Gods & Monsters(3)

As I reach her a few seconds later, a white truck whooshes into my view. It’s more rusted than white, the paint peeling off the sides and the doors. It shudders and screeches like it’s going to break down any second as it hurtles down the dirt-path. The dirt-path that breaks off the highway and circles around our farm, leading to our neighbor’s house.

Peter Adams.

He’s the town’s loner. He hardly goes out or even talks to people. There are only a handful of times I’ve seen him around town. He has dark blond hair with gray sprinkled in, and eyes that look a little lost sometimes. He’s quiet and he’s always been nice to me.

Last year, I had this huge tower of books that I’d just checked out of the town library and as I was walking down the street to where Mom had parked the car, I stumbled and dropped all of them. Mr. Adams came to my rescue and helped me gather all the books. When I thanked him, he didn’t say anything and left. People were giving me weird looks and the news of it traveled to my mom. Of course, she retaliated — she retaliates against everything that has to do with the Adams family. She yelled at me for about an hour. The bruises that week were more brutal than anything I’d ever endured.

Oh well. It is what it is. Although I never talked to Mr. Adams after that, I still think my mom over-reacted. Her hatred of Peter Adams is a bit exaggerated. I mean, he isn’t responsible for what happened fifteen years ago. He isn’t responsible for what his brother, David, did. So what if Peter Adams belongs to the same family?

The truck lurches to a stop under a leafless tree. It’s summer and there’s greenery everywhere but I’ve never seen this tree grow any leaves. How strange is that? It’s always been thin and skeletal. Like it died a long time ago. It makes me sad. Everyone deserves a bit of color in their life.

The door on the driver’s side opens and out comes Peter Adams. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and faded pants. His hair’s become thinner over the last year and almost all the strands are grayish white. He walks to the back of the truck and opens the tailgate with a giant screech and lowers a small bag.

Does he have visitors? I’ve never seen anyone visiting him before, though. I’m beyond curious now, and looks like Sky is the same way.

A pair of long legs swing out of the cab and thud on the ground. Whoever it is, their shoes are dirty: that’s my first thought. White canvas sneakers with smudges of mud all over. Oh, I can totally relate to that. I can never keep my shoes clean, if I’m wearing them that is. I wiggle my dirty, naked toes in the mud, hating the fact that I’m in for a good bruising by my mom.

All thoughts of getting punished vanish from my head when the visitor jumps out of the truck. It’s a boy.

A tall boy with loose and wrinkled clothes, and a backpack riding on his shoulder. It looks thicker than the bag Mr. Adams is carrying. There’s a rip in the boy’s jeans, white threads hanging out like a set of teeth.

His hair’s all messy, touching his eyebrows. It flickers in the wind that suddenly seems to have picked up. It’s blond. Well, not like my blonde. My hair’s yellow like the sun, whereas his is more of a dirty sort of blond. Like if you dip the sun in creamy coffee, you will come away with a shade that matches his hair. Golden.

Mr. Adams approaches him and the boy whips his eyes to glare at him. Whoa. There’s so much anger in them. I’ve never seen anyone this angry. Not even my mom. If I were Mr. Adams, I’d be quaking in my boots. Gosh, this boy is tall. He’s taller than Mr. Adams, even. And his fists are clenched like he wants to punch Mr. Adams’s face.

The boy’s nostrils flare and his jaw becomes hard, like he’s gritting his teeth. I’m grimacing, thinking it’s going to happen any second now. The boy is going to punch Mr. Adams.

Oh my God, should I do something? Scream? Call for help? Why’s he so mad at him, anyway?

But then the boy turns around, more like spins, and slams the door of the truck shut. He does it so hard and fast that the whole cab shakes; I swear I see the flecks of paint flying off. The sound is like a thunder. A bomb blast. A big bang.

The silence that follows is that much clearer. I can hear Mr. Adams saying something to him - it doesn’t look pleasant - before he strides over to the house angrily, leaving the boy behind.

I can hear my own breaths. I can even hear the boy’s loud breaths. I feel myself shivering, as if I’m cold, which is ridiculous because it’s hot out today. I’m sweating too, but I can’t stop my shaking.

I’m still watching the boy as he stands there lonely, with his fists clenched, looking up at the orange sky, when a loud sound shatters everything. The silence, the tensed peace.

“Evie!”

That’s my mom calling me in a shrill voice.

“Come on, let’s go, Evie,” Sky mumbles and turns back.

But I can’t move. My feet are stuck in the mud; my toes are curled. Because at that exact second when my mom called out my name, the boy snapped his gaze over to me and our eyes met.

My shivering stops and I feel a burst of warmth all over. He’s still angry, judging by the big frown and his narrowed eyes. My heart starts beating really fast. I can feel it in my teeth and on my temple. When his eyes dip to my dust-ridden calves, my heart throbs in there too, and I feel self-conscious. Fisting my dress, I scratch my right calf with the big toe of my left foot.

Okay, so I’m not very presentable at the moment, but you know what? He isn’t either. His shoes are dirty. His black t-shirt has holes all over the neck and his jeans are ripped.