Saint Anything (14 page)

“Nobody asked you,” he said. “Don’t you have special ketchup to formulate or something?”

“Nope.” She sat back, crossing one leg over the other. “Right now, I have all the time in the
world
.”

“Lucky us,” Eric grumbled, turning back to the other guys. “Okay, let’s try ‘Prom Queen’ again, from the top.”

Mac counted to four, and then they began playing again, sounding a bit disjointed at first before gelling, somewhat, by the end of the first verse. Despite Layla’s ongoing commentary, I saw her tapping her foot as I came up beside her.

“Front-row seat, huh?”

“Hi!” She looked genuinely happy to see me. “Well, it’s hardly the real Logan Oxford. But at least we don’t have to go far. Here, let me get you a chair.”

“Oh,” I said. “You don’t . . .”

But she was already going into the shed, squeezing past Ford and his bass to retrieve a battered pink lawn chair patterned with palm trees. As she plunked it down in front of me, a couple of dead spiders fell off it. She ignored this, wiping it clean with her hands before presenting it to me. “Best seat in the house. Or this house.”

I sat. The band was still playing, although Eric had stopped singing and turned around, his back now to us. I said, “So this is where they practice?”

“Sometimes,” she replied, plopping back into her own seat. “There’s also Ford’s basement, but there’s always laundry going down there and Eric claims the smell of fabric softener gives him a headache.”

“Rock star problems.”

“
Eric
problems.” She sighed. “They’re like first world, but even more privileged.”

I looked at the man in question, who had now stopped playing altogether and was tuning his guitar, a frustrated look on his face. As Mac and Ford moved alone into the chorus, I realized they actually sounded better without him. Maybe this was why I said, “You’re tough on him.”

“Eric?” I nodded. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s from a good place, I swear. Before he met Mac and started coming around, he was
such
a freaking jerk. Just a total know-it-all blowhard. But the thing was . . . it wasn’t really his fault.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “His parents, they tried to have kids for, like, ever. All these fertility problems, miscarriages. They’d basically been told there was no way it was ever going to happen for them. So when his mom got pregnant without even trying, it was like . . . a miracle. And when Eric arrived, they treated him accordingly.”

“Like a miracle?”

“Like God’s gift. Which was what they thought he was.” She shifted in her seat. “The problem was when it became how
he
saw himself, and there was no one there to tell him otherwise. Then he met Mac.”

“And Mac did?”

“In his way,” she replied. “That’s the thing about my brother. He’s subtle, you know? And a good guy, a guy you
want
to like you.”

I cleared my throat, concerned I might be blushing.

“So he just told Eric that he didn’t have to try so hard. Win every discussion, talk louder than everyone else. That kind of thing. And Eric, to his credit, listened. Now he’s not so bad, although he has his lapses. And when he does, I feel it’s my duty to speak up. We all do.”

“For the common good,” I said.

“Well, it takes a village,” she replied. “Or a city, really, in his case. A big one. Many citizens.”

I laughed as there was a blast of feedback, followed by Eric shouting something. Layla winced. “Okay, I need a break. Let’s go get something to eat.”

She got up, and I followed her across the muddy backyard to the house, where a mossy line of paving stones led up to the back door. It creaked when she pulled it open, a sound that appeared to summon the dogs, which swarmed our ankles, barking wildly, as we went inside.

“Sydney’s here,” she called out as the door swung shut behind us. It took a second to adjust from the brightness outside. But then, yet again, it was all in place: the couch, the huge TV, the two cluttered tables flanking the recliner, in which Mrs. Chatham was seated, wearing a sweatshirt that said
MIAMI
and scrub pants. As I watched, the dogs, having lost interest in us, jumped up and burrowed under the blanket spread across her lap.

“Welcome,” she said to me. “I hear you’re spending the night.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Thanks for having me.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Layla said. “You may change your mind once the music starts.”

“The music?” I repeated. I looked out the window. “They’re already playing, though.”

“Not that music. My dad’s. As it turns out, he also invited a bunch of people over tonight. Not that anyone told me.”

“I bet Sydney will love it,” her mother said.

“It’s bluegrass,” Layla told me. “Nothing
but
bluegrass. All night long. If you don’t like mandolin, you’re in trouble.”

“You have a door on your room; feel free to use it,” Mrs. Chatham said, in a tone that, while cheerful, made it clear it was the end of the discussion. “Now, go make some popcorn, would you, honey? I want to talk to Sydney a second.”

Layla glanced at me, then turned, walking into the kitchen. For a minute, I felt like I might be in trouble, although I couldn’t imagine what for. When I looked at Mrs. Chatham, though, she was smiling at me. I sat down in a nearby chair just as Layla turned on the microwave.

