Beard With Me

Chapter One

*Scarlet*

Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.

Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown / Peanuts

Caution tape barred the way to the chorus room. Gulping a hard bubble of air, my attention moved from the yellow tape to the hallway beyond it, to a white poster board next to the door. The sign had been set on an easel and it read, WET PAINT – DO NOT ENTER.

No. No, no, no! My eyes darted again to the yellow tape.

I gripped the paper sack holding my free school lunch. A sound of despair tumbled from my mouth. Heart galloping, pits sweating, my tongue tasting sour with dread, I had a moment.

And by a moment I mean I freaked out.

Officially, I wasn’t allowed to eat in the chorus room. No one was. But early on in my freshman year, I’d snuck in and hid myself between two rows of chairs, careful to dash inside before Mrs. McClure arrived for her lesson planning hour. I’d become quite skilled at leaving unnoticed after the bell rang for fourth period, when her students wandered in.

This had worked for the last (almost) year and a half, but it obviously wouldn’t work today. Making matters worse, this was the last month of school before winter break. There was no sneaky way to find a place to sit in the lunchroom when I’d spent the majority of the year not eating in the lunchroom.

Tugging on the recently repaired strap of my very, very old backpack—some might even consider it an antique—I stuffed the food inside, harsh movements made clumsy by swelling frustration. But then I paused, taking a slow, deep breath, and telling my shaking hands and thundering heart to cool it.

How does the ocean say hello to the beach? I asked myself, quietly supplying the answer, Gives it a little wave.

The stupid joke helped ease the tangle in my stomach and I cracked a smile, laughing lightly.

Don’t be stupid. This is no big deal. Whatever.

The first fourteen and a half years of life had taught me many valuable lessons. One of the most important was that the magnitude of disappointment was directly proportional to the magnitude of expectations. I’d known this for a while, but the concept had finally solidified in my mind this year during physics class when we’d learned about Newton’s third law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It applied to life and hopes and dreams and expectations too.

Now I had a math equation to estimate my level of disappointment based on my level of expectation. Isn’t that nice?

My first mistake was coming to rely upon the chorus room. Second mistake was allowing myself to look forward to this moment. Today was Friday. Eating lunch in a quiet, heated place was a luxury. Free of people, free of bugs, free of people who behaved like bugs. Now I had nowhere to eat my lunch that wasn’t free of bug people.

Come on now, Scarlet. You know better, I murmured, rolling my eyes and angling my chin. "It could be worse. It could be the first month of school."

My crack of a smile widened, and I sighed as I turned to the tricky zipper of my bag. I needed to be careful. If it was unzipped past a certain point, it wouldn’t re-zip and I’d go the rest of the day with my books and papers falling all over the place.

Plus, I’d have to find a new zipper to sew inside and that would be difficult. Blythe Tanner, who was usually my source for clothes and such items in return for help with can and glass recycling, wasn’t speaking to me ever since my dad threatened to disembowel her dad two months ago. Her father owned the junkyard and my father wanted to store stolen cars in his junkyard. Mr. Tanner—not being a criminal—refused.

A shiver raced down my spine and I promptly submerged it—and thoughts of my father—using a trick I’d picked up at ten years old: rephrase a situation as a scripted comedy TV show. Good old dad, always threatening disembowelments. What a character!

Yeah. I talked to myself a lot. I told myself a lot of jokes. I even had inside jokes . . . with myself. I guess folks needed to talk to someone, and it was mostly just me around for conversation. But that was just fine. I was an awesome conversationalist.

Closing my eyes, I knelt on the ground and placed the backpack carefully on the floor so I could gently tuck my food inside on top of my jacket. The back of my hand brushed against my prized possession, a Walkman CD player, and I was careful not to knock it around. With my eyes shut, sounds that were usually background noise sharpened and increased in volume. The rumble of students talking and eating became a roar, trays being set on tables, soda cans opening, laughter.

