The Mason Dixon Line (A Horizons Novel) (5 page)

“Carolyn, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He reached a hand out to her arm, but she pulled away, stiff.

After all, he was right. She’d peaked too
soon in life, and her peak had been having three guys from the varsity
basketball team ask her to prom.

It had been all downhill from there, and
that wasn’t even much of a peak, when you thought about it.

That didn’t mean she had to let Mason know
that, though. Giving him the satisfaction of knowing that he was right was the
last thing she’d ever do.

“I suppose when you have no friends, you
have to console yourself with professional success.” Okay, that made no sense
and sounded pathetic to boot, but she was desperate for some kind of a witty
comeback that would ease this frantic hurt.

He didn’t answer. He sat there, looking
sick, as she rose to her feet. This was the kind of feeling that usually made
her go shopping, but she could hardly do that here. Maybe a walk would clear
her head. She just knew she had to get away before she lost it.

“Carolyn, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry. Please
don’t—”

He was still stammering when she let the
screen door slam behind her.

#

“Can I talk to you?”

Carolyn didn’t look up at the sound of
Mason’s voice. “Can I stop you?” She’d been sitting in the clearing outside the
cabin for who knew how long. Dusk was starting to fall and the spring evening
chilled her bones, but she hadn’t wanted to go back inside to face Mason.
Besides, this rock was just so comfortable, she couldn’t bear to get up.

Okay, actually, her rear had gone numb
quite some time ago and it was killing her back. She knew he was sorry for what
he’d said, and that was the problem.

She hadn’t wanted to have to graciously
accept his apology for speaking nothing more than the plain truth.

Peaked too
soon
. The words
still shattered her.

He sat next to her. “I brought a peace
offering.”

A piece of paper drifted into her lap.
Wiping away tears with her sleeve, she blinked a couple of times to clear her
vision.

“It’s me,” she said stupidly. She looked at
him. “Is this the sketch you were working on at Java Jones?”

“Yeah. I finished it up a few minutes ago. It’s
not perfect, but I thought you might like to have it.”

“It’s amazing.” It was a truly accurate
likeness, but he’d captured something more. Something she couldn’t put her
finger on. Sadness, maybe? Was that how people saw her? She’d always thought of
herself as the bubbly extrovert. Maybe Mason saw something else.

“You’re very talented.”

“Thanks.” He said nothing for a minute, and
then shifted to one side. “I’m sorry again for what I said. I didn’t mean that.
Sometimes I blurt out stupid stuff without thinking. All the time, actually.”

He took a deep breath and sat beside her on
the ground.

“I’ve given you a hard time about school
and being a teacher because of my own experience. My grades were bad and
everyone thought I was stupid. The only way I could make friends was to make
the other kids laugh. I was good at that, but that drove my teachers crazy. I’m
touchy about special needs kids because I was one.”

She caught her breath. It made sense now.
She’d been around many kids like the one he described. Creative, hyper, unable
to control himself, emotional, impulsive. The pieces fell into place with a
click.

“Do you have ADHD?”

He nodded. “And dyslexia.”

Ahhhh. “It took you a long time to read my
draft.”

“Yeah. I can read, but it’s still not easy.
I use a screen reader on my computer for large blocks of text. It reads text
aloud to me.”

“I see.” She looked again at his sketch.
Her anger had vanished, vaporized by this unexpected revelation about her
tormentor. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t like pity, and I don’t like people
making excuses for me. And I don’t like anybody talking down to kids who have
special needs.”

“Learning disabilities aren’t an excuse.
They’re a fact. Your brain is wired differently than the typical person’s.” Waaaay
differently, if that hideous red hat he’d been wearing was any indication, but
she’d keep that to herself. “The thing about Horizons is that we know that and
we take that into consideration when we teach the kids.”

“My teachers knew about me too, at least
the dyslexia. The ADHD thing came later. I was in special ed from the third
grade on.”

“And it didn’t help?”

“Oh, what reading ability I have is due to
special ed, so I can thank them for that, I guess. Of course, I got called ‘retard’
a lot after I went into special ed.” She would have been taken in by his
careless laugh if he’d been talking about something, anything else. “That guy
who works at the dollar store now? If had a dime for every time that guy beat
me up . . .”

“Mason, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity. Like I said, I’m satisfied
with how I turned out. If getting a few wedgies as a kid is the price of a
creative existence for the rest of my life, I’m glad to pay it.”

His voice sounded casual, unconcerned, as
if he’d buried the pain away so much he didn’t feel it anymore.

She doubted that, like she doubted a few
wedgies had been the extent of the bullying he’d endured. She’d seen what the
special-needs kids in her own school had gone through before they’d come to a
place where everyone had challenges.

