3
BECKETT
Age 14
Riley’s dark eyes shone with unshed tears as I sat on the bed next to him. “Talk to me,” I encouraged for the fifth time in just a few hours. He’d been quiet at dinner, hiding his face in his hands.
“I did something,” he said, his voice shaky. “I think Harold will be mad when he sees it.”
“What did you do?”
He glanced at me but quickly looked away, without answering.
“Can you show me?”
Riley closed his eyes, like I did when I was searching for courage, then nodded. We were supposed to be in bed already, so we quietly tiptoed down the hall, careful to stay on the side where the wooden floor wouldn’t creak. We’d learned all the weak points in the eight months we’d been living here, often sneaking out to look at the night sky together.
He led me by the hand to the barn, around the corner to the area we usually played after chores, then folded his arms over his stomach, and stared down at his feet.
It took me several minutes to figure out what was different, but I eventually saw something partially hidden behind the sliding door of the barn. I made sure no one else was around before turning the light on, then slid the door closed so I could see the whole picture. I gasped as I stepped back. The entire wall was splattered in bright paint. Rich yellows, oranges, blues, and green in no apparent pattern. On it, painted in black and red, was a scene that reminded me of the Henrys’ property. There were rows of fruit trees, a shed, and a tall tree that looked like the one with our tire swing. It was wonderful and vivid, and just so… Riley.
“You did this?” I asked, grinning back at him. Sometimes, Riley completely blew my mind. He was such a quiet kid, but when he let himself go he really lit up the world. Especially my world.
Riley must have heard the joy in my voice because he tipped his head up just enough that I could tell he was trying to hide a smile.
“Ry, this is amazing. It’s like… I don’t even know. Where’d you find the paint?”
“In Harold’s shop,” he said quietly, then quickly added, “but it was only the old stuff! I had to shake each can to mix them. I didn’t touch the new cans!” He groaned. “He’s going to be mad, isn’t he?”
I could tell he wasn’t only worried about Harold, he thought I would be disappointed, too. I went to him and put an arm around his shoulder, admiring the brightly colored wall.
“He’ll be surprised, but Tracy will keep him calm,” I said, trying to reassure him. Harold could have a wicked temper sometimes, but Tracy seemed to be the secret antidote to his mood swings. Even at Harold’s worst, the most punishment we ever received was more chores. I had to admit, though, this one might cost Riley a month’s worth of dishes, if not two. Still, it was worth it.
“Come on,” I said, “let’s go tell Harold before he finds it. Who knows, maybe he’ll like it. And even if he doesn’t, I do!”
Riley finally straightened, a small smile on his lips. “You do?”
“You kidding? It’s great! I wish I could paint like that.”
For the first time that day, he relaxed. “Thanks, Beck.”
***
Jake was in a disgustingly cheerful mood when we walked across the street the next day. He wasn’t shy about how he’d hooked up with the twink from the bar after I’d left, even though I hadn’t asked or encouraged him to share in any way. His jabbering was grating my nerves, especially since I hadn’t slept well and had very little patience to begin with.
“I don’t need a play by play,” I grumbled.
He glanced at me. “You know, you’d be a little less grumpy if you got-“
“Unless you want a black eye on that pretty face of yours, I suggest you shut the fuck up,” I said sharply.
Jake gave me a cold look. “Jesus, Beck. You know, you’ve had a shitty attitude since we left. I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to chill the fuck out, okay?”
We made our way down the busy streets toward the park where a weekly farmer’s market and craft fair was set up, keeping an eye out for the truck and our person of interest. My mouth watered when we passed a hot dog vendor just setting up for the lunch hour. I had a weakness for street vendors, and specialty hot dogs and baked potato vendors were two of my favorites.
The park was fairly quiet with only a few customers mingling about, sipping on coffees while they waited for the vendors to finish setting out their wares. I stopped at the coffee cart to grab my own large coffee, black with a pump of plain creamer.
“Let’s split up and show some people the picture we got from the truck’s registration,” I said. “Keep your phone on.”