My stomach sunk, but only for half a second. Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I immediately demanded that my stomach turn itself around and return to my middle. I did not have time for sinking stomachs, not over something so silly.

Lunch would be over in forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes is no big deal. I’ll figure it out. Pretending to fiddle with the front pocket of my bag, just in case a teacher happened by, I debated my options.

The lunchroom was not a possibility. Two choices awaited me within: Try to sit with the other Iron Wraiths kids, or try to sit with anyone else, because there would be no empty tables. Green Valley was bursting at the seams, too many students and too few seats.

I couldn’t sit with the Iron Wraiths kids. They’d most likely let me, seeing as how my father was the club president, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Prince King would probably try something horrible to get my attention or make me angry, and then Carla Creavers would do something to get Cletus’s attention—who never seemed to sit at the same table twice—maybe flirt with Prince King. Prince King looked like Jared Leto, but he was a complete jerk.

Anyway, Prince King would then get overaggressive with Carla, and then Cletus would intervene—even though it wouldn’t be about Carla, it would be about Prince being ungentlemanly—and then there would be a fight and we’d all get detention.

But I couldn’t sit with anyone else. No one wanted to be my partner for class projects—ever—and I honestly didn’t blame them. Who would want their kids hanging out with one of the Wraiths kids? And the president’s daughter? No. Plus, I was under no delusions about the state of my clothes and appearance. Clothes and appearance in high school are everything, and my nickname since seventh grade had vacillated between Smelly Scarlet or Sweaty Scarlet.

But, you know, their loss, I mumbled, shrugging.

Another option was the hallway just off the cafeteria, but I quickly dismissed this possibility. Principal Sylvester had forbidden students from the corridor during lunch since last month, after Cletus Winston and Prince King had gotten into a fistfight. Now it was off-limits and heavily patrolled.

A noise snagged my attention, the sound of a toilet flushing, and I turned my head toward it. A few seconds later, two girls exited the bathroom, deep in conversation. I lowered my eyes to my backpack and redoubled my pretend fiddling while they walked past, paying me no mind. As soon as their voices faded, I returned my attention to the girls’ bathroom door and EUREKA!

Of course!

With my lunch tucked safely in my backpack—and the tricky zipper closed—I brought the bag to my shoulder and stood; my decision made easy by the obvious choice.

What did one toilet say to the other? I muttered to myself, walking toward the bathroom and answering in my head, You look flushed.

My lips curved at the joke, and I chuckled. "You look flushed. That’s funny. Or maybe it could be, you look pooped. Or how about, why are you so pissed? The last punchline had me laughing and shaking my head at myself again, muttering, Good one, Scarlet. You should write that—"

I was so lost in my self-congratulations for the superior punchline, I almost collided with the boys’ bathroom door as it unexpectedly opened, missing a door handle to the groin by jumping backward and to the side. But my quick thinking meant that my shoulder and chest collided with the boy who was exiting the bathroom, which meant that I fell backward on my ass.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. As previously noted, this law applies to life, hopes, dreams, expectations, and masses traveling at varying velocities, especially when one of those masses is a huge boy and the other mass is me.

Are you— the boy started, taking a hasty step in my direction that made his sneakers squeak on the linoleum, but then he stopped speaking and moving just as suddenly.

I froze, a colossal spike of renewed dismay chasing the air from my lungs. I fought to keep the grimace from my face, and not just because my tailbone was going to be sore for several days as a result of my graceless fall. I didn’t need to look up to know this boy who’d accidentally knocked me down was none other than high school junior, current star quarterback of the Green Valley football team, every girl’s fantasy boyfriend, and my childhood nemesis, Billy Winston.

Nowadays, I avoided him and he ignored me. Actually, in the scheme of things, it was probably more accurate to say I was beneath his notice. So . . .

Scarlet, he said, like the word was a dirty one, and then released a quiet, drawn-out, annoyed huff. Are you okay?

I nodded wordlessly. He didn’t move.