She’d never tormented or bullied others,
but she couldn’t say she’d reached out to them either. She’d been as wary as
anyone else of hanging out with the special needs kids.

With a pang, she remembered Kristin Cooper.
Kristin had had all the earmarks of what she now knew was ADHD, although if the
girl had been diagnosed back then, Carolyn hadn’t known it. One day in third
grade recess, Kristin had been going down the slide again and again, with
frenzied intensity—like she always did—when another kid pointed to a brown
streak down the slide.

“Look!” The kids had stared at each other
in horrified glee until someone saw the dark stain on the seat of Kristin’s
jeans.

“Kristin crapped in her pants! Oh my God!”

“What a baby! Do you need a diaper?” one
girl had crowed, pointing at Kristin’s red face. “Kristin Crapper!”

Carolyn would never forget the slow dawning
of humiliation on Kristin’s face as she came back from her netherworld of
intense focus and realized what she’d done. The girl burst into tears. She’d
run across the playground to tell the teacher, who had stared at her. “Kristin,
you’re nine years old! Why didn’t you tell me you had to go to the bathroom?
This is ridiculous.”

Kristin’s head drooped and her shoulders
shook. The teacher had upbraided her all the way inside. Nine years later, at high
school graduation, some kids were still calling her ‘Kristin Crapper.’

Never once had Carolyn called her ‘Kristin
Crapper,’ but she’d never spoken to her again either, too afraid to be branded
a loser.

Her heart felt like a lump in her chest.
Once a shallow twit, always a shallow twit, apparently.

“Anyway. Enough about my depressing past. I
don’t think about it much anymore, so why should you?” Mason rose and extended
a hand to help her to her feet. “Your story has promise. I mean that. If you
don’t like the idea of a chameleon character, I can draw up some other options.”

Apparently he was done talking about
himself.

“I’ve drawn a lot of reptiles, so maybe I
should branch out a bit. You know, draw a cute fuzzy pink panda or something.”

She shook off her sadness. “I can’t really
imagine that.”

His smile contained no mirth. “Yeah, me
neither.”

Mason Dixon wasn’t the warm fuzzy type and
he never would be.

After sleeping in late the next morning, they
headed to the nearest town to stock up on some staples for the duration of
their stay and grab lunch.

“Not a lot of choices. This okay with you?”
He nodded at a roadside tavern.

“Sure.”

Mason parked the Subaru outside the Hogs
and Chicks Tavern and escorted her inside, placing one guiding hand in the
small of her back in another weirdly gentlemanly gesture. For someone who could
be such an ass, he certainly had an odd chivalrous streak.

It was another piece of the Mason Dixon
puzzle. She couldn’t say she liked him, but since their conversation yesterday,
she couldn’t say she hated him either.

She could tolerate him, which is all she
needed to do.

Inside Hogs and Chicks, the fifteen or so
tables were occupied, and more people jammed the area around the front door,
waiting for a spot.

He asked the heavyset hostess for a
carryout menu. She handed him two laminated menus. “This here’s the only menu
we got, but Junior can box up anything you want. Sit in the bar while you make
up your mind.” Carolyn glanced around the place and noticed all eyes were on
them.

Specifically, on her.

Nerves tickled her stomach. She liked being
the center of attention, but not like this. Not with a dozen unsmiling
strangers sizing her up.

Thank God Mason hadn’t worn his dorky hat. The
two of them looked out of place enough as it was among the locals. In this
town, grunge rock style had never died: Everywhere she looked she saw tattered
denim, tattoos, and plaid.

Come to think of it, they didn’t strike her
as Nirvana fans. Something told her they’d been dressing this way long before
Kurt Cobain.

“I guess they don’t get a lot of outsiders
around here,” she whispered to Mason as they took a small booth next to the bar
under a TV blaring a stock car race.

She gave the staring bartender a smile, but
he only nodded curtly and looked away.

Ooo-kay. She scanned the menu and decided
on a plate of chicken tenders with fries.

She looked at Mason, who had scarcely
glanced at his menu. “Do you know what you want?”

“Burger and fries. It’s what I always get
at a new restaurant.”

“Jimmy!” The shout from behind made her
jump. A murmur rose up from the room to welcome a newcomer, a middle-aged man
with a sizeable paunch and tattoos running up the side of his neck.

Jimmy nodded like a king about to take his
throne and scanned the room, his dark eyes stopping on them. On her, in particular.
Unease percolated in her stomach. Why, she didn’t know. They had every right to
sit in a public restaurant. What could happen?

