All the Little Lights
Page 29

“Elliott?”
“Yeah.”
“You, uh . . . you still mowing lawns?”
“I was. Starting to slow down—why?” I didn’t have to ask. I already knew what he was going to say.
“I was thinking about coming down to see your first game, but gas is way up. If you could spot me the gas money . . .”
“I don’t have any,” I lied.
“What do you mean?” he asked, annoyed. “I know you have money saved up from three summers ago.”
“The Chrysler broke down. I had to pay to fix it.”
“You couldn’t do it yourself?”
I clenched my teeth. “I don’t have any money, Dad.”
He sighed. “Guess I won’t be making it to your first game.”
I’ll survive somehow. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Damn it, Elliott! That’s just lazy! What was wrong with your car?”
“Something I couldn’t fix,” I deadpanned.
“You gettin’ smart with me?”
“No, sir,” I said, staring at bugs clamoring in the beam of the field lights.
“Because I’ll come up there, you little shit. I’ll come up and whip your ass.”
I thought you needed gas money. You could’ve caught a ride with Mom if you really wanted to watch me play. Guess you’ll have to get a job instead of owing your teenage son money. “Yessir.”
He sighed. “Well, don’t screw up. Your mom hated that town, and there’s a reason why. They might love you now, but you screw up, and that’s all over, you hear me? They’ll make you miserable, because they don’t give two shits about a redskin kid. They only like that you’re making them look good.”
“Yessir.”
“All right. Talk to you later.”
I hung up and gripped my steering wheel, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth, trying to let my hatred simmer instead of boil oil. After a few minutes and some meditation Aunt Leigh had taught me, it began to subside. I could hear her calm voice in my head. He can’t touch you, Elliott. You are in control of your emotions. You’re in control of your reaction. You can, at any time, change the way you feel.
My hands stopped shaking, and my grip relaxed. Once my heart slowed, I reached forward for the ignition and twisted the key.
I drove my junk car straight to the Calhoun mansion, parking across the street between streetlamps. All the lights inside were dark except for a bedroom upstairs. I waited, hoping she’d somehow see my car and come outside, wishing I could talk to her one more time before I went home. She had forgiven me faster than I thought—or at least she was beginning to. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to have to work a lot harder for her to let me in, literally and figuratively. Whatever she was keeping from me was scaring her, and she’d been left alone to fend for herself too long. I wanted to protect her, but I wasn’t sure from what.
Just as I reached for the key, a figure stood in front of the only lit window. It was Catherine, looking down the street toward my aunt’s house, holding something in her hands. She looked sad, and I was desperate to change that.
My cell phone buzzed, displaying a text from Aunt Leigh.
You should be home by now.
On my way, I typed.
You don’t get to run all over town without permission. You’re not eighteen just yet.
I was just trying to calm down before I got home. Dad called.
Oh? What did he want?
I smirked. She knew him so well. My lawn money.
It took a moment for the three dots to signal she’d begun typing again. Uncle John will make sure that doesn’t happen again. Come home. We’ll talk.
It’s okay. I feel better.
Come home.
I put the gearshift into drive and pulled away from the curb, heading home. I could see Catherine in the rearview mirror, still standing at her window. I was wondering if she was dreaming about freedom or glad the glass was separating her from the hateful world outside.
Chapter Eleven
Catherine
A wooden floor panel creaked just outside my door. When the recognition hit, my eyes popped open, and I blinked until they adjusted to the darkness. A shadow blocked the hallway light from shining beneath my door, and I waited, wondering who would be standing quietly outside my room in the middle of the night.
The knob turned, and the latch clicked. The door opened slowly. I lay motionless while footsteps approached my bed, the shadow looming above me growing larger.
“Dear God, Catherine. You look like crap.”
“I was sleeping,” I grumbled. I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed the blurriness from my eyes. I didn’t need to see to know my cousin, Imogen, had arrived sometime in the night. She couldn’t wait until morning to insult me. “How are you?” I said, staring at my bare feet. I wasn’t in the mood to chat, but Imogen would simply annoy me until I paid her attention. They didn’t come often, her and Uncle Toad, but they always came in October.
She heaved a dramatic sigh as all tweens did and let her hands fall to her thighs with a slap. “I hate it here. I can’t wait to leave.”
“Already?” I asked.
“It’s so hot.”
“You should have been here a few weeks ago. It’s cooled off since then.”
“Not everything is about you, Catherine—God!” Imogen said, twisting her dark hair around her finger. “Your mom said when she checked us in that you were in a mood.”
I tried not to snap back. Tolerating Imogen took great patience, and her late-night pop-ins made it difficult. My only cousin always dropped in with Uncle Toad, and I knew when they visited that I would either have to put up with Imogen’s incessant complaining and insults or clean up after her father because he was too lazy to move but somehow made huge messes everywhere he went.
Poppy was younger by several years but somehow more mature than Imogen and far more pleasant. It was a toss-up whether I’d rather deal with Poppy and her father, Duke, or Imogen and Uncle Toad.
My cousin rolled the quilted fabric of my blanket between her fingers, wrinkling her nose. “This place has really turned into a dump.”
“How do you like your room?” I asked. “Would you like me to walk you there?”
“No,” she said, tapping her toes on the floor.
“Please don’t . . . don’t do that,” I said, reaching for her foot as if I could stop her.
Imogen shot me a look and then rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
I stood, padding across the floor and down the hall, signaling for Imogen to follow. The sound of her heavy feet against the wood echoed through the old house, and I wondered how she didn’t wake the entire neighborhood.
“Here,” I said, keeping my voice low. I turned the corner, choosing the room next to Duke’s, which I knew was clean and ready.
Imogen walked past me, frowning in disapproval. “Is this the only one?”
“Yes,” I lied. We had several rooms open, but I hoped with Imogen sleeping so close to the stairs that led up to Mama’s room, she’d stay at her end of the hall.
Imogen folded her arms across her chest. “This whole house has turned into a dump. It use to be nice. You use to be nice. Now you’re rude. Your mom is weird. I don’t know why we even come here.”
“Me neither.” I spoke the words under my breath as I turned away. My feet dragged as I made my way back to my room. I stopped, hearing Imogen step out into the hall.