Under a Blood Moon
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Jean Haus
Chapter 1
I’m running. Fast. Moonlight guides me. Ferns slap my face with a lightning caress. Icy leaves scatter behind me. Trees pass by in a blur. Cold fills my nose, along with a rich, warm scent. The smell pushes me faster. I leap over a fallen tree. And my claws dig into the frozen ground.
Claws?
Someone shakes me.
Why do I have claws?
“Margot,” a voice whispers as hands shake my shoulders.
My eyes open to the shadows of my bedroom.
“Margot,” my mother repeats from above me and shakes more.
“What?” I ask in between the jarring of my teeth. Is she trying to knock them out or what?
“Get up.” I hear more than see her stand. “We’re leaving.”
Her words have the effect of ice water and the dream evaporates. I snap up and blankets fall to the floor. “Don’t tell me you haven’t paid the rent.”
Her shadowy figure moves toward the window. “Pack your things and meet me in the living room in fifteen minutes.” She pulls the shade down and the room becomes a black hole.
Next to my bed, the clock’s red numbers—three-forty-three—glare in the darkness. “How many months are you behind?”
“There’s no time to argue.” She flicks the closet light on. I blink at her. She’s fully dressed in a black tank top and jeans, even has on makeup. “You have fifteen minutes and two boxes.” She points to the ceiling fan with a black painted nail. “Don’t turn on the light.”
My trembling fingers, spurred by a mix of anger and fear, dig between the softness of the mattresses. “How much do you need?”
She pauses in the doorway. “I don’t want your money.”
“But—”
“Hurry up,” she hisses from the hallway. “Whatever you have in fifteen minutes is all that goes.”
The urge to scream and fight with her burns in my throat. I shouldn’t have to go. In a little more than two months, I turn eighteen. Nearly an adult. Yet, the idea of finishing high school while working and living on my own doesn’t scare me half as much as letting her go off alone.
Who would watch out for her?
In some ways, I’ve become the parent. Worrying and watching and hoping. To let her just go is impossible. Though at times I can’t stand her—like now—her wellbeing has been the center of my life for as long as I can remember.
A lump forms in my throat as I glance around the room. We’ve lived here for almost two years. The longest we’ve lived anywhere. My furniture is an odd assortment of rummage sale finds. Movie posters separated at equal distances line the walls. Used junk—knickknacks, movies, books—fill the shelves and the top of my dresser in orderly piles. Pillows create a bright pile in the corner. The history I never had and tried to create presses in on me.
In defeat, I pull out crumpled tens and twenties from beneath the mattress, and toss two summers of shelving books—for nothing—into the box labeled Gems Toilet Tissue. After that, I’m not sure where to start. I’ve lost touch with the usual flee-in-the-middle-of-the night-routine. I should be thinking of what I can’t leave. Instead, I’m thinking it all belongs here. I don’t want to know where it will be next.
“Get moving,” my mother says, passing my room with a box in her hands.
I give the air where she’d been a dirty look, squash the desire to bang my head against the wall, and stand. There’s no use arguing with her.
It’s go time.
I swipe everything on a top shelf into the box with money. The other shelves stay full. Dresser drawers lose their contents in one dump each. Inside the closet, I use the empty box to scoop up shoes then put the box under the clothes and drop them in hanger and all. My real history, photo albums, report cards, and baby keepsakes encased in Ziploc bags, come out from under the bed. Luckily, my movies are stacked by favorites so I know which piles to dump in the box. The last thing is the bedding. After being stuck with a sleeping bag for two months when I was ten, I never forget the bedding. The mess inside the boxes makes my inner neat freak cringe but fifteen minutes doesn’t allow for organization.
Though done, I want to search the room, find other treasures, and peel the posters from the walls, but I remain a flee-in-the-middle-of-the-night-robot and drag both boxes through the dark apartment.
Items litter the floor. The boxes snag clothes and papers along the way. So much for my daily cleaning routine. My mother must have been up for a couple of hours packing or more accurately destroying. I step on something that emits a crack. The sound has me guessing the TV remote. I pull the boxes past the couch and wonder just how many we’ve left behind.
Illuminated from a night light in the kitchen, she waits by the door. Boxes are scattered at her feet. Keys jingle in her hand. “Ready?” she asks like we’re going to the movies or out to eat. Not trusting myself to speak, I nod. She reaches for the door handle. “Two swift trips to the car and then we’re gone.”
My hand tightens on the edge of the box. I’ve heard this many times before, but now I realize—well I’ve known for quite some time that my mother borders on crazy—the slipping out in the middle of the night like the CIA is after us probably has more to do with her mind than missed rent payments.
But how does one talk their mother down from crazy?
She ducks her head out and looks both ways.
“Is there a deranged landlord out there with an Uzi?” I ask, bending to tie my tennis shoes. I still wear my pink pajama bottoms and matching tank top. My mother wears black, so I wear pink or blue or any other pretty color. Never black.
Her head swivels causing her waist length hair to swirl around her. “Hush Margot, and pick up those boxes.”
As we slink through the hallway to her old, rusty Mustang parked in back, I’m thinking my mother is the one who’s deranged but other than snide comments, I’m afraid to voice my fears. Once spoken, they might lose the ambiguity of speculation and become true.
