Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (7 page)

The boy stepped closer and took a sip of his drink. “I figured it out,” he said. “You’re either an uptight magician or someone died.”

“My grandfather,” I snapped, crossing my arms. Hours ago, Grammy J had said good-bye to Poppa Bart, her partner of forty years, and my mother had buried her father. He was more of a distant relative to me—my grandparents never ventured north to Dallas and we visited Wilhelmsburg only once every few years—but still my heart hurt for Grammy J and all she’d lost. Now who’d trim the trees or fix the banister when it needed repair? Who would help Grammy J manage the bed-and-breakfast?

His smile faltered. He raked his fingers through his hair. “Okay, I’m a jerk,” he said, then offered me his drink as some kind of apology. I sniffed it, and to my surprise, the moonshine smelled like fresh-baked apple pie. I gulped some down, squeezing my eyes shut as the alcohol burned my throat and sent a rush to my head. The cinnamon aftertaste reminded me of the Red Hots candy our live-in chef used to decorate Christmas cookies. I gave the cup back to him and introduced myself.

“Cricket,” he replied.

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s awful if that’s actually your name.”

He laughed, the sound low and rough but threaded with a lilting warmth. “It’s because I’m fast and squirmy.”

When I furrowed my brow in response, he clarified, “On the football field.”

I studied him and tried to imagine him dodging and cutting and slipping through the defense into the end zone. Silence stretched between us. The wind shushed through the field, birds trilling from somewhere above. The air felt cool and dry, uncommon for Hill Country.

“So, Margaret, what are you doing out here all alone?” he asked after a while.

I shrugged, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “Erasing the day.”

All throughout Poppa Bart’s service and wake, my mother had pecked at me like I was a corn kernel.
Stand up straight, Margaret. Slouching is a mortal sin against poise and makes you look unattractive; if you insist on sitting around rather than mingling with visitors or helping your grandmother, then cross your legs at the ankle, place your hands together on your lap, and smile; for Heaven’s sake, Margaret, the deviled eggs aren’t going to run away. Take smaller bites and use a napkin. You’re not some backwoods inbred.

After the last guests had left and the bed-and-breakfast was eerily quiet, I thought we’d all settle into the rocking chairs on the porch and tell stories about Poppa Bart. Except my mother had been insistent that we sort through my grandfather’s belongings that very moment, and Grammy J had seemed too drained to argue. My mother had put me in charge of emptying his closet and packing the items into boxes. When she started in on my inability to properly fold the dress shirts I doubted Poppa Bart ever wore, I had to escape.

Cricket rocked on the balls of his feet. “You’re not going to have much luck with that if you keep hiding away from everybody. Come on. Join the fun.” Capturing my hand, he tugged me toward the crowd. His palm was rough as tree bark, and I wondered if his summer job involved manual labor. Ordinarily I hated it when people dictated my actions—I got enough of it from my mother—but I was already feeling hazy from the liquor, so I let him lead me to where some boys were strumming guitars by the bonfire.

“Guys, this is Margaret,” Cricket declared. “Margaret, this is everyone.”

People said hello or nodded, not appearing to care that I crashed their party. I planted myself in a plastic folding chair and listened to the slow, easy melody and the wood crackling. Cricket rummaged in a cooler and retrieved a mason jar of amber-colored liquid. Unscrewing the lid, he handed it to me and sat in the empty chair beside me.

I sipped the apple pie moonshine and stared at the group of girls across from us whispering to one another, casting glances between Cricket and me. The one with her cleavage on display sneered at me. I rolled my eyes. She’d have to work harder than that to intimidate me. Her hair was bleached so blond it was almost translucent and probably had the same texture as hay, while mine was like a flame—even in the dark it radiated light. I heard one of the other girls call her Bonnie, but I bet her mother referred to her as Bon Bon or something equally ridiculous. Unlike her, at least I was on my way to bigger, better places, and not stuck in this tiny town forever.

An hour passed, filled with music and laughter and overloud conversation that jumped from topics like prom to next season’s football schedule to the group of seniors who had snatched three barrels of Merlot from one of the local wineries for kicks—how they’d managed to lift the barrels onto the getaway truck with only their brute strength was something of an urban legend now. Cricket stayed near me, shooting glimpses in my direction, but he didn’t touch me again.

