Stones and Spark (15 page)

But o
f course the plan is thwarted.

"Raleigh Ann? Are you there?"

Of course.

Instead of using the servant's stairs in back of the house, I was trying to sneak down the front, running out the main door onto Monument Avenue before anyone realizes I’m gone. But now, coming down the stairs, carrying my backpack, pulling on my St. Catherine's sweatshirt, I realize the best-laid plans are going to be laid to rest.

She is running up the wide stairs toward me. Crying out, "No! Turn around!"

I freeze.

"Put on a skirt—a dress—something—anything else—hurry!" She pivots, calling downstairs. "Give her one moment, she’ll be right down."

But in that one moment, the world tilts on its axis. I am here with my backpack full of geology equipment, and my manic mother and DeMott Fielding are standing at the bottom of our front stairs, smiling up at me.

She whispers. "Go put on something nice."

"Uh, this is nice." I stammer.

"You look like you're doing
yard work!
" She spins back to DeMott. "Make yourself at home in the parlor, DeMott. I'll get you something to eat."

"No!"

She startles.

"I mean," I try to think of another way to block his poisoning. "He doesn't have time."

She pulls back. The expression in her eyes shifts. "How do you know?"

One moment. I have one moment before the world begins tilting again, all the way back to suspicion.

"I don't know that," I say, truthfully. "I'm just guessing."

Her eyes roam over my face, searching for signs, clues, signals that she was wrong to think I belong to her.

"She's right, Mrs. Harmon," DeMott calls out. "I just came by to see if I could help her—”

"Get to school," I cut him off.

"School?" She frowns, confused. "It's Sunday."

"I have a big project due tomorrow."

"Project." She lets the word hang there.

"Yes. A special project."

Her eyes darken.

"Monday comes up fast," DeMott says.

Both of us look at him. His handsome face is so open, so kind—so totally guileless—that once again the atmosphere shifts.

Before it can change back, I hustle down the stairs. My pack feels heavy with the rock hammer, camera, and notebook
,
but compared to the gravity behind me, it's feather-light. I rush for the big door with its leaded glass. DeMott, who has also changed into more casual clothes, is making his polite goodbyes.

"Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Harmon. I'll take you up on it next time."

I glance back, once.

She's still waiting on the landing, staring down at us, but all that happy glee about DeMott's appearance is gone. It's gone and I can see it, like one of those invi
si
ble-but-real things. She's going back in, the black caves calling her name.

"Do come again." Her voice is wooden. "Won't you?"

***

DeMott drives a pickup truck, a fact that boosts him ten points on a scale I never even knew existed. Every guy at St. Christopher’s, our brother school, seems to drive a BMW or Benz or some other hot sports car daddy shelled out for.

This truck isn’t even new. I give him another five points for that.

He holds the passenger door for me. I add three points—most southern guys would hold the door.

I watch him cross around the front of the truck and hop inside.

“Thank you,” I say.

He turns the key. “For what?”

“For picking up the signals.”

“Oh.” He nods, pushes in the clutch and shoves the stick shift in first. Manual transmission gets another two points. “You’re welcome. And I like your mom.”

I try to make a sound in my throat, to express my parental annoyance, but what gurgles out makes my face turn bright red. I sound like I’ve got the flu.

He laughs. “Raleigh, I’m serious. She’s great.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I don’t lie.”

That statement shuts me up. We roll down Monument Avenue. He drives around JEB Stuart on his horse.

“In what way?” I ask.

"Pardon?"

No "what" for him.

"In what way is my mom great?"

"For one thing, she's genuine. Like your dad. I wish more people were like them."

I stare out at the window at the cobblestone road. This is true:
m
y mother is genuine—mostly genuinely nuts, but even when she's well, she's herself, always. And my dad, I've never seen him be phony. Ever. That's probably what Drew most despises about Jayne—
her mom
doesn't ever drink alcohol in public, but hides in their house getting bombed.

"Thanks," I tell him. "I needed to hear that."

He shrugs, like there's no need to thank him. Which somehow only makes me want to thank him more. I steal glances at him. He's wearing jeans now and a Carhart jacket the color of toast. The hum of the road fills the cab as he steers around Stonewall Jackson. It gets to me.

"Okay, look, I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I shouldn't have treated Tinsley like that."

"It
was
rude."

"I know. I'm apologizing."

"But you didn't say it to me. You said it to her."

I turn away, staring out the passenger window. The row houses display their autumn flags, a Richmond tradition. They wave in the breeze.

I speak to the window. "If you think I'm going to apologize to Tinsley Teager, you can let me out right here."

I don't hear anything for another block. Then he says, "How about I tell her you feel bad about it?"

"Is that absolutely necessary?" I ask the window.

He laughs.

When I look over, his profile is so perfect--so proportional--that it's like each feature was designed mathematically. Straight nose. Strong but not jutting chin. Smooth forehead. His looks actually freak me out: he's too good looking. I find myself searching for flaws, anything that will make him seem more human. More like me.

He downshifts at the light on Libbie Avenue and coasts to a stop.

"Okay," he says, "if you really, really don't want me to, I won't say anything to Tinsley."

Now I feel worse. What kind of a creep takes back an apology? The whole idea that I could be like that makes me want to confess even more.
So I do.

"You should also know I'm not headed to school right now."

