Leaving Paradise (Leaving Paradise #1)

Leaving Paradise (Leaving Paradise #1) Page 16

"I am, but in the dark I can't see them. Is he gone?" I ask hopefully.

She shakes her head. "We need to talk."

"Do I have to?"

"Let's just put it this way. You're not leaving the attic until you hear me out."

Defeated, I sit on one of the trunks. "I'm listening."

"Good." She takes a seat on the chair, still left here from the other day. "I had one sibling," she says. "A sister named Lottie. She was younger than me, smarter than me, prettier than me, with long, slender legs and thick, black hair."

Mrs. Reynolds looks up at me and continues. "You see, I was the fat kid with bright red hair, the kid you look at and have to stop yourself from cringing. During summer break from college one year, I brought a boy to my parents' summer home. I'd lost weight, I wasn't in my sister's shadow anymore, and I finally started feeling like I was worth more than I ever thought I deserved."

I can picture it in my mind. "So you overcame your fears and fell in love?"

"I fell in love, all right, head over heels. His name was Fred." Mrs. Reynolds pauses, then sighs. "He treated me as though I was the most amazing girl he'd ever seen. Well, he did until my sister came to the summer house for a surprise visit." She looks directly at me and shrugs. "I found him kissing her by the docks the morning after she arrived."

"Oh my God."

"I hated her, blamed her for stealing my boyfriend. So I packed up, left, and never talked to either one of them again."

"You never talked to your sister again?" I ask. "Ever?"

"I didn't even attend their wedding two years later." My mouth drops open. "She married Fred?" "You got it. Had four kids, too."

"Where are they now?"

"I got a call from one of their kids that Lottie died a few years ago. Fred's in a nursing home with Alzheimer's. You know what the worst part is?"

I'm riveted by her story. "What?"

Mrs. Reynolds stands, then pats me on my knee. "That, my dear, is what you're going to have to figure out all by yourself."

"You think Caleb should stay and build the gazebo, don't you?" I ask when she starts walking to the door.

"I'll leave that decision up to you. He won't go back to jail if it doesn't work out, I would never let that happen. I just figure he's a boy who wants to right his wrongs, Margaret. He's waiting downstairs for your answer."

She walks out of the attic. I hear her orthopedic shoes shuffling as she takes each stair. Can I just stay here forever, living with the spiders and cobwebs and antique trunks filled with an old lady's memories?

I know the answer, even as I stand and head down the stairs to face the one person I've been dying to avoid.

He's sitting on the couch in the living room, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. When he hears me enter the room, he looks up. "Well?"

I can tell he's not happy I have the control. Caleb used to always have the cards and knew which ones to play to get his way. Not this time. I'd love to tell him to leave. That's his punishment for not loving me back. But I know that would be idiotic, childish, and stupid. Besides, I don't love Caleb anymore. I don't even like him. I'm convinced he can't hurt me anymore, physically or emotionally. "You can stay."

He nods and starts to stand.

"Wait. I have two conditions."

His eyebrows raise up.

"One, you don't tell anyone about us working together. Two, you don't talk to me ... I ignore you and you ignore me.

I think he's going to argue because his lip curls up and his eyebrows furrow as if he thinks I'm an idiot.

But then he says, "Fine. Done deal," and heads to the backyard.

I find Mrs. Reynolds in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking tea.

"I told him he could stay," I inform her.

Mrs. Reynolds gives me a small smile. "I'm proud of you."

I'm not.

"You'll get over it," she says. "You ready to plant more bulbs today?"

I pull old, worn overalls out of my backpack so I can spare myself from having to wear the muumuu.

Caleb's back is to me when I walk outside. Good. I take a bag of bulbs and slowly, carefully sit on the grass. With a small shovel in hand, I start digging.

"Don't forget, Margaret. Six inches deep," Mrs. Reynolds says from behind, leaning over me to inspect my work.

"Got it, six inches."

"And make sure you place the bulbs right-side up."

"Okay," I say.

"And scatter them. Don't place them in a pattern or else it looks funny."

The old lady takes a lawn chair and places it right next to me so she can oversee my work.

"Why don't you supervise him?" I ask, pointing to where Caleb has taken panels of wood and seems to be attempting to put them in some kind of order.

"He's doing just fine. Besides, I don't know the first thing about building a gazebo."

I dig three holes, carefully make soft soil pillows for them, then place the bulbs into the holes and scoot myself down to plant more. After a while Mrs. Reynolds falls asleep in the chair. She usually does this at least once a day, and when I tell her she dozed off for an hour, she totally denies it. I'm surprised she can sleep with all the hammering Caleb's doing, but the lady hears, as she more often than not admits, like the dead.

I glance up at Caleb. He's a fast worker, already starting to nail planks together as if he builds gazebos every day. His shirt is soaking wet from sweat in his armpits, chest, and back. And it obviously doesn't bother him that one of my conditions is that we ignore each other. He does an incredible job of ignoring me. I don't think he's even glanced in my direction once.