When we were kids, I would’ve thrown some insult at him. I would’ve felt anger and irritation at being knocked down by Billy, even if it was an accident. I had a kind of fearless confidence when I was a kid, like I really mattered. All that changed in middle school; not because of any one big event or wound; more like thousands of tiny cuts (literally and figuratively). I’d grown tired of fighting the world because the world always won.

ANYWAY.

Presently, my eyes on his feet, I kept my mouth shut, waiting for him to leave.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like he was about to leave. But he didn’t.

Here. His tone laced with impatience, he reached out a hand. Let me help you up.

Instinct had me flinching back and tucking my chin to my chest.

What the hell, Scarlet? It’s not like I’m going to hit you, he grumbled, sounding even more exasperated.

I sat frozen, heat climbing up my neck and cheeks. Just leave, I wanted to holler. Just freaking go! Little kid Scarlet would have.

A moment passed and his hand dropped. Another moment passed and I heard him exhale a sigh, louder this time. Without another word, he walked around me. I listened as his footsteps carried him away, until the sound was swallowed by the maniacally cheerful cafeteria chatter.

Then and only then did I allow myself to breathe. But I would not allow myself to think about what had just happened.

No. Nothing happened, I said. Nothing happened. I tripped and I fell. He was never here. Nothing happened.

Uh, I’m pretty sure something happened.

My head snapped up and I found Ben McClure standing not more than fifteen feet away, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, his attention on the other end of the corridor where the cafeteria was, and where Billy Winston had just disappeared.

Hey, Scarlet, he said, sounding distracted.

Oh. Hey, Ben, I croaked. My cheeks probably matched the color of my hair by now.

If Billy Winston was Green Valley’s picture of the perfect high school boyfriend, Ben McClure was their image of an ideal man, full stop. Ben was about two years older than Billy, but they were both tall and big and square-jawed and deep-voiced. Until last year, when he graduated, Ben had been the starting quarterback of the football team. Billy had taken his place.

But that’s about where the resemblances ended.

Where Billy’s hair was dark brown, almost black, Ben’s was golden blond. Billy had icy blue eyes that felt sharp and piercing, like needles and knives every time he looked at you. Honestly, Billy’s looks were off-putting. He was just too handsome, movie-star handsome, looking at him directly hurt just a little. But Ben’s blues were warm and pretty, like bluebells in the summer. His handsomeness was softer, more approachable, boyish.

Both considered good mannered, but Billy’s idea of polite was coldly formal, whereas Ben treated everyone like his best friend.

Also, Billy never smiled. Even when he was a kid, he never smiled. Ben’s smile was near constant, just varying in size and intention based on the occasion. He had his smile of greeting, his smile of encouragement, his shy smile, his amused smile, his mischievous smile, his—

Ahhhh. Stop it, Scarlet. Stop torturing yourself.

In case you hadn’t guessed by my gushing, I had a bit of a crush on Ben McClure. But in my defense, I think everyone in town did too. Men, women, children, dogs. He was so darn friendly and good. He was the best at everything.

Whatcha doing? I felt his gaze come to rest on me where I still sat grimacing on the ground.

Swallowing around the unidentified oral object—an UOO, if you will—making my throat tight, I forced a chuckle. Uh, well. That’s a valid question. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.

I snuck a peek at him as I found my feet, certain my grin was goofy rather than charming. But that didn’t matter. First off, we were friends . . . of a sort. Ben was nice to me and went out of his way to engage me in conversation whenever we happened upon each other. That didn’t make me special. Ben was friends or friendly with most everyone in town.

Regardless, it still meant something to me. One of my favorite things about Ben McClure was that he didn’t care about who anyone’s parents were, or where they were from, or how old their clothes were, or how old they were. He might’ve cared about how I smelled on summer days when showers were hard to come by, but he never said anything about it.

Point was, he was kind to everybody, all the time, no matter how much of a fool you made of yourself, no matter who you were.

Basically, he was perfect.

