“I mean, not homework-homework. I mean like my own work I gotta do at home. That kinda homework. To help with the camp. Like, for the committee.”
He’s lying. Her stomach knotted. “Gotcha.” She watched him carefully as she gathered the check, headed to the little counter to pay.
Waving another goodbye at Louanne, they headed to her car. He kept up a steady stream of talk all the way back to the school, some wildlife presentation the forestry service had done that day with eagle and beaver skulls, and she listened and nodded in all the right places. He kept his wrist close to his side, near the car door, so she couldn’t get another peek.
A thought struck. Maybe she could get his address. If he had nothing to hide, surely he’d give it. Or if not, she could follow him home.
“You sure you don’t want a ride?”
He laughed. “You ask that every week.”
She stuck her tongue out. “And every week you say no.” She looked at him. “But seriously, you don’t live far?”
“Not far at all.” He slid out.
The words were out before she could stop them. “Which street is yours?” She tried to ask it real casual-like.
“Two-twenty-one Baker,” he said, thumbed that way. “Just a short ride.”
She glanced over—there goes that theory—and nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s not far at all.”
Two-twenty-one. That would be easy to remember; it was Granny’s birthday: February twenty-first.
A beat passed, then another.
“Well, gotta go.” He grinned at her, slammed the door. “Thanks!”
She watched him walk off, the wrist still close to him.
“See you tomorrow night!” she called.
What are you doing, Rebecca? Kids got bruises all the time. Her own legs had been various shades of black and blue and skinned knees until she was maybe fifteen, from climbing trees or falling off her bike.
But it wasn’t the bruise that got her worried. She bit her lip, puzzled over it as she watched him unlock his bike from the rack, slide on, and pedal off.
No, it was his reaction to her questions that raised her concern. That and the jacket, which was entirely out of place in this weather. Her neck prickled. Was he being bullied? He mentioned some kids picking on him. Or something at home? He didn’t talk about his home life, or at least not his current situation. When he talked about home at all it was couched in memory—Mama said this, Mama showed him that. She realized she didn’t know much about his home life at all. He lived with his grandmother. Memaw, he called her. There was some on-again, off-again uncle. That was really all she knew.
Maybe she needed to make a visit, introduce herself. See for herself what was really going on. She looked at her watch, remembered she’d promised Granny she’d grab cinnamon on the way home. Granny was making some dinner for a shut-in, plus had mentioned needing her help loading meals for a church event.
Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow was Friday. Giveaway night. She’d volunteer again, then insist on driving Devon home after. Weather reports said it was supposed to rain over the weekend, anyway, some hurricane starting to form off the coast, and surely he’d want a ride.
And putting the car into gear, she pulled out and headed back to town.
CHAPTER 28
Devon
Devon pedaled down Baker Street—past CJ’s house, past Shenise and Gabby, who called hellos he ignored. Past his own house, Uncle T’s car still parked outside. His eyes filled with hot tears, and he gritted his teeth, willed them gone.
When he got to the end of the street, he swiped at his face impatiently, bruised wrists still aching with the motion. Tears didn’t solve anything. They didn’t bring your mama back. They didn’t make your uncle leave. They only burned your eyes and clouded your vision.
And right now he needed his vision. Needed to think right and clear and true. For once and for all. He’d lied to Miss Becca. Lied to her good and well. Lied, even though he knew it was wrong, knew she might be one of the only people who had the power to help. He’d done it anyway.
I can’t take it anymore.
But could he? And should he, for Memaw’s sake?
He thought about Memaw, about last night when he’d come home late, so late Uncle T was passed out on the couch with the TV on, so late Memaw didn’t even stir whenhe poked his head into her bedroom and, finding her asleep and snoring softly, made his old nest out of blankets on her floor and settled down for an exhausted sleep.
