The Halo Effect (Cupid Chronicles) (15 page)

She barely afforded it a glance. “Good. Now write ‘hope.’” She grabbed the letter with a smile. “No cheating.”

His pen paused mid-air. He glanced at her.

“What?”

“You’re making me nervous, you know that? I know how to spell.”

“Of course. Now just humor me and write it down, pretty please.”

“Fine.”

He handed the paper to her when he was done and she studied it for a moment. She eventually looked up with a sad smile and his stomach pitched. Had he misspelled the damned word? “What?”

“I guess you went to school on the reservation, huh?”

He had, and he’d gotten the heck outta there as soon as he was able. It wasn’t doing him any good, anyway. “Yeah, until I dropped out my junior year. Why?”

She ignored his question and posed one of her own. “So I guess the schools there, for whatever reason, let you fall between the cracks? And you’ve probably gone your whole life thinking you can’t read, haven’t you? Feeling ignorant?”

The pure pity and sympathy written all over her face was nearly enough to undo him. He shifted away. “It’s true. I am.”

Her fingers spread through his hair, gripping his head and forcing him to meet her eyes. “No, Noble. You are a lot of things, but ignorant is not one of them.” Her grip lessened but she didn’t let him go. “What would you say if I told you I thought you were simply dyslexic?”

Noble stared blankly at the crumpled ball of paper in his hand. An hour after Braelyn left, he’d given up on reading the letter, denial leaving a bitter taste.
Dyslexic?
Could his lifelong feeling of ignorance be explained away so easily? He’d tuned out her explanations about what dyslexia was and that it had nothing to do with his IQ. But he’d snapped to and practically tossed her out of the house when she said she could probably help him. She was a special ed teacher, for cryin’ out loud!

Holy shit. Dyslexic?

You are a lot of things, but ignorant is not one of them.

I’m not going anywhere.

He laid back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Of all the things he’d missed in life, having someone believe in him was truly foreign. In fact, no one really had except for Mrs. Montgomery. Until now.

He stifled a sarcastic laugh. They were both teachers. Of course it made perfect sense. Mrs. Montgomery saw the poor, little Indian kid with a crappy home life and a talent for art and she honed it with her generous, loving heart. She put more time and love and energy into Noble then any teacher was required to and it paid off. He flourished. He was happy to go to school. Who knows? Maybe, given enough time, they would’ve found his dyslexia. But that all came to a screeching halt the day his grandfather got his drunk ass in a car and murdered her.

Chapter 18

“Oh, that was good, Noble. Can you do it any faster?”

He raised a brow and studied her.

Braelyn held up the dumb flashcard and waved it at him. “Come on. You’re supposed to be calling them out as soon as you recognize them or this won’t work. It’s called
Rapid
Automatized Naming.”

He leaned forward and plucked the card from her fingertips. “It’s a red circle.” He watched her eyes widen as he got closer. “Tell me something. You qualified to gimme this test of yours?”

“Well, uh . . .” She fidgeted and he sat back with a small, satisfied smile. “I’m the best you’re getting since you refuse to go see anyone. And I am a teacher with some training in this. I’ve helped . . .” She studied his face. “Oh, shut up and tell me what this is.” She held up another card.

He looked over and studied it. It was a fish. It took a second, but his lips formed the word. “Fish. A halibut, if I’m not mistaken.”

He didn’t want to come over here and do this. He wasn’t going to. It took him a week to suck it up and realize that he had to. He couldn’t let go of the fact that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for him. Hope that he
could
read things before he signed them or do more than just look at the pictures in magazines and skim for familiar words. Hope that Mrs. Montgomery had seen something in him of value and not been wrong. Hope of not feeling like such a damn failure. God Almighty, hope of buying into Jed’s shop. Or owning his own . . .

“Next.”

A beat. Two. Three, as the pipe dream faded and the words came. “President Kennedy. I think.” The picture was horrible.

A
clink
in the garage caught his attention. The kid was home. Damn. He’d tried to get with her early enough to avoid anyone knowing what he was up to. He glanced over to ask her if they were about done when Michael’s booming laugher rattled through the door. Double damn.

He must’ve flinched because she stretched over and gripped his hand. “It’s all right. They’ll be out there for hours. They always are. They lose track of time tinkering on Tristan’s bike until I call ‘em in for supper.”

Her hand was so warm. Her face so beautiful. She’d been eternally patient with him today. She was the perfect special ed teacher. The only problem with that was he didn’t want to be a special ed student! He grappled with this as the song
Hot for Teacher
rolled through his head.

“What?” she asked, a frown marring her brow.

He realized he was grinning at her like a loon. He sat back and schooled his face. “Nothin’.” Hot for teacher, indeed. “Carry on.”

She flipped through a dozen more cards—colors, objects, symbols—before she declared them finished with her “informal” test.

“So what’s the verdict, doc?” He kept his tone light, but his heart was pounding against his ribs.

