Trouble from the Start (4 page)

“He's not actually in the house,” I explained. “He's in the apartment over the garage.”

“Can't blame your parents for taking those precautions. I heard he started shoplifting in middle school.”

I remembered hearing that, too. Someone we went to school with had seen Fletcher hauled out of the store by the cops. Now I had to wonder if one of those cops had been my dad when he was still a patrolman.

“I wouldn't want him walking my hallways late at night,” Kendall continued.

I shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with her assessment. “We don't know for sure he shoplifted.”

She gave me a pointed stare. “Really?”

“Look, it was a couple of years ago. Whatever. I don't think my parents are worried about him stealing. I think they gave him the FROG so he could have some privacy.
It's difficult living with people you don't know.” Every summer I adjusted to a new person within the family. I didn't mind because I knew we were doing some good, but sometimes it was a challenge. This summer especially was going to fit that description. “By the way, I'm not sure Dad wants everyone to know he's living with us, so don't tell anyone. I just told you so that if you come over you won't be freaked out.”

“I don't freak out.”

“Okay, so maybe I was freaking out and just needed to talk. But still, it's just between us. You know how my parents are about protecting the kids they bring to the house.”

“But Fletcher's not really a kid.”

“Still, the same rules apply.”

“I won't tell a soul, well, except Jeremy, but he won't tell anyone.”

I watched my ice cream melting. I wasn't really in the mood for it. “Fletcher says he's not staying long. I probably shouldn't have even told you, but I needed to talk about it because he's not my dad's usual project.”

“Just don't make him yours.”

I jabbed my spoon into my ice cream and glared at her. “What does that mean?”

“I know you want a boyfriend and I know it's been hard for you since Jeremy and I got together.”

I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath. I didn't often
get irritated with Kendall, but her comment had struck a nerve.

“I'm happy for you,” I assured her. “And I don't want a boyfriend. I want the right boyfriend. I figure I've waited a long time, so he'll probably be the one and only, someone worth waiting for.”

“At college. After this week, we'll start the countdown for that.”

I loved Kendall, I really did, but I wanted my life to be more than a series of countdowns.

This was such a bad idea.

Last night when Avery's dad had said, “You're coming with me,” in that authoritative voice he had, I'd packed my duffel bag without complaint because I understood that the alternative was a lot worse.

Now, sitting on a couch in a room over a garage, I felt like I was losing control over my life. Detective Watkins had laid down rules about curfews and behavior under his roof. I wasn't used to all that. I came and went as I wanted. No one cared. Now suddenly there were expectations. Not that I didn't appreciate what he was doing for me, but he could loosen the chains a bit.

I'd felt really uncomfortable during lunch, with his wife asking me questions about what I was going to do after graduation—like I had plans. My plans usually
revolved around just getting through the next day. I hadn't thought much beyond that. I probably needed to. Avery no doubt had.

When she'd stepped onto the deck and seen me, she'd looked horrified. I'd discovered that she had incredible blue eyes. A rich hue that was almost violet, circled in black. I'd never seen eyes like that before.

Although at that particular moment I'd wished I was anywhere other than where I was. I'd wished I wasn't sporting bruises. I'd wished her folks had told her I'd be there before she'd spotted me.

Now I was wishing I hadn't looked out the window when I heard a car drive up twenty minutes after we finished with lunch. I saw Avery take off with Kendall Jones. I could pretty much guess what they'd be talking about. Tomorrow at school, everyone would know I was here.

And that made me want to leave. But I had no choice except to stay.

I tossed the lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and black olives while Mom popped a pan of rolls into the oven. “Should I go ahead and put on the salad dressing?” I asked.

She closed the oven door and set the timer. “No, we'll put out a variety of choices. Don't know what Fletcher likes.”

“Do you know anything about Fletcher's dad?” I asked. I knew his mom had died a few years back, but I couldn't recall ever meeting or even seeing his dad.

“That he's pretty much an absent father.”

“Is that why Dad brought him here?” I knew Dad would have talked things over with Mom, told her everything, before he offered Fletcher a room over the garage.

“I think your dad just wanted to help him get a good start after high school,” she said.

“How did he know about him?”

“Cop stuff.”

“Doesn't that make you nervous?” I asked. “Having a criminal so close?” Mom gave me a stare designed to say more about judgment than words ever could. “I know—innocent until proven guilty. But he had to have done something pretty awful to come to Dad's attention.”

“People come to your dad's attention for all kinds of reasons. Look at Tyler.”

They'd found him in a closet when they raided his crack mom's house. I knew Fletcher hadn't been cowering in a closet. Dad had been open about Tyler's situation. Why was he so closed about Fletcher's? Because of his age? Because I knew him?

“You should go get him,” Mom said. “Dinner will be ready in a few.”

I stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment as my mind shifted back to the task at hand.

“Fletcher,” she prodded.

“Oh, right.”

Less than a minute later, I was standing at the top of the stairs that led to the FROG.

Just because you dread doing something doesn't make you a coward. Just because you do something you dread doesn't make you brave. In my case, I wasn't exactly sure what I was. What I did know was that I really didn't want
to knock on Fletcher's door, but since Mom had sent me to get him, I knocked.

