The Serpent King(56)

They sat mute for several minutes.

“We’ll get through this, Travis.”

He choked up. “I wish he hadn’t wrecked my amazing night.”

They drove back to Dill’s house.

“Hey, Dill, can I have a few minutes alone in here before we go in?”

“Yeah, take all the time you need.”

As Dill opened his window to climb into his bedroom, he caught a glimpse of Travis. He had his head down on the steering wheel, his body shaking, as he sat solitary in the frozen January midnight darkness.





Lydia opened the front door. “Travis. What’s up?” It was unusual for Travis to show up at her house unannounced.

Travis held a sheaf of notebook paper. He looked nervous. “Hey, Lydia. So. I wrote this story. And you know writing and stuff. I wonder if you could read it for me and tell me what to do better.”

“Already? Wasn’t it two weeks ago that G. M. Pennington told you to consider becoming a writer?”

“Three.”

“Ah, right. It’s almost as though that date sticks in your head more than it does mine.”

Travis smiled.

“How familiar do I have to be with Bloodfall to understand it?” Lydia asked.

“You don’t need to know anything. It’s original.”

“Because I started reading Bloodfall after we met Gary. He was so awesome. I owe it to him. And you. But I’m not even close to done.”

Travis grinned. “Finally!”

She held out her hand. “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, finally. Anyway, of course I’ll read your story. But fair warning, I’m pretty no bullshit when it comes to writing. If something sucks, I’ll tell you. And since this is your first try, there’ll probably be stuff that sucks.”

Travis handed her the papers. “I’m pretty used to criticism. I can take it.”

Lydia remembered what her dad had told her about Travis and she felt a stab of guilt. I can take it, he says. That and more. She leafed through the papers. “Wow, handwritten? Who does that? Look at you go, Shakespeare.”

“I haven’t had much access to my laptop the last few weeks.”

Another pang—this time of worry. “Is everything okay? Like at home?”

“Yeah, fine.” Travis sounded nonchalant. But not too nonchalant.

If he was lying, he was doing a better job of it than when he lied about Amelia. “Gotcha. What are you and Dill up to tonight?”

“Dill’s working; I’m out selling firewood,” Travis said.

“Are you serious? You’re handwriting stories and selling firewood? Could I maybe show you a flashlight and have you worship me as a god?”

“I finally inherited the firewood sales. Lamar, a guy I work with, did it for years. We get the scraps of lumber we can’t sell and bundle them and sell them as firewood. But I guess he got tired of doing it. It makes me extra money to save for a new laptop and writing classes.”

Lydia looked out the window and saw Travis’s truck laden with firewood.

“Dad!” she called. “Come buy some of Travis’s dumb firewood.”

Dr. Blankenship came padding to the door in slippers, holding his wallet. “Travis! Hello.”

“Hi, Dr. Blankenship.”

“I take it you’re still working at the lumberyard?”

“Yessir. Most likely’ll keep doing that after I graduate. In the last few years, business has kind of slowed down, so I’m one of the only employees left.”

“You enjoy it?”

“Yessir. I like the smell of cut wood and it gives me time to think.”

“Do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life,” Dr. Blankenship said.

“I didn’t tell Lydia to tell you to come buy my wood, by the way,” Travis said.

“Oh, I know that. If you’d told her to tell me, she’d have said no.”

He bought half of Travis’s supply.

As Travis left, it occurred to Lydia that there was something different of late in his smile, with its two fake front teeth. Triumphant. Like he had forded a raging river and come to the other side. Or survived some great battle. He shone bright, as if burned clean by fire.




A couple hours after Travis left, Lydia’s phone buzzed.

Sitting here with fat envelope from NYU, Dahlia texted.

OMG open it.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed again. A photo of an NYU acceptance letter.

CONGRATS!!!!!!!

I’m dying here. You have to tell me when you get yours.

“Hey, Mom?” Lydia called downstairs. “Did the mail come yet today?”

“The flag is down.”

Lydia jumped down the stairs, four at a time. She ran outside barefoot, her feet freezing on the ice-cold pavement. She yanked open the mailbox door. Letters. She jammed her hand in so hard to get them that she got a paper cut. She couldn’t breathe.

Junk mail. Junk mail. Something for her mom. Something for her mom. Something for her dad. Junk mail. Junk mail. NYU.

Literally the last item in the stack. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and tore. She almost couldn’t bring herself to read it. But she did.


Dear Lydia,

Hello and greetings from NYU Undergraduate Admissions.