Since our apartment is on the first floor, we’re slinking back through the wide corridor in minutes. From the doorway, I take one last look at the darkened rooms. They’re just things but I’m still saddened to look at the pictures I hung, the lamps from second hand stores, the huge flat screen Ace gave me last year for Christmas—my gaze snaps to my mother. “What about Ace?”
Her eyes meets mine me over a cardboard flap. “I left him a letter.”
“A letter?” I ask through clenched teeth. Here I’m worried about the stupid stuff we’re leaving behind while she’s leaving the one boyfriend who really loved her. Me, I have acquaintances. Friendships are hard to build with a mother like her. But her leaving Ace a letter is beyond ridiculous.
She nods down at the last two boxes. “No time for arguing.”
Unbelievable. Anger and shock drum through me as I follow her out.
The trunk is shut as quietly as possible along with the car doors. She doesn’t turn the headlights on until we’re off our road. We pass dark storefronts, the empty parking lot of the only grocery store in town, a gas station, and the bar she works at before turning onto the highway.
My silent fury ends about three miles outside of town. “How could you do that to Ace?”
She stares ahead. “Since he is my concern, your worry is pointless.”
I blink at her, her tone more than her words sting. Sometimes my mother’s neglectful, but she’s never cruel. The dashboard illuminates her face. I wait for some sign of emotion from her. Even something small like her hands clenching the steering wheel or her fingers brushing the loose strands of brown hair escaped from the leather band she used to pull the mass back. She doesn’t move. The road, her escape, commands her attention.
I might as well be alone in the car.
Beyond the glass of the passenger widow, the dark forest passes by. The highway curves and dips through mountains. Every now and then, a shadowed house breaks the endless trees. A small piece of humanity carved into the wilderness. The sound of tires moving over bumpy cement echoes through the interior. I try not to think, but my brain screams the question, how didn’t I see this coming?
I thought she loved Ace. I thought he made her happy—well as happy as someone like her could be. That’s why I didn’t see this coming. I glance at her stiff posture. If I had seen it coming, could I have stopped it?
My nails dig into my palms before I unclench my hands.
Enough. Her craziness is going to make me crazy.
I reach back, tug a blanket loose from a box, and wrap it around me. Although I hope the bump of the road and the warmth of the bedspread will lull me back to sleep, my open eyes watch the passing world until the rising sun turns gray and black into color. The world, like an old movie, redone in Technicolor.
After we pass the sign, Welcome to North Dakota, my mother pulls into a rest stop. We walk to the bathroom in silence.
Out first, I wait by the pop machine in the long cement hallway between the restrooms. Thirst is going to make me talk to her because I didn’t bring any money. I’m standing there, trying to decide between a bottled water or sweetened tea, when I hear a male voice behind me say, “Margot Redox, I haven’t seen you since you were two feet high.”
Chapter 2
A man with hair down to his shoulders and a bearded jaw leans against the brick wall. More than just dirty, his clothes have bits of leaves and twigs stuck to them. He wears ragged, untied boots. His smile is wide and welcoming. Yet I’ve never seen him before. So how does this scary hobo looking guy know my name?
I shake my head and back up toward the women’s restroom. “You’ve got the wrong person.” There are people around, but who hasn’t heard of weird things happening at rest stops?
He shakes his head. “Oh no, you’re almost the spitting image of your mother.”
My feet slow. Ah, that makes sense. I do look like my mother. Both of us have long brown hair, dark brown eyes, and heart shape faces. He must be one of her former boyfriends. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“It’s been almost fifteen years.”
Now I’m confused as the math rolls through my head. Though dirty, the man looks young, at the very most thirty. My mother has dated some losers but never jailbait.
A gasp from the entrance to the woman’s room halts my bewilderment. My mother stands frozen. Her hand clutches the thick chain at her neck. Her eyes are wide. But when she sees me, her terrified look disappears and her hand drops. “Raoul?” she whispers.
He walks to her with open arms. “It’s been too long, Elise.”
“It has been a long time.” She lets him hug her with as little contact as possible. He grins slyly while her lips compress. “Margot,” she says, stepping out of his embrace. “This is your Uncle Raoul.”
“Um, hi,” I say then smile to soften my weak hello. I’m totally shocked. I’ve never heard of an uncle and I can’t even imagine what is going on.
He hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. “I’ve come to take you home.”
Something passes across my mother’s face too quick for me to read. “Yes, he’s here to help us get home.”
My brows almost reach my hairline. “Home?”
“Your grandmother’s waiting back in Michigan,” he answers me but looks at my mother.
“Grandmother?” I repeat.
“Yes, your grandma,” she says smoothly. Too smoothly. My mother has never said one nice thing about her mother. “She offered for us to stay with her. I couldn’t refuse free room and board.”
I look between their stiff faces. Something’s off here. Well it’s obvious my mother’s not right and my uncle appears to have fallen from the same tree but I can sense tension in the air. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
She folds her arms. The gray and black tattoos circling her biceps quiver. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“A surprise? But why wake me up and—”
“Margot, I’m not going to argue,” she snaps.
I’m fuming as our eyes lock in a silent battle. There’s a lull in the sound of passing traffic on the expressway. A car door slams somewhere in the parking lot. A dog barks. But we don’t break our stare.
“Hey, let’s make this a fun trip, eh?” Uncle Raoul’s dirty fingers grasp my arm and pull me down the sidewalk. “The sooner we get on the road, the sooner we see grandma.”
