The Steep and Thorny Way(19)

“No, I . . .” He dropped his arm to his side. “I’m a . . . what they call . . .” His chin quivered; every other part of his body tensed. “Queer.” He swallowed. “A homosexual.”

I merely blinked at him, not one hundred percent sure I knew what that latter term meant.

“I don’t love girls in a romantic way,” he explained. “I—I—I . . . it’s boys.” He clutched his stomach again and closed his eyes. “I’m attracted to boys.”

“Oh.” I gave a small nod.

A prickly silence fell between us. Outside, a frog belched a deep croak from the pond behind the shed. I slipped my right hand into my pocket and crinkled the newsprint that bore the accusation about my stepfather.

“Well, I should . . . I should get going.” I sidled past Joe, careful not to touch him, and exited the shed.

He closed the door behind us, and I heard him following my lead through the clearing, his loud footsteps breaking up twigs.

We descended the short slope leading down to the creek, and I took extra caution crossing the rocks that jutted out of the water, for my feet felt cumbersome and unnatural. The nighttime world remained foggy and golden bright, and my head seemed stuffed full of cotton. Once I made it to the other side of the water, I pinched a fleshy part of my left arm to ensure I wasn’t stuck in the middle of a dream. I pinched myself hard and flinched at the shock of pain.

Joe trailed behind me all the way back to the break in the trees that led to my house. His shoes crushed leaves and pine needles with a percussive rhythm that mimicked the sounds of my own feet.

I didn’t know whether I should turn and say anything—or if the wrong words would tumble out of my mouth, or if he would suddenly look different, or if there was something different about his face or his body or his mannerisms, something I hadn’t noticed before. I rubbed my arms and slowed my pace and felt the sudden urge to be cruel to him again.

“Is that why you want me to be the one who kills him?” I asked over my shoulder in the quietest voice I could muster. “Because you’re not a true man?”

His feet came to an abrupt stop behind me.

My heart stopped, too. The words I’d spoken made my mouth taste rotten.

I turned around, parting my lips to apologize, but he was gone—a shadow slipping into the depths of the woods beyond the firs, leaving me all alone with a scrap of paper that burned inside my pocket.





CHAPTER 7




THOU HAST THY FATHER MUCH OFFENDED

I AWOKE IN THE MORNING WITH A headache. Memories of the night before flared to life as scattered images: rust-colored liquid and candlelight. An empty road in the pitch-dark night. Trees illuminated in a haze of gold. The shed. Joe, running his hand through his hair. My father, standing right in front of me . . .

I covered my eyes with my palms and groaned through the sick feeling burbling in my stomach.

After a knock that scarcely counted as a knock, someone came into my room.

“Hanalee,” said my mother, “Deputy Fortaine came over. He’s waiting downstairs for you.”

I rolled over in my sheets and faced her. The bottle of Necromancer’s Nectar still sat on my bedside table, I realized, the cap unscrewed, the bottle wide open and smelling of booze and dope—or at least what I imagined dope to smell like. Bitter as molasses. Medicinal. Nauseating.

“Why is he waiting to see me?” I asked. I forced myself not to grab the bottle and hide it from sight.

“He wants to speak to you about Joe.”

My skin simultaneously sweated and froze.

“Get dressed.” Mama marched over and pulled the covers off me with a gust of air that blew hair against my face. Her eyes locked on to the dress I still wore from the day before. “You never changed into nightclothes?”

“I didn’t feel well last night.”

“Are you better now?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She lowered the covers to my knees. “Change into fresh clothes and come downstairs.”

“I don’t want to talk to Deputy Fortaine.”

“He’s here to help.”

“To help whom?” I asked.

She creased her brow and put her hands on her hips. “To help us. All of us.”

My glance flitted to the Necromancer’s Nectar, which now seemed as large and conspicuous as a living creature, perched beside my bed.

Mama turned her face toward the bottle. “What’s that?”

I sat up. “A tonic.”

“For what?”

I grabbed the potion. “Straightening hair. Mildred gave it to me.”

She grumbled. “Stop buying those horrible cure-alls from her. Your curls are beautiful.”

I tried to screw the lid into place without appearing nervous, but my hands slipped and accidentally shook the liquid until it sloshed and foamed.

“Put that bottle away,” said Mama. “Get yourself brushed and presentable. Deputy Fortaine is a busy man. We mustn’t waste his time.”

I nodded and pressed the bottle’s black-magic symbols against my chest, finding the glass cold to the touch. The note from the night before rustled in my dress pocket, but my mother didn’t seem to hear it.

She left the room and closed the door behind her.