Sigh.

Ben’s eyebrows pulled together as he crossed to me, his eyes traveling over my person, and his examination made me hotter under the collar.

Are you all right? That was quite a fall. He looked and sounded uncharacteristically irritated as he said this.

Y—you saw that? I asked haltingly, wrestling with both my mortification and my heart, which had suddenly gone squishy.

Yeah, I saw it. He gave me a small smile that seemed to be tempered with concern. You keep running into doors like that, I'll have to follow you around to catch you.

Oh. Ha. Hahahaha. YES PLEASE.

He lifted his chin toward the cafeteria. Was that William Winston? Knocking you down and not helping you up?

Yikes.

I shook my head quickly. It wasn't his fault. I wasn't looking where I was going, and he was just minding his own business, and there I was, flying down the hall, not paying attention. And he offered to help me up, I just—

Scarlet. Ben lifted his hands, showing me his palms. You don't need to be defending William to me. I know how he is.

I repressed my urge to set Ben straight about defending William—Billy—Winston. I just didn’t want Ben going to Billy’s momma and repeating what he witnessed. Then Mrs. Winston would talk to her son and make him apologize or something. The last thing I needed was Billy’s ire. And besides, he did offer me a hand. I was the one who refused to take it.

That looked like quite a fall. Ben stepped forward, his pretty eyes losing any trace of frustration or resentment; the result caused a warming effect on my stomach.

Or maybe I was just hungry.

Are you okay? he asked quietly, looking concerned.

I made a clumsy little snorting sound, waving away his worry. Oh me? Nah. I’m fine. It would take a lot more than that to hurt my backside. Have you seen how much padding I got back there? That thing is well protected. Now I snorted conspiratorially, as much as one can snort conspiratorially . . .

Dear Lord in heaven, why am I such a dork?

Truth be told, concern made me uncomfortable and I wasn’t thinking about my words or my snort, I just wanted to change the subject. Growing up, folks never seemed to show me overt concern without an ulterior motive, and I'd known Mrs. McClure's son long enough to know he didn't ever have an ulterior motive. Therefore, Scarlet the Grand Dame of Dorkiness, always emerged when he showed concern. Somehow, I’d have to figure out how to subdue the Grand Dame before she reigned supreme.

Meanwhile, Ben straightened, shoving his hands back in his pockets, his eyes skipping over my shoulder to look down the hall. I haven’t—I would never— He shook his head, like he was clearing it of something. Then he laughed lightly. Scarlet, if you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll let it drop.

I’m fine. I grinned, dorkily, I’m sure showcasing a mouth full of crooked teeth. His teeth were straight as pine trees planted in a row. How I envied his teeth.

Okay then. Warm smile in place, his gaze once more traveling over my face, he took a small step to the side. Have you seen my momma? I’m supposed to meet her for lunch.

Ah! Of course. Ben often met his mom for lunch on Fridays since he’d graduated. He went to college in Nashville but drove home most weekends to help his parents. From my hiding place in the chorus room I refused to eavesdrop on their conversations, focusing my attention on books or whatnot. But I did hear their shared laughter—her light, musical chuckle and his deep, rolling belly laugh—from time to time. It always put me in such a good mood, and I’d catch myself smiling later when I remembered it.

Hearing other people laugh at something friendly, something good-natured, was one of my favorite sounds.

I honestly don’t know where Mrs. McClure is. The chorus room is closed. I pointed toward it. Something about wet paint.

That’s right. She said to meet her in the courtyard. Ben checked his watch, then glanced at me. I think I’m late. Where’s your lunch? Isn't it lunchtime?

It's in my bag. I was going to eat in the—well, in my normal spot, but it's not open right now, so I thought I'd eat in the bathroom. I cringed, not meaning to confess so much, yet not terribly surprised I had. There was just something about Ben that made me always tell the truth. I couldn’t imagine lying to such a good, kind face. Or the person behind it.