“Yeah, good old grandma,” I say, looking over my shoulder at my mother.
At the rusty blue Mustang, both of them go to the driver’s side. He smiles at her. “Thought I’d drive. Give you a break.” She doesn’t move. “If that’s okay,” he says, glancing at me.
Her forehead tightens before she says, “Of course.” She digs the keys out of her pocket and hands them to him before slowly moving to the passenger side. He hits unlock, watches her, and waits. Since it’s a two-door car, I wait too while wondering what this refusal to get in the car is about. Finally, my mother slides into the car and Raoul opens our door.
Inside, I squish myself between boxes. The smell of my uncle—sweat, dirt, and leaves—fills the interior. My mother stares ahead while he drives onto the expressway. He drives fast, even faster than she does. I watch the blur of traffic and try to understand what just happened. What is happening.
“So how’d you get to the rest stop?” I ask, breaking the silence.
He honks at a car in front of him. “A trucker dropped me off.”
“So you hitchhiked?”
“Yeah,” his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, “but don’t you go trying it.”
“So we were supposed to meet you there?”
“Of course,” he says.
My mother whips around. “Why are you interrogating your uncle?”
“Because you don’t tell me anything,” I snap.
“She’s okay, Elise,” he says, changing lanes. “What do you want to know, Margot?”
I want to know why she never told me about him. I want to know why she’s acting weirder than usual. I want to know why we’re moving in with her hated mother. But none of these questions seems polite so I ask, “How far are we from Michigan?”
“About twenty-three hours,” he says.
With that gloomy news, I wrap myself in the blanket. Silence fills the car. While trying to piece this latest bit of craziness together, and failing terribly, I nod off. At some point, my mother pushes a greasy breakfast sandwich and pulp filled orange juice into my hands but after a few bites, the road lulls me back to sleep. I wake when we stop for gas sometime in the afternoon. “I’ll pump,” I offer, stretching and tossing the blanket aside.
“No, no. We’re making good time,” my mother says. “You go to the bathroom. Raoul will pump. I’ll pay.”
Whatever. I cross the parking lot and go wait in line for the restroom. While standing there between bags of pretzels and chocolate bars, I notice my mother on the outside on the other side of the gas station where the semi trucks get diesel fuel. She’s talking to a large beer-bellied man—it’s hard not to notice it with his open shirt—who points to a truck.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a wad of bills. My breath catches in my throat. I can’t believe what I’m watching. Is my mother buying drugs at a freakin’ gas station? Out in the open? Stunned, I slowly step out of line and outside. But Raoul beats me to them. Between the loud engines and clanking of trucks, it sounds like he says something like, ‘no escape’. She snarls something back at him. He yanks her by the arm to his side and tells off Mr. Beer Belly, who runs away. They don’t notice me frozen on the gum-stained sidewalk as Raoul pulls her away by the arm.
My bewildered mind realizes I might have misheard ecstasy as escape and I feel like I’m going to throw up. She hasn’t been doing drugs or even drinking much since she hooked up with Ace over a year ago. In a daze, I go back to the restroom line. My mother’s falling off the deep end and she’s going to pull me down with her.
*****
After over twenty hours of driving—Uncle Raoul only stopped for gas, food, and restrooms—I had desperately wanted out of the car. I wanted to stretch my legs, un-numb my butt, and breathe fresh air. Now on my grandmother’s porch amid apprehension that hangs in the humid air like drops of moisture, I want to curl up alongside the boxes and drive through a sixth state. Instead, I’m on the peeling porch of an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with two people who obviously detest one another.
They stare at each other, two halves an older and a younger profile that are nearly identical. The same full lips compressed into a stubborn line. The same high cheekbones, pinched with insolence. The same strong forehead. It’s like looking at a time-generated picture of me in about twenty then forty years. At thirty-seven, will I look at my mother with such loathing?
“I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do this,” my mother says with an almost violent tone. Her gaze flicks to the woods on the side of the house. “We’ll find something in town.”
“I’m aware of your need for…independence.” My grandmother’s smile doesn’t warm her face. “There’s a house trailer down the road on the property. It’s an old hunting cabin, but it’s furnished and ready, even stocked with groceries. Raoul can take you there after dinner.”
“It appears you’ve thought of everything,” my mother says through clenched teeth.
“Yes, something you should be very aware of,” she says in a tone of warning. She turns to where I stand with my hand clenching the weathered railing. “Oh look at you so young, so belle. I missed your transformation into a swan.”
I frown. “My name’s Margot.”
She tips back her head and laughs. “Yes, I know. You did live with us until you were almost three. Belle means beautiful in French.” She leans forward to kiss my cheek and a flowery scent mixed with an undertone of earth follows the sensation of her dry lips on my skin. “But then I’m guessing your mother has been remiss and not taught you the language of your ancestors.”
My mother glares at her. “Margot has been raised without your traditions.”
“Then we must remedy that.” She returns the glare. My mother doesn’t back down. Their stares remind me of old westerns where the gunmen watch each other’s eyes and wait to see who will pull their gun out first. Finally, my grandmother says, “Do not let our differences ruin your homecoming.”
“Homecoming…” my mother murmurs while her fists clench.
“Yes,” my grandmother snaps then turns to me. “Come, come, I’ve been preparing and cooking all day.” She grabs my elbow and pulls me past my mother who looks like she’d like to snatch me away.
