Lock and Key (14 page)

“Look,” I said, taking another bite, “all I’m saying is that you shouldn’t have to turn your whole life upside down. Or Jamie’s, either. Go on as you were. It’s not like I’m a baby you suddenly have to raise or something.”

Her expression changed, the flat, angry look giving way to something else, something not exactly softer, but more distant. Like she was backing away, even while staying in the same place. She looked down at her coffee cup, then cleared her throat. “Right,” she said curtly. “Of course not.”

She pushed her chair up, getting to her feet, and I watched her walk to the coffeemaker and pour herself another cup. A moment later, with her back still to me, she said, “You will need some new clothes, though. At least a few things.”

“Oh,” I said, looking down at my jeans, which I’d washed twice in three days, and the faded T-shirt I’d worn my last day at Jackson. “I’m okay.”

Cora picked up her purse. “I’ve got an appointment this morning, and Jamie has to be here,” she said, taking out a few bills and bringing them over to me. “But you can walk to the new mall. There’s a greenway path. He can show you where it is.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Ruby. Please.” Her voice was tired. “Just take it.”

I looked at the money, then at her. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything, instead just turning around and walking out of the room, her purse under her arm. Roscoe lifted his head, watching her go, then turned his attention to me, watching as I unfolded the money. It was two hundred bucks.
Not bad,
I thought. Still, I waited another moment, until I was sure she’d gone upstairs, before pocketing it.

The door rattled beside me as Jamie came in, empty coffee mug dangling from one finger. “Morning!” he said, clearly on a pond high as he walked to the island, grabbing a muffin out of the box on the table on his way. Roscoe jumped up, following him. “So, did you guys get your shopping day all planned out? And FYI, there’s no just browsing with her. She
insists
on a plan of attack.”

“We’re not going shopping,” I said.

“You aren’t? ” He turned around. “I thought that was the plan. Girls’ day out, lunch and all that.”

I shrugged. “She said she has an appointment.”

“Oh.” He looked at me for a moment. “So . . . where’d she go?”

“Upstairs, I think.”

He nodded, then glanced back out at the backhoe, which was backing up—
beep beep.
Then he looked at me again before starting out of the room, and a moment later, I heard the steady thump of him climbing the stairs. Roscoe, who had followed him as far as the doorway, stopped, looking back at me.

“Go ahead,” I told him. “Nothing to see here.”

Of course, he didn’t agree with this. Instead, as Cora’s and Jamie’s voices drifted down from upstairs—discussing me, I was sure—he came closer, tags jingling, and plopped down at my feet again. Funny how in a place this big, it was so hard to just be alone.

An hour and a half later, dressed and ready with Cora’s money in my pocket, I headed outside to ask Jamie for directions to the shortcut to the mall. I found him at the far end of the yard, beyond the now sizable and deep hole, talking to a man by Nate’s fence.

At first, I assumed it was one of the guys from the digging company, several of whom had been milling around ever since the backhoe had arrived. Once I got closer, though, it became apparent that whoever this guy was, he didn’t drive machinery for a living.

He was tall, with salt-and-pepper gray hair and tanned skin, and had on faded jeans, leather loafers, and what I was pretty sure was a cashmere sweater, a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses tucked into his collar. As he and Jamie talked, he was spinning his car keys around one finger, then folding them into his palm, again and again.
Spin, clank, spin, clank.

“. . . figured you were digging to China,” the man was saying as I came into earshot. “Or for oil, maybe.”

“Nope, just putting in a pond,” Jamie said.

“A pond?”

“Yeah.” Jamie slid his hands into his pockets, glancing over at the hole again. “Organic to the landscaping and the neighborhood. No chemicals, all natural.”

“Sounds expensive,” the man said.

“Not really. I mean, the initial setup isn’t cheap, but it’s an investment. Over time, it’ll really add to the yard.”

“Well,” the man said, flicking his keys again, “if you’re looking for an investment, we should sit down and talk. I’ve got some things cooking that might interest you, really up-and -coming ideas. In fact—”

“Ruby, hey,” Jamie said, cutting him off as he spotted me. He slid an arm over my shoulder, saying, “Blake, this is Ruby, Cora’s sister. She’s staying with us for a while. Ruby, this is Blake Cross. Nate’s dad.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Cross said, extending his hand. He had a firm handshake, the kind I imagined they must teach in business school: two pumps, with solid eye contact the entire time. “I was just trying to convince your brother-in -law it’s a better thing to put money in a good idea than the ground. Don’t you agree?”

