The Deepest Roots Page 2

  “What more could a girl ask for, Deputy Ruiz?” I ask with a grin as we leave. “See you later.”

  “I don’t think you needed to Stone Face Rick,” I tell Lux as I wipe my dirty hands on my jeans.

  This immediately nettles her, and she tightens her arms across her chest. “Better safe than sorry,” she huffs. “You should’ve heard what the man at the gas station promised me this morning.”

  “I hope it was free gas. The Mach needs a fill-up.”

  “It was pumping he offered,” Lux says, “but not that kind.”

  “Gross,” I reply, sticking out my tongue. “That dude is a meth head.”

  “Yeah. Well, my pretty face doesn’t care. I was laughing at that text message you sent before your phone ran out. And he was just there in the crossfire.” She frowns, her full mouth tightening. “I’ve gotten good at controlling it. I hate it when it happens out of the blue like that.”

  Lux is what we call a Siren, and flirting from her—devastating smiles, sparkling laughter, or what Mercy calls her “sexy voice”—leads men to profess their undying love. Or at least to do whatever she wants. When we were younger, we thought it was funny, letting Lux charm our math teacher into believing we’d turned in our algebra homework and that he’d just misplaced it. It was less funny when the forty-year-old teacher declared he was in love with her.

  The irony is that Lux doesn’t even like boys. She told Mercy and me last summer, as if we hadn’t known for years already. The three of us have always been friends. Lux’s and Mercy’s faces are as familiar to me as my own, every expression a story written in a language that only we three can understand.

  The more generous locals say the daughters of Cottonwood Hollow have unique talents. Fixers, Finders, Sirens, Enoughs, Strong Backs, Wits, Sights, Readers, and Healers. Some are talents that I’ve heard of but never seen. Ten years ago, when I was only seven, the townspeople thought maybe it had something to do with the water, and they had bake sales and softball tournaments and hot-dog-eating contests to raise the money to get it tested. But nothing in the water was out of the ordinary. Only the girls were.

  Mercy is an Enough, and just her presence can make, well, Enough. Once when we were kids, she wanted to share her Kool-Aid with Lux and me. Of course since she was Mercy, she’d already shared the Kool-Aid with anyone close enough to look thirsty, so the pitcher was nearly empty. But when we held out our plastic cups, she just kept pouring, and the Kool-Aid kept coming out, filling our cups to the brim. There was just enough. She can’t make more money appear in my wallet, or in Mom’s bank account. But whatever she has seems to always be Enough for what she needs. And sometimes for what we need, too. I’ve driven the Mach on an empty tank more times than I can count with Mercy in the back seat.

  And my story is nearly just like everyone else’s. Mom moved to Cottonwood Hollow when she was an unwed, pregnant seventeen-year-old who could afford a trailer when rented with two roommates. Years passed and the two roommates left, and then it was just me and Mom. She’d heard the stories, followed the gazes of the other mothers watching me, waiting to see what talent I would have. And so she hadn’t missed a beat when I’d Fixed the microwave at the age of four, sliding my hand over the grease-slicked buttons and tugging gently at wires in the back. When I plugged it back in, the microwave worked, and that was all that mattered.

  We ate microwave popcorn for supper that night.

  Two

  AHEAD, MERCY IS A WATCHFUL statue as she stands on a small rise, the setting sun casting her in a dark silhouette. When we get to the barbed-wire fence that separates us from the Remington pasture ground, I hold the middle strand of wire down with my worn sneaker and pull the top strand up with my hand, careful not to nick myself on the rusty barbs. Lux squeezes through the opening. One of the barbs catches in her messy bun, and she mutters a couple of curse words as she tugs away, leaving a few strands of hair. Then she returns the favor for me, holding the wires apart with a dubious expression.

  “I never understand why this is fenced off, anyway,” Lux complains when we’re both through. She dusts her hands off on her jeans, trying to remove the tawny smudges of rust and dirt from her hands. “It’s not like there are cattle out here. It’s just a big empty field with only the Remington house and the junky old ruins.”

  I shrug.