On the other side of a wooden screen door, I step into a museum. Gold edged mirrors, round backed chairs with ornate sides, small couches edged with white woodwork, lamps that look like vases, and paintings of every size and shape fill the living room. Even a chandelier hangs from the ceiling. The outside of the farmhouse may be old and peeling, but the inside is beyond elegant.
My mother steps in behind us. “Still towing around all your precious heirlooms I see.”
“They came all the way from France to Québec. Now for the past year they’ve been here.” My grandmother’s hand touches the back of a chair. “They will be yours one day then Margot’s.”
“I don’t want your old ass furniture,” my mother hisses. “And you should have stayed in Canada.”
My grandmother slowly picks an imaginary piece of lint from her yellow blouse then smoothes her shoulder length hair. “Enough of your spite, Elise. You’re just fighting the inevitable.” She gestures us through the living room and the bright multi colored stones on her fingers catch the light.
Following her, I give my mother a look. I’m not sure why she dislikes her mother so much—she may have a reason—but she’s acting more immature than a twelve-year-old. My mother just scowls and shakes her head at me.
In the kitchen, the furniture is also antique and luxurious looking but the smell has my attention. Fresh baked bread, smoky bacon, garlic, and a hint of basil assail my nose. The rustic looking table is set with pretty, blue dishes dotted with delicate yellow flowers. A huge matching soup bowl and basket of bread wait in the middle. Between the smell, the sight of the spread, and the fact I’ve been consuming fast food for almost two days, my mouth waters.
My grandmother pulls out white washed chairs. “Sit and eat. We’ll catch up during dessert.” She pours soup into bowls. “I made soupe au pistou, your favorite, Elise.”
“It takes more than beans and vegetables to appease me,” my mother says but takes the full bowl and sits.
My grandmother smiles. “Yes of course, that is why I made fougasse.” She sets a wedge of the thick bread on my mother’s plate.
The smell along with the tomatoes and olives sticking out from the center of the bread has me rushing to a chair. Raoul arrives in the kitchen just as I lift my spoon. He doesn’t appear much different showered. He’s still messy and hairy looking as he kisses his mother’s cheek before sitting. “Together again,” he says with a smile in my mother’s direction.
Her eyes spit fire at him, but she doesn’t respond.
We eat while my grandmother’s eyes watch me. There’s something hidden in those depths. Later when we’re alone, I intend to find out why my grandmother’s eyes gleam at me with what I’m guessing is anticipation.
Chapter 3
The next morning I wake with another bizarre claw dream floating out of my consciousness. Though it can’t be much past six, the tiny room is bright with light. I stare at the white tiled ceiling in confusion. Then I remember we’re in Michigan now. In a house trailer near my grandmother and uncle with my mother being as close lipped as ever. As soon as Raoul finished helping us unload our boxes and said goodbye, I hammered my mother with questions. But she claimed exhaustion and went to bed.
Her eyes had said something else. Though there’s always been an air of turmoil in their depths, here I can see something else when she thinks I’m not looking, something that looks strangely like a mix of paranoia and terror. And that frightens me. She’s been dangling so long on the edge of depression I fear she might have fallen into something deeper past reckless into full crazy.
I close my eyes and wish the ceiling, the trailer, and my grandmother away.
School starts next week, less than five days away. I have a GPA to keep up, scholarships to apply for, and new teachers to deal with, but none of that may matter. I doubt there are any colleges in this rural area. If my mother takes a turn for the worse, how can I leave her?
Yet how can I stay?
Worry weighs on my chest until I throw the blankets off and pull my running shorts, an old t-shirt, and tennis shoes from a box. In the smallest and yellowiest bathroom in the world, I brush my teeth and throw my hair into a ponytail. After a quick peek in the back bedroom at my sleeping mother, I step outside into a run.
I’ve always ran and we’ve always lived near woods. It’s not even an exercise thing. I just like to run, especially through the forest. On the way here, driving through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and into the Lower Peninsula we passed endless glittering lakes and miles of sandy beaches. I’d never known Michigan was such a beautiful state, and I couldn’t help imagining running along the sandy shore. But my grandmother lives hours inland of the Great Lakes amid lush forests dotted with small towns, sporadic homes, and hunting cabins. Still north and rural, at least the wooded landscape feels familiar.
My mind begins to clear as my shoes dig into the dirt track leading to the highway. The land behind the trailer belongs to my grandmother. All the way back to the farmhouse and beyond, thousands of acres of fields and forest dedicated to their tree farm. Raoul works the land foresting trees and planting new ones. Across the highway is state land, so my uncle won’t be there.
Under the rising sun, the forest around me changes between shafts of sunlight. Green and vivid one moment to shadowy and lush the next. Beyond the pound of my feet and the huff of my breath, the birds above chirp and call to one another.
I increase my speed. Pump my arms faster. With the wind in my face and the surrounding serenity of nature, worry begins to drain out of me. Sweat trickles down my forehead by the time I reach the road. I run in the gravel along the cement, but the warm August sun has me searching for an escape. A trail wandering back into the forest beckons me. I cross the highway with the slap of my running shoes echoing on the empty road and rush back into the cool forest. The trail is thin. The trees denser. The moist smell of dirt and new growth surrounds me. Leaves smack my arms and legs. I dart under branches and leap over fallen logs. Exhilaration pumps through my veins.
Running now feels like freedom.