After a long moment, Jimmy looked away and
took a stool at the bar. She exhaled. Something about his stare toward her had
seemed almost proprietary.

The bartender came. “Know what you want?”

He took their orders and walked away
without a word.

“Friendly little place, isn’t it?” Mason
said.

“Extremely.”

“Got a pen?” he asked her.

She rifled through her purse. “Yeah, here.
Why?”

“Thought I’d do some drawing. Waiting is
boring.”

“We’ve been waiting like thirty seconds.”

“And I’ve been bored for thirty seconds. I’d
rather draw.”

She watched him stroke his pen across his
napkin and frown when the pen’s nib tore the paper. “This napkin sucks. Got any
paper?”

She dug through her purse again until she
found a long receipt. “Sure.” She handed it over.

He eyed it. “You blew two hundred and fifty-six
bucks at Victoria’s Secret?”

“Hey, I gave it to you so you could draw,
not criticize. No judging!” Flushing, she grabbed for the receipt but he held
it out of her reach, grinning. He was cute when he smiled. Damn him.

“Who said I was judging? That purchase
actually sounds worthwhile.” His lips curved and she had the oddest sensation
he was imagining what she might have bought. “What was it? Two hundred and
fifty bucks ought to buy a lot of lingerie.”

She scowled. “You’ll never see it, so don’t
worry about it.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on seeing it. But I can
dream, can’t I?”

“Is that the Mason Dixon version of
flirtation?” She crooked one eyebrow. He didn’t plan on seeing it? That was a
first. No guy had ever come right out and admitted he had no shot at seeing her
scantily clad.

Most men were optimistic that way, even if
it was totally unfounded.

He looked down at the receipt and began to
doodle, his cheeks reddening. “I wouldn’t say I was flirting with you.”

“You’re not going to draw me again, are
you?”

He tsked. “Not everything is about you, you
know.”

“I didn’t say it was!”

Strokes appeared on the scrap of paper, forming
a little figure with a short stocky body and a face with huge eyes. His stubby
arms braced on his hips. “What’s that?”

“A little character I’ve been working on
for my own strip.”

“You freelance for the big comics, draw
your own, and now you’re illustrating a kids’ book. You must work constantly.”
Despite herself, she was impressed. “Must be nice to know what you want to do
with your life.”

“It’s not work to me. Creating is something
I do. Everybody should have a creative outlet.” He shot her a look. “How about
you? What creative thing do you do?”

“I’m really good at accessorizing. Does
that count?” she asked with an offhand air. It didn’t matter what he thought.
At all.

“Hmmm, that does take some talent,” he said
to her surprise. “I’ll give you that.” His eyes swept from her French knot
earrings to her wide cuff bracelets and lingered on her princess-cut blue topaz
ring. She adored it, but hadn’t succeeded in paying it off yet. Five easy
payments of $99.99 hadn’t turned out to be so easy.

“What?” she said, noticing him staring at
her ring.

“No, it’s not that. It’s your hands. You
have . . . nice hands.” He dropped his pen and reached out for her hand that
bore the ring. He held her hand in a loose grasp, unselfconsciously. His
fingers were strong and warm. “Slender, but they look nimble. I bet you could
draw pretty well. You have a sketcher’s hands. Ever tried it?”

“Who, me?” The words came out raspy. She
cleared her throat. “No, I’m terrible at drawing. I’m not very creative.” Why
had her voice gone south even as her heart sped up to a trip-hammer beat? Like
he’d said before, he was an artist, making an observation. There was nothing
sexual about stroking her hand gently, so why couldn’t she quite manage to draw
a deep breath?

Before he could respond, Jimmy approached
their table. “Hi, hon.” He looked only at her, ignoring Mason completely.

“Hi.” She didn’t return his smile. Close
up, she could make out one of the blurry tattoos on his arm: the snarling face
of a pit-bull with a spike collar. Above and below the dog’s head were the
words GAME OVER in block letters.

“I ain’t never seen you around here before.
You from out of town, ain’t you?”

She cast a sideways glance at Mason, who
picked up his pen and resumed drawing. Apparently she was on her own dealing
with this asshole.

Not that Mason would be much use against a
strapping redneck with a predilection for dog-fighting, but still, she could
have used some support. He’d become engrossed in his drawing again, seeming to
have forgotten her.

Some help he was.

“Uh, yeah. Passing through. We’re waiting
for our food and then we’ll be . . .” She paused and made a walking motion with
her fingertips. “We’ll be out of here.”

“Well, darlin’, I hope you don’t hurry off
too fast. I was hoping to get to know you.” He braced one hand on the table and
leaned forward. On his exhalation, a cloud of beer and pot fumes wafted toward
her. His eyes dropped to her boobs. Not subtle.

