Heather(17)

“Hey. Come on now, don’t be like that,” he says. His voice sounds familiar, but there is no reason for a man who is not your father to be talking to you like this unless he is like the others. You steel yourself to use the words Sabrina did before—pervert, creep—and scan the shoulder of the road for suitable rocks but can’t make out anything bigger than a pebble.

“You giving me the cold shoulder? Really?” A tinge of annoyance in his voice this time.

You stop walking and look, really look. He’s handsome, so handsome that his anger makes sense. He’s a man used to getting what he wants. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with a belt of stubble along his jaw. White T-shirt fitted to show off the muscles taut across his shoulders and chest. Despite yourself, you feel a flutter between your legs. The same one you felt the other times, with the other men who pulled over. You knew enough to be ashamed, to not tell Sabrina, but it didn’t stop the feeling from creeping in, a little fizzle in your veins that lingered even after the men sped away.

Your stupid, traitorous body. The same as Sabrina’s in every way, and yet, Sabrina crouched and gripped the rock. Sabrina found the right words, sharp as arrows.

And then, just in time, you understand. He thinks you are Sabrina. His voice is familiar because you’ve heard it on the other end of the phone, when you’ve picked up upstairs and tried to decipher your sister’s new life. The way Sabrina disappears around the curve of the driveway at night, her new habit of spending hours in front of the mirror, turning her face back and forth, her mouth ringed with lipsticks nicked from the drug store or from other girls’ backpacks while they’re busy finishing their homework or gossiping on the bus.

It has been a long time since someone confused the two of you. You’ve gone to school with the same sixty kids since kindergarten, kids who know that Sabrina is left-handed, that you bite your nails down to nothing. Sabrina wears her hair down, loose and wild, while you can’t stand the feeling of it on the back of your neck. You look at the man again. Lock eyes with him. So much about your life just happens to you, the chime of the bells escorting you through your days at school, the obligations of homework and studying that rule your afternoons. You and Sabrina shopping for the cheapest cereals every week with the paltry stack of cash your father leaves you, while you eye mounds of fruit or read off flavors of popsicles you can never have. It occurs to you that you, for once in your life, have a decision to make.

“Okay now. There we go. Is this about last time? Come on, don’t pout.”

And you want to know. Want to know everything Sabrina has been keeping from you. Where she goes when she disappears down the driveway and waits out of view of the house. About what happens with this man when she gets into his car. What Sabrina does with him, who she is with him. You don’t even know his real name. Sabrina won’t tell. She calls him the Coyote and won’t even say why.

The decision was always about Sabrina.

“I’m not mad,” you say, trying to get the same lilt in your voice as Sabrina has on the phone, tilt your head a little for good measure.

“Good girl,” he says. “Now get in.”



* * *



In the beginning you hadn’t believed that he existed. Sabrina said she met someone at the bait shop where she worked on the weekends. But then the phone rang at home a few weeks later and she lunged for it, and while she talked you tiptoed upstairs to your father’s room and picked up the other line.

“I’m not that young.” Sabrina’s voice high and fluty in a way you didn’t recognize.

“I bet you still have stuffed animals on your bed.”

A giggle.

“And honor roll certificates on the wall.”

“Merit roll.”

“Well it’s no fun being perfect, is it?”

“Definitely not.”

“I’d love to see that room.”

“Maybe you will someday.”

A groan from the man like he had bitten into something delicious. You lowered the phone back into the cradle, your cheeks blazing, your back prickled with sweat. A flush of shame at your own honor roll certificates taped above your desk, at your stupid, na?ve pride.



* * *



He speeds past the turnoff to your house. You don’t ask where you are going. He’s got the windows down, the radio on. Do they usually talk, Sabrina and this man whose name you don’t know? You scan the car for something that will tell you. A work badge like the one your father clips to his shirt. A keychain that says John or Lou or Harry. Nothing. Just the litter of pumpkin seed shells on the floor of the car. A half-empty roll of wintergreen Life Savers in the cupholder between you, the same ones that you and Sabrina used to crunch in the dark of the bathroom, giggling as the mints sparked in your mouths like a magic trick.

Then, he’s guiding the car off the main road, onto a dirt path. Past a sign that says PRIVATE PROPERTY. You, the rule-follower, are brimming with questions. Whose property? His? A stranger’s? What will happen if someone finds out you are here? You bite your lip and stare out the window. You pass a cedar swamp, a layer of sphagnum moss dense at the base of the tree trunks—or what looks like the base. Your mother taught you long ago how the moss can grow in layers so thick that it looks like solid ground, but if you were to step on it you could find yourself in water over your head.