Deep into the forest, more than a mile, the trail ends at a wide stream. I stop and catch my breath. Large pine trees block most of the sunlight. The forest floor is sparse of foliage. Instead, dead, brown pine needles cover the ground. Hidden under the canopy of trees with only the tinkling of water, I’m alone and content. Rough bark digs into my back when I lean against a tree and close my eyes, will my mind to stay empty.
I stand there and simply breathe.
Perhaps a half hour has passed when I hear sounds from beyond the stream. I step away from the tree and listen. Something, moving fast and crashing through the forest, is coming my way. Whatever it is, there are two, and they’re getting closer. I turn to run when a branch snaps and a loud, “Go away!” is followed by a wild roar. I’m trying to imagine what is going on behind the bushes on the other side of the stream when a voice, male I realize, yells again, “No! Get back! Go away!”
The frantic tone of voice has me rushing into the stream. Water wets the bottom of my shorts in the middle, but it never gets any deeper. I push through the brush on the other side and see a bear, brown and large, leaning against a tree. Claws extended, the animal swipes the branches above as a hiking boot disappears into leaves.
The bear roars and falls on all fours. I swallow the fear pooling in my mouth, as it paces back and forth under the tree. Surprisingly, though the thump of my heart echoes like thunder, the animal hasn’t noticed me.
Then in a jumble of moving muscle and fur, the animal rushes forward. A scream catches in my throat. The bear is going to climb the tree.
I step forward just as a branch comes crashing down on the bear’s head. The stick harmlessly plunks onto the forest floor while furry arms wrap around the trunk. Claws tear into the bark and the animal scoots up.
If the bear gets up the tree, the guy is as good as dead. Without a thought, I find a large rock and whip it as hard as I can. When it hits the bear’s shoulder, a black tipped snout turns and sniffs until dark eyes find me.
Crap. I have its attention now. Trying to save the man, I hadn’t really thought of the bear coming after me.
It sniffs the air again, bares it teeth, and pushes off the tree. Some strange instinct keeps my feet planted. Our eyes meet and a low growl comes from behind the bear’s teeth. Though I hear the man coming down the tree, I don’t move except for the narrowing of my eyes and the hair on the back of my neck rising. The bear’s brown eyes turn hesitant. My eyes, almost naturally, narrow more. The animal steps back and lets out a low whine. I still don’t move. The large snout takes one last whiff of air before turning and disappearing in a blur of speed into the forest.
Stunned at the fear I read in those brown eyes, I stare into the empty forest.
The guy from the tree is suddenly next to me. “I can’t thank you enough, but we need to go. Now. She may come back.”
I step away. “Why was she after you?”
He raises a strap across his shoulder and a camera jostles across his chest. “I got too close to one of her cubs.” He reaches out and grasps my arm. “We really have to go.”
His hand on my skin breaks the trance. I nod and pull from his grasp. After one last look at where the bear had been, I turn toward the stream. We splash through the water then run to the path. The man runs behind me. The stranger at my back makes my legs move faster, not fear of the bear. The double, hollow thumps in the dirt sound odd. I’ve never ran with anyone else. The further we get on the path, the thicker the forest gets. The branches I pass slap the runner behind me. He grunts every now and then but doesn’t complain.
Finally, we spill into sunlight. My legs want to keep running home, but I stop and face the camera idiot. A deep breath expands my lungs. He’s also leaning over, trying to catch his breath.
“You,” he gasps out in between gulps of air, “were awesome.” He stands and hugs me while murmuring, “Thank you, thank you, and thank you.”
His camera jabs me in the stomach. My nose is smashed against his hard, sweaty chest. I step out of the circle of his arms and away from the scent of male mixed with soap. Awesome? “Don’t you know you’re supposed to stay away from bears, much less female bears with their cubs?”
He nods and pulls a water bottle from his pocket. His hand trembles, but he gets the cap off. “I’ve been following her all summer at a distance.” He takes a deep swig. “Never had a problem until today but one of the cubs got too close.”
I glance at his hiking boots and camera. He must be a tree hugging college student. “You were taking pictures?”
“Yeah,” he says with a wobbly smile. “It’s like hunting, just no death involved.”
My eyes narrow on his camera. “Your death was almost involved.”
He shakes his shaggy, dark blonde head. “First time that’s ever happened. I have pepper spray. It’s in my bag somewhere,” he nods toward the woods, “back there. I was more worried about my lens.” He stares at me now. “Most people would run the other way.”
I shrug. “I didn’t think. I just reacted.”
“Well your reaction was awesome. I’d like to do something for you,” he smiles again showing even white teeth, “but what do you do for a girl who saves your life? Flowers? Dinner? Jewelry?” he says each word in a more ridiculous tone.
I shake my head. “You alive is enough.” I step toward the road and water sloshes between my toes. “Can you get home from here?”
He follows and points. “My truck’s right there.”
I glance at the silver Chevrolet truck parked on the gravel shoulder. I hadn’t noticed it before while running. “Okay then, I have to get going.”
“Hey,” he says and I pause, “are you from around here?”
“Since yesterday.”
“What’s your name?”
“Margot,” I say over my shoulder and begin to run. I don’t ask for his name. I learned long ago not to make friends. Not only is it easier to move on that way, but my mother has been adamant since I started high school about her no boys rule.
From behind, I hear, “Thanks Margot and run in the woods on the other side of the highway from now on!”