“Um,” I said as Jamie shot me a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know.”

“Of course you do! It’s basic logic,” Mr. Cross said. Then he laughed, flicking his keys again, and looked at Jamie, who was watching the backhoe again.

“So,” I said to Jamie, “Cora said you could tell me how to get to the mall?”

“The mall?” Jamie asked. “Oh, the greenway. Sure. It’s just down the street, to the right. Stones by the entrance.”

“Can’t miss it,” Mr. Cross said. “Just look for all the people not from this neighborhood traipsing through.”

“Blake,” Jamie said, “it’s a community greenway. It’s open to everyone.”

“Then why put it in a private, gated neighborhood? ” Mr. Cross asked. “Look, I’m as community oriented as the next person. But there’s a reason we chose to live here, right? Because it’s exclusive. Open up a part of it to just anyone and you lose that.”

“Not necessarily,” Jamie said.

“Come on,” Mr. Cross said. “I mean, what’d you spend on your place here?”

“You know,” Jamie said, obviously uncomfortable, “that’s not really—”

“A million—or close to it, right?” Mr. Cross continued, over him. Jamie sighed, looking over at the backhoe again. “And for that price, you should get what you want, whether it be a sense of security, like-minded neighbors, exclusivity—”

“Or a pond,” I said, just as the backhoe banged down again, then began to back up with a series of beeps.

“What’s that?” Mr. Cross asked, cupping a hand over his ear.

“Nothing,” I said. Jamie looked over at me, smiling. “It was nice to meet you.”

He nodded, then turned his attention back to Jamie as I said my good-byes and started across the yard. On my way, I stopped at the edge of the hole, looking down into it. It was deep, and wide across, much more substantial than what I’d pictured based on Jamie’s description. A lot can change between planning something and actually doing it. But maybe all that really matters is that anything is different at all.

Chapter Five

Maybe it was my talk with Cora, or just the crazy week I’d had. Whatever the reason, once I got to the mall, I found myself heading to the bus stop. Two transfers and forty minutes later, I was at Marshall’s.

He lived in Sandpiper Arms, an apartment complex just through the woods from Jackson that was best known for its cheap rent and the fact that its units were pre-furnished. They were also painted an array of pastel colors, candy pinks and sky blues, bright, shiny yellows. Marshall’s was lime green, which wasn’t so bad, except for some reason going there always made me want a Sprite.

When I first knocked on the door, nobody answered. After two more knocks, I was about to pull out my bus schedule and start plotting my ride home, but then the door swung open, and Rogerson peered out at me.

“Hey,” I said. He blinked, then ran a hand through his thick dreadlock-like hair, squinting in the sun. “Is Marshall here? ”

“Bedroom,” he replied, dropping his hand from the door and shuffling back to his own room. I didn’t know much about Rogerson, other than the pot thing and that he and Marshall worked together in the kitchen at Sopas, a Mexican joint in town. I’d heard rumors about him spending some time in jail—something about assault—but he wasn’t the most talkative person and pretty much kept to himself, so who knew what was really true.

I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust: Marshall and Rogerson, like my mother, preferred things dim. Maybe it was a late-shift thing, this aversion to daylight in general, and morning specifically. The room smelled like stale smoke as I moved forward, down the narrow hallway, passing the small kitchen, where pizza boxes and abandoned soda bottles crowded the island. In the living room, some guy was stretched out across the sofa, a pillow resting on his face: I could see a swath of belly, pale and ghostly, sticking out from under his T-shirt, which had ridden up slightly. Across the room, the TV was on, showing bass fishing on mute.

Marshall’s door was closed, but not all the way. "Yeah? ” he said, after I knocked.

“It’s me,” I replied. Then he coughed, which I took as permission to enter and pushed it open.

He was sitting at the pre-fab desk, shirtless, the window cracked open beside him, rolling a cigarette. His skin, freckled and pale, seemed to almost glow in the bit of light the window allowed, and, this being Marshall, you could clearly make out his collarbones and ribs. The boy was skinny, but unfortunately for me, I liked skinny boys.

“There she is,” he said, turning to face me. “Long time no see.”

