Sweetly (21 page)
That’s Naida’s dress. I’m sure of it.
I don’t want to put it on—I really, really don’t want to put it on. I nod weakly, unsure what to do. Admit I know about Naida? Refuse to wear something that was hers?
“Where’d it come from?” I ask.
Sophia exhales and puts the dress on the bed. “It was mine when I was younger.” The lie would have worked if I didn’t know about Naida, I suppose. As far as Sophia is aware, I don’t—and she clearly isn’t planning to tell me about her sister anytime soon. “Go ahead. Try it on.”
I nod, trying not to move too stiffly, and remove Sophia’s dress. The new red one smells like summer from years of sitting in the shed. I cringe as I pull it over my head and the material falls down around me.
It fits me. Perfectly, almost, as though it’s always belonged to me. I stare at myself in the mirror, unable to move. Of course it fits me. Naida and I are the same. I try to imagine the girl in the reflection with blue hair and Sophia’s eyes, but it frightens me and I finally look away.
“That one is great,” Sophia says when I find her gaze. She’s trying to swallow the quiver in her voice, but it doesn’t work. “It fits you.”
“Are you sure?” I say, and although I’m not clear on what exactly it is I’m asking, I know I’m seeking answers beyond the dress.
Sophia hesitates, and finally a tear slips through her eyes. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just that you look really pretty. I’m glad you’re here.” Before I can speak, she swoops forward and hugs me. Her heart is racing, and I can tell she’s crying pretty hard even though she’s managing to keep her tears silent.
I don’t understand her. I don’t understand her secrets. I don’t understand the festival.
And when Sophia hurries downstairs to check on something in the fridge, I realize I won’t be able to lift a gun if I wear Naida Kelly’s party dress.
W
hat’s that?” I ask.
“One of the few expensive guns I haven’t pawned,” Samuel confesses, looking at it a little sadly. “I’ve just got the three rifles and this one now.”
“So it’s a… superspecial gun?” I tease, raising my eyebrows as I sit down in the clover beside him. I spin the tips of my fingers around the soft leaves. The night on the rooftop seems years ago instead of three days ago, emphasized by the space between us.
“Shotgun.” He glances up as he corrects me—his eyes are the same color as the clover stems. “You’ve seen it in movies—see the pump?” He grabs my hand and, before I can react, puts it on a wooden part under the barrel of the gun. He wraps his fingers around my palm and slides the piece forward and backward, creating a clicking sound that echoes around the field.
“Right,” I say, though to be honest I’m more astounded by Samuel’s calloused hand over mine than I am at the gun. A moment goes by, a long moment, and then Samuel inhales sharply and releases my palm.
“Anyway,” he says aloud, so quickly that I know he must have been surprised at himself as well. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a box of red plastic cylinders. “I thought you might as well give it a try. Maybe you’ll like it better than the rifles. It has a different kind of ammo; it sprays tiny BBs.”
“Sure.” I stand up and brush off the back of my legs as thunder rolls in the distance.
“It’s not supposed to rain for another few hours.” Samuel nods toward the sky.
“I think you’ve been lied to,” I answer, staring into the clouds. I lower my eyes back to his.
“Here,” Samuel says. “So you drop the shell into this little section, like this… and then you have to pump it. And that loads it. Safety is right above the trigger, the little bar that slides back and forth.”
I take the gun from Samuel, readying it at my shoulder. “This right?”
“Almost. It’s a little different; you need to slide your right hand. No, wait, your other right. Hang on,” he says, and swoops in behind me. He puts his arms around my shoulders, sliding my hands accordingly. But all I can focus on is the fresh leaf scent coming from his skin.
Snap out of it, Gretchen!
I shout at myself.
This is Samuel
.
“There. That’s it. It’ll kick a little, by the way,” Samuel says quietly, then steps away. I wiggle my shoulders to slide the straps of my shirt up and take aim. I inhale slowly as I pull the trigger.
The gun fires, a bright, sharp sound that’s louder than the rifles. But I barely notice the noise because the shotgun recoils. It slams into my shoulder so unexpectedly that tears spring to my eyes. I feel blood building up beneath the skin, hot and painful, and scarcely have time to flip the safety on before dropping the gun to the ground and grabbing my shoulder in pain.
“You could have warned me,” I say through gritted teeth, waiting until my tears have faded to raise my head.
“I said it would kick!” Samuel says, taking long, strong strides back toward me, a new sort of concern in his voice. He looks from the gun to me in surprise.
“Clearly we define ‘a little’ differently,” I snap back, pressing my lips together.
Come on, Gretchen, get over it
. I can feel my shoulder starting to bruise but ignore it. The last thing I want is for Samuel to think I can’t handle something.
“Sorry. I guess you aren’t wearing much of a shirt for protection,” he muses, the beginning of a laugh fading when I glare at him. “I can give you mine, if you want,” he says, motioning toward his T-shirt.
“No,” I say quickly, before I can reconsider. “No, let me try again.”
“Okay, okay—hang on, though,” he says, and tugs a navy handkerchief out of his back pocket. He folds it messily, then motions me to come close to him. He tucks his hand into the strap of my shirt and settles the handkerchief against the soft part of my shoulder; I try to ignore the trembling I feel when his fingers brush against my collarbone, the warmth that rushes to where his skin touches mine. Samuel clears his throat and steps away, nodding toward the gun.
“Okay. Pump it,” he instructs me. I do so and take aim again. I already know my shot will be terrible—everything in my body is tense, waiting for the pain. I squeeze my eyes shut at the last moment and fire.