“So,” she said as one of the dogs shifted position on her lap. “I saw the article in the paper.”

Over the last few months, I’d realized that there was really no ideal way for anyone to talk to me about Peyton. If they avoided the subject, but it was clearly on their minds, things felt awkward. Addressing it head-on, however, was often worse, like a train coming toward me I was helpless to stop. Really, nothing felt right, yet this gentle inquiry was the closest I’d gotten. An acknowledgment and sympathy, while still respecting the facts. It took me by such surprise, I couldn’t speak at first. So I was glad when she continued.

“That must have been so hard for you, and your family,” she said. “I can’t even imagine.”

“It is,” I finally managed. “Hard, I mean. Mostly for my mom. I hate what it’s done to her.”

“She’s suffering.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah.” I looked down at my hands. “But . . . so is that boy. David Ibarra. I mean, he really is.”

“Of course.” Again, no judgment, just a prod to keep going. So I did.

“I think . . .” I began, but then suddenly it was too big to say or even exist outside of my own head. It was one thing to let these thoughts haunt the dark spaces of my mind, but another entirely to put them into the light, making them real. She was looking at me so intently, though, and this place was so new, with no semblance of the world before except for the fact that I was in it. “I think my parents see Peyton as the victim, in some ways. And I hate that. It makes me sick. It’s just so . . . It’s wrong.”

“You feel guilty.”

“Yes,” I said, the vehemence of this one word surprising me. Like simply concurring made my soul rush out, gone. “I do. So much. Every single day.”

“Oh, honey.” She reached out, putting her hand over mine. In the next room, the popcorn was popping, producing the buttery smell I associated with movies and after school, all those lonely afternoons. “Why do you feel like you have to shoulder your brother’s responsibility?”

“Because someone has to,” I said. I looked into her eyes, green flecked with brown, just like Layla’s. “That’s why.”

Instead of replying, she squeezed my hand. I knew I could pull away and it would still be all right. But when Layla came in a few minutes later with the popcorn, that was how she found us. I’d let so much go, finally. It made sense, I suppose, that right then I would maybe just want to hold on.

CHAPTER
12

“HOW MUCH
farther?”

“You always ask that.”

“And I always mean it.” A pause. Then, “Seriously, how much?”

Up ahead, Mac turned around, shining the flashlight back at Layla. “If you’re angling for a ride, you should just ask.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t want to impose . . .”

In response, Irv, who was walking alongside Mac, dropped back so we could catch up with him. “Hop on,” he said, crouching down, and Layla climbed onto his immense shoulders, piggyback-style. Then we continued on into the darkness.

I’d felt so shaken after my talk with Mrs. Chatham that I was grateful, actually, for the chaos that followed. After we had polished off the popcorn and watched one episode of
Big Los Angeles
(one catfight, two breakdowns, too many gorgeous outfits to count), Mac, Eric, and Ford had come inside to raid the fridge. Then Rosie showed up with a couple of her Mariposa friends, who were in town doing a week of performances at the Lakeview Center. The house already felt packed, even before Mr. Chatham came home and
his
friends arrived, instruments in hand. After the constant quiet of my own house since Peyton had been gone, I expected the contrast to be overwhelming. Instead, I found that I liked the constant hum and noise, the fullness of many people and much energy in a small space. I could hang back and just watch, yet still feel involved. It was nice.

Dinner was a huge amount of pizza, salads, and garlic knots from Seaside, which we ate in the outbuilding while Layla’s parents and their friends filled the living room and kitchen. It was just starting to get dark when I heard the first strains of music coming from the house through the open back door. It sounded like the jukebox at Seaside, but more real. Alive.

I’d assumed we’d head inside for the music, but everyone else had other plans. After checking in with Mrs. Chatham to see if she needed anything, Mac returned with a duffel bag, which he took into the garage. A moment later, with the bag visibly fuller, he returned and hoisted it over his shoulder. Layla pulled a flashlight from a nearby cabinet, while Irv, who had arrived post-popcorn and pre-dinner, grabbed the backpack he’d brought with him. Eric packed up his guitar, and then they all headed outside in silent consensus. I followed, the only one who had no idea where we were going.

As it turned out, it was into the woods. They all started toward it, as if entering a huge swath of dark forest at night made total sense. I guess to them, it did.

“Hey,” Layla said, looking over at me. “It’s okay. Come on.”