At one point, Cricket mentioned the long-standing dare to break into the Gansey house, an abandoned cottage that was supposedly haunted by the spirit of Mr. Gansey, the crazy old man who had sliced off his wife’s head with a carving knife and dangled it from the ceiling. To win you had to survive for ten minutes inside and steal something as proof. I wasn’t exactly sure what the prize was—glory? Respect? Eternal adoration?—but that didn’t seem to matter.

“So who’s going to do it?” Cricket asked, his gaze darting around the group. When no one volunteered, he faced me. “What about you? Wanna go for it?”

Bon Bon and all her cleavage leaned forward. Her eyes were glassy and her cheeks were flushed. “No way she has the guts. Most people don’t make it past the front door before they get spooked and bolt.” Her words contained a hint of laughter, as if this whole thing were a joke.

Cricket kept his focus on me. A sly smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll come with you. What do you say? You in?”

I’d never done anything like what he was suggesting—trespassing, breaking and entering. I was the popular girl, the good girl who earned perfect grades, played it safe, abided by the rules. Before I could talk myself out of it, I nodded, a thrill surging through me.

“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” I said to Bon Bon. “I’m in.”

Hollers and whistles erupted as Cricket pulled me to my feet. The ground lurched under me, and my head felt weightless and fuzzy as dandelion fluff floating on the breeze. There was a tingling from my fingertips all the way down to my toes, and my whole mouth tasted like a cinnamon stick. I was drunker than I’d thought, but Cricket was sober as he guided me to a pickup truck. After I hopped in, he slid behind the wheel and drove us into town. A line of headlights followed behind us—we had an audience. Or perhaps everyone wanted to ensure we didn’t cheat. Cricket turned onto a deserted road that sloped upward. When we reached the top, the sagging, gaunt structure rose out of the ground before us, the limestone crumbling and coated in grime. The moon shone on an overgrown tree that pressed against one side, its branches jutting through the holes in the roof.

Cricket parked and killed the engine. “Ready?”

A fist tightened around my chest, my bravery gone with my buzz. The house didn’t look scary or even haunted, only dilapidated, but what if Mr. Gansey was real? As if sensing my apprehension, Cricket said, “The story’s just a story. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

He grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and jogged to the porch. I trailed after him, my stomach knotting like a gold chain in a jewelry drawer. A small crowd had gathered in the weed-infested yard, watching, waiting. The air felt charged in anticipation.

We reached the front door too soon, and I hesitated, clutching Cricket’s shoulders.

“All we have to do is rip off a piece of wallpaper or something and make it the ten minutes. It’ll go by fast, I promise,” he said to me, then yelled to the spectators, “Time starts now.”

He heaved open the door with a calm I didn’t understand, as if he did this sort of thing regularly. Cricket stepped into the dark, floorboards creaking beneath his shoes. The wind howled through the gaps in the stone. I stuck close to him as I entered. Instantly the stench of mold and rot assaulted my nose, and I had to force the alcohol from coming back up. Blackness swallowed us, and the noises from outside vanished as if we’d been sucked into a vacuum. Something scurried across my ankle, and I bit down a scream. My heart pounded in my ears.

Clicking on the flashlight, Cricket reached up and squeezed my hand clenching his shoulder. “You all right?”

“Fine,” I whispered, imagining the rats and insects crawling everywhere, the spiders that could drop on me.

We advanced deeper into the shadows, the flashlight beam bouncing as we walked. The cottage was littered with dead leaves and trash—cigarette butts, tin cans, flat cardboard boxes squatters had probably slept on.

“The kitchen should have something we can swipe,” Cricket said, directing the light ahead of us, like he’d been inside before and knew exactly where to go.

“Okay,” I croaked, even though the room felt as if it were shrinking around us.

As we moved forward, I swore I heard a faint moan from somewhere behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
It’s nothing. Probably a gust of wind
, I told myself, refusing to look anywhere but in front of me
.
Cricket was so calm, so at ease, it made me want to match him.

“Here we are,” he said, sweeping the flashlight across gutted cabinets and a hollowed-out ancient refrigerator with an unhinged door.