She glanced at her sheet of notes. “Well, I’m no doctor and you’ll have to go to someone a bit more qualified for an official diagnosis. But, from what I saw today, and from what I know from my experience teaching, I’d say it definitely looks like you are dyslexic.”

He couldn’t hear what else she was saying as the blood rushed through his ears. Something about helping him learn to read better and adapt. He scrambled to stand and breathe. Everything he didn’t want to be, had been ashamed of, his whole life had just been explained away by a simple test with fucking flashcards! As relieved as he was to finally have an answer, he couldn’t wrap his mind around that.

Holy hell.

She stood behind him but didn’t touch him, apparently sensing his need for distance. “Noble? Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I’m just gonna go.”

Noble made a quick retreat out the garage door to return home the way he’d come in. He drew up short when he nearly smacked into Michael’s massive girth.

“Well, hey there, Noble! How’s it goin’?”

“All right,” he answered by rote, thinking it odd that Mike didn’t even question his being at Braelyn’s in the middle of the afternoon. He glanced down to the greasy piece of metal in his hand. “Whatcha got there? A carburetor?”

“Yeah, me ‘n Tristan are trying to rebuild it for his bike. I’m afraid I’m not much help to him, though.” He squinted one eye like he was thinkin’. “You think you might be able to help us out for a while? You busy?” He flicked a glance behind him to the closed door.

Tristan moseyed over and he and Noble exchanged a nodded greeting. Nothing to get your mind off being a special ed reject than some real man work. “Sure. I got time.”

“Cool.”

The two and a half men made their way over to the workbench and started in on the defunct carburetor. The smells of motor oil and gasoline and the metal clanking of tools and the occasional grunt or cuss word with minimal conversation were soothing. It was nice to have grease under his fingernails again. It’d been a while.

Sweet Cheeks brought them out cold sodas, but otherwise kept her distance. She was either busy doing something inside or giving them lots of room to do guy stuff in the man cave. And as much as he admired her cute little, well, everything, he was grateful.

“So, Tristan.” Michael glanced up as he wiped his fingers on a blue rag. “How’re things with Miss Ashley?”

The kid flushed, but kept his cool. “Good.” He glanced up. “She asked me to the homecoming dance.”

Noble picked up a different wrench and kept working, thinking this conversation was none of his bee’s wax, but sorta proud for the kid.

“That’s great,” Mike exclaimed with a grin. “You gonna go?”

Tristan shrugged. “I guess. Maybe. I can’t really dance.”

Noble glanced up. “I don’t think she cares, dude.” So much for minding his business.

The kid gazed at him with wide, startled eyes. “You don’t think so? I don’t wanna look like an asshat.”

Noble continued to wrench the piece without missing a beat. “Nah. Never happen. Sounds like the girl’s into you. Just get her one of those pretty little flower thingies to wear on her dress. Tell her she’s beautiful. Spin her around the dance floor on one of the slow numbers. Give her a kiss. You’re all good. In like Flynn.”

“Seriously? That’s it?”

“Seriously. That’s it. Well, there’re a few more things, but they’ll have to wait until you’re a little older. But for now, that’ll do.”

They worked at the bench and chatted about the high school ladies for a while longer before Noble realized that Michael was mysteriously quiet. He’d slunk to the back of the garage and was fiddling with his cell phone.

“Mike, whatcha doin’?”

He glanced up with a goofy grin. “Nothin’. Just texting a friend. Hey, listen. I’ve gotta get goin’. I forgot I’ve got a, uh, a meeting.” He shot a meaningful glance to Noble. “Sorry, Tristan. You don’t mind, do you? I’m sure Noble can help you finish up here and I’ll catch up with you on Saturday. Cool?”

Tristan nodded and didn’t seem put out at all. Noble, on the other hand, felt slightly confused. Since when did Mike have his AA meetings on Wednesday afternoons? Was he feeling like he was going to fall off the wagon and needing some extra support? He sure didn’t look or act any different than usual. And Noble had some experience with alcoholics. If anything, he seemed to be ducking out as a ploy. But a ploy for what? Whatever. He put on his happy face and bid Mike goodbye.

Tristan got back to it after taking a big sip of his Dr. Pepper. “Hey, hand me an O-ring, would ya?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

They worked in silence for a while, but Noble could tell the kid had something on his mind now that Mike was gone. Noble had never been the touchy-feely-talkative type, so he didn’t press him. He figured he’d spill it if he wanted to. He went to work with the plugs and gaskets.

“So,” Tristan finally started a few minutes later.
Here we go
. “Does Michael talk to you about the stuff we do? The things we talk about?” He shot Noble a look that spoke volumes. He must’ve been talking some deep shit with Mike that he was hoping the big guy had kept to himself. No worries there.

“Not really.”

The relief was palpable. “Oh.”

Noble put down the plug in his hand and picked up a rag. “You don’t have to worry. Mike’s as good as they come. He won’t rat on you or tell your secrets.” He looked him in the eye. “Neither will I.” Where had that come from? He didn’t want to get into the kid’s problems. But something about those big, brown, pleading eyes had sucked him right in.