The door swung open. With narrowed eyes, Fletcher looked like he was about to commit murder and I would suffice very well as his next victim.

“I'm busy. What do you want?” he asked pointedly.

“Most people greet with a ‘Hello. It's good to see you. Come in and visit.'” I had to admit that I wanted to go in and just get a feel for what he might have done with the place. A few years ago when my mom's sister had lost her job, she'd needed somewhere to get back on her feet, so Mom had converted the space over the garage into a little apartment. It had a living area with a bed, a couch in front of the TV, and a desk. There was a bathroom, but no kitchen.

“I doubt you came to visit, so why are you here?” he asked.

“It's time for supper.”

“I'm not hungry.” He started to close the door in my face. I stuck my foot out, getting a bruised toe in the process, but at least I stopped the door from closing all the way.

“Yeah, that's not happening,” I said. “People around here are expected to show up for meals.”

“I already ate.” He walked into the room, and since the door remained partway open, I took it as an invitation and wandered in.

Fletcher dropped down on the couch, put his booted feet on the short table in front of him, and stared at a baseball game on the TV.

“My mom doesn't like shoes on furniture,” I told him.

He just glared harder at the TV, like maybe he thought he could escape into it or something. I was familiar with the tactic. Also knew it never worked. On the table were the empty wrapper from a cream-filled sponge cake, a wadded chip bag, and a package that had once contained salted peanuts. The kind of stuff you picked up from a convenience store.

“This”—I waved my hand over the table—“was your supper?”

“That's some sleuthing there, Veronica Mars.”

I came to stand before him, blocking his view of the TV. I knew expressions could be described as storm-clouded. His looked like he was on the verge of erupting into a category-five hurricane. I really didn't care. “My name is Avery. I realize it might be too difficult for you to remember or maybe pronounce, but I'd appreciate it if you'd stop with all the condescending nicknames.”

His lips twitched; the storm passed. “Not condescending. I think Veronica Mars is hot.”

Was he saying that he thought I was hot? No way, but suddenly I was aware of my face growing warm. I hated that I was probably blushing. Reaching down, I shoved
his feet off the table, fought not to cringe at the scratch I'd made. “Look, I didn't want to come get you any more than you wanted to get got, but they expect you at dinner. Let's go.”

He studied me like I'd just landed from another planet. His scrutiny made me want to squirm. I didn't know why I was fighting so hard to get him down to supper. If he didn't come with me, Dad would come get him. But for some reason, I didn't want to lose this battle. “Trust me,” I said. “It's easier just to do what they expect.”

“Easier isn't always the right choice,” he said.

I didn't want to discuss philosophy. “In this case it is, but have it your way. I'll leave the door open on my way out since my dad will be here five minutes after I leave.”

I headed for the door.

“What did you tell Jones?” he asked.

That stopped me in my tracks. Jones? Slowly I turned. “You mean Kendall?”

“I saw you leave with her. I figured you couldn't wait to start spreading the word that I'm here.”

I wanted to tell him that my world didn't revolve around him, but this afternoon it had. “She's my best friend. She spends a lot of time here.” Or she did before she started dating Jeremy. “I just didn't want her to be surprised if she ran into you. I'm not telling anyone else.”

“Why?”

I blinked. “Why what?”

“Why aren't you Twittering or Facebooking that I'm here?”

I shrugged. “It's nobody's business.”

He seemed surprised by my answer, seemed to consider it.

“Look, I'm not judging you,” I assured him.

I watched him unfold that long, lean body of his from the couch in one smooth movement that made my heart pound against my ribs.

“You're either a saint or a liar,” he said as he sauntered over.

“I'm not a liar.”

“Too bad. Liars are way more interesting than saints.”

“How would you know?” I asked with what I hoped was a seductive smile. “I doubt you've ever known a saint.”

Fletcher dug into Mom's chicken casserole like he thought the apocalypse was about to hit and we'd be without food for eons. Tyler kept peering over at him like he was worried our guest might devour him along with the casserole. Mom asked Fletcher a couple of questions about his classes, which resulted in one-word responses:
Okay
.
Fine
.
Fantastic
.

I wondered if he was telling the truth, but if he was, why would he have been assigned to tutoring sessions?

I picked up a bowl. “Green beans?”

He studied me a moment like he was surprised to find me at the table. “No, thanks.”

“Do you want some more, Tyler?” I asked.

He shook his head. He loved green beans. Had he said no because of Fletcher? I really hoped he wasn't going to start mimicking our guest. I wondered if Dad had given any thought to the influence Fletcher would have on an impressionable Tyler.

“So I spoke with Pete Smiley,” Dad said, his voice suddenly booming out over the table and making us all jump. And I mean all of us, including Fletcher. I didn't figure anything would fracture his calm, uncaring facade. “He's the owner of Smiley's. He's willing to give you a job, Fletcher.”

I expected Fletcher to rebel against Dad controlling this particular aspect of his life. Instead he said, “Thanks, 'preciate it.”

“Meet me there tomorrow after school. We'll get everything firmed up.”

“Yes, sir.”