But now he stops hammering, his back still to me when he yells, "Would you stop staring at me?"

TWENTY-THREE

Caleb

You ignore me, and I'll ignore you. Maggie, like every X other girl in my life, is trying to control me. I'm sick of the games, I'm sick of feeling like a jerk. And most of all I'm sick of people gawking at me because I went to jail.

I know she's staring at me, I can feel her eyes on me like little pin pricks poking into my back. Out of frustration, I pound the next nail into the two-by-four harder than I normally would and whack my forefinger with the hammer.

I glare at Maggie.

The girl is sitting on the ground wearing torn and stained overalls. "I ... I wasn't staring at you," she stutters. "The hell you weren't," I bark back. I hold my arms out wide. "You want to gawk at the ex-con, you got it. Just answer one thing for me, will ya? You like it when people stare at you when you limp around like you're gonna topple over any second?"

Maggie sucks in a breath, then covers her nose and mouth with her hand as she hobbles inside the house.

Oh crap.

My finger is throbbing, my head is pounding, and I insulted a crippled girl--a girl I'm responsible for crippling. I should just go to hell right now because the deal with the devil is probably signed anyway.

Mrs. Reynolds has no clue what's happening, her head is slumped in the chair and she's snoring.

I throw down the hammer and go into the house to find Maggie. I hear sniffling sounds coming from the kitchen. Maggie is standing at the counter, taking vegetables out of the refrigerator. She pulls out a cutting board and starts cutting them with a huge butcher knife.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have said that."

"It's fine."

"Obviously it's not or you wouldn't be crying."

"I'm not crying."

I lean my hip against the counter. "There's tears running down your face." Plain as day I can see 'em.

She picks up an onion and holds it out to me. "My eyes tear when I cut onions."

My fists clench together, because I can't shake her and make her yell at me. This time I deserve to be yelled at. "Say something."

Instead of responding, she chops the onion in two. I imagine she's pretending that onion is my head ... or some other part of my body.

"Fine, have it your way," I say, then leave her. If she wants to live in silence, that's her choice.

I clench my teeth so much they hurt, and the rest of the afternoon I work outside on the gazebo. It feels good to create something useful, something to finally make someone proud of me for a change. Because the rest of my life I've totally fucked up.

Maggie abandoned her post in the yard. She hasn't been outside since I went off on her.

At seven I inform a waking Mrs. Reynolds I'm leaving for the day and head for the bus stop. Maggie's not far behind.

I'm standing on the corner of Jarvis and Lake Streets, backpack flung over my shoulder, when a car screeches beside me.

"What are you doing slumming on this side of town, rich boy?"

Oh, man. It's Vic Medonia. And some other guys on the Fremont High wrestling team.

"None of your fucking business," I say.

Vic laughs, bitterness dripping off the cackling sound. "Your friends in jail taught you how to stand on the street corner and pimp yourself? How much you charging for that used booty of yours, anyway?"

The other guys in the car laugh, then Vic gets out. He looks to my right and says, "Is this your new girlfriend?"

I turn to see Maggie not far away, limping toward us as she heads for the bus stop.

"Maggie, go back to the house," I warn her. I've seen enough fights to know that Vic is looking for one. Hoping to redirect Vic, I say, "This is between you and me, man. Leave her out of it."

Vic laughs, the high pitched sound making my skin crawl. "Check her out, guys. Jeez, Becker, you really are scraping the bottom of the barrel. Does it turn you on when she struts around like a retard like that?"

I drop my backpack and charge him. We both land on the ground, but one of his friends grabs me from behind and pins my hands back. Before I can free my arms, Vic clocks me right on the jaw and the ribs.

Before I know what's happening, Maggie is in the middle of us, swinging her book bag and hitting Vic. The chick has more in her than she lets on.

Through all the commotion, I break free and push the prick who'd been holding me, then I grab Maggie and act as her shield before she gets herself killed. "Run," I order her as I tackle one of the guys.

I'm punching and grasping at shirt collars as much as I can in a three-against-one fight. Odds are against me and it's not a pretty sight. All mayhem freezes when I hear a siren, attached to a cruiser with red and blue lights flashing. An officer flies out of the car and has us kneel on the ground with our hands over our heads. "What's going on here, boys?" I don't see Maggie.

"Nothing," Vic says. "We were just playing around. Right, Becker?"

I stare straight at Vic and say, "Right."

"Doesn't look like nothing to me." The cop holds his hand out to me, palm up. "Let me see some ID."

Since my driver's license was revoked, I only have my community service ID tag from the DOC. I'm not about to pull it out and have him call Damon. I'll be locked up again before you can say "hit-and-run."

"I don't have any," I say.

"What are you doing in Hampton?"

"Visiting a friend."

The guy does a great cop stance from the movies, with his feet apart and his hands on his hips positioned right above his gun belt. "Let me give you a piece of advice. We don't take kindly to strangers coming into our town and causing trouble." He turns to Vic. "I suggest you meet your friend on his turf or I'll have to get your parents involved. Got it?"