I don’t respond, just keep running. For some reason, the bear doesn’t scare me and I’d rather not run on my grandmother’s land. Mostly, I’d rather not run into Raoul.
I move fast until the dirt lane that leads to the trailer is under my feet and I slow to a jog. The whole episode with the bear and the camera idiot has me tired. I never get tired when I run.
I stop suddenly when I spot large animal tracks in the gravely sand. Four toes with claws and a triangular pad. I know nothing about animal tracks, but the width in the dirt makes me think the bear has been here. Yet there are no smaller tracks for the cubs. A different bear?
With a shake of my head, I continue walking down the gravel path. Once the trailer comes into view, I see my mother sitting on the steps holding a coffee cup and a cigarette. Anger replaces my fatigue. I march to the cement slab. Kick off my wet and dirty shoes. Snap off a wet sock. “I thought you quit last year.”
She doesn’t look at me rather the forest behind me. “I did,” she takes a sip from the steaming cup, “but have you heard the saying, nobody likes a quitter?”
My teeth clench as I stare at the top of her bed head. She blows out smoke and takes a sip of coffee. I stomp up the stairs past her and slam the door shut. The slim wall rattles and two wildlife pictures crash onto the kitchen floor. I imagine knocking the rest of the pictures down—moose, trees, and sunsets crumpled and torn amid shards of glass. Instead, I slip on the flip-flops lying on the rug and go to the fridge. After downing half a bottle of water, I get a broom and dustpan.
I’ve just finished picking up the largest shards when I hear the zip of a lighter from outside. She’s not only smoking again but chain smoking. I fall into a chair and lean my forehead against the broom handle. What’s wrong her? And what, if anything, can I do about it?
Knowing she never listens to reason and not willing to rehash old arguments at the moment—my mind is overflowing with worry again—I finish cleaning up the mess and go take a shower.
I catch the scent of fresh crepes as soon as I step out of the bathroom. My mother’s normal apology. So angry with her, I almost don’t go to the kitchen but the smell can’t be ignored. No one makes crepes like my mother. Well, after yesterday’s dinner, I suppose her mother. I sit down at the Formica kitchen table without saying a word.
She sets down a crepe, a jar of raspberry jam, and a spoon. “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked, but the fridge and cupboards are beyond stocked.” Before I can dig into the warm delicacy, her hands wrap me in a hug from behind. Her cheek presses into mine. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not dealing with this very well. I’ll try to do better, but please be patient with me.”
“I’ll try too, to be patient I mean.”
She gives my wet head a kiss. “I know I’m a pain in the ass, but I love you very much you know.”
I hold in a sigh. “I love you too.”
She passes a bowl. “Fresh whipped cream?”
I hold in a second sigh and take the bowl. Why do I always give in?
Chapter 4
Just as my fingers spin the lock on my locker, the bell rings and students flow into the hallway like a rush of water from a breaking dam. I glance at the map in my hand. My English class is in the opposite direction of my sixth hour. I’ll have to go back after school and get my book and syllabus since I missed that hour. I refused to take Government twice, especially since I received an A the first time around, but the only sixth hour class that fit in my schedule was AP Ancient History, and the counselor had been adamant, even when I produced my transcripts from two different schools, that the teacher had to approve additions to the class. So I missed lunch and fifth hour while we waited for approval.
I join the throng of students and head up to the second floor. Since this is my only challenging course, besides Calculus, I want to get there early and get a front seat. The classroom is half-full when I arrive. Of course, being an AP class the front seats are full. Students stare at me while I move to a desk on the outer edge. Students always stare at the new kid. I’ve been the new kid enough that it doesn’t bother me much. However, my newness here is magnified by the small size of the school and coming in at twelfth grade. I’ve been so busy fixing my schedule all day I haven’t really paid much attention to the stares until now.
I shuffle and organize class syllabuses in my folder to appear busy. Tuck the school map behind them. Pull a notebook from the bottom of my pile while they sneak glances at me. I’m aware they see a tidy girl dressed in white capris, a pale green polo, and spotless, white tennis shoes. I’ve spent countless hours at various malls in various states in search of clearance clothes that make me look the opposite of my wild mother. And my thick, brown hair, which I only let grow an inch past my shoulders, is straight, neat, and smooth. Living with the chaos of my mother, I’ve grown to love neatness.
“Margot?” a male voice laced with an incredulous tone says from behind me.
As I turn, a notebook falls from my fingers and slaps on the desk. The camera guy smiles at me. His smile’s a bit overwhelming. He’s overwhelming. Dressed in shorts and a clinging t-shirt, he’s tall and muscular. His dark blonde hair frames a lean and strong boned face. And his eyes are a mix of the forest, dark green and brown, where we first met. I blink. I don’t remember thinking he was good looking, but the proof now irrefutably stands before me. However, his allure is more than just looks. His bundled up energy and smile remind me of the last days of summer in human form.
His smile falters a bit. “Margot right?” When I nod, his smile deepens and dimples form in his cheeks. He sits behind me, leans in close. “Hi, I’m Ethan Sumner. It looks like I get to pay you back. Just don’t tell anyone about how a girl had to save me,” he says with a wink.
His closeness has me confused. “Pay me back?”
“Yeah, like taking you out.”
I recall his list and raise a brow. “I’m allergic to silver, flowers, and restaurants.” Well at least one of them is true.
