County Line Page 14

  “Bella went to Oakwood. Dale went to Dunbar.”

  “Interesting. Dunbar and Oakwood kids don’t usually cross orbits.”

  “My mother was probably slumming.”

  Grabel lifted his head, gazed at her over the top of his reading glasses. His erosional smile remained, arid and thin. “Define slumming.”

  She didn’t know what he wanted from her. Her only clues were an overheard snatch of cop talk and the looming presence of Clarice Moody’s broken nose. Was he trying to drag an admission out of her, trying to get her on the record as an unrepentant thug who’d bust out on a fellow student without a second thought? Or was there something more behind all these questions?

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “What about you? Been slumming too? Like mother, like daughter?”

  Sudden heat flooded her cheeks. She forced it down again with a blank smile to match his own. “You’re the one who had to come all the way out to Farmersville to find yourself a high school girl to hit on.”

  “Finn Nielson must be the one who’s slumming then.”

  At his post on the wall, Nash’s arms tightened across his chest. Grabel, decaying scarecrow, showed his teeth, cracked and grey like old ceramic. “What the hell. Fuck Finn Nielson.” He chortled, a sound in tune with his rippling wattle. “Oh, sorry. Poor choice of words.”

  Ruby Jane’s heart jumped in her chest. She found herself pressed against glass, a wave of nausea churning through her gut. The rumor mill never rested. Finn Nielson, Ruby Jane Whittaker—she’d had no chance to make sense of it herself. Two mornings before she’d awakened on a far shore, and found her return journey interrupted by the world turning upside down.

  Nash stirred. “Coby, can we step outside for a minute?” His voice was low, tentative.

  “Not now.” Grabel snapped his head around to glare at Nash. “Christ.” He turned back to Ruby Jane and closed the folder, leaned forward. Ruby Jane found herself looking through a silvery lens, a wash of fluid in her eyes. Vague and out of focus, he was even more frightful to her, a figure less a man than a shadow of menace.

  “You’ve diddle-dawdled long enough, chippie. It’s time you tell me what happened to Dale Whittaker.”

  - 22 -

  Stormy Night, August 1988

  A pair of headlights appeared in the distance. The Vega’s brake lights flared. Ruby Jane hit her own brakes, too hard. She skidded on the wet, oily pavement and came to a stop at an angle across the center line. In the darkness, she wasn’t sure how far she and Jimmie had come, but she knew they were close to the isolated six-points where Farmersville-West Alex and Dechant Roads met at Preble County Line. The gun club was ahead, but little else until Route 35. To her left, one of the Wentz brother’s fields stretched into the west. The nearest houses were south of her, an eighth of a mile or more, hidden in the trees on the east side of the road.

  The oncoming car could be anyone, but if it was Lute Callan or Werth Nash, she was screwed. She didn’t want to lose Jimmie; even less did she want to get hauled home in the back of a township cruiser. As Jimmie and the approaching headlights came abreast of each other she turned onto a dirt access track which led into the Wentz field. If anyone checked on the mystery car, she could duck behind the heap of stones piled at field’s edge, boulders which came up each year during the spring plow.

  She climbed out into drizzle. The late season corn on either side of the track reached higher than her head and blocked her view up County Line Road. The Caprice’s engine ticked as it cooled. The leaves of the cornstalks whispered in the soft rain. Lightning flickered far to the north and west. She edged toward the road. Soft mud sucked at her shoes with each step. She paused next to a lone fence post, as if a six-inch circumference of half-rotted yellow pine could shield her.

  Up the road, at least a hundred yards off, the two vehicles had stopped side-by-side. They were too far away for her to see much, but she could tell from the separation of the headlights and their height above the road’s surface they belonged to something big. A pickup.

  Neither car moved for some time. All she could hear was the wind in the corn and the runoff flowing through the ditch at her feet. A raindrop splashed down the back of her neck. She felt like an idiot, out in the dark and rain, watching her brother and some stranger yuck it up. Probably a wrestling buddy. When’s the next party, man? We oughta score a keg. Two blockheads passing in the night. She shivered and chafed her upper arms against the chill.

