Cricket Hunters Page 21

  Parker let out a nervous, airy chortle. “That’s not the way I meant for her to take it.” He touched his chest. “And I didn’t see it that way.”

  “Are you going to tell her about us?”

  Parker hesitated, his mind spinning, looking for an out. “I really don’t think that would be smart because…you know...” He crinkled his nose and wiggled his fingers at her, hoping to turn the conversation down a humorous road. That had always seemed productive with Abby in the past. “She might turn us into toads or some shit like that.”

  The corners of Abby’s mouth hinted at joy, but only for a moment. “I don’t want to hide what we’re doing. If what we feel between us is real, we shouldn’t have to hide it just because she has a crush on you.”

  His stomach turning sour, his legs antsy, Parker nodded. “But can we not worry about this right now? I just want to enjoy our time together.” He gestured at the pegs with his eyes. “Now hop on so we can get there before Rita closes shop.”

  Abby obeyed, pressing her chest against Parker’s back and wrapping her arms tightly around his chest as he pedaled away.

  About ten or fifteen people were in line when Parker and Abby arrived. Rita’s Raspas was a food/snow cone trailer owned and run by Rita Morales and her daughter Isabell. It had been a staple in Oak Mott for as long as Parker could remember. They not only sold the biggest, sweetest snow cones in town, Rita also made fresh tamales and burritos daily. During spring and early fall, the trailer rested in a vacant lot a block away from Oak Mott High School, and during the summer months, in the Woodway Community Pool parking lot. The day after Halloween, when temperatures started dropping and all the cotton crops were harvested, leaving Rita’s husband Rene out of work, the Morales’s hitched the trailer to their beat-up Chevy and headed south for warmer weather and jobs on citrus farms. But they returned to the vacant lot like clockwork each March, open from eleven to six every day but Sunday.

  Parker laid Cel’s bike in the grass near the trailer hitch and followed Abby to the end of line. Most of the kids in line were sweaty football players in padded pants, but a few were younger, around Jeff’s age. Two Hispanic men were at the front of the line, standing under the awning that was propped open with a broom handle, speaking Spanish to Rita. Music from the Oak Mott High marching band, which Natalie and Omar were members of, drifted up the street from Klepper Fields where they practiced.

  After fist bumping a couple of the players, Parker and Abby chatted as they inched closer to the trailer. They made small talk about movies and music, snow cone flavors and costumes for next month’s Halloween dance. Parker was mindful about not mentioning Cel, or anything remotely related to her, and was thankful Abby didn’t either. When they reached the opening under the awning, Rita greeted them with a tired smile and asked what she could get for them in broken English. Parker ordered a large cherry raspa in a cup, Abby a lemon one, both topped with a sprinkle of Lucas chili powder.

  “You want to eat them here or take them back to your house?” Parker asked as they approached Cel’s bike. “We’ve been gone about twenty minutes.”

  Abby slid the plastic spoon out of her mouth and pointed it toward the ground as she swallowed. “Here. It won’t take long. Jeff’s probably still in the closet, anyway.” She shoveled more yellow ice into her mouth and spoke as she sloshed it around. “Sometimes he stays in there for more than an hour.”

  They sat in the grass in front of Cel’s bike with the setting sun at their backs, silently watching customers come and go, and cars pass by on Jasper Street as they ate. Parker had emptied half of his cup when Abby jumped up without warning, as if a steel rod had been thrust up her spine, and looked toward the road.

  Alarmed, Parker stood and followed her gaze. She was staring at a small white car that had pulled to the side of the road across the street. The driver opened the door. “What’s wrong?” Parker asked. “Who’s that?”

  The broad-shouldered man in a tight T-shirt and baggy jeans marched across the street with a purpose. His head was shaven to stubble, in tandem with his whiskered face.

  “My dad,” Abby said. She dropped her snow cone and looked at Parker with panic-stricken eyes. “We have to go.”

  “Abby!” Tom Powell hollered as Parker tossed his snow cone aside.

  Parker’s fight or flight instincts kicked in. He righted and mounted Cel’s bike. He’d only seen Abby’s dad in old pictures, when he was young and lanky and smiling. This man wasn’t smiling, and he wasn’t lanky. The prison weight yard had done his body well. “Come on.”

  By the time Abby was secure and Parker’s foot hit the pedal, Tom was directly in front of them. He straddled the front tire and grabbed the handle bars with both hands.

  Parker tried to jiggle the handlebars. “Let go, man.”

  Tom kept his eyes on Abby. “I just want to talk for a minute.”

  “Get away from us,” Abby yelled, squeezing Parker’s chest so tight he gasped.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Tom demanded, causing the kids and Hispanic woman in line to turn their way. “But you fucking owe me the right to explain myself.”

  “I don’t owe you anything.”

  Tom’s eyes searched the line of customers, then swiveled back to Abby. “Is my boy here?” He glanced toward his car, up and down Jasper Street. “Where is he?”

  “He’s not here,” Abby said. “And he doesn’t want to talk to you, either. We both hate you!”