“Then we could picnic and there’s always gold,” he says with a grin as the bell rings.
Turning around, I can’t help laughing. But my laugh is cut short. Over half the class is staring at me, including the teacher. I feel my face warm. Is it the new kid thing? Or the attention from the hottest guy, I’m fairly certain, in the school? The teacher starts handing out papers and people finally turn around. I pass back the stack and Ethan’s hand touches mine while he murmurs a thank you. His brush of fingers was totally intentional.
I try to pay attention. Yet every time Ethan moves his pencil or his leg or his desk closer to mine, my attention goes back to him. The teacher, Mr. Masters, rambles on about term papers and primary sources. Ethan stretches out his legs. Mr. Masters explains thesis statements. Ethan taps his pencil. Mr. Masters talks about the importance of grammar. Ethan sighs.
What is wrong with me? Boys, even cute, are something I’ve never had a problem ignoring. At last, the bell rings and I jump out of my seat.
“Hey wait up,” Ethan calls in the hallway. He steps next to me, brushing my arm with his. “We have to decide a time and day for that picnic.”
“What picnic?” I ask innocently as we go down the stairs.
“The one I’m taking you on.”
People at their lockers stare at us as we pass. “I don’t recall agreeing to a picnic.”
He grins and those dimples stare at me. “Come on, Margot. You can’t leave me indebted to you.”
I swirl my hand in the air. “I release you from your debt.”
“What about my adoration?”
“Adoration?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
“For your bravery.” My eye roll has him adding, “And your beauty?”
I pause in the middle of the hallway and turn to him. “So you’re not sure about that?”
His gaze roams over my face. “I’d have to be blind not to notice.”
The statement along with his wistful glance fills me with a warm glow. It shouldn’t—my mother’s similar looks have led her to all sorts of unsavory types—but it does. I start walking again. “Well, that was a lovely compliment, but I have to add I’m also allergic to grass, bugs, and even sunshine.” I stop in front of my fifth hour English class. “So no picnic for me,” I say before I go in to get my textbook. Luckily, when I come out, he’s gone.
I assume he got the message.
Until the next day.
I’m in my first hour gym class, waiting for my turn on the side of the tennis court when three girls come up to me. With perfectly coiled hair and layers of makeup, I’m guessing they’re not here to offer an invitation of friendship.
“Margot, right?” the middle one asks with a glossy tight smile.
“Yeah?” I say, thinking her smile looks more predatory than welcoming.
She steps closer, ahead of the other girls. “Where’d you move from?”
Though I’m getting the sense of an interrogation, I say, “Montana.”
“Well, I’m Sara. This is Nora.” The red head on her left offers a close-mouthed smile. “And Brittany,” she says pointing to a blonde who doesn’t even try to smile. “We heard Ethan asked you out.”
The twirling tennis racket in my palm pauses. I don’t offer a confirmation but wonder if one or all of them are after Ethan.
Sara crosses her arms. “We just wanted you to be aware not only is he the school’s biggest player, he bet Cal he could sleep with you.”
While the words sleep with you ring in my head, I can only stare at the primped trio. The movie Mean Girls comes to mind as they look back at me like I’m denser than a box of rocks. They could be lying but that would be one tall tale. Biting my lip, I realize something must have been said.
“Being new, we thought you should know,” Nora says in response to my silence.
“And because that’s bullshit. No guy should do that, even if he is our star quarterback,” Sara adds.
Someone yells next behind us.
“Who’s Cal?” I ask, wondering what they think star quarterbacks can get away with.
“Ethan’s best friend,” Brittany says, rolling her eyes. Obviously, this information should be obvious to me.
Next rings louder this time. “Ah that’s me.” I grip the racket tight and give the three little Prima Donnas a weak smile. “Thanks for the info.”
I’m usually quite good at sports. Since middle school, several gym teachers and coaches have tried to get me to join various teams. I always declined. Extracurricular activities open the door for too much involvement from my mother. However, today I stink. I trip over my own feet, over serve the ball, and even crash into my teammate. The combination of three conniving girls and one rotten boy have thrown off my coordination.
All day my concentration is off too. Calculus sounds like Chinese. English like Calculus. Spanish like rocket science. The thing is I never planned on going out with Ethan, but such a bet irritates me. And three girls running to tell me about it, irritates me even more. I don’t like people talking about me. I don’t like attention. The drama of living with my mother makes me want the rest of my life to be drama free. In my world, teen drama is only for movies. So I can’t help wondering how many people know about this bet. But I’m also aware the girls could be lying. That they would do something so conniving to me also irritates me to no end. By the time I get to AP history, I’m determined to find about the bet from the source.
Ethan comes in with a smile so wide his dimples shine from across the room.
“Hey Margot,” he says, sitting in his desk.
I turn around. “Hello, Ethan.”
My tone has his smile constricting. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, I heard about a bet this morning.”
He glances around the room before asking in a low hush, “Who told you?”
I stare at him while the bell rings. So the girls hadn’t made it up. “Does it matter?” I lean forward and smile sweetly. “And for the record, I wouldn’t kiss you much less sleep with you.”
His forehead crumples. “Sleep with me?” he says, but I’m already facing the front of the room. “I didn’t say that,” he practically hisses in my ear. When I ignore him, he says louder, “Margot—”
“Ethan,” Mr. Masters says from the front of the room. “Class has started.”