When she’d caught Mason sneaking a peek at
her chest, she’d been annoyed. When this guy did it, he terrified her.

She cast a glance around the bar. Everyone
watched them. Was this Jimmy’s favorite pastime, hassling strangers who
wandered in? It was a shitty pastime, if that was the case. At the bar, one
grizzled customer wearing a battered “Drink Up, Bitches” T-shirt leaned
forward, a wide grin on his face.

Nobody here was on her side. Not even
Mason, apparently. His pen flew across the paper, completely engrossing him.

“This your friend?” Jimmy asked, looking
like he found that both unlikely and amusing.

“Yes, he is. For now, anyway,” she said
sweetly, hoping to get a rise out of Mason.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of reaction.

“Huh.” Jimmy scratched his belly through
his stained T-shirt.

A movement over Jimmy’s shoulder caught her
eye. The hostess approached with two foam boxes.

“Oh, look, our food is here!” Carolyn didn’t
trouble to hide her relief.

“Honey, no need to go anywhere yet. Why don’t
you come on over to the bar to eat with me? You can leave your little friend
here to eat alone.” He reached out to take their food from the hostess. He had
it before she could stop him.

Great, now he held their food hostage in
his grubby hands. A nervous flutter rose in her chest. Until now, this guy and
his onlookers had been a nuisance. But what if he really wouldn’t let them
leave? Could he do that?

She’d seen this kind of thing in a movie
once. Her mind raced, tripping over the possibilities. It was a small backwoods
town. Even the cops would be on his side. He was probably related to the cops.
Heck, everybody in this town was probably related to everybody. Somewhere
around here, a strange-looking kid probably played the banjo in a skilled yet
somehow menacing fashion.

She shook her head. She had to get ahold of
herself.

“Here’s your pen.” Mason’s perfectly calm voice
made her head jerk. He held it out to her, without expression.

She stuck the pen in her purse. Funny, he’d
practically slept through the whole her-getting-sexually-harassed-by-a-redneck-thing,
but as soon as their food arrived, he woke up.

He rose and took the boxes from Jimmy, who
let it happen without a fight, probably surprised that the bump on a log had
actually showed signs of life. Mason reached into his pocket and pulled out a
crumpled wad of bills. “How much do I owe you?” he asked the hostess.

The woman cast a sidelong glance at Jimmy,
looking nearly too scared to answer. “Um, that’ll be $19.99.”

Mason rifled through the bills for a moment
and handed her a twenty and a five. “Here you go—” He peered at her name tag “Delores.
Keep the change.” He gave her a smile and then looked at Carolyn. “Ready?”

Was she ever. “Sure.” She rose, relieved it
was going to be so easy.

“Hold on a minute there, son.” Jimmy
reached out one meaty arm to brace on Mason’s shoulder.

“I’m not your son, asshole. If I was, I’d
shoot myself, or move somewhere far away, where no one knew what a
mouth-breather I had for a father.” Mason glanced at her. “Coming?”

The roar of the stock cars on TV was the
only sound in the room. Drink Up, Bitches no longer wore a smile, and the blood
drained from Delores’s face.

Oh,
hell
.

Her heart thumped and heat seared her veins.
This must be what they called “fight or flight.” She was hoping they settled on
flight. She bet Jimmy could do a lot of damage in a fight.

Meeting Mason’s steady gaze, Jimmy looked
poleaxed.

“Excuse me?”

“Which part did you not understand? I’d
repeat the whole thing, but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“Excuse me?” Jimmy’s voice went higher with
each repetition. Clearly no one had ever handled him quite like Mason. “You
think you’re smart, don’t you?”

“I’m of above average intelligence, yes,
but nothing to brag about. I have deficits in some areas. Still
much
smarter than you, though.” He
adjusted his glasses. “I’d love to talk more about this interesting subject—what
is
intelligence, for example? And how
does it relate to emotional intelligence? And does intelligence even matter
that much, or is hard work and mental attitude the most important thing?—but we
have stuff to do.” He shrugged off Jimmy’s hand and walked past him, turning his
head as he did so. “Besides, you? Hitting on her? Crazy. She’s way out of your
league. She’s way out of my league too. Look at her. She’s beautiful. You think
she’s going to give you the time of day?”

That did it. Jimmy shook off his confusion.
“You smart-mouthed little prick.” Like a rocket, his arm shot out, grabbing
Mason’s neck in a wresting hold. Food went flying. Mason crouched and twisted,
but he couldn’t break the strength of Jimmy’s grip.