Tristan nodded, but didn’t say anything for a minute. Noble wondered if he was gonna let it go at that. “I kinda had a meltdown on him not too long ago.” He glanced over as he fiddled with the O-ring in his hand. “About my dad.”

Ah, shit. He didn’t know what to say to that. Dads were definitely not his thing.

Tristan apparently didn’t care. He kept right on talking. “Anyway, it was pretty embarrassing. I yelled and carried on. Got all riled up over nothin’ much.” He threw the ring down and wiped his hands on his jeans. “He didn’t say anything to you? ‘Bout me bein’ a big baby or whatever?”

“Oh, no, dude. It’s cool. He didn’t say a word, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think anything like that about you. Mike’s not like that. He’s different. He’s . . . understanding.” He glanced over and saw that Tristan wasn’t convinced. He didn’t know what else to tell the kid.

He reached for his Coke and took a huge drink to drain the rest of it before tossing the can across the garage into the trash. He picked up the new manifold seals out of the rebuild kit and examined them, wondering what the kid was thinking. For some reason, guilt plucked at his conscience. Maybe it was that kindred spirit thing.

“Did I ever tell you I grew up on a reservation?” he asked without looking Tristan in the eye.

The kid didn’t move. From the corner of his eye, it looked like he was frozen in place. “Uh, no. They still have those?”

Noble afforded him a quick glance. “Shit, yes, lots of ‘em. Poor as dirt, too.” He turned back to stare blankly and pretend he was doing something with some of the parts just to keep his hands busy. “I happened to grow up in the Navajo Nation in Arizona.”

Tristan moved closer and leaned against the workbench. “So, your family’s there?”

Noble beat back the bad memories like flies. He’d brought it up, after all. He glanced down at a scuff on his black boots and took a breath. “No.”

The kid didn’t say anything, but Noble felt his eyes burning holes into the top of his head as he waited. Slowly, he met his gaze. Who was he hiding from? The kid wouldn’t judge him.

“Your dad a piece of shit, too?” Tristan asked, startling him with his quick uptake.

“Not quite. My dad’s dead. He died when I was seven.”

“Your mom?”

“She ran off when I was about three. Haven’t seen her since.”

Tristan tilted his head. “So who raised you?”

My
piece of shit
. “My drunk of a grandfather.”

“And where is he? Is he dead, too?”

Man, the kid was relentless. “No, he’s in prison.” He knew what was coming and tilted his head as if to say:
Any more questions?

But he didn’t ask a thing. He went back to the carburetor and started putting it back together. “Sorry. That sucks.”

Noble was floored. “Aren’t you gonna ask me the obvious question? What’d he do?”

Tristan shook his head. “Nah. It’s not my business.” He glanced over. “I mean, you can tell me if you want. I won’t tell anyone . . .”

Was he really throwing Noble’s own words back at him? Well, at least he’d accomplished his mission and made the kid feel better. But somehow, it felt unfinished between them, like he
needed
to get it all out.

“I was a lost cause in school. My grades sucked, I acted out, I was a mouthy little fucker. The only teacher—hell, the only person—who saw any potential in me was my high school art teacher, Mrs. Montgomery. She was absolutely, hands-down, the best person in my world. Period.

“Anyway, one day during my junior year, my drunk-ass grandfather got shit-faced drunk, got into his truck and decided he needed to go somewhere. Where he
had
to be on a damned reservation,
drunk,
at four-thirty in the afternoon, I have no idea.

“Unfortunately for Mrs. Montgomery, she had to be home for her family at four-thirty in the afternoon. You see, she had dinner to cook, and ballet lessons, and football practice. Normal life stuff. But, instead, my grandfather ran into her head-on and killed her instantly.”

Noble heaved a breath as he worked up the emotional energy to finish the story. He glanced at Tristan’s face. His eyes were wide and emotional, but he remained silent.

“It’s kind of ironic,” Noble continued, “the person I despised most in the world had to be the one to take away the one I loved the most. So, the day he was convicted, I packed my shit and hightailed it off the reservation and never looked back.”

“You dropped out of school? How old were you?” Tristan’s voice cracked with emotion.

“Sixteen.” He gave a sarcastic laugh. “Don’t get any big ideas. It’s taken this long and your mom’s help to figure out I’m dyslexic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Tristan nodded, but still seemed caught up in the history of the story he’d just heard. “So, where’d you go? What’d you do?”

Cried. Hurt. “Hitchhiked my way to Texas. I worked odd jobs and was poor as shit. Eventually I met Jed, he’s my best friend. We learned to tattoo together and I started the life I have now.” He’d save the kid from the unsavory details of being destitute.

But, strangely enough, nothing he’d told the kid brought him near the amount of pain it used to. It was all sort of a dull ache now.

“Hmmm. That’s rough.” He studied Noble’s eyes. “So, why’d you tell me all this?”