When Peyton and I went into the trees behind our house, it took a few minutes to leave our yard and the neighborhood behind. Here, though, it was different. We’d no sooner stepped in than we were swallowed up, lights from the Chathams’ house dimming, then disappearing altogether. I was grateful for Mac’s white shirt, which seemed to almost glow as he led us deeper and deeper into the trees. We’d been walking almost twenty minutes when Layla first complained. Once she was on Irv’s back, we easily doubled that time.

“I always forget how freaking long this takes,” Eric complained, his guitar case bumping against his leg.

“Do you want Irv to carry you, too?” Layla asked him.

I was somewhat out of breath, both from Mac’s fast pace and the distance. Irv, however, hardly seemed winded, even with an additional hundred-plus pounds on his back. We kept walking.

And then, right when I was sure someone—maybe even me—was about to voice more displeasure, I saw a clearing ahead. The trees thinned, then disappeared altogether, leaving us facing a large metal structure, plopped down in the middle of all that forest like God himself had dropped it there.

“Finally,” Layla said, as if she had walked the whole way. Irv slid her off his back. “Beer me, someone.”

Mac had already put down the bag he’d been carrying and unzipped it. As I watched, he tossed a can to her, which she caught with one hand, then passed one to Eric as he set his guitar down. Then he held one up to me. I looked at Irv, as he was closer and, as far as I was concerned, had seniority. But he shook his head.

“Don’t drink,” he explained. “No point.”

“He can’t get drunk,” Layla told me. “Too big.”

“That’s why we call him HW,” Mac said. “Heavyweight. As opposed to . . .”

“Don’t say it,” Eric warned him, popping the tab on his beer.

“LW,” Layla finished. “Another one of Eric’s many nicknames.”

“I am
not
a lightweight.” As if to prove it, Eric sucked down a bunch of his beer, then belched, loudly. Then he looked at me. “Want one?”

I was not much of a drinker, especially after Jenn’s piña colada disaster. But I wasn’t driving, and we were in the moonlight. So I nodded. Mac went to throw one to me, but Eric took it first, then opened it before bringing it over.

“Thanks,” I said. It was cold in my hand.

“My pleasure.” He held out his can. “To you.”

Layla rolled her eyes but withheld comment, letting her civic duty slide as she walked over to sit down on the edge of the structure I’d seen earlier. I’d thought it was a vehicle, maybe an old truck, parked off what I now could see was a logging road that twisted into the trees. Looking closer, I saw it was something else entirely: an old metal carousel, so corroded it almost blended into the dark. I stood there a minute, taking it in. If I’d had more than one sip of beer, I would have assumed I was imagining it.

“Cool, right?” Layla said. She was perched at the base of one of the horses. “Mac found it, during his weight-loss wanderings.”

“They’re called runs,” Mac said.

“Whatever. The point is, someone left this here at some point. But why? And how? Did they bring it on a truck and plan to come back for it? Or build it here?”

I walked around the front part of the carousel, taking in several more horses and a rickety-looking chariot with grass growing up through a hole in the seat. “It’s amazing,” I said. “You really don’t know who it belongs to?”

“There aren’t any houses for miles.”

“What about this road?” I asked, nodding toward it.

“If you follow it, it just ends, long before the woods does.” Layla took a sip of her beer, swinging her legs. “It’s so creepy.”

But it wasn’t scary to me. Instead, it felt magical, like the kind of thing Peyton and I could only have dreamed of discovering during our own explorations. The chance of finding something like this was what brought you into a woods in the first place.

Thinking this, I looked over at Mac. I was surprised to find he was watching me over the rim of the can as he drank, and I returned his gaze, remembering that five-dollar bill tucked safely away in my wallet. Unspent.

“You should check out the other side,” Eric said, appearing suddenly beside me. I heard a pop: he was moving on to his next beer. “That’s where the ring is. Come on, I’ll show you.”

I followed him around, past the chariot, to where a large horse was rearing up, head thrown back, mouth open. Whoever had made this had taken their time.

“You kind of have to get in the right place to see it,” Eric said, climbing up beside the horse. He held out his free hand. “I’ll pull you up.”

I looked back at Layla, who I could now barely make out in the dark. Mac I’d lost sight off entirely. Only Irv remained fully visible, but it wasn’t like he was one to blend in. I gave Eric my hand, feeling his fingers tighten around mine as he lifted me up next to him. Beneath our feet, the carousel creaked.

“Okay,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders and gesturing for me to look up at the roof of the carousel above us. “Now, see where the pole meets the metal up there?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then look right to the left of it.” He pointed. “It’s sort of small, but it’s there.”