I smiled, then cleared a space for myself across from him on the unmade bed and sat down. The room itself was a mess of clothes, shoes, and magazines, things strewn all over the place. One thing that stuck out was a box of candy, one of those samplers, on the bureau top, still wrapped in plastic. “What’s that?” I asked. “You somebody’s Valentine?”

He picked up the cigarette, sticking it into his mouth, and I instantly regretted asking this. It wasn’t like I cared who else he saw, if anybody. “It’s October.”

“Could be belated,” I said with a shrug.

“My mom sent it. You want to open it?” I shook my head, then watched as he sat back, exhaling smoke up into the air. “So what’s going on?”

I shrugged. “Not much. I’m actually looking for Peyton. You seen her?”

“Not lately.” A phone rang in the other room, then abruptly stopped. “But I’ve been working a lot, haven’t been around much. I’m about to take off—have to work lunch today.”

“Right,” I said, nodding. I sat back, looking around me, as a silence fell over us. Suddenly I felt stupid for coming here, even with my lame excuse. “Well, I should go, too. I’ve got a ton of stuff to do.”

“Yeah?” he said slowly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, closer to me. “Like what?”

I shrugged, starting to push myself to my feet. “Nothing that would interest you.”

“No?” he asked, stopping me by moving a little closer, his knees bumping mine. “Try me.”

“Shopping,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “No kidding,” he said. “One week at Perkins Day and you’re already fashion-conscious.”

“How’d you know I was at Perkins Day?” I asked.

Marshall shrugged, pulling back a bit. “Someone was talking about it,” he said.

“Really.”

“Yeah.” He looked at me for a moment, then slid his hands out, moving them up my thighs to my waist. Then he ducked his head down, resting it in my lap, and I smoothed my hands over his hair, running it through my fingers. As I felt him relax into me, another silence fell, but this one I was grateful for. After all, with me and Marshall, it had never been about words or conversation, where there was too much to be risked or lost. Here, though, in the quiet, pressed against each other, this felt familiar to me. And it was nice to let someone get close again, even if it was just for a little while.

It was only later, when I was curled up under his blankets, half asleep, that I was reminded of everything that had happened since the last time I’d been there. Marshall was getting ready for work, digging around for his belt, when he laid something cool on my shoulder. Reaching up, I found the key to Cora’s house, still on its silver fob, which must have slipped out of my pocket at some point. “Better hang on to that,” he said, his back to me as he bent over his shoes. “If you want to get home.”

As I sat up, closing it in my hand, I wanted to tell him that Cora’s house wasn’t home, that I wasn’t even sure what that word meant anymore. But I knew he didn’t really care, and anyway he was already pulling on a Sopas T-shirt, getting ready to leave. So instead, I began collecting my own clothes, all business, just like him. I didn’t necessarily have to get out first, but I wasn’t about to be left behind.

I’d never been much of a shopper, mostly because, like sky-diving or playing polo, it wasn’t really within my realm of possibility. Before my mom needed me for Commercial, I’d had a couple of jobs of my own—working at greasy fast-food joints, ringing up shampoo and paper towels at discount drugstores—but all that money I’d tried to put away. Even then I’d had a feeling that someday I would need it for something more than sweaters and lipsticks. Sure enough, once my mom had taken off, I’d pretty much cleared out my savings, and now I was back at zero, just when I needed money most.

Which was why it felt so stupid to even be buying clothes, especially with two hundred bucks I’d scored by doing absolutely nothing. On the flip side, though, I couldn’t keep wearing the same four things forever. Plus, Cora was already pissed at me; making her think I’d just pocketed her money would only make things worse. So I forced myself through the narrow aisles of store after store, loud music blasting overhead as I scoured clearance racks for bargains.

It wasn’t like I could have fit in at Perkins on my budget, even if I wanted to. Which, of course, I didn’t. Still, in the time I’d been there, I’d noticed the irony in what all the girls were wearing, which was basically expensive clothes made to look cheap. Two-hundred-dollar jeans with rips and patches, Lanoler cashmere sweaters tied sloppily around their waists, high-end T-shirts specifically weathered and faded to look old and worn. My old stuff at the yellow house, mildew aside, would have been perfect; as it was, I was forced to buy not only new stuff but cheap new stuff, and the difference was obvious. Clearly, you had to spend a lot of money to properly look like you were slumming.