The September day I meet Jesse at the quarry is clear and cool. I wear jeans and my fleece jacket, the left sleeve snug over my cast. I can hear the sound of Mags’s engine fading away down the road behind me as I come out into the clearing and see him standing by some of the granite slabs, a backpack sitting at his feet. Behind him, the swamp maples are turning red; that’s the first sign of the leaves changing every fall. Pretty soon this whole place will be fringed with orange and gold.
He turns when he hears my sneakers crunching over rock. He’s wearing a gray hoodie, the usual beat-up jeans. “Hey,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”
“Sure.” I don’t have any brainstorms after that, so I scuff my foot back and forth. I don’t feel as awkward as I thought I would, though, considering the last time I saw him, I bawled like a baby. Guess I know now that Jesse wouldn’t laugh at me about something like that.
“How’s the arm?”
“Itchy.”
“I should’ve taken you to the ER that night.”
“I wouldn’t let you.”
“Still.” He looks at me for a second, then clears his throat, putting his hands in his pockets. “So what you been doing?”
“School. Work. Mags and I are waiting tables at the Harbor View.” A nod. I don’t tell him that I’ve been putting a little money away for after graduation, letting myself think about traveling, for real. Not sure where I want to go or how I’ll get there. Guess I’ll figure that out when the time comes. “So . . . are we out here because you heard?”
“I heard something. Figured it was bullshit.” He sees it in my face and curses softly. “Sorry.” A pause. “She’s gonna have a rough time of it.”
“She already is.” I don’t tell him about the ladies watching Mom and me and whispering at Hannaford. Or the kids yelling stuff at Nell from across the school parking lot, then taking off, tires squealing.
Three weeks ago, the Monday after Edgecombe came to the trailer, Nell sat down with Libby, Edgecombe, the Sasanoa superintendent, the principal, and the guidance counselor, and told them all what went on during her sophomore year and started up again this summer. Last week, Brad Ellis was suspended from his job at Hampden High School until further notice. The local news ran the story, keeping Nell’s name out of it, but people are finding out anyway. One good thing that’s come out of this is that Libby decided to let Nell ride the bus to school with me again. Guess she figures I’m a decent guard dog, if nothing else.
Nell’s basically doing okay, considering. She’s got Mags and me. Mags bought her a little journal and some gel pens, and I see Nell writing in it all the time now, sitting with her legs tucked under her the way she used to when she played Matchmaker.
“They found Rhiannon yet?” Jesse says.
I shake my head. “At least her family knows she’s alive. I hope that’s what she wants. To be found.”
“If she wanted to stay gone, all she had to do was keep her head down. Maybe she’s ready to come back. Face everything.”
I don’t know how I feel about that. The idea of Rhiannon standing in front of me is like seeing somebody come back from the dead. I shake it off, put my hands in my back pockets, and wander in a figure eight around the rocks. “So why’d we need to come out here to talk?”
He doesn’t answer right away, clearing his throat and looking down at the backpack. “’Cause. I been thinking about you a lot.” He doesn’t try to bury that in more words. I look back at him. He’s got two flushed spots high on his cheekbones. “Missed you.”
I stand there, feeling the rawness of his words.
He unzips the backpack. “Made you something.”
I walk over to get a better look. He’s takes out a metal tin. Inside is a circle of wood, a section cut from the trunk of a young birch. The bark’s been stripped, and it’s been sanded so smooth it almost looks like bone. On the face, he’s carved DP and JB. No heart, no plus sign, nothing like that. Just our initials together. The letters have been deeply, carefully worked in with a jackknife. The bottom of the tin is weighted with stones.
“Remember how you said it would be cool to put something in the quarry in case they ever drain the place, so people knew we were here?”
I take it and run my fingertips over the letters. “Like a time capsule.”
I take the carving out and bring it close to my face, smelling the wood, blinking at the sting in my eyes.
“If you don’t want to . . .”
“No. I do.” I go to the ledge, taking a deep breath. I picture myself going over again, the dark water hurtling up to meet me, and vertigo makes me take a step back. Even though it’s almost too nice to let go of, I seal the tin, hold out my hands, and let go, watching it fall all the way down to the splash.
We’re quiet. His hand touches the back of my head, his fingers smoothing through my hair and holding it, loosely. I close my eyes.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Jacqueline Hall
GILLIAN FRENCH’s short fiction has appeared in various publications and anthologies. She has ranked in several writing competitions, such as Zoetrope: All-Story and the Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. In addition to Grit, she has also written the YA novel The Door to January. She holds a BA in English from the University of Maine and lives in rural Maine with her husband and sons. To learn more about Gillian, visit her online at www.gillianfrench.com.
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BOOKS BY GILLIAN FRENCH
Grit
CREDITS
Cover photograph © 2017 by Mike Carreiro/Gallery Stock
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
GRIT. Copyright © 2017 by Gillian French. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-06-264255-4
EPub Edition © April 2017 ISBN 9780062642578
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