It took a minute, but then I made it out: a simple ring, hanging above us, close enough that if you were on the horse as it rose to its highest point, you could grab it. “I’m surprised no one’s pulled it down,” I said.

“Oh, believe me, we’ve tried.” He took another drink. “It’s stuck in there good. Whoever made this didn’t want anyone to take it.”

I could see how it would be tempting. Who doesn’t try for the prize if it’s that close? “How do you get up there, though?”

“When it’s moving.”

I turned around, only to realize we were
really
close, practically face-to-face. Eric, for his part, did not seem startled by this, and I suddenly had the feeling, if not the certainty, that he had done this—all of this—before. “It
moves
?”

“Only when someone’s pushing it,” I heard Mac say.

Somehow, he’d approached without us hearing him and was now standing just in front of the horse. In the moonlight, I noticed again the coin hanging from the chain around his neck. Instinctively, I stepped out from beneath Eric’s hands, which were still on my shoulders. “How is that even possible? Isn’t it, like, crazy heavy?”

“Not as long as you don’t load it up with too many people,” he said. “We’ve gotten it going at a decent clip before. Especially if Irv’s here.”

“Can’t get drunk, have to push the merry-go-round,” Irv’s baritone came from the darkness. “Don’t know why I even hang out with you guys.”

“Because you love us,” Layla, who had also now walked over, called out to him. She looked up at Eric. “Your phone’s beeping, just FYI.”

“Oh, that might be about this gig next weekend. I should take it.” Eric patted my shoulder. “Back in a sec.”

Layla watched as he went around to the other side. Then, without comment, she followed, leaving me and Mac alone. We were quiet for a moment. I could hear Layla talking to Irv and another beer popping. Finally I said, “I wish I’d found something like this when I used to walk in the woods.”

He looked up at it. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “The coolest thing I ever found was an arrowhead. Oh, and a bat skull.”

“Sounds like you were out there a lot.”

“My brother and I were. When we were kids.” I looked up at the ring again. In the right light, with the moon hitting a rust hole just near it, you could see it perfectly. I took a drink. “He was the explorer, really. I just tagged along. I wanted to do everything he did.”

Another silence. I heard Layla laugh. Then Mac said, “I heard about what happened to your brother. I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t happen to him,” I said. “He did something. There’s a difference.”

As soon as I said this, I realized how angry it sounded. He said, “I didn’t—”

“No, you’re fine,” I said quickly. “It’s just . . . a tender spot. I guess.”

Immediately, I was horrified. What possessed me to use the word
tender
in any context around a cute guy I barely knew, I had no idea. I took a big gulp of my beer, then another.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “everyone has one.”

He was looking up at the trees as he said this, his face brightened by the moonlight. Maybe it was the beer, or the fact I’d already said the wrong thing twice. But I figured I had little left to lose. So I said, “Even you, huh?”

Now he did look at me. “I was the fat, pimply kid up until pretty recently. You don’t just forget.”

I shook my head. “I still can’t believe that.”

“It’s documented.” Another sip. “Despite my best efforts to destroy any and all evidence.”

Distantly, I heard Layla laugh. “I would think you’d want the proof. That maybe it might, you know, make you proud. Seeing where you came from.”

“I’d be prouder if I had never let myself get to that point,” he said.

“Can’t change the past.”

He reached up, sliding his finger under the chain around his neck. “Doesn’t mean you should dwell on it.”

Eric wasn’t the only lightweight: the beer was hitting me now. I finished it off, then put it down beside me. “What’s the story with that coin?”

“Coin?” I nodded at it, and he looked down. “Oh. It’s actually a pendant of a saint. My mom gave them to all of us when we were kids.”

“A saint?”

“Yep.” He pulled it out, angling it to the moonlight. “Bathilde. Patron saint of children. I guess she figured we’d need all the help we could get.”

I moved closer, barely able to make out a figure and some tiny words on the pendant. “It’s nice.”

“Yeah. But it’s also a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“When I was at my heaviest, this thing choked me. I mean, seriously. It left welts. I didn’t want to take it off. I wouldn’t. I needed all the help
I
could get.”

“Protection,” I said.

“Something like that.” He let it drop. “Now I keep it on so I don’t forget what I lost.”

It was weird, hearing this. Like no longer having something could be a
good
thing, and the proof of it as well. I was used to the opposite, when absence equaled heartbreak. Suddenly, I had a million questions, and between the beer and the dark, I felt like I could ask them. But then Eric came around the corner, his guitar in hand.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. I heard a slur in his voice. “But you’re
kind
of being impolite all sequestered over here.”

“How many beers have you had?” Mac asked him as I slid off the carousel, taking my can with me.