  Everyone knows the story about the Remingtons. Long ago a woman named Emmeline Remington lived here. She and her husband were newly married and settled on eighty acres of prairie near Cottonwood Hollow, which back then was no more than a main street with a general store, a schoolhouse, and a saloon, not the bustling metropolis of two hundred and fifty citizens that it is now. Supposedly, the husband up and left Emmeline for another woman. Some say the other woman was a saloon girl, and others say she was the new schoolteacher. Either way, Emmeline cursed the women of Cottonwood Hollow. She cursed us to be strange and unwanted because one of us had stolen her husband. And ever since then, the girls born here have been a little peculiar.

  “So why weren’t you in the tornado shelter?”

  Damn.

  “Mom was sleeping and didn’t know we were in a warning until the sirens went off. I drove straight from work to get her, but by then it was too dangerous to go back out.”

  “Are you sure that’s all? It seems like your mom is always sleeping lately,” Lux says, her green eyes fixed on my brown ones.

  “Because she’s tired. People who work get tired. You should try it sometime,” I jab. Neither Lux nor Mercy have a job like I do, and neither one of them knows almost my entire paycheck goes to helping with the rent now. We’ve sworn to tell each other everything, but this is a secret that I can’t share. I can’t see the pity in their eyes and still feel like we’re sisters, pieces of the same whole. “It’s not a big deal.”

  We walk until we reach Mercy. “Check it out,” she says, pointing at the trail carved in the pasture where the tornado touched down. Neveah is cavorting along it, exclaiming over the way the grass has been scoured from the ground. Steven is following her now, sniffing at everything she points out. Debris lies scattered along both sides of the path, mostly cottonwood branches and dirt. But there are a few strange objects, too, and she delights in pulling things out of the mess. Part of a rake, a raincoat, a tricycle with a missing wheel, and what looks like a baking sheet that’s been bent into a U shape.

  “It must have hit a house,” Mercy murmurs as her sister shouts about each rare treasure she recovers. A broken bottle, a crutch. A deflated soccer ball.

  “No, look,” Lux says, pointing to the rusted trailers stacked together on the eastern edge of the Remingtons’ fenced-off land. “It wasn’t a house. It hit the ruins.”

  We turn toward the cluster of abandoned trailers, which aren’t much bigger than Lego blocks from this far out. They’re wedged up against a few small hills on the edge of Remington land, and in winter they look like they’re huddling together to keep warm. Mom said there used to be a lot of trailers out where ours is on the edge of town, but eventually the town voted to remove the abandoned, dilapidated ones. So they raised funds to hire a semi to come out and drag the run-down mobile homes onto the eastern corner of Remington land. Now the trailers perch alongside each other on stacks of cinder blocks, lined close enough together that you could pass through each one to get to the other, a maze of tiny, narrow halls and cramped rooms. There had been a debate about whether they should be burned, or taken apart for scrap, but no one had committed to a plan. So the trailers were just left there, abandoned a second time.

  In the distance, one of the trailers looks like it’s been tipped onto its side, guts spilling out. There’s a twist in my own gut when I think of what Mom and I recently risked, riding out the storm in our own trailer.

  “Next time, come over to my house,” Mercy chides gently, squeezing my hand like she’s read my mind.

  Casual affection comes naturally to Mercy. Hugging is like breathing to her, or maybe like smiling at som
eone. I squeeze her hand back, give her a small smile to show her that everything is okay, that Mom and I are fine.

  Lux puts her hand on my shoulder, connecting the three of us as we have always been. “And get a better phone.”

  Mercy and I laugh, and she releases my hand. Lux’s hand stays on my shoulder a while longer, her touch firm, and I know that even though she doesn’t say it outright, she was scared for me, too.

  It’s almost twilight now, and though it’s early in the season, the fireflies are beginning to come out, tiny greenish-gold lights floating between sweet-smelling clumps of tall grass. A breeze pushes through the pasture as if nudging us back toward Cottonwood Hollow, pulling more curls from my messy ponytail. We all turn back to where Neveah is exploring.

  “Rome,” Neveah calls from a distance down the wide path. “Look at this,” she says, galloping over to me with something in her hands. Steven chases after her, probably hoping they’re going to play some more.