I hear the groan of a chair as he sits back. Okay, so maybe the bet wasn’t about getting in my pants, yet there was a bet. I try to pay attention again, but this whole bet thing and the idea of people talking about me has me angry. As soon as the bell rings, I’m out the door. Of course, Ethan catches up with me in the hallway.
“Margot, I never said anything like that,” he says with a tight jaw.
I walk past him toward the stairs. “You did make a bet?”
He follows me down. “Well, yeah. But it was even before I knew who you were. I’d just heard you were—Cal bet I couldn’t get the new hot girl to go out with me before the end of the week.” I raise a brow and he shakes his head. “We never said one word about sex. You can ask Cal.”
“Like your best friend isn’t going to cover for you,” I say, opening my locker.
He falls on the locker next to me. “So what do I have to do to get you to believe me?” Imploring eyes and a grin replace his earlier anger. Obviously, I’m about to be charmed.
I toss books in. “Nothing.” I pull books out and slam the locker shut. “It doesn’t matter because I’m not going out with you.” He follows me as I head toward the front entrance.
“Really just because of some stupid bet?” People wave and call out to him as we pass by. He nods at them. Near the front door I say, “If you recall, I wasn’t going to go out with before I heard about the stupid bet.”
Tapping his books against this hip, he looks confused. “Why not?”
Out in the sunshine of late afternoon, I’m not about to tell him that my unbalanced mother gets freaked out with the idea of me dating, so I ask, “Why would I?”
Now that pretty face is in total confusion. Guess he rarely gets a no. I’m actually dying to hear his response when a big red haired guy dressed in football pads struts by us and lets out a snicker.
Both my brows rise. “Cal?”
Ethan grimaces before answering, “The one and only.”
“Sumner, you’re a loser!” followed by a laugh sounds between the press of leaving students.
“See what I have to deal with?” He shakes his shaggy head in mock defeat. “Would pizza and a movie be that bad?”
“No.” I crane my neck, looking for my mother in the line of cars. She had a job interview today for bartending so I couldn’t take the car. Ethan moves into my view. His eyes look hopeful. I frown. “I mean it’s still a no.”
“So you’re not going to save me from being ripped by Cal for the rest of senior year?” he asks in an unbelieving tone and steps closer. My overly sensitive nose catches the scent of his cologne mixed with the fresh bite of soap. “Cal’s worse than the bear.”
I move toward the curb. If my mother comes and sees a boy talking to me so close, who knows what it will inspire? “Fight your own battles. You look big and strong,” I say over my shoulder.
He steps next to me. “I can’t fight Cal. We’ve been friends since second grade.” He lowers his head a notch to say lowly, “Just like in the woods, I need you.”
I blink then look away from the laughing gleam in his eye. He should be an actor. The Mustang appears at the end of the line. Oh man, he has to go. Now. “What about lunch?” I blurt out, trying to keep the desperation to get him away from me out of my tone.
“Lunch?”
“Yeah, if we ate lunch together would that be enough for your bet?”
“Tomorrow?” he asks with a grin.
I nod. “It’s a date. Meet me at my locker.” I take off before he can answer and rush to the end of the line of cars and my waiting mother.
Chapter 5
Leaning against my locker and grinning, Ethan looks like a poster for a teen movie come to life. My hands tighten around my books. I’d like to wipe the grin from his face. When the rest of the school sees us in the lunchroom, we’re going to be the center of attention. I prefer to be the quiet, neat girl that no one knows. Next to him and his dimples, it’s impossible to be nearly invisible. Never mind the fact that if my mother knew I was just eating lunch with the opposite sex, she’d go nuts. And she’s already nuts enough.
“Hey Margot, you ready for our date?” he asks as I open my locker.
His gaze makes me nervous. Cut it out Margot, it’s only lunch and it’s only once. “Dear me, I need to visit the ladies room and fix my lipstick and powder my nose,” I say in a sarcastic tone and flutter my lashes like a forties movie star.
He leans closer. “You’ll just have to fix the lipstick again after our kiss.” I toss my books in and glare at him. He chuckles and pulls keys from his pocket. “Come on before our lunch gets cold.”
My hand pauses on the metal door as I stare at his keys. “I thought we were eating in the cafeteria so your buddy could see you with me?”
“Naw, too many people staring and interrupting. Cal will believe me.”
While I’m thinking I don’t like the sound of that—him wanting to be alone with me—we walk to the side door that leads to the parking lot. “We can leave right?” I’ve gone to schools with both open and closed campuses for lunch, but I want to make sure.
He spins his keys around his finger. “Worried about getting in trouble?” I pause on the threshold. “Come on. I’m just kidding. Yes, we can leave. Just juniors and seniors. Most kids go to Mickey D’s or Subway on the highway and most of them have already hightailed it out of here.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, noticing his truck in the front of the student parking lot.
He raises his keys and hits unlock “It’s a surprise.”
I roll my eyes as he opens the Silverado’s passenger door for me. Suppressing a groan—apparently, I’m going to be charmed again—I climb up. Inside the smell of new car surrounds me. Gadgets and top of the line accessories line the dashboard. And the stereo is custom. I smooth my hands across my jean capris. What high school senior drives a brand new, full sized truck?
After he climbs in and starts the car, I tap the dashboard. “Is this yours?”
He shifts into reverse. “Yeah, it’s an early eighteenth birthday present.”
“When’s your birthday?”