As we crossed the threshold, the floor shifted from wood to chipped tile, and I tripped. Cricket wrapped an arm around my waist to stop my fall. “I’ve got you,” he said, his breath tickling my ear. A shiver traveled down my spine but not in fear. He tightened his grip, and I focused on the warm strength of his hand.

“How much longer?” I asked.

“Not much,” he said, his nose skimming my cheek. He smelled like smoke and apple pie moonshine and new soil.

My heart thudded against my ribs as I said, “This was a bad idea.”

“Aren’t the messiest decisions the most fun?”

“No,” I said, but I wasn’t sure I meant it. My buzz was returning in full force, but not from the alcohol.

“You sure?” His mouth brushed against mine, and for a moment, everything went still.

Then he was kissing me, soft but strong. A small sound escaped from my throat when he licked my bottom lip. He used my cardigan to pull me tight against him, his palm flat on my back. My hands found his chest, his heart beating like a drum beneath my touch. When he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing mine, I let myself go, lost in his taste and the sensation of his mouth on mine. I’d never felt anything so good.

Suddenly the room whirled with red and blue lights.

Cricket broke away. “Shit. We lost,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“What?” I asked, missing the pressure of his mouth and body against mine.

“The cops showed up before the ten minutes were over,” he said, pointing to the kitchen window, where two figures in beige uniforms were approaching the cottage. I noticed the crowd that had been gathered outside was gone.

“I don’t understand.”

“We got beat.”

When I didn’t reply, he said, “Old Mr. Gansey is harmless—everyone knows that. The dare is outlasting the cops. Once you announce you’re entering, someone calls the cops about the break-in. You win if you make it the total time and steal something from inside before they get here.”

Anger rose like a tide in my chest. “You tricked me.”

“It wasn’t like that.” He reached out to put his hands on my shoulders, but I stepped away. “It’s just—I knew you wouldn’t come in otherwise.”

“No shit I wouldn’t have come!” I shouted.

Cricket shook his head. “We don’t have time for this. We need to get outta here before they catch us.” He grabbed my arm to pull me toward the doorway, but I refused to budge. “Margaret, come on, there’s no—” The rest of his sentence was interrupted as the two policemen entered the house, blocking our exit.

They slapped handcuffs on us and threw us into the back of a cruiser. My parents were going to murder me, but I didn’t care. My anger was growing like a cancer, but there was something else, too—a betrayal so thick I nearly choked on it. Cricket had kissed me, took advantage of the situation with my grandfather, and I’d completely fallen for it. How stupid could I be?

With his hands bound behind his back, Cricket scooted closer to me. “Margaret, listen, it’s gonna be okay. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s supposed to be fun—”

“Fun?” I said with a bitter laugh. “You consider this
fun
?”

“No, not this. Just let me explain—”

“Shut up.” I turned away from him and stared out the window at the officers talking into their radios. “Of course this isn’t a big deal to someone like you who’ll be stuck in this town forever, but I plan on doing something with my life. Like go to college, which has now been jeopardized thanks to you.”

“I plan on going to college.” He actually had the audacity to sound offended.

“Yes, I’m sure whatever trade school you end up at is waiting in anticipation for your application. No doubt getting arrested is exactly the sort of extracurricular activity that earns full-ride scholarships, as is perfecting the varying flavors of moonshine.”

He muttered a few choice words
under his breath, but I ignored him and continued to watch the officers, who were now filling out paperwork.

A pair of headlights rounded up the hill. My stomach dropped when I saw it was my father’s BMW. It rolled to a stop next to the cruiser. One of the police officers opened my door. “You’re free to go, little lady. You can thank your Grandma Joy for that, though I’m not obliged to comment on what your Grandpa Bart would say ’bout your behavior, God rest his soul.” He helped me out of the cruiser and unlocked my cuffs. Cricket leaned across the seat to say something to me but the officer cut him off. “You, son, aren’t quite so fortunate. It appears your winning streak has finally ended.” Then he shut the door in his face.

I rubbed my sore wrists as my parents stepped out of the BMW, my mother crushing a weed under her foot. She refused to acknowledge me, but I could feel the displeasure rolling off her in waves. She looked as though she’d been crying, which she hadn’t done at all during Poppa Bart’s funeral or at the wake after. Perhaps something happened between her and Grammy J after I snuck out—I knew she wasn’t worried about me.