The second time hurts worse—it rips across the previous spot, blossoming down my arm until it burns. The tears spring back just as another roll of thunder echoes across the sky.
“Gretchen—” Samuel begins gently, but I ignore him and aim again. What if a wolf attacks me and then I have to shoot? The pain is just temporary. I have to deal with it. Thunder cracks again, and the dense feeling of rain in the air surrounds me.
I fire.
It starts to pour.
The raindrops hit me all at once, a river descending from the sky. Samuel is fast to my side, taking the gun from my hand and safely storing it away in his bag.
“Come on,” he yells over the roar of the storm. “Let’s go get under the trees till it stops.” I rub my shoulder and nod. The pain is becoming a slow ache that’s spread from my shoulder down my arm. I can already see it swelling. Samuel dashes toward the forest, and I start to go after him, but at the last moment I turn and run toward the target.
It’s flapping in the rain, becoming soft and soaked; the marker lines from previous days are running like blue blood. I scan the target, looking for a single shot without a circle around it, a new shot. Instead, there’s a peppering of tiny new bullet holes strewn across the page. Dozens of little hits. I grin.
“Gretchen!” Samuel shouts over the rain from the edge of the forest. I touch the rip in the paper gingerly, then turn and run toward him.
“What were you doing?” he asks when I reach him. Inside the trees is almost like being indoors during the storm; the thick canopy of leaves above lets only a few drops through. I’m soaked, and the water running off my hair carves a river down my back. I reach toward my shoulder; it radiates heat and is already darkening.
Samuel cringes and lets his fingers brush across the spot on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Really. If I’d known it would hurt that bad, I wouldn’t have made you shoot it.”
I shake my head. “I hit the target. I mean, really hit it—right in the middle.”
Samuel raises an eyebrow. “You what?”
“I hit it. I think the last shot, maybe,” I say, grinning. The rain is already lessening, a brief summer thundershower on its way out.
Samuel’s face, still hemmed in surprise, erupts into a smile that matches mine. He reaches forward and high-fives me, still shaking his head. He leans against a tree as we wait for the last drops of rain to fall.
I hit the target. Went through the pain. I can shoot, I can do this. I look over to Samuel, leaning against a pine, and step closer to return his handkerchief.
“I have to ask you something,” I say as he plucks the handkerchief from my hand.
“What’s that?”
“Remember when you said you’d help me keep girls from vanishing? Myself from vanishing?”
“Yes…”
“I don’t want to wait for the wolves to come after me or anyone else in Live Oak,” I say, casting my gaze to the ground nervously. The rainstorm stops, the sun shooting out from behind dark clouds. “And I don’t want to just protect myself while other girls get chased and killed.”
“What are you saying?” Samuel asks, folding his arms, eyes cutting into me.
“I want to go out after them. Like you do.”
“You want to… go hunting?” Samuel asks, eyes widening.
“Yes.”
“And you think charging into the Fenris-infested forest is a good idea?” Samuel says.
“I’m tired of waiting to be some monster’s prey, Samuel. I want to be the one doing the hunting.”
Samuel exhales hard and shakes his head. “I’ll think about it. But for what it’s worth, I think it’s a stupid idea.”
“I know,” I say. “But I have to.”
S
eriously, Gretchen. I don’t need a haircut,” Sophia says, nervously looking at the car.
“Come on. It’ll be fun. Let’s go.” I yank on her arm. She pouts but finally gives in and follows me to the car.
By the time we reach Kool Kutz, it’s almost four. The sun is scorching in the sky, driving most of Live Oak indoors or under the shelter of wide-brimmed hats. The parking lot for the “salon” is a mere three gravel spaces, all empty upon our arrival. It’s a tiny cinder-block building with a shape that indicates it might have been a gas station or a drugstore before now. There are murals of fashionable women painted on the side—or at least, women who would have been fashionable in the mideighties. They sport headbands and short, poofy haircuts. I grab at the ends of my hair and begin to think Skittles hair is better than something more suited to a Jazzercise video.
“Don’t worry,” Sophia says, glistening in the afternoon sun. “As long as you only want something simple, she can’t really mess it up.”
“If you say so,” I answer warily. Sophia grabs my hand and pulls me through the front door.
A blast of cool air strikes me, and chill bumps immediately appear under the layer of sweat on my arms. Kool Kutz smells like hair spray and perming solution, and the interior is almost entirely mauve. A woman in the back leaps to her feet.
“There’s no way! It’s not possible! Sophia Kelly! Back in my shop after almost two years.”
“Hi, Ms. Minor,” Sophia says with a warm smile. Ms. Minor is a stocky woman with a sharp nose and a tuft of bright red hair on her head, giving her the appearance of some sort of chubby bird.
“Don’t you ‘Hi, Ms. Minor’ me. Haven’t been here in ages—you haven’t been driving to Lake City to get your hair done with those other hussy girls, have you?” Ms. Minor asks, putting her hands on her hips.
“No, no, of course not,” Sophia replies. “I’ve just been cutting it myself, at home. There’s so much to do there that getting out for haircuts is something of a luxury.”
“And you’re Gretchen. We met at the pharmacy that one time, remember?” Ms. Minor says brightly. I nod and hug her—she smells like floral soap—but honestly, so many people have introduced themselves to me that she’s just one in a sea of faces.
“So what can I do for you ladies today?” Ms. Minor asks, eagerness spreading across her face.