones.
Her coffin is white. I picked out her dress—deep periwinkle, because I thought it would match her eyes. I gave the undertaker a Nietzsche book to put in her hands, and the photo of her and Naida at the beach as children. I wanted to give him more—pieces of candy, hair ribbons, blankets, seashells. I wanted to give him everything, so she would have everything she needs in the ground with her, everything the patron saint of candy needs and nothing to remind me of the first sign of Live Oak’s end days. Nothing to remind me of the witch.
I should be mad. I should hate her. I should judge her. But there is some madness in love.
They put out the fire before the entire chocolatier was consumed. The kitchen is gone, and part of the storefront, making it almost entirely unstable—Ms. Judy lets Ansel and me stay in a spare room in her house, even gives me a few of her own books to add to my collection. People drop by constantly to see us; they bring seventeen different kinds of casserole, pies, Jell-O, plastic milk jugs full of sweet tea. Luxe won’t stay at Judy’s though—he often disappears, and without fail, we find him sitting on the chocolatier’s singed front porch. Loyal to the end.
We’re trying to clear out her house. We don’t know what to do with the things she thought were precious. We don’t know what to do with the things we’ve never seen, the things stashed in the attic, the things only the Kellys really know about.
Samuel and I sit on the porch, hands clasped, Luxe at our feet. Ansel is on the swing out back, where he spends most of the days staring at the sun rise and set. There’s not really anything left for him to fix.
“What now?” I ask—I didn’t entirely mean for the words to be aloud. Samuel looks at me, then shakes his head.
“I don’t know,” he says through a sigh. “I don’t know.”
I pause. “Do you think there’s really any helping Naida?”
“Probably not. Who knows? I’ve never heard about the wolves wanting girls like that before.” He lifts my hand and kisses it gently; I rise and move toward him, then sink into his lap. I pull my knees up and lean against his chest.
“I don’t want to stay here.” I didn’t want to say it—I hate myself for saying it, honestly.
“Me neither,” Samuel confesses somberly.
We pause, rocking slightly in the evening breeze. The lightning bugs are just emerging, illuminating the yard like Christmas lights. Whip-poor-wills call out, and flying squirrels dart from the attic into the oak trees. It’s beautiful; everything about this place is beautiful.
“Where do you want to go?” Samuel asks.
I turn to face him before resting my head on his shoulder. “The ocean,” I answer.
“There are wolves there, too.”
“I know.”
Samuel nods. “Then that’s where we’ll go.”
T
he air-conditioning in Sophia’s car—well,
our
car, I suppose—is broken. It doesn’t matter much, now that it’s the beginning of autumn, but we still have to wipe beads of sweat off our foreheads by the time we reach downtown Live Oak. We breeze past the square, the Confederate soldier statue, Judy’s diner. Luxe barks at ducks waddling beside the road as we turn onto the interstate, and we shush him.
Samuel, Ansel, and me.
Ansel doesn’t want to let go of the chocolatier, of Sophia. He aches for her, sees her in his dreams and nightmares. I understand. I understand completely. My brother lies down across the backseat of the car with Luxe and closes his eyes, swallows hard, as though it’ll be easier to pull away from Live Oak if he doesn’t have to watch it happen.
“You want to drive?” Samuel asks as wind rushes through the windows, almost deafeningly.
I shake my head, squinting as my hair flies around my face. “Not yet. I want to be able to look at everything when we get there. I can’t do that if I’m trying not to wreck.”
Samuel smiles. “You’ll like it. I went there a few times with Layla. It’s beautiful.”
“I know,” I say. “I know it will be.”
We cut through forest, through farmland, and finally, palm trees start to spring up on the sides of the road. The oaks still loom, draped in Spanish moss, but the ground is sandy and the scent of salt swoops into the car around us. I inhale deeply, letting it filter through me.
Samuel turns down a tiny road lined with cottages, which ends in a parking lot by a set of wooden stairs. He cuts the car off and turns to me, watching, waiting for my reaction.
I slowly open the door, step out of the car. The sound of waves crashing soothes me, gulls calling, flat blue water that stretches out until it touches the setting sun. I whistle for Luxe, who wakes Ansel when he hops out. My brother emerges from the car, squinting in the sunlight, and gives me a weak smile.
Together, we walk toward the ocean.
Sweetly
seemed like it would be an easy book to write. I loved the characters. I loved the story. I sat down, raring to go, excited to see it take shape… and it turned out to be what seemed, at times, an impossible book to write.
I can say with absolute certainty that I would still be huddled in my bedroom crying were it not for the heroic, practical, and kind acts of the following people. I owe you endless thanks and bottomless boxes of chocolate.
Julie Scheina, Jill Dembowski, and Jennifer Hunt, for their sage advice and brilliant ideas that talked me off the cliff and back to my chair.
Carrie Ryan, Maggie Stiefvater, Tessa Gratton, and Brenna Yovanoff, for hours upon hours of e-mail, instant messages, and late-night conversations about how to be a better reader, writer, and author.
Tessa Gratton, the only person I’d trust to read my or Gretchen’s tarot cards.
Saundra Mitchell, for reading and rereading
Sweetly
, shining it up, lifting my spirits, and for being the only person who will watch
Deadliest Catch
with me.
The 2009 Debutantes for continued advice and support during everything from middle-of-the-night meltdowns to jubilant “It’s done!” parties.
Jim McCarthy for adopting
Sweetly
and loving it as his own.
Granddaddy Pearce and my father, Brad Pearce, for teaching me how to shoot a rifle and a shotgun—and for not picking on me when I cried over the recoil.
Ames O’Neill for being as excited as I am to share my books with the world.
StrawberryLuna for giving
Sisters Red
a cover that gave me chills.
Sarah Basiliere for helping me find my way up the Big Rock Candy Mountain.
Most of the 2010 PRHS color guard senior class, for contributing their names to the list of the Live Oak missing—thanks for volunteering to be eaten by wolves, ladies.
My parents and sister, for their continued tolerance of my high levels of crazy, for clipping every newspaper article, and for being at every event to cheer me on. Also my grandparents, for shamelessly telling everyone who crosses their paths to read my books.
Character Interview: Gretchen and Rosie
Get a glimpse into a conversation between Gretchen from Sweetly and Rosie from Sisters Red, a companion novel to Sweetly by Jackson Pearce.
I’ve always thought that Gretchen and Rosie, in some ways, are two sides of the same coin. Although they’ve never met in the novels, each has experienced both the Fenris and the weight of making a seemingly impossible decision about someone she loves. Each carries the responsibility that comes with those experiences differently, yet they still have common ground. I started thinking about what they might talk about if they got together, and how their different stories would impact their answers to questions. The result is the following interview, which starts in what I envision as the middle of their conversation, perhaps several months after the events of their individual stories.
Rosie:
There’s an understanding, isn’t there, between everyone who knows about the Fenris? It’s like we all know one another, even when we don’t really.
Gretchen:
I think so. Sometimes I feel like I got exclusive tickets into some sort of club. A club with monsters. That can’t be normal, being happy about being involved in a monster club.…
Rosie:
I know what you mean, though. Besides, what is normal, anyway?