  The crickets are out in force now, their songs loud in the silence after the storm.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Neveah is carrying something small in both hands, but it’s hard to see what it is in the dim light. “The latch is stuck. Do you think you can Fix it?”

  Mercy puts one hand on her hip. “You shouldn’t be picking up weird things. You know that.”

  “Yeah, but I Found it,” Neveah retorts. She turns back to me, her dark eyes serious. Neveah is a Finder, locating things that are lost or hidden with the accuracy of a bloodhound. “I saw a lady, too.”

  “What lady?” Lux asks, scanning the pasture.

  “She didn’t say her name,” Neveah answers.

  “But where is she?” Mercy asks.

  Neveah looks back over her shoulder toward the piles of branches. “She’s gone.” She thrusts the thing into my hands and runs off.

  I look down. It’s a small wooden chest, not much bigger than a jewelry box. The wood is scarred and dirty, and the hinges are rusted metal. I can barely make out what looks like a set of initials carved into the lid, but there’s too much dirt caked on it to read them. There’s a rusted latch on the front. I can’t explain it, but the tug I feel in my gut is tremendous. I get that feeling sometimes when something really needs to be Fixed. My fingers are nearly twitching to fiddle with the latch and see if I can open it. But the wood is almost cold to the touch, and fear sends a small shiver down my spine. Sometimes the things we think we want end up hurting us.

  “Wonder what’s in it,” Lux says, her interest kindled.

  “Nothing good,” Mercy says, wrinkling her nose. “It probably got sucked up and dropped here from the ruins.”

  “What about the lady?” Lux asks.

  “Neveah is eight, Lux. She still has imaginary friends,” Mercy replies.

  “Could’ve been a ghost,” Lux whispers, reaching up a hand to tug on my ponytail from behind, as if I couldn’t tell it was her.

  “If it’s a ghost from the ruins, it’s probably just a nice box of black mold,” I reply. But I can’t stop myself from looking around the pasture again. Who was the lady Neveah thought she saw?

  “Maybe it’s money,” Lux hypothesizes. “If it’s money, promise me we’ll use it to drive away into the sunset. Far, far away from Cottonwood Hollow.” There’s something strange in the set of her mouth, something I haven’t seen before.

  “Come on,” Mercy says, putting her hand at the small of Lux’s back to nudge her along. “It’s starting to get dark. Let’s go home.” She looks down at Steven and says firmly, “Heel, Steven. No more running away.”

  Steven’s ears flatten and he follows along as if he fears Mercy’s disapproval. Neveah keeps up a constant stream of chatter as we walk back to town, all about how exciting it was to hear the tornado sirens and how she wasn’t scared even a little, but their younger brother, Malakai, was kind of a crybaby about it.

  We’ve just crossed through the barbed-wire fence when we hear him. “What are you doing out here, pretty pusses?” The barest hint of Oklahoma twang grates on my ears. It’s Garrett Remington, my landlord, his features shadowed in the twilight so that his eyes look like dark holes. He’s creepy enough that I can believe he really is related to the Remington woman who cursed us all. For a second I think he’s going to ask about the rent, but instead he drawls, “Looking for trouble?”

  He gives me a grin that sends a shiver of unease down my back. Mom had only a few dates with him. There’s something not right about him, she’d said. I grab Steven’s halter when he starts to surge forward to greet Garrett.

  “Catching a runaway dog,” Lux answers, her voice sharp. She gives him a full glaring Stone Face, and I’m thankful for it. Anything to distract him from the fact that we haven’t paid him yet this month.

  Garrett’s eyes travel down to the box in my hands. “What have you got there?” he asks, taking a step forward as if to take it from me.

  “Girls!”

  Garrett jumps, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Come on, girls!” It’s Mrs. Montoya, Mercy’s mom. She’s standing with Marisol, who’s holding a covered dish, while Letty pets a sad-looking Fluffernut at the end of the road that leads to the Ruiz trailer and mine. Mrs. Montoya must’ve been worried when her girls weren’t home yet and was on her way over to my place when she’d run into Marisol delivering the promised casserole. Mrs. Montoya waves at Garrett and waits as we walk back to the road.