He keeps his gaze on the red light. "Oh."

"Yes, and the project isn't for school either."

The light turns green, he shifts into first. Our silence is way too uncomfortable
,
but I have no words to add that will make it better. All I can think is
:
h
e just praised my parents for being genuine and true, and I just pulled a fast one on my mother. Who is craz
y?
Nice. Really nice.

"DeMott, you can let me out here. It's okay. I was going to get my bike—that's what I planned to do and—"

"Where are you going, if you're not going to school?"

“To look at a hole in the ground.”

He keeps driving. “I better come with you.”

“Why?”

He looks over and smiles.

“In case you fall in,” he says.

On both sides of Teddy's house, his neighbors work in their yards, raking leaves, sweeping driveways—and stealing glances at DeMott and me sitting in his truck.

DeMott hasn't cut the engine yet. And he can't take his eyes off the house. The window shutters hanging slanted on busted hinges. Gutters choked with leaves and moss. The wheelchair ramp smothered with even more leaves.

"This the hole in the ground?" he asks.

"No." I climb out of the truck and stomp as noisily as possible up the wooden ramp, announcing my arrival to Teddy, and getting even more stares from the neighbors.

I knock on the door. Six times.

When it opens, I don't wait for "hello."

"Petersburg Batholith."

He nods, rubs an odd hand over his red whiskers. "Afternoon to you, too."

"You could've just told me."

"Where’s the fun in that?"

"
Fun?
Drew’s missing. Why can't anyone get that through their heads?!"

"Because she brought this on herself."

"Once. She ran away once. And that was—"

"Also, it doesn't help that she makes the other girls feel so dumb. And half the teachers. The girl doesn't exactly breed sympathy."

"Stand up."

He blinks. "Say what?"

“Stand up. Take a jog around the block.”

He holds my gaze, his green eyes gleaming.

“Right,” I continue. “You don't get up and go running because you can't. The same way Drew can't help making other people feel stupid—because compared to her, they are.”

“Point taken.”

“And now you owe me.”

He frowns. "For what?"

“Insulting her like that.”

He takes another swipe at his whiskers, but this time cranes his neck, looking toward the truck. DeMott sees him and raises his hand, a gesture of hello.

“Who you got driving,” Teddy asks, “Prince Charming?”

"Show me exactly where that batholith is exposed."

"Now?" he says, shocked.

"Right. Now."

***

Teddy sits on the passenger side of the bench seat, held in tight by the seatbelt. DeMott follows his directions and takes River Road down to the Huegonot Bridge. But we don't cross over the water.

"Turn here," Teddy says.

"Here?" DeMott says.

The road is rutted gravel, lined on either side by wild aspens. The wind blows a hail of yellow leaves from the trees. They flutter through the sunlight like hammered gold.

"What are we doing here?" DeMott asks, bouncing over the road.

"You mean, besides giving me a pain in the butt?" Teddy says.

I sit sandwiched between them. And I remain silent. Every time the truck bumps into another divot, I brush up against DeMott's right shoulder. I'm wearing a sweatshirt and he's got that jacket on and still I can feel heat from him. It's making it hard to breathe.

I steal one more sidelong glance at his perfect profile. But now his eyebrows are quirked up.

"What's bothering you?" I ask.

"That sign back there said ‘No Trespassing.’"

"Not important," Teddy insists. "Let's talk about Raleigh. She seems tense."

"I'm right here, and I'm not tense."

"She just proved my point." He leans forward, straining against the seatbelt, speaking over me to DeMott, "Am I right or am I right?"

DeMott glances at me. "You do seem a little tense."

"I'm not."

"I said ‘a little.’"

"Not even a little."

"It's official," Teddy says. "Y'all sound like an old married couple."

I feel the flush of embarrassment rising up my neck. I hold my breath as DeMott slides in the clutch and coasts to a stop. The blood is reddening my cheeks now.

But nobody speaks for several long moments. Each of us stares out the windshield. Right in front of us, the massive curve of rock rises fifty feet high and stretches hundreds of feet across. Mining has gouged the thick horizontal layers, including a band of pink-and gray stone that blooms between the layers like a gigantic frozen balloon.

"Welcome," Teddy finally says, "to the Petersburg Batholith."

"Wow," says DeMott.

"Glad you're impressed, son. Now get me outta this noose."

DeMott climbs out of the truck. He walks to the back, where Teddy's wheelchair sits folded on the flat bed.

"You could do worse," Teddy mutters.

"Stop it."

"Okay, a lot worse."

"There's nothing going on."

"Sure sign that something's going on."

DeMott opens the passenger door. Teddy grins at him wickedly.

"Is everything okay?" DeMott asks, looking a little concerned.

"With me?" Teddy asks. "Yeah. I'm great."

I grab my backpack and slide out the driver's side. If Teddy says something more, I don't hear it because I've already slammed the door and started walking away.

“So you know what you're looking for?" Teddy calls out.

I turn around, ready to blast him, but I'm too stunned to speak.

DeMott stands behind the wheelchair—pushing Teddy forward. Even though this isn't the easiest ground to cover, I know Teddy can handle it. I've seen him operate on our geology field trips. He never lets
anyone
push his chair. The sight of this fractures something in my mind. I can only stare at them, unable to get one word out.