  The pickup began to move. Slow at first, though it was hard to be sure at this distance. She wiped rain from her eyes and leaned against the post. Jimmie matched the motion, reverse lights bouncing as he weaved down the road alongside the pickup. As they gained speed, the two vehicles veered toward each other, bumped, then caromed away again. Without thinking, she rushed into the road, arms over her head. Just as quickly the futile warning died on her lips. The headlights bobbed and, as if he had been waiting for his chance, Jimmie cut the Vega’s rear end sharply across the path of oncoming truck. The pickup swerved into the opposite lane and slammed to a halt, one wheel in the ditch. Jimmie stopped beside it.

  Ruby Jane’s tongue felt heavy in the back of her throat. She took a few steps and paused. The rain pattered around her—soaked into her sweatshirt, plastered her hair to her head. Cool air clung to the ground, a turbulent inversion chest high. Up ahead, all was still and quiet. Then she saw a flash of light in the truck’s cab as if the dome light had flicked on and off.

  She waited. A breeze lifted the leaves of the trees across the road. The Vega’s lights moved away from her and then winked out. She drew a long breath and then trudged up the road.

  Dale, she thought, drives a pickup.

  - 23 -

  Pre-Season, October 1988

  “I saw you.”

  “I knew I’d regret chucking the One Ring into the Cracks of Doom.”

  “Do you ever ease up on the wise guy act?”

  “Do I look like a guy to you?”

  “Not at all.” Huck grinned at her, then shrugged and looked away. “I saw you running the bleachers down at the stadium. That’s all I meant.”

  “You’re kinda creepy.”

  “I run there too sometimes. Not as many laps as you do. Jesus, girl.”

  “I like to run.”

  “But not Clarice.”

  “Running the bleachers might damage her image as a perfectly formed celestial being brought to earth to amaze us with her post-up move.”

  “Why are you running with her then?”

  “We’re being punished.”

  “Right. Coach.”

  “He wants us to spend quality time suffering together.”

  “Ah. Growth through shared adversity.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But—”

  “I like to run. It’s hard, sure—”

  “It’s the kind of hard you like.”

  “Yes.”

  “But not Clarice.”

  “She’s too accustomed to being a natural.”

  “I like to run too.”

  “I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

  “I just thought we could run together some time.”

  “You think you can keep up with me?”

  “I can try.”

  “I like my solitude.”

  “Well, if you change your mind.”

  “Maybe. I’m still not looking for a boyfriend.”

  “At this point I’d settle for project partner. I ended up with Hardy Berman. All term I’ll get to hear how Clarice is a screamer.”

  “I wouldn’t wish him on Gabi in a million years. Besides, you’re tough. You can take it.”

  Huck left her, and she joined the others for the shoot-around. She’d avoided the gym during the week since the fight with Clarice. She knew she wasn’t helping her case for making varsity, but the thought of running set-ups with the Monster Squad had no appeal. She’d relented when Gabi approached her in Con Law and pleaded. “No one
talks to me.”

  Coach nodded when she entered the gym, then distributed balls and told everyone to warm up. After a stretch and a few short shots to get the feel of the ball, Ruby Jane went to the right corner, her favorite spot. Her first shot fell short and the second bounced long, but the third dropped through, followed by half a dozen more. Coach watched from half court as she netted ten, eleven, twelve in a row. Clarice was trying to put together a post-up drill, but Ashley pointed and lowered her hands. Beside her, Moira’s eyebrows were still but she grinned her strange grin, as if trying to hold back some inner turbulence.

  Gabi shagged balls and passed them in, crisp and from the chest. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Aside from offering Gabi the occasional grateful smile, Ruby Jane ignored everyone. Gabi smiled back and kept the balls coming. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Coach folded his arms across his chest, whistle between the middle and ring finger of his right hand. She allowed herself a glance to see his expressionless face, his eyes moving to track the ball up and through the hoop. More often than not they touched only net. The rest kissed the rim before dropping through. Forty-one, forty-two. Around the gym, others stopped to watch, even members of the boys basketball team at the far hoop.

