Lock and Key(35)

“Ruby, hey,” Jamie said, cutting him off as he spotted me. He slid an arm over my shoulder, saying, “Blake, this is Ruby, Cora’s sister. She’s staying with us for a while. Ruby, this is Blake Cross. Nate’s dad.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Cross said, extending his hand. He had a firm handshake, the kind I imagined they must teach in business school: two pumps, with solid eye contact the entire time. “I was just trying to convince your brother-in -law it’s a better thing to put money in a good idea than the ground. Don’t you agree?”

“Um,” I said as Jamie shot me a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know.”

“Of course you do! It’s basic logic,” Mr. Cross said. Then he laughed, flicking his keys again, and looked at Jamie, who was watching the backhoe again.

“So,” I said to Jamie, “Cora said you could tell me how to get to the mall?”

“The mall?” Jamie asked. “Oh, the greenway. Sure. It’s just down the street, to the right. Stones by the entrance.”

“Can’t miss it,” Mr. Cross said. “Just look for all the people not from this neighborhood traipsing through.”

“Blake,” Jamie said, “it’s a community greenway. It’s open to everyone.”

“Then why put it in a private, gated neighborhood? ” Mr. Cross asked. “Look, I’m as community oriented as the next person. But there’s a reason we chose to live here, right? Because it’s exclusive. Open up a part of it to just anyone and you lose that.”

“Not necessarily,” Jamie said.

“Come on,” Mr. Cross said. “I mean, what’d you spend on your place here?”

“You know,” Jamie said, obviously uncomfortable, “that’s not really—”

“A million—or close to it, right?” Mr. Cross continued, over him. Jamie sighed, looking over at the backhoe again. “And for that price, you should get what you want, whether it be a sense of security, like-minded neighbors, exclusivity—”

“Or a pond,” I said, just as the backhoe banged down again, then began to back up with a series of beeps.

“What’s that?” Mr. Cross asked, cupping a hand over his ear.

“Nothing,” I said. Jamie looked over at me, smiling. “It was nice to meet you.”

He nodded, then turned his attention back to Jamie as I said my good-byes and started across the yard. On my way, I stopped at the edge of the hole, looking down into it. It was deep, and wide across, much more substantial than what I’d pictured based on Jamie’s description. A lot can change between planning something and actually doing it. But maybe all that really matters is that anything is different at all.





Chapter Five


Maybe it was my talk with Cora, or just the crazy week I’d had. Whatever the reason, once I got to the mall, I found myself heading to the bus stop. Two transfers and forty minutes later, I was at Marshall’s.

He lived in Sandpiper Arms, an apartment complex just through the woods from Jackson that was best known for its cheap rent and the fact that its units were pre-furnished. They were also painted an array of pastel colors, candy pinks and sky blues, bright, shiny yellows. Marshall’s was lime green, which wasn’t so bad, except for some reason going there always made me want a Sprite.

When I first knocked on the door, nobody answered. After two more knocks, I was about to pull out my bus schedule and start plotting my ride home, but then the door swung open, and Rogerson peered out at me.

“Hey,” I said. He blinked, then ran a hand through his thick dreadlock-like hair, squinting in the sun. “Is Marshall here? ”

“Bedroom,” he replied, dropping his hand from the door and shuffling back to his own room. I didn’t know much about Rogerson, other than the pot thing and that he and Marshall worked together in the kitchen at Sopas, a Mexican joint in town. I’d heard rumors about him spending some time in jail—something about assault—but he wasn’t the most talkative person and pretty much kept to himself, so who knew what was really true.

I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust: Marshall and Rogerson, like my mother, preferred things dim. Maybe it was a late-shift thing, this aversion to daylight in general, and morning specifically. The room smelled like stale smoke as I moved forward, down the narrow hallway, passing the small kitchen, where pizza boxes and abandoned soda bottles crowded the island. In the living room, some guy was stretched out across the sofa, a pillow resting on his face: I could see a swath of belly, pale and ghostly, sticking out from under his T-shirt, which had ridden up slightly. Across the room, the TV was on, showing bass fishing on mute.

Marshall’s door was closed, but not all the way. "Yeah? ” he said, after I knocked.

“It’s me,” I replied. Then he coughed, which I took as permission to enter and pushed it open.

He was sitting at the pre-fab desk, shirtless, the window cracked open beside him, rolling a cigarette. His skin, freckled and pale, seemed to almost glow in the bit of light the window allowed, and, this being Marshall, you could clearly make out his collarbones and ribs. The boy was skinny, but unfortunately for me, I liked skinny boys.

“There she is,” he said, turning to face me. “Long time no see.”