  I look back over my shoulder when we join them, and Garrett is still standing by the fence watching us. He takes off his baseball cap and I can see his eyes, dark and predatory.

  Mrs. Montoya, Marisol, and Letty walk with us back into town. Marisol and Letty stop at the trailer to give the casserole to Mom, Steven following the smell of food inside with them. Avoiding questions about the box, I leave it just under the front stoop of our trailer while they go inside. Truthfully, I’m glad to put the box down. There’s something about it that’s almost magnetic, and I can’t decide if it’s attracting or repulsing me.

  “Five more minutes,” Mrs. Montoya tells Mercy as she leads Neveah home. “It’s a school night.”

  We all nod, used to Mrs. Montoya’s protectiveness.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Lux tells Mercy. She turns and looks at me. “You coming?”

  I’m surprised, because Lux usually wants to go home and call her new girlfriend, Morgan, this time of night.

  “Don’t you have plans?” I ask.

  “I just want to stretch my legs some more.” She starts walking toward Mercy’s house without looking back to see if we’ll catch up.

  I wonder if there is something that she wants to tell me, and I follow without asking.

  Mercy’s house is on the other side of Cottonwood Hollow, about a ten-minute walk on the sidewalks that begin one block over from our dirt road. Living in a town with less than three hundred people, I can tell you the names of almost every family we pass. They wave from front porches as we go, calling hellos and asking after our families, making sure that everyone is safe. Cottonwood trees grow everywhere, their roots jutting out and cracking the sidewalks. We cross Main Street, where the grain silos at the co-op look like tall, dark towers.

  The Montoyas’ two-story house sits on a wide, shady brick street among other tall, tastefully painted old houses with carefully mowed front yards and little white picket fences. Mercy’s dad is waiting for her on the front porch swing, smoking a pipe.

  “It’s late,” he says as Mercy hugs each of us good-bye. “You want me to give you a ride home?”

  Lux can’t help a smile, amused by his idea of a “late night.” She shuts it down as Mr. Montoya looks swiftly away, puffing on his pipe. It makes the men of Cottonwood Hollow nervous when Lux smiles at them.

  “We’re fine, Mr. Montoya,” I tell him. “We can get home on our own.”

  Mr. Montoya nods, as if all is as it should be. “Be careful,” he calls after us as we walk back down the sidewalk and to the street.
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  “He’s actually a pretty nice guy,” Lux says quickly, as if making an excuse for the way he’d looked away when she’d smiled at him.

  “Don’t let it ruin your evening.”

  “I can smile without putting a spell on someone, you know,” she says softly. “I couldn’t control it so much when we were younger, and earlier today when that gas-station guy got in my face, I wasn’t focusing—”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” I say, nudging her with my elbow. “I know.”

  Lux nods, but she’s quiet, and I sense that she needs this long, tangled walk to sort something out. Sometimes being a good friend means keeping your distance, even if you’re walking side by side.

  Lux, her mom, and her stepdad live on the other side of town, so we backtrack and follow Main Street for a while. There are a lot of cars parked along the sidewalks. Most belong to people visiting Flynn’s bar, but a few belong to the residents of the old hotel, which was converted into apartments about fifteen years ago. We pause at the gas station, batting away the moths clustered around the glowing soda machines. Usually there would be a handful of Cottonwood Hollow boys hanging around here, drinking stolen whiskey and shooting the breeze, but the storm has scattered them for the night.

  I tug the change release button twice on the machine, and quarters come out, enough for two cans of soda. It’s been broken for years, and I don’t bother to Fix it.

  I feed the change back into the machine and buy one strawberry and one cream soda. Lux hums along to the strains of country music drifting from the bar. I hand her the cream soda and we each crack a can open.

  Lux takes a drink. “Tastes like summer,” she says with a little shiver.

  “Only a month until summer vacation,” I agree, taking a gulp of my own.

  “I wish it wasn’t,” she says, catching a stray drop of soda on her lip with the back of her hand. She’s careful not to smudge her lip gloss. “I don’t want to be home all day.”