I raised my brows, impressed. “I didn’t know you could get more than one topping.”
“You can get as many as you want,” she chirped. “That’s what I heard.”
“Hurry up, girls,” said Mr. Blanchard, tugging us forward. “We don’t want to get caught in traffic.”
Lila and I practically scurried to match Mr. Blanchard’s purposeful strides. He moved faster than I would’ve thought possible with his short legs.
“All right,” he said, sounding frazzled as he popped open the passenger door of his car. He wiped his brow on his shirtsleeve. “I think both you ladies can fit in the front seat. It’ll be our little secret, okay?”
Lila and I giggled.
“Herman Blanchard,” boomed a voice, and the three of us startled, spinning in the direction of the sound. Before I could collect my wits, my father was upon us, a bull charging the last few feet across the parking lot. Instinctively, I cowered back, bony shoulders hitting Mr. Blanchard’s car. I’d seen my father rage many times, but this time, hewas incandescent with fury. His very hair seemed to writhe, the veins in his neck bulging.
“Reverend.” Mr. Blanchard’s voice trembled. I’d never heard him scared. I had no idea what was happening.
“Itoldyou,” my father snarled. “Not her. Do you hear me? Never her.”
He lunged and seized my arm, pulling me violently off the car. I cried out in pain and Lila gasped, but my father’s grip didn’t loosen. He stepped toward Mr. Blanchard, and Mr. Blanchard staggered back, almost tripping into the open passenger door.
My father raised his hand in Mr. Blanchard’s face. “You so much as look at Ruth again, and I’m going straight to your father. Do you hear me?” Mr. Blanchard’s eyes darted around the parking lot, whether searching for help or witnesses, I didn’t know. “One more time and Augustus knows.”
My father didn’t wait for Mr. Blanchard to respond. He stalked away, pulling me with him with such force I thought my arm might pop.
“Please, Daddy.” Hot tears ran down my cheeks. “I won the poem contest. Mr. Blanchard was taking us to Dairy Queen. It’s not that far away, and I’ve never won anything before, and Lila—”
“Quiet, Ruth.” I felt the command in my bones. “No one asked you to speak.”
As he yanked me back to church, I twisted over my shoulder to find Mr. Blanchard already sitting in the driver’s seat, his door closed. But Lila stood by the passenger door, still watching me with a storm of emotions passing over her face, among them pity and regret.
I cried hardest to know Lila had witnessed what my father really thought of me, how little I meant, how I didn’t deserve one simple pleasure. My heart crumbled as I watched her turn and slide into the passenger seat. The door closed behind her with a smack that echoed across the parking lot, and off they went: Mr. Blanchard and Lila, the lucky one.
21
NOW
The bar emerges out of the trees like a mirage. One minute, there’s a thick sea of cypresses on both sides of the road, the air clotted with the smell of bayou vegetation; the next, an army of parked motorcycles guarding a squat brown building with no sign and people everywhere. White men, mostly, sauntering up and down the ramp to the door holding longnecks in smokers’ circles around the bikes or bent over the deck railing, spitting chew. With Everett’s convertible top down, I can smell the acrid tang of the smoke and hear the pounding music from behind the door, muffled like it’s underwater.
“Told you,” Ever says quietly, his eyes dark. “Rattlesnakes.”
We turn into the dirt lot, earning narrow-eyed stares from those we pass. Ever’s right—despite the summer heat, most of the men wear thick leather jackets with coiled rattlesnakes sewn onto the back, raised to strike. So much skin covered in black ink: tattoos running up necks, even carved across cheeks.
We’ve stepped onto the other side of the law. Entered an outlaw world for people who deal in thievery and death. This isn’t a game anymore—we’re not stealing from some backcountry garage. We’re in Forsythe, on the edge of a dark, deep bayou at the place Ever said we’d find theSons of Liberty. I can feel these men’s hardness, the violence in the air, their scrutiny sharp as a knife’s edge. These people would hurt us and not think twice.
Ever parks. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I glance behind us. Over the roof of the bar, the setting sun glints through the trees, casting an orange light, eerie and strange, like a portent of trouble.
“No,” I repeat, and kick open the door.
All eyes are on us as we walk to the entrance. From somewhere Ever procured a leather jacket, a thing he said he simply “got around,” and now he moves with a reckless swagger I struggle to imitate. He looks different with the jacket on, like that alien, distant creature he was before I got to know him. I’m forced to remember he’s been outside Bottom Springs for years now, living a life I know nothing about.
A man spits at my feet when we reach the door. A nasty grin splits his face and I look away quickly, heart pounding. The noise behind the door grows louder. Ever grips the handle.
“Don’t talk to anybody,” he says under his breath. “Don’t take anything anyone offers. Try not to make eye contact. Follow my lead.”