  “How many is that?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Fifty. Fifty-one.” Ruby Jane accepted another pass, threw up the shot. Fifty-two.

  Gabi took up the count, not loud, her voice a decibel higher than the gym chatter. “Fifty-five, fifty-six.” Clarice moved to the sideline, Ashley and Moira two steps behind her. They sat on the bottom bleacher. Others started helping Gabi shag the balls, held them for her until Ruby Jane was ready. New voices joined the count. “Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy.” Nothing else mattered. Not Clarice, not Jimmie. Not Bella.

  “Eighty-one, eighty-two!”

  Only the ball mattered, the hoop. Only the arc of the shot, the heat in her biceps and chest, the sweat on her forehead. Gabi grinned, Clarice scowled. Everyone else watched. “Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one!” Balls clapped the gym floor, voices chanted. Her breath was a metronome. “Ninety-four, ninety-five!” She hadn’t felt this relaxed, this calm, in she didn’t know how long. Alive. “Ninety-seven.” She took another pass, raised her arms. “Ninety-eight!” Coach took a step. The air around her lifted her up.

  “Ninety-nine!”

  The whistle blew, a piercing trill which ripped the air. Number one hundred rimmed out.

  For a moment, no one moved. Then, everyone in the gym exhaled at once, a protracted gasp. Gabi set up for another pass, but Ruby Jane held up her hand. Sweat drained into her eyes. She walked to the key. Coach approached and looked down at her.

  “I’d say you made your point.”

  She drew a breath. “Just shooting, Coach.”

  “Indeed.”

  Then everyone started talking at once. Bodies pressed in around her, hands patted her on the back. The voices were deafening. She found herself shaking her head, throwing up her hands. “Just shooting, just …” She saw Gabi grinning, and she smiled back. Then she caught Clarice’s eye. She couldn’t make out her expression, so she moved toward her. The others parted to let her through. She stopped, looked down at Clarice as she sat on the bleacher.

  “This year, when you’re open in the key, you’ll understand why.”

  “I already know you’re a good shot.”

  “Now you feel it in your bones, don’t you, bitch?”

  In her eye, Ruby Jane saw doubt, but Clarice didn’t respond. She looked away as Coach put his hand on Ruby Jane’s shoulder. “I heard that, Whittaker.”

  - 24 -

  Pre-Season, October 1988

  Ruby Jane was the first to arrive. Mrs. Parmelee sat at her desk, a stack of papers before her. She chewed on the end of a red pencil.

  “Does it matter where I sit?”

  Mrs. Parmelee pulled the pencil out of her mouth. “Anywhere you like. You’re it today.”

  Ruby Jane signed her name on the first line of the detention attendance form, then dropped her backpack next to a desk halfway along the middle row. Not her usual spot. She slid into the seat and looked around. Mrs. Parmelee’s room had one narrow window behind her desk. The chalkboard was bare except for the words NO TALKING in block letters. The Cézanne print, Bibemus Quarry, anchored the center of the bulletin board. She liked the colors. Ocher and tan, blue and forest green. She saw something clean and pure in it, nothing like the muddy pictures her mother produced. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Parmelee make a mark on one of the papers and set it aside, take the next off the stack.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Homework. Or read quietly. There’s no one to chat with, so no danger of that.” Her eyebrows raised, a pair of sideways question marks. “This is a good chance to finish your persuasive essay.”

  “Okay.”

  Ruby Jane took out her English binder and her brother’s Walkman. He’d left it behind when he fled. When Mrs. Parmelee saw it, she cocked her head. “No Walkmans in detention.”

  “What about Walkmen?”

  Mrs. Parmelee set her pencil down.

  “What brings you in today, Ruby?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Mrs. Parmelee gave a little shrug. “It’s not really my concern. It’s my week to cover detention, that’s all.”

  “So I don’t have to tell you.”

  “No.” She studied Ruby Jane. “I never expected to see you here. Since it’s just the two of us …” She shrugged again, dropped her gaze to the paper on the desk. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “It’s nothing. I don’t respond well to pressure.”

  “But I’ve seen you on the basketball court.”