Scarlet, what are you talking about? You can't eat in the bathroom. It's not sanitary. He gave me a funny look, like he was trying to scold me and not laugh at the same time. Why not eat in the cafeteria?

Every muscle in my body tensed at the suggestion, my eyes lowering to the floor, another UOO in my throat. I'd prefer not. Not only that, but it wasn’t something I wished to discuss, not with beautiful Ben.

I'll sit with you, if you like.

I shook my head, not even his sweet suggestion could lessen the finality of my decision. Plus, Scarlet St. Claire eating lunch in the cafeteria with Ben McClure wouldn’t go unnoticed. I moved my weight to the left, intending to walk around him. I need to go to the bathroom anyway.

Ben leaned to the side, blocking my way. Okay, you don’t want to eat in the cafeteria. How about this, you come with me and have lunch with my momma in the courtyard. Where’s your jacket?

In my backpack, but I'm not allowed in the—

It'll be fine. He slid his hand down my arm and entwined our fingers, sending racing goose bumps up my arm and in my brain.

ALERT!!!

We were touching. Oh my dear Lord, we were touching. Now I was sweating again. Something about being touched in a nice way, and apparently by anyone I had a crush on, made my glands activate and act a drama. I guess I knew what that something was, but still. The overreaction was frustrating.

Come on, she'd love it. Ben tugged. You know you're one of her favorite students.

Self-preservation made me drag my feet. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have lunch with Ben and Mrs. McClure. Rather, going through the cafeteria in order to get to the courtyard was the problem. I didn't want to draw that kind of attention to myself.

Picture it: me, walking through the Green Valley High cafeteria, holding hands with Ben McClure. Yeah, that wouldn't go unnoticed, even if it didn't mean anything.

Wait a minute, wait.

Scarlet, time is running out. If you want to eat, we should go meet my mom. And I'm not letting you eat in the bathroom. So, it's either you and I sit together in the cafeteria, or you come with me to the courtyard.

Okay, okay. I'll come with. I gently withdrew my fingers from his, needing him not to touch me so my brain would work. You, uh, you go on first and I'll walk behind.

He inspected me, his eyebrows pulled together into a V, making him look both amused and confused. You don't need to walk behind me, Scarlet. I'm not ashamed to be seen with you.

I know that, Ben, I replied softly, my mind and my belly tripping all over themselves at his words.

Mrs. Winston was sweet to me, Mrs. McClure was too. But Ben's sweetness landed different. It felt like a light touch rather than a squeezing hug.

Reaching for my hand again, his mouth pulled to the side. I took a step back, evading him, and gripped the straps of my backpack with closed fists. Go on. I'll follow.

He studied me again. Hold up. Are you ashamed to be seen with me?

I rushed forward unthinkingly, horrified that he'd even ask the question, and grabbed hold of his arm. Oh no. Never. I'd never be embarrassed of you. You're just the nicest, most . . . I licked my lips, knowing I shouldn’t continue that sentence, and added quietly, I know how lucky I am, that we’re friends. I was. So lucky.

His fair treatment of me over the last few years meant that other people hadn’t been quite so harsh, and for that I was eternally grateful. Ben McClure was the reigning golden boy of Green Valley, since his birth. Everyone knew the story. His momma and daddy weren't able to have kids for the first twenty-five years of their marriage. Folks prayed and prayed for them. Then one day, miraculously, she got pregnant after they'd given up trying.

The entire town celebrated, or so that’s the way the town gossip Karen Smith told it. Mrs. McClure’s baby shower had been a sight, with people buying silver baby rattles and engraved cups and spoons. Everything he wore until he was three had been hand-monogrammed by someone’s grandmother. Everywhere he went, people were happy to see him. Big Ben, they called him when he was little. The name persisted even now that he really was big, and he bore it all with grace and patience.

He was everyone's favorite. Every teacher, administrator, minister, coach. He was great at everything. He was the best.