  Tom pointed at Abby. “Don’t you fucking talk to me that way. You need to show some respect. I’m your dad for Christ’s sake.” He pointed to the ground. “Now get off that fucking bike.”

  Realizing Tom only had one hand on the handlebars now, Parker twisted the wheel back and forth as hard as he could. The tire slapped into Tom’s calves, knocking him off balance, forcing his other hand to slip off the handlebars. Parker jerked the bike backward, but as he turned the wheel and tried to get a foothold on a pedal, Tom shoved him. The bike toppled over. Abby screamed when she and Parker crashed onto the ground. Parker looked back as he scrambled out from under the bike and jumped up with his hands fisted.

  Tom glowered at him. “Who the fuck do you think you are, boy?”

  Parker kept his eyes on Tom as Abby pulled her leg free from the bike’s weight and crab-walked toward him. His attention snapped toward the trailer when the door flung open with a bang, and Rita emerged, leveling a shotgun at Tom.

  “You leave those kids alone and go,” Rita said. She was tiny and short, ninety pounds and five-feet tall at best, but her steely eyes and unbreakable tone projected the size and strength of a giant.

  Tom threw his hands up. “Calm down, lady.”

  “I am calm.” Rita gestured at the road with the gun barrel. “Now go, or I call cops.”

  Tom nodded. “Okay. I’m going. I’m going.” His eyes flicked from Rita to Abby as he backed toward the road. He paused when he reached the curb, holding Abby’s gaze. “We’ll talk later.”

  Abby sidled up next to Parker as Tom turned around and sauntered across the street. Along with Rita and all the other customers, they watched Tom pull away from the curb, U-turn, and squeal his tires as he sped south.

  Parker looked at Rita, and she lowered the gun. “Thank you.”

  “Welcome. You okay?”

  Together, Parker and Abby said, “Yeah.”

  She glanced at their spilled cups on the ground. “You want another raspa?”

  Together, they shook their heads. “No thanks,” Parker said.

  As Rita headed back into her trailer, Parker turned to Abby, looked her up and down, saw the bandage had ripped off her shin. Blood was flowing from the wound again. “Are your leg and shoulder okay?” he asked. She’d landed on the same shoulder she’d slammed into the wall at her house. Rubbing it, she nodded, her eyes trained in the direction Tom had driven.

  “I don’t think he’ll come back.” Parker assured. “Rita scared the shit out of him.”

  “That’s no
t what I’m worried about.” She made eye contact with Parker, and he felt a heavy force coming his way. “He’s headed toward my house.”

  Parker cut his eyes southward down Jasper Street. Jeff. They mounted Cel’s bike and took off without another word.

  They covered the two and half miles to Abby’s house quicker than normal, using alleys as a pathway in case Tom had circled back to cut them off. When they reached the back of Abby’s house, she jumped off the pegs before Parker fully stopped. She sprinted across the backyard, through the side gate, and was halfway around the house before Parker had steered Cel’s bike into the backyard and jumped off.

  When he rounded the house, Tom’s car was nowhere in sight, but the front door was wide open. H could hear Abby inside, yelling, “Jeff,” over and over. He followed her voice.

  In the living room, an end table was knocked over, a lamp lying on the floor with its shade askew. Abby’s calls for Jeff echoed from the hallway. Parker almost slammed into her as he entered Jeff’s room.

  “He’s not here,” she said, shoving past him, continuing to yell her brother’s name.

  The room was a mess, plastic toys everywhere, a trash can tipped over, food wrappers and paper falling out, the bed sheets torn off and on the floor. The dresser was face-down beside the mattress. Like Parker imagined it would’ve been if he’d thrown his shoulder into the door earlier. He spun around as Abby emerged from her mom’s room and ran toward the dining room.

  He chased after her, trailing her into every room, checking every closet, every cupboard small enough to fit Jeff. They searched every nook and cranny, the garage and basement and attic, just like they had when they’d first arrived after school. Then they checked again, continually calling out for Jeff. But Jeff was gone.

  Chapter 30 - Cel

  Cel waited until Yesenia had been snoring a good thirty minutes before staging her bed and sneaking out of the house. She stuffed her robe under the blankets to simulate a body, threw on jeans and her trusty flannel, and climbed out of her window five minutes shy of eleven. Natalie had called her four hours earlier, telling her about Abby’s and Parker’s encounter with Tom, and about Jeff’s disappearance. Abby’s mom had called the cops, and they were scouring the town, searching for Tom and Jeff. Natalie invited Cel to go over to Abby’s with her and Omar, for support, but Cel declined. She’d been sick since Sunday afternoon. She and Yesenia both. They spent the day after Dillo’s funeral fighting stomach cramps, taking turns retching into the toilet. The nausea had abated some for Cel come Monday morning, but not for Yesenia. They’d rested in front of the TV in the living room all day, sipping yerba buena, periodically casting healing and soothing spells between trips to the toilet. They were convinced they’d been sickened not by the chicken they’d eaten before the