Fragile

The Acres, or in one of the outlying areas around the high school.

Jones’s family didn’t live in either of these neighborhoods, having chosen instead the hipper area off the main square. They called it SoHo, short for South Hollows, which Maggie always found funny, because to her there was only one SoHo and that was in Manhattan. Their restored Victorian sat on a quiet, tree-lined street, just a few blocks from shops, restaurants, the library, a yoga studio. Maggie needed that, having left her life in the city to be with him here. She wanted to be near what little activity the town had to offer. He liked it, too, though initially he didn’t want to live that close to the precinct house. But now that he was watching his weight, it was easy for him to stroll home and eat a healthier lunch. With his total cholesterol over 250 and his weight not far behind, there were no more Philly cheesesteaks, fries, and a large soda sitting in his car with one of the guys. Now it was turkey lasagna at home alone. He wondered if a longer life was worth living if you couldn’t eat whatever the hell you wanted to eat.

Melody released a hacking cough and tossed her cigarette out the window.

“The world is your ashtray, right, Mel?”

“Shut up, Jones. When did you turn into such a self-righteous prick?”

In between The Acres and The Oaks, on the dark, unpaved road, Jones stopped the car. He rolled down the window and took in the cold, quiet air. He could hear the babbling of the little creek that flowed through town. Somewhere deep in the woods, something moved light and quick. A deer, fleeing the sound of the engine, the high beams. Maybe something else.

“What are you doing?” Melody asked.

“I’m just going to look around here a minute.”

He flipped on the rack of lights on the roof, and the area around them flooded in harsh white. Everything beyond the beam disappeared.

He stepped out of the car and looked into the black around them, listened to it. Then he walked down the slope to the bank of the creek, peering under the bridge.

“Why are you doing this?”

Melody had exited the vehicle and came to stand above him, leaning on the stone edge of the bridge.

“This is where they found her body. You remember?”

When he looked at her, she was as white as death.

“Why are you doing this?” she said again. Her voice was a raspy whisper, her face melting in fear and grief. He felt a little jolt of regret. He hadn’t done it to hurt her or to frighten her. He just wanted someone to remember with him, wanted not to be alone with it for once. He saw how wrong that was now.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, stared at the black water, the slick stones beneath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-She’s fine, Melody.”

But she had already turned from him and gone back to the SUV. The slamming of the door bounced and echoed all around him. It would have been an ugly thing, a dark and hateful kind of poetry, to walk down here and see Charlene. Was that what he thought he’d find?

Back in the SUV, Melody was weeping again. He climbed in the driver’s side and closed the door, cranked the heat. He’d been sweating this afternoon. Now the air was frigid. Winter was settling over The Hollows.

“Am I being punished?” she asked. He had no urge to comfort her, to apologize again. He just wished he hadn’t offered to drive her around. He wished she would stop crying.

“Do you ever talk to Travis?” she said when he didn’t answer her.

“Don’t,” he said. “I didn’t mean-”

“You feel it, too. I can see it on your face. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Stop it.” He put the vehicle in gear and started to drive. “Pull yourself together.”

Jones and Travis Crosby had never been friends, exactly. No, never that. But something magnetic and irresistible drew them together over and over, either in conflict or in complicity.

Travis’s dad was the Hollows police chief, a grim and sour man who retained his post for almost thirty-five years. During his tenure, crime in The Hollows was well below the statistical average. And revenue from parking and moving violations was higher than anywhere else in the state. But his cruelty, his rages, were well known. And everyone knew that Travis got the worst of it.

Jones’s father, before he disappeared just shortly after Jones’s thirteenth birthday, had worked at the dairy just out of town, a family farm where kids would ride their bikes to the ice cream shop on summer afternoons or for the questionable entertainment of cow tipping on moonless nights. Once upon a time, town legend held, their fathers had been friends. But some rift had placed a distance between the two families. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, or because of some unspoken, shared hatred of their fathers, Travis and Jones wound up killing time together now and again. Almost always getting into trouble when they did.

That afternoon, lacrosse practice had gone late. They were in the play-offs the following weekend, and the coach was busting their balls every afternoon. Jones walked to his car in the near dusk, legs shaking, feeling light-headed from exertion. He didn’t see Travis sitting on his hood until he was just feet away.

“Nice ride,” said Travis.

“Birthday gift from my mom.” It was a restored ’67 Mustang, fire-engine red, mint condition, custom stereo and speakers. Jones loved it but was embarrassed by it, by the attention it drew, by its cherry shine. He hated it a little, too, because of how she lorded it over him all the time. Aren’t you lucky to have a mom who would buy you something like that? You better be nice to me. Don’t leave me like your father did.

“Must be nice to be filthy fucking rich.”

Jones gave a little laugh. Nobody in The Hollows was rich, not back then. A few new residents were building nice houses in the hills. But people who came from The Hollows were descended from German settlers-they were peasant stock.

“My uncle restores antique cars,” Jones said. “I don’t think it cost that much. Just a lot of hard work on his part.”

Travis gave a slow nod, ran his hand along the hood. “Seriously, man. It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I get a ride?”

Travis still bore a red half-moon scar under his eye from the beating Henry Ivy had given him at the homecoming game. It seemed to have humbled him a bit, that beating. Jones, like everyone at Hollows High, was glad for it. Travis was a bully and an asshole. Though Jones couldn’t help but feel a little bad for the guy, too. It was the ultimate humiliation to get beaten down in front of the whole school by someone who had previously been regarded as the biggest geek on Earth.

Jones nodded his chin toward the car and walked over to pop the trunk. They both dropped their lacrosse gear inside.

He often thought about how normal everything was that afternoon, how right everything was with the world. They were just two ordinary kids. Each had his sets of problems; both were children of dysfunction. But it was a cold, pretty evening. They were well exercised, sober, healthy. They weren’t aimless or needing to blow off steam. They were both tired from school and practice, and Jones couldn’t wait to get in the shower. Any other day, each would have been home within the half hour. Jones would have eaten with his mother, then gone to his room to do homework-because if his grades fell, he couldn’t play.

But as they pulled out of the school parking lot and made the left turn to go home, they saw a late bus stop briefly in the distance, then start moving on its way. And then they both saw her, her thin form weighted down by a heavy backpack, a violin case in her hand. Sarah Meyer walked with slow determination.

“She walking?” asked Travis.

“Looks like it,” said Jones. He didn’t know her at all. Once he’d walked past the music room and heard her practicing. It didn’t sound that great to him; he wasn’t sure what the fuss was all about.

“You know what I heard about her?” said Travis. He’d dropped his voice low though they were alone in the car.

“What?”

“That she gives great head.”

Jones laughed, but at seventeen, just the thought of it caused his crotch to ache a little. Of course it was a lie.