And this favorite child of Green Valley was grinning at me. At me. Scarlet St. Claire, spawn of Satan and his illiterate mistress. (No lie, my momma can’t read).

Ben reached for my hand where I held on to my backpack strap, fit our fingers together, and coaxed me toward the cafeteria. Again.

Well, I’m glad you feel lucky. ’Cause I feel the same way about you. His eyes conducted another sweep of my face, making my stomach warm once more. Or maybe I was just really, really hungry.

And yet, my steps were still slow and hesitant, the dread almost eclipsing the good feelings in my torso. If we were seen—and we were definitely going to be seen—by any of the Wraiths kids, it would get back to my father. And that would be like putting a target on Ben's back.

Ben—

Listen. Just trust me, okay? It'll be fine. So what, high school kids will see us together.

But if we're holding hands, it might look like something it isn't, and then people will talk.

He shrugged, giving me another of his smiles; from where I stood, I couldn’t tell if it was a shy or sly one. Or, it might look like exactly what it is. So let them talk. He squeezed my hand. I'll keep you safe.

I tried to return his smile but couldn’t. It wasn’t my safety I was worried about.

Chapter Two

*Billy*

Not only had my brother disappeared, but… a part of my very being had gone with him. Stories about us could, from then on, be told from only one perspective. Memories could be spoken but not shared.

John Corey Whaley, Where Things Come Back

My eyes were on the road, but my mind was occupied with the disaster sitting next to me.

Thanks, he said.

Without looking over, I breathed in through my nose, stretching my lungs with as much cold air as would fit.

Of course, I said, calmly. Anytime.

Anytime?

I shifted in my seat. Lord, give me patience.

You don’t even know why I’m thanking you and yet you say, ‘Anytime.’

Whatever, Cletus.

He snorted, then winced, testing his lip. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the pad of his index and middle finger come away bloody. He smeared the red with this thumb, tucking his hands under his crossed arms. A second later he placed one hand on each knee.

What if I was thanking you for letting me get another dog?

We’re not getting another dog, I said, again calmly. But also with decisiveness. We were not getting another dog. We could barely afford the vet bills and food for the dog we had.

But you said, ‘Anytime.’ Therefore, I’m taking you as a man of your word, and—

Cletus.

He snapped his mouth shut and huffed, glancing away from me and out the window. We drove in silence, my old truck jostling us both as we drove over a pothole. This weekend or next, I’d have to check the suspension and shocks. If I can find the time.

I suppose you meant, ‘Anytime,’ for something else then. Maybe you meant I could have cake anytime?

Sure, Cletus.

He grumbled something akin to, You’re only letting me have cake anytime ’cause you know I don’t like cake all that much, then winced again, sucking in a breath. I made the mistake of glancing at him and immediately wished I hadn’t. The color of his nose and the trail of blood dripping down his temple made my insides curdle with breath-snatching worry, rage, and urges I’d never act upon. His left eye was already starting to swell shut.

Clamping my jaw closed, I glared out the windshield.

I suppose you know why I said thanks, so we’ll just leave it at that. He sniffed, lifting his nose in the air and crossing his arms again. I’m hungry, what’s for dinner?

Lord. Patience. Anytime now. Please.

Cletus may have been just eleven months younger than me, but I couldn’t imagine a time when I wouldn’t consider him a kid. Maybe when he stopped fighting all the time? Or when he remembered that Friday night was his evening to cook dinner.

It’s your night to cook, Cletus. So you tell me. Calm. Calm. Calm.

Well shoot. He made a tsking noise. Can we stop by the store?

Nope.

He turned to me. But I didn’t pick anything up.

Yeah. I know that. Because I just dragged you off Prince King behind the stadium instead of picking you up at the store, which is where you were supposed to be.

So what’s the plan here, Billy? You want me to hunt wild boar in the backyard? If we don’t go to the store, then we’ll have no food for dinner.

You got the money?

He stiffened. A second later, he swallowed so loud, I heard it. Not . . . exactly.

