I can’t tell if he hears me. His eyes lock on mine.
I look away.
“Okay, pencils down,” says Mr. Anderson. “Bring your test to the front. Then you’re free to go.”
Tucker scowls, sighs, then makes his way up to Mr. Anderson’s desk with his test. When he turns back, I give him my most sympathetic smile.
“Didn’t go well, huh?”
“I didn’t study,” he says as we gather up our stuff and head for the hallway, me carefully avoiding Christian. “It’s my own fault. Burning the candle at both ends, as my dad says. I have a Spanish test tomorrow that I’m probably not going to do much better on.”
“I could help you,” I offer.
“Cheater,” he says, but smiles.
“After school? I’ll tutor you?”
“I have work this afternoon.”
“I could come after.” I know I’m being persistent, but I want to spend every possible minute by his side. I want to help him, even if it’s only with his Spanish. That I can do.
“You could come over for dinner, and then we could hit the books. But we might have to stay up pretty late. I’m seriously that bad at Spanish,” he says.
“Good thing for you, I’m kind of a night owl.”
He grins. “Right. So tonight then?”
“I’ll be there.”
“
That night I find myself sitting in the warm, lighted kitchen at the Lazy Dog Ranch. It’s like a scene from
Avery a quick kiss on the cheek, then roll up the sleeves of their flannel shirts and scrub their hands in the kitchen sink like surgeons prepping for the OR. Tucker slips into the chair next to mine. He squeezes my knee under the table.
Mrs. Avery beams over at me from the stove.
“Well, Clara,” she says. “I must say it’s nice to see you again.”
“Yes, Mrs. Avery. Thanks for having me.”
“Oh, sugar, call me Rachel. I think we’re past the formalities.” She slaps her husband’s hand away from the basket of dinner rolls. “I hope you’re hungry.” Dinner turns out to be pot roast and gravy, potatoes, carrots, celery, and homemade buttermilk rolls, washed down with large glasses of iced tea.
We eat quietly for a while. I can’t stop thinking about how devastated this whole family is going to be if they lose Tucker, can’t stop remembering the way their faces look in my dream.
Sad. Resigned. Determined to get through it.
“I tell ya, Ma,” Tucker says. “This is really a fine meal. I don’t think I’ve told you enough what an amazing cook you are.”
“Why thank you, son,” she replies, sounding pleasantly surprised. “You haven’t.” Wendy and Mr. Avery laugh.
“He’s seen the light,” Mr. Avery says.
This seems to ignite something, and suddenly everybody’s talking about the fires.
“I’ll tell you what,” says Mr. Avery, spearing a piece of meat with his fork and waving it around. “They ever catch the bastard who started those fires, I’m going to give him what for.” My head whips up. “Someone started the fires?” I ask, my heart suddenly thundering.
“Well, they think one was started by natural causes, like a lightning strike,” says Wendy.
“But the other was arson. The police are offering a twenty-thousand-dollar reward for anybody who gives them information leading to an arrest.”
This is what happens when I stop watching the news. They call it arson. I wonder what the police would do if they found out who really did it. Uh, yes, officer, I believe the one who started the fire was about six foot three. Black hair. Amber eyes. Big, black wings. Residence: hell. Occupation: leader of the Watchers. Birth date: the dawn of time.
In other words, that’s twenty thousand dollars that no one’s ever going to see.
“Well, I for one hope they catch him,” says Mr. Avery. “I want a chance to look him in the eye.”
“Dad,” says Tucker wearily. “Give it a rest.”
“No.” Mr. Avery clears his throat. “That was your land, your grandfather’s legacy to you, that was everything you ever worked for, your truck, your trailer, your horse, all those odd jobs, scrimping and saving to be able to afford the rodeo fees, the gear, the gas for the truck. Years of backbreaking work, sweat and more sweat, hours of practice, and I will not give it a rest.”