I reminded myself that he wasn't a scared little boy who Dad would handle with kid gloves. He was too old to be influenced by a summer of baseball, hot dogs, and loving arms. Dad was going to be taking a tougher approach. Fletcher no doubt understood the score. If Dad wasn't
happy, Fletcher would get booted out, returned to jail, or possibly worse.

“I want a job,” Tyler piped up.

Dad grinned. He had a great grin that made his face soften, that made everything about him soften. It was not something he ever took to the office with him. Well, maybe he pulled it out when he was comforting a frightened child. I always knew when he dealt with situations that involved children, because when he came home he hugged me just a little bit harder. “In a few years.”

“Yeah, squirt,” I said, figuring he was just feeling overlooked by all the attention Fletcher was getting tonight. “Enjoy not working until you have to. Besides, what kind of job could you get? Professional tickler?”

It was funny but when he smiled, I saw Dad's grin. Tyler was adopted but he was taking on Dad's mannerisms. I guess when you love someone sometimes you want to be just like him, and on some things environment can win out over genes.

“I'm a good tickler.” Tyler looked up at Fletcher. “What are you good at?”

Fletcher gave Tyler a small smile. “Fixing cars.”

I realized Dad had known the answer and that was the reason he'd contacted Mr. Smiley. In spite of the fact that he was sometimes stern, my dad was relatively easy to talk to. It bothered me, though, that he could get information
out of Fletcher while I couldn't. “Where'd you learn?” I asked.

As though uncomfortable again, he shifted in his chair. “My dad.”

I suddenly wondered how his dad felt about him being here, but I knew he wouldn't answer if I asked with an audience. Probably wouldn't answer anyway. “Yet you drive a motorcycle.”

Fletcher went incredibly still and his eyes homed in on me. “It's more fun.”

I knew—
knew
—he was thinking about the ride he'd given me and how I'd latched my arms around him as though I'd never let go. My heart did this crazy little thud as I recalled all the sensations I'd experienced last night.

“Can I ride your motorcycle?” Tyler asked.

“Not until you're older,” Mom said quickly, as though she thought Fletcher would take Tyler for a ride after dinner. “Much older.”

“Why?”

“Because that's the way it is,” Dad said, and I fought not to roll my eyes. I hated answers that had no reasoning behind them.

Conversation drifted to Mom's garden, a neighbor who was sick, and the weather. What was noticeably absent was anyone asking anything about Fletcher's dad. Had he gotten caught in layoffs, maybe left town to look for a job
elsewhere? Why
was
Dad helping Fletcher out?

When everyone was finished eating, I stood to start clearing off the table. I picked up my plate, Dad's—

“Fletcher, you can help Avery clean up the dishes,” Dad announced.

“That's not necessary, Dad,” I said. “He's a guest.”

“He's not a guest. He's living with us. So he has chores just like everyone else.”

I expected Fletcher to toss down his napkin, stand up, and declare that he was out of here. Instead, he stood and followed my lead, grabbing his plate and Tyler's. I was incredibly aware of him walking behind me as I went into the kitchen.

“You can rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher,” I told him, setting the plates on the counter by the sink. “Everything else requires some knowledge of how Mom likes things done.”

Reaching over, I turned on the faucet and grabbed a brush from a mosaic holder I'd made for Mother's Day when I was about six. As I grew older, I realized it was hideously ugly, but Mom still loved it. “Scrape the food into the disposal.”

He snagged the brush from my fingers. “Think I can figure it out.”

As I watched him scrape food from a plate, I noticed the bunching of his muscles beneath his black T-shirt. I
couldn't blame him for being tense again. Dinner had been awkward. I didn't know how to make it easier.

Every now and then, as I put things away, I'd glance over at Fletcher and see him staring through the window that looked out on the backyard and I wondered if he was plotting his escape. His jeans were worn, frayed at the hems. If he had been our usual summer project, Mom would have taken him shopping for clothes. I didn't see that happening. It was weird. I always knew what to expect of my summer. But this summer, I didn't have a clue.

I was wiping down the island, Fletcher the other counters, when Dad walked in. “Avery, why don't you make some popcorn? We're going to have a family movie night.”

Fletcher tossed his rag toward the sink and headed for the door.

“That includes you, Fletcher,” Dad said.

Fletcher came to an abrupt halt, his sharply defined jaw tightening. “I've got stuff to do.”

“It'll wait. We don't get a lot of time to be together during the week, so we make the time Sunday evening,” Dad explained. “You're part of the family now.” Dad glanced over at me. “Probably ought to make two batches.”

Turning on his heel, he strode from the room like everything was settled. He wasn't used to not being obeyed.

Fletcher glared at me like it was my fault that he had
to participate in family night. I shrugged. “It won't be long. Because of Tyler, it'll be a kiddie movie.”

“A kiddie movie?” he ground out.

Okay, so maybe that wasn't so reassuring. “Probably something animated.”

He shook his head. “I'm not believing this.”

“Beats incarceration.”

“I'm not so sure.”

I headed for the pantry, pointing behind me as I went. “Large bowls are in that cabinet. Why don't you grab a couple?”