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh. Of course. Of course he didn’t have the money. Who’d you give it to this time? Calm. So calm. Like a placid lake.

Carla.

Carla? Carla who?

Creavers.

I found I needed to inhale deeply again to keep the curses from leaving my mouth. As an extra measure, I covered my lips with my hand, keeping the ballooning frustration inside.

As I debated my options—what to do, what to say that would induce Cletus to do what I wanted, which was to stop acting like a fool—I remembered something Dolly Payton had once said to me at a picnic. She was the CEO of Payton Mills, where I worked, the matriarch of the Payton family, friendly with my mother, looked a bit like Phylicia Rashad, and was the smartest person I knew. She’d called me a natural born leader and gave me this advice,

When you manage people, figure out what your employees need from you in order for them to be their most successful selves. Some folks need praise, some folks need criticism, some folks need structure. Some folks just need small talk, knowing you care, and that’s it. It’ll be different for each person.

Basically, when you’re a leader, it’s impossible to treat everyone the same. Each person needed something different from you—as their leader—in order to succeed. Being in charge meant figuring out what that thing was for each individual, and then giving it to them.

Yelling at Cletus, asking him what the hell he'd been thinking, expressing the extreme nature of my anger and disappointment wouldn't do any good.

That approach worked with only one of my younger brothers. A sharp word was all it took with twelve-year-old Beau. He wanted blunt honesty. He wanted me to give it to him straight.

But Duane, the other twin, needed praise. I coldly and pointedly ignored Duane and his mistakes, and then I praised his good decisions.

Whereas eight-year-old Roscoe just wanted someone to talk to. If I took the time to sit and talk with Roscoe, reason with him, he did great. Problem was, finding the time.

Point was, the other three could be chastised. They cared about disappointing me. Ashley, who’d just turned fourteen in August, never required any yelling or scolding or praise or talking. She just always did the right thing. Thank God for Ashley.

But Cletus? Confronting him made him more ornery and likely to do the wrong thing on purpose later, just to spite me. Trying to reason with him got me nowhere, he seemed to think it was a battle of wits. Praising Cletus only made him suspicious of my intentions. It was almost like he needed to be tricked into behaving.

So I said nothing, and I ignored the pressure behind my eyes . We drove for a stretch longer, me breathing in through my nose to cool my brain, him sitting perfectly still.

He must’ve been hurting. In addition to his swelling eye, his lip was busted open in one place that I could see. Getting him inside the house wouldn't be a problem. Momma wasn’t due home with the kids until six, and if we needed more time to patch him up and make him presentable, Ashley could always be counted on to help.

Then we'd just tell another lie at the dinner table, as usual. Maybe something about falling out of a tree. We hadn't used that excuse in a while.

Do you want to know what happened? My brother’s solemn voice cut through the quiet, distracting me from my plans.

I sucked in another bracing breath and leaned my elbow on the sill, pinching my bottom lip with my thumb and index finger. If you want to tell me the story, I'll listen.

I needed to trim my beard. It had come in fully over the summer, just like Jethro’s had when he turned sixteen. Now the hair around my lips was getting in the way of food and kissing. I’d tried to shave a few times, but that just ended up a mess, with my face all cut up.

Plus, razors were expensive.

Cletus uncrossed his arms again, returning his hands to his knees. His fingers drummed out a restless rhythm. Well now, that's not a forthright answer.

Cletus—

You'll listen to what happened if’n I tell it, but you don't wish to know.

Gripping the peeling leather of my steering wheel, now with both hands, I glanced at the visor above the windshield, where I kept a recent photo of my family tucked against the ceiling. We’d all gone rafting down the Nantahala in August, working as a team, laughing and talking the whole way. Just a normal, happy family.

That’s what I wanted, that’s what we were working toward. I couldn't see the photo at present, but I knew it was there. A reminder.

Billy, I didn't start the fight.

Okay. Lord, give me patience. Please.

"I swear on the