  Ruby Jane shook her head. “That’s not pressure.”

  “What is, then?”

  “I should work on my essay.”

  Mrs. Parmelee looked at her, an ephemeral smile playing on her lips. But her eyes showed something else, something Ruby Jane couldn’t recognize. “Of course.”

  — + —

  A month later, Ruby Jane was back. She stopped at Mrs. Parmelee’s desk to sign in.

  “One of these days you’re going to learn to lay off Clarice.”

  “I thought you didn’t care why people got detention.”

  “You know how to draw attention to yourself.”

  “She called me a cunt.”

  Mrs. Parmelee’s lips compressed. “Then why isn’t she here?”

  “Coach didn’t hear her.”

  “But he heard you.”

  “It was worth the look on her face when I told her it was this cunt whose outside shot would keep her from dying under the double team all season long.”

  Mrs. Parmelee rolled her eyes. “Take your seat, Ruby. And dial back the language, okay?”

  Ruby Jane sat near the Cézanne print. She tried to work on Con Law, but had a hard time concentrating. Name the rights guaranteed by the First Amendment to the Constitution. The Fifth Amendment protects against what? The sounds of pens on paper, pages turning, and Hardy Berman wriggling in his seat formed an irritation of distractions. Every time someone cleared their throat, she turned to look. At one point she caught Mrs. Parmelee’s eye, but she couldn’t read her expression. Hardy shifted his weight to one side and loosed a fart. Everyone laughed.

  “Mister Berman, come up here.”

  Ruby Jane closed her eyes and lowered her head to the desk. The cool finish felt good against her cheek. The latest dispute started when Clarice jumped Gabi about a flubbed pass during a drill—a rare lapse on Gabi’s part, who’d shown remarkable instinct with the ball. Her passes were sharp and on target. She could no-look a defender out of her shoes. But during the drill, on maybe the twentieth rep, she rushed a pass. The ball bounced off Moira’s knee and skittered out of bounds. Clarice spun, eyes ablaze.

  “What’s your problem, Gabi?”

  Gabi’s conditioning wasn’t what it could be. She tended to run down before t
he others. Ruby Jane had offered to train with her, but Gabi could rarely find time outside of school and practice. Even meetings to work on their Con Law project together were tough to arrange. Gabi’s grandparents kept her on a short leash.

  “Ease off, Clarice.”

  Clarice threw Ruby Jane a glare over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “On cue, Gabi’s cunt appears to save the day.”

  Ruby Jane hadn’t noticed Coach approach from behind. A half dozen detentions might have been worth it if she’d been as clever as she claimed to Mrs. Parmelee. Not even one detention was worth, “You’re the cunt, Clarice.”

  “Time’s up, Ruby. You can go.”

  She opened her eyes. The Bibemus Quarry was before her on the wall. A slick of saliva spread from her mouth across the desktop. She looked up at Mrs. Parmelee.

  “Normally I’d have to extend your detention for sleeping, but if you promise to keep your eyes open tomorrow, I’ll let this one go.”

  Ruby Jane blushed. The classroom was empty except for Mrs. Parmelee. “Sorry.” She reached for her backpack.

  “Wait.”

  “I should go.”

  “I told Coach you’d be a few minutes late.”

  She considered her hands and thought about how it felt to hold a basketball. Secure. Safe. In control. She didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Parmelee.

  “What’s going on, Ruby?” Mrs. Parmelee sat at the desk beside her. “You look tired.”

  It was hard to sleep in a house where Bella might fire up the stereo any hour of the day or night, or bang on doors demanding Ruby Jane run the vacuum cleaner or fold laundry. Daylight or dark, it didn’t matter—someone else’s mess was always hers to clean up. But if she told Mrs. Parmelee about Bella, things might lead to Dale. She tried a weak smile.

  “I don’t play well with others.”

  “You do all right during games.”

  “Games are different.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Parmelee rested her arms on the desktop. “Did you know I played high school basketball?”

  “You’re kidding.” Yet Ruby Jane could believe it. Mrs. Parmelee possessed long fingers and an athlete’s gait. She was as tall as Clarice.