I guard jealously
Like treasure
Not poison.
She looks the other way
As we carefully weigh our secrets
And unspoken lies
On stretches of silence
In which we decide
It’s better not to know.
twenty-two
Harper Apple
Gunfire echoes through the dark streets as I approach the “industrial” sector of town, which consists of a factory that makes maxi pads, the railyard, and a few warehouses, including the one that houses the Slaughter Pen. I nearly jump out of my skin when the loud pops sound again. Not that I’ve never heard gunshots, but I live in the bad part of Faulkner, Arkansas, not Los Angeles.
Still, I wonder what I’m getting myself into as I jog toward the huge lot behind the factory where Dixie told me to go. Suddenly, I regret telling her I’ll see her there. I should have asked her for a ride. I was expecting a party, not a shootout.
As I get closer, the sound of squealing tires and the smell of burning rubber fills the air. I can see smoke drifting over the lot as I lope across an empty street and edge into the crowd.
Dorothy, we’re not in the Heights anymore, I think to myself as I look around, taking stock of the situation. There are more people than I expected, but it’s not just a bunch of rich kids out to wreck their cars and make their daddies buy them new ones. This is a town event.
There’s a girl I remember dropping out of Faulkner last year, in a Winnie the Pooh costume pushing a stroller with a baby dressed as a jar of honey. A group of buff, twentyish guys speaking Spanish and drinking Tecate, their faces painted in Day of the Dead makeup, and a group of black girls in sexy nurse, devil, fairy, and bunny costumes, whispering and eyeing them from a few feet off. A middle-aged man in a Superman suit wraps his jacket around the shoulders of a woman who looks old enough to be his grandmother while she leans heavily on a cane. Two kids dressed as ninjas and clutching cans of Jumex dart through the crowd.
I start to relax as I wade in deeper. This is the Faulkner I know, the one I’ve always known. I feel my phone buzz and take it out to see a message from Dixie telling me where she is. I make my way in that direction, toward the center of the lot, only to be interrupted by the squeal of tires as a car does a doughnut across the lot, leaving long, dark skid marks behind. A girl hangs out the window, her blonde hair streaming in the smoke that billows up from the tires. She shrieks, and the crowd cheers.
As I pass a group, I hear a scrap of conversation—“Gloria Walton and Royal Dolce”—and I turn that way. I don’t see anyone familiar, though, and I don’t know who spoke. I turn back toward the lot, my chest tightening. Is that who was in that car? Royal and Gloria?
I push my way a little closer, but this time, I hear my own name. I turn to see a tall, buff guy wearing a sleeveless shirt despite the chill in the air. His tats make up the sleeves, I guess.
“Harper Fucking Apple,” Maverick drawls. Of course he’s too cool to have dressed up. I don’t blame him. I’m not dressed up, either. “I thought that was you. Where you been, baby?”
“What’s up?” I ask, jerking my chin at him.
“What the fuck happened to you?” he asks, hooking a finger through my belt loop and pulling me closer as the crowd jostles us. “You look like shit.”
“Same,” I say. “Your beard is dumb.”
It really is. He just has a little patch on his chin.
He grins and tugs at my belt loop. “I haven’t seen you at school lately. You ditching the whole year again? Or shacked up with some asshole who needs a visit from me about that eye.”
I shrug and touch my black eye. “I transferred. And this is from a fight. If you ever came on Friday nights, you’d know that.”
“How’s your ink holding up?” he asks, releasing my belt loop and lifting the hem of my shirt. He gets down in a crouch to examine the tattoo that runs over my hip and onto my torso. I hook my thumb in the top of my low-rise jeans and pull them lower still, holding my breath when he leans close so I can feel his warm breath on my skin.
He traces his fingers lightly over the design, and a shiver goes through me. Yep, still the same old Mav. If I was the same old Harper, I’d go home with him tonight, even knowing that it would never go anywhere. I always knew he wasn’t the kind of guy I could hold onto, and it never bothered me. Maverick gets girls, but he never keeps them.
I’m about to pull away when a towering figure appears out of nowhere, grabs Maverick, and hurls him to the pavement.
“Why the fuck are your hands all over this girl?” Royal demands, looming over my friend.