What We Saw (14 page)

I DON'T MEAN
to break in, exactly.

It's just that when I reach out to ring the bell, I notice the door to Stacey's trailer isn't latched all the way. There's no car parked out front. LeeAnne must be at work.

The Coral Creek Mobile Village looks shabbier without the benefit of an ethereal nighttime glow. In the stark light of a Saturday afternoon, Stacey's trailer is still the tidiest, but it looks tired, too—as if it takes a tremendous amount of energy just to stay upright; that it might, at any moment, give up altogether and collapse in a great wheeze of dust and fiberglass.

An elderly black man sits by a stack of the tires in the yard next door, leaning back in a green plastic lawn chair. He's
reading a book while the Doberman snoozes, draped over his feet. When I walk up to the little white gate, the man smiles and waves a howdy in my direction. The dog stays silent and still, but I see his eyes open and follow me, like a painting in a haunted castle.
The closer you look, the more you see.
I smile back at him, then quickly open the white picket gate and close it again, as if these flimsy slats could protect me from a motivated Doberman.

I can hear a shower running as I climb the stairs of the redwood deck. Whatever possessed me to come here again must still have me firmly in hand. When I see the unlatched door, I push it open without hesitation, then walk in like I own the place, my hand held back to keep the storm door from banging behind me.

I find myself standing on a linoleum island right inside the door, surrounded by sculpted shag carpet the color of Mom's two-alarm chili. I don't know what I expected the inside of a trailer home to look like, but this one is as well kept on the inside as it is on the outside. It isn't covered in old take-out containers and doesn't reek of cigarette smoke. No one is standing in the kitchen to my right cooking meth.

I hear music coming from down the hall where the water is running. It must be Stacey in the shower. I make a decision then and there. I will wait for her. I will convince her that I'm not
one of them.
I just want to find out what really happened. I don't need her to be my best friend. I don't even need her to believe me.

I only need the truth.

Emboldened by my plan, a strange urgency takes hold. I walk around the living room like a detective in search of evidence. I quietly pull open the drawer of an oak end table next to an overstuffed couch, covered in a quilt. Remote controls. Loose change. A pack of peppermint chewing gum. I slide the drawer closed. It sends up a loud squeak, and I freeze for a moment, my heart pounding. I glance at the bathroom door. Still closed. Water still running. Music still playing.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, silently.

What are you doing?

What am I looking for? A filing cabinet with folders full of secret documents? A handwritten account of events labeled, “Dooney's Party: One Week Ago”? I take a moment to imagine Stacey, fresh from a shower, finding me in her living room, unannounced. I picture her wrapped in a towel, hair wet, screaming, the friendly old man next door and his Doberman racing to her aid. Me, on a gurney, explaining to the police, my parents, and Ben how I came to be mauled by a dog outside Stacey Stallard's trailer, and Sloane Keating's smug little smirk, floating above us all as her cameraman captures every moment.

This is crazy.

I turn to go.

As I do, I glance through a door on the other side of the living room and come to a dead stop. This is a bedroom—Stacey's it seems. There's a purple comforter she must have gotten
when she was just a little girl, covered in stars and clouds. But it isn't the bed that catches my eye. It's the walls. The afternoon sun streams through sheer white curtains, bathing the room in a soft glow. I walk to the door and step inside.

Every vertical surface is covered with birds. Each one is a pencil sketch in the center of a page. Delicate, detailed, every one of them seems to be in motion. A beak digs into down or carries a twig, wings spread, tail feathers flutter. Not a single one of them is still. The very walls seem to ripple with the pulse of a thousand tiny heartbeats, as if at any moment, the entire flock might startle and take to the skies, carrying the whole room—this perfect aviary of art—and me away with it.

My mouth hangs slightly open. Turning slowly, I take in owls and orioles, jaspers and jays, sparrows and starlings. Hundreds of intricate, finely hatched feathers, dappled wings, and shining eyes somehow lit from within.

My gaze settles on one drawing centered over the bed. This is the sketch I saw from the living room. It's larger than the others and I recognize the subject immediately. This is the hawk from the trees behind the school. The details are so deftly rendered it looks like a black-and-white snapshot of the bird I saw through the geology classroom window. I can almost feel the rush of the air from her wings.

Stacey has captured it perfectly.

This drawing is more than painstaking precision. Her pencil strokes somehow show the raw power of the wings. It holds
something else, too: the longing I heard in her voice all those years ago when I asked her why she liked birds so much.

Because they can fly.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Stacey has found me exactly as I'd feared she would. I turn to see her in the doorway, holding a dusty-blue towel around herself, her hair dripping onto her shoulders. There was something dreamy about the Stacey who watched birds out my window when we were kids, her head in the clouds. This Stacey has both feet rooted in trailer park carpet. No clouds. All spikes.

“I'm sorry. I just—the door—it was open, and I—” I sputter, flailing for an explanation.

“Get out!” She steps backward into the living room, making space for me to pass.

“Stacey, please. I just want to know about the party.”

She gives a short, bitter laugh. “Know what, Kate? You were there.”

“But I don't—I wasn't—there the whole time.”

Her eyes flash fire. “Oh really?” She scoffs and shakes her head.

“Yes.” I choke. “I was . . . I was too drunk to stay.”

“Ben sure wasn't.” She flings these words like acid, and every inch of me is singed.

“You're wrong.” My heart pounds. Stacey gives her head a quick shake. She leans against the doorway. Her arms are so thin, reeds crossed against her chest, pinning the towel in place.

“I was too drunk to stay, too,” she sneers. “Didn't even know what happened when I woke up. Saw it all online. Sure you can find it, too.”

My stomach lurches. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you're an idiot.” She points at the front door again. “Get out.”

MY EYES FLOOD
as I roar away from Stacey's trailer. I can barely see the gravel road that leads out of Coral Creek. When I reach the Walmart blacktop, I pull in beside a leafless sapling sticking out of a planter that separates parking lanes. It is wired to stakes that are thicker than its own trunk—a stunned captive, surrounded by asphalt, doomed to struggle for breath in the haze of a thousand tailpipes.

I scramble for my phone. I've seen Ben's tweets in my feed, but maybe I missed something? Tapping to his Twitter account, I scroll through the posts. There are just a few from this past week, and I get to last Saturday's tweets faster than I expect to.

The first one is a selfie. He's just gotten dressed for the party. His hair is perfect. One hand holds the phone, the other points into the mirror. His face is a flirty smirk, lips closed, eyes full of mischief:

@BCody17: Getting turnt w/my #buccs.

A little later:

@BCody17: Headed to #doonestown. #buccs

Another picture—this one, a shot of Dooney's kitchen, early on. All the bottles lined up, the red Solo cups neatly stacked, the bottle of Cabo Wabo still full.

@BCody17: It's going down . . . #timber #doonestown #buccs

The next two make my stomach roll.

@BCody17: You guys. She's here. #doonestown #dying

@BCody17: She don't know she's beautiful. #doonestown

Is he talking about . . .
me
? He invited me as an afterthought—didn't he? Maybe he was playing it cool? I remember now what he said in the hallway on Monday about wanting to ask me out at Dooney's party, but not being sure if I really felt that way about him—if it was just the tequila talking.

There's only one more tweet from Saturday night. It was posted at 11:17 p.m. and has no hashtags.

@BCody17: Long walk with the perfect girl. Best way to end the night.

His next tweet was on Sunday night—late, after he'd gotten home from dinner at our house. He'd tagged a fantasy show on
HBO. Something about the mother of dragons? I scroll back through to check again. Nothing about Stacey from Saturday night, or even Dooney for that matter.

Maybe he deleted some tweets?

His Facebook page shows no posts on Saturday, and his Instagram account only has the selfie and the booze. He's friends with his mom on Facebook, so I assume that's why he didn't put up the picture of the bar at Dooney's.

The thought of Dooney makes me feel sick. I remember him on Tuesday, checking Ben's phone at my locker.

You sure it's gone?

What was gone? Ben must've deleted something. How could I not have asked? How could I not have noticed? Why wasn't I paying attention?

I tap back to Twitter and scroll through Ben's tweets one more time. There's a new one at the top now:

@BCody17: Surprising my girl tonight.

I hate myself a little bit for feeling pleased. I am tempted to tap the star to favorite this, but the memory of Stacey's scorn stops my thumb on its way to the screen.

As I stare at the phone, trying to make sense of what Stacey said, it begins to ring. The caller ID flashes a name on the screen:
BEN CODY
.

I take a deep breath, and swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

“There you are.”

“Hey,” I say. Cool. Distant. Busy. Not entirely interested.

He catches it. “You okay?” he asks.

“Just saw your tweet.”

“Dang. Knew I shoulda called you first.” I can hear the Irresistible Grin in his voice.
Some things never change.
“Whatcha doing tonight?” he asks.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

This can't wait a moment longer. “On what you deleted from your phone.”

Thick silence hangs in the air between us. It lasts 300 million years. Is this the beginning of the ice age?

“Huh?”

“Dooney,” I say. “Tuesday at lunch, when I walked up to my locker he was looking at your phone. He asked you if you were sure something was gone.” This sentence takes every bit of breath I have. I am winded like I ran a line drill. I gulp for air and forge ahead. “You said it was.”

More silence. If only I'd driven to his house to ask him in person. I need to see his face. I don't know what he's thinking. Is this a stony silence? A refusal? Is this how our era ends?

Given enough time, everything changes.

“Oooh, yeah.” A realization. A memory. “I deleted the Facebook pic I posted of the booze. Dooney's dad was flipping out about all the underage drinking. Yelling at him about getting disbarred and crap.”

I consider this. “That picture is still up on your Twitter and Instagram.”

“Crap. Thanks. I gotta delete those, too,” he says. “Dooney was worried about Facebook 'cause his dad is on there. But good call. Better safe than sorry.” Affable. Not defensive. Easy going. My lungs expand a little. Then he says my name. “Kate?”

“Yeah?”

“Were you worried that I'd posted that pic of Stacey or something?”

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat. He told me the truth. Now it's my turn. I want to explain. I want to tell him about Stacey and what she said about him—get it all out in the open. He was so upset the last time I mentioned Stacey. He's trying to keep his head down and do what Coach tells him to.

Dad's voice echoes in my brain:
Steer clear.

The look on Ben's face when he blurted,
Because I love you,
flashes in my mind
.
His surprise as the words flew out, frustrated and fierce and forthright. He's been patient and up-front with me all week.

Stacey was so drunk she doesn't even remember what happened. She just told me this herself.

“Maybe a little,” I admit.

“Yeah, I get it.”

A thick, dark shame oozes down my throat and puddles in my stomach. “You do?”

“Sure,” he says. “You're smart. Don't wanna date a jerk.”

Tears well up again. This time, they spring from relief, cool and clear. Every time I doubt him, Ben turns out to be better than I expect him to be.

The closer you look, the more you see.

“Sorry for being so . . . weird about it. Wish I could get my mind off this.”

“I've got just the ticket,” he says. The grin is back in his voice. “Two tickets actually.”

“What?” I ask, his smile spreading to me, winging its way across the wireless connection.

“
Grease!
Tonight. Just you, me, and the T-Birds. Maybe pizza afterward?”

“That's perfect.”
You're perfect.

“Need to ask your mom or anything?”

“Yeah, but she'll say yes.”

“Cool,” he says. “Pick you up at six thirty.”

As I hang up with Ben, the afternoon sun glints off the creek that runs along the wall at the back of the Supercenter. It winds its way along the smooth, sand-colored bricks—a gleaming snake of water, a serpent of light. It disappears into a culvert at the far end of the loading docks. A round mouth of corrugated steel set deeply in the cement of a man-made spillway swallows up the stream and directs the water elsewhere. A finite answer engineered for an infinite flow. The unpredictable, harnessed and channeled to make way for Everyday Discount Prices.

I am seized by the sudden urge to pull up the strangled
sapling staked here near the curb and plant it down by the wall at the edge of the stream. I imagine the dirt beneath my nails and the strange looks from half the town.

Is that the Weston girl?

What the hell is she
doing
?

“Sorry, little tree.” I whisper these words at the wretched bare branches, then start the engine and head toward home.