All the Little Lights
Page 9

Elliott reached into his pockets, making the change inside jingle. “Are they home?”
I looked to the garage, seeing Dad’s Buick in the garage and Mama’s Lexus behind it. “Looks that way.”
“I hope I didn’t make things a lot worse for you with Presley.”
I waved him away. “Presley and I go way back. That’s the first time anyone has stood up for me. I’m not sure she knew what to do with it.”
“Hopefully she keeps it safe next to the stick in her ass.”
A loud laugh burst from my throat, and Elliott couldn’t hide his satisfaction at my response. “Do you have a cell number?”
“No.”
“No? Really? Or do you just not want to give me your number?”
I shook my head and breathed out a laugh. “Really. Who’s going to call me?”
He shrugged. “I was gonna, actually.”
“Oh.”
I lifted the gate latch, pushing my way through, hearing the high-pitched sound of metal rubbing on metal. It closed behind me with a click, and I turned to face Elliott, resting my hands on the top of the elegantly bent iron. He glanced up at the house like it was just another house, unafraid. His bravery warmed something deep inside of me.
“We’re practically neighbors, so . . . I’m sure I’ll see you around,” he said.
“Yeah, definitely. I mean, probably . . . it’s likely,” I said, nodding.
“What are you doing tomorrow? Do you have a summer job?”
I shook my head. “Mama wants me to help around the house in the summers.”
“Is it okay if I swing by? I’ll pretend not to take pictures of you.”
“Sure, barring anything weird with my parents.”
“Okay then,” he said, standing a bit taller, his chest puffing out a bit. He took a few steps backward. “See you tomorrow.”
He turned for home, and I did the same, walking slowly up the steps. The noise the warped, wooden slats that made up our porch made under the pressure of my 110 pounds seemed loud enough to alert my parents, but the house stayed dark. I pushed through the extra-wide door, silently cursing the creaking hinges. Once inside, I waited. No muffled conversation or footsteps. No hushed anger from upstairs. No whispering in the walls.
Each step seemed to scream my arrival as I climbed the stairs to the upper level. I kept to the middle, not wanting to brush up against the wallpaper. Mama wanted us to be careful about the house, as if it were another member of our family. I stepped softly down the hall, pausing when a board in front of my parents’ room creaked. After no signs of movement, I made my way to my room.
My bedroom’s wallpaper had horizontal stripes, and even the pink and cream colors didn’t keep it from feeling like a cage. I kicked off my shoes and padded through the darkness to the single-paned window. The white paint on the frame was chipping, creating a small cluster on the floor.
Outside, two stories down, Elliott came in and out of view as he passed under the streetlights. He was walking toward his aunt Leigh’s house, looking down at his phone while he passed the Fentons’ dirt plot. I wondered if he’d come home to a quiet house, or if Miss Leigh would have every light burning; if she would be fighting with her husband, or making up, or waiting up for Elliott.
I turned to my dresser, seeing the jewelry box Dad had bought me for my fourth birthday. I lifted the lid, and a ballerina began to twirl in front of a small, oval mirror set against baby-pink felt fabric. The few details painted on her face had worn away, leaving only two black spots for eyes. Her tutu was mashed. The spring she was perched on was bent, forcing her to lean a little too far over to the side as she pirouetted, but the slow, haunting chimes still pinged perfectly.
The wallpaper was peeling like the paint, drooping from the top in some places, peeled up from the baseboard in others. The ceiling was stained in one corner with a brown splotch that seemed to grow every year. My white iron-framed bed squeaked with the slightest movement, and my closet doors didn’t slide the way they use to, but my room was my own space, a place where the darkness couldn’t reach. My family’s status as the town pariahs and Mama’s anger all seemed so far away when I was within those walls, and I hadn’t felt that way anywhere else until I sat at a sticky table across from a bronzed boy and his big, brown eyes, watching me with no sign of sympathy or disdain.
I stood at the window, already knowing Elliott would be out of sight. He was different—more than just odd—but he had found me. And for the moment, I liked not feeling lost.
Chapter Two
Catherine
Catherine,” Dad called from downstairs.
I trotted down each step.
He was at the bottom, smiling. “You’re awfully chipper today. What’s up with that?”
I paused on the second to last stair. “It’s summer?”
“Nope. I’ve seen your ‘it’s summer’ smile before. This is different.”
I shrugged, taking a crispy slice of bacon from the napkin in his open palm. My only response was a series of crunching, to which Dad scoffed.
“I have an interview at two today, but I thought maybe we could go ride around the lake.”
I stole another piece of bacon, crunching.
Dad made a face.
“I kind of might have plans.”
Dad raised an eyebrow.
“With Elliott.”
The two lines between his brows deepened. “Elliott.” He spoke the name as if it would jog his memory.
I smiled. “Leigh’s nephew. The weird boy in our backyard.”
“The one who was punching the tree?”
I stumbled over my response until Dad finally interjected.
“That’s right. I saw him,” Dad said.
“But . . . you asked me if he was tearing up the yard.”
“I didn’t want to worry you, Princess. I’m not sure I’m okay with you spending time with a boy who assaults trees.”
“We don’t know what’s going on with him at home, Dad.”
Dad touched my shoulder. “I don’t want my daughter getting mixed up with whatever that is, either.”
I shook my head. “After last night, maybe his aunt and uncle are saying the same about our family. Pretty sure the whole neighborhood heard.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It was mostly her,” I grumbled.
“It was both of us.”
“He told Presley off last night.”
“The tree boy? Wait. What do you mean, last night?”
I swallowed. “We walked to Braum’s . . . after Mama got home.”
“Oh,” Dad said. “I see. And he was okay? I mean, he didn’t try to punch Presley or anything, did he?”
I giggled. “No, Dad.”
“Sorry I didn’t come in to say good night. We were up late.”
Someone knocked on the door. Three times, and then two.
“Is that him?” Dad asked.
“I don’t know. We didn’t really have a set time . . . ,” I said, watching Dad make his way to the door. He puffed out his chest before he pulled on the knob, revealing Elliott looking freshly showered, his damp hair wavy and glistening. He held his camera with both hands, even though the strap was around his neck.
“Mister, uh . . .”
“Calhoun,” Dad said, gripping Elliott’s hand to give it a firm shake. He turned to me. “I thought you said you met him last night?” He looked to Elliott. “You didn’t even get her last name?”