The Last Harvest(3)

“Clay?” Mom hollers.

“Coming.” I pull on some fresh jeans and a flannel and grab my backpack. No time for breakfast so I snatch a handful of bacon, kiss Mom on the cheek, and give Noodle a high five as I head out to the truck.

I open the driver’s-side door to find Jess scrunched down in the cab with her army surplus boots pressing up against the dash. I slap her feet down. “No way, Jess. Take the bus with Noodle.”

“I’m sick of the bus.” She sighs as she settles into the seat. “Please, Clay.” She bats her thickly coated eyelashes. They’re all clumped together like black sticky webs.

I want to tell her to get lost. The drive into town is the only peace I get, when I can turn up the radio and pretend nothing ever happened. But I hold my tongue. Maybe this one time, she’ll talk … open up.

“Fine.” I shoot her a sideways glance and rev Old Blue to life. “But you’re not wearing that to school.” I take off my flannel and toss it onto her lap.

She puts it on over her tank top and too-short skirt like it’s the most exhausting thing she’ll do all day.

“You need a haircut.” She pops her gum. “Unless you’re trying to look like a surfer girl.”

I grab my cap from the dash, pulling it down low. I used to keep my hair buzzed for football season. Haven’t cut it in over a year. It’s not some dramatic protest or anything, just haven’t gotten around to it. No need.

We reach the end of the long dirt drive, and a guy in a brand-new F-150 with tricked-out radials drives by, giving me the reverent head nod. Townie. Most people look at our farm and get all nostalgic. They don’t see the termites eating up the barn or the endless crops I’ll have to work. They see the American flag and apple pie and John f*cking Mellencamp.

As we pull onto Route 17, Jess fiddles with the radio dial.

“We both know you’re never going to find a song you like, so what’s the point?”

“Because it bugs the crap out of you?” she snaps, and then turns off the radio. She knows I hate the silence.

Instead of kicking her out on the side of the road, I try to think of our time together like POW training. If I’m ever captured behind enemy lines, I’ll be immune to certain forms of torture.

Just as I’m working up the nerve to ask her how she’s doing with everything, she rolls down her window and closes her eyes. I wonder what she’s thinking, but I don’t ask.

I used to love this time of year—football, the scent of burning leaves hanging on the brittle morning air. Now it just reminds me of what happened. Of death. Tonight will be the one-year anniversary. I don’t need a calendar to remind me. I can feel it, the memory buried deep within my bones. I wonder if Jess can feel it, too.

I turn right onto Main Street and that sick feeling swells in my stomach as we pass the Preservation Society. The gleaming white paint, the manicured lawn edged with orange, yellow, and rust-colored flowers. People think it’s all ice cream socials, deb balls, and ribbon-cutting ceremonies, but there are secrets, too. I think my dad uncovered something … something big. He’d been acting strange for weeks, staying up all night poring over family Bibles and tattered documents, but it was that final meeting with Ian Neely and the Preservation Society that sent him over the edge.

The last time I set foot in the place was right after Dad’s funeral. Mr. Neely said he wanted to talk to me man-to-man. He told me everything happens for a reason, that it’s all part of God’s plan. “Clay, we all have our roles to play,” Mr. Neely had said. “And you’re very important to the Preservation Society. It’s time for you to take your place on the council. It’s time to move forward, into the future.”

Something about his words felt wrong. Like putting weight on a broken bone.

“I don’t have all day, Grandpa.” Jess drums her black nails on the edge of the window.

I press on the gas.

Some people say Jess’s gone goth, because of the nail polish and everything. They say she’s headed for a fall. I just hope it doesn’t take a world of hurt to bring her back to us.

“Pull over,” she says.

I stop the car in front of a boarded-up house with a foreclosure sign out front. “Why? We’re four blocks away from your school.”

“Exactly.”

I decide to take a more direct approach. “Why. Am. I. Dropping. You. Off. Here?”

“Duh.” She rolls her eyes as she gets out of the car and slams the door shut. “Because I don’t want to be seen with you.”

“Then ride the bus!” I yell back at her.

She doubles back to lean against the open window. “I don’t get you. You have a car. You’re going to be eighteen in a couple of days. Nothing’s stopping you from leaving.”

I take a deep breath, reminding myself she’s just a kid, trying to get a rise out of me. “Except a family I have to take care of.”

“We both know you could’ve sold the farm to Neely.”

I look up at her in shock. I had no idea she knew about that.

A sly smile curls the corner of her mouth. “I thought so. We would’ve been fine. You just don’t have the balls to leave. You’re going to live with Mom forever like that perv from Psycho.”

“Have a great day, Jess!” I lean over and roll up the window. She gives me the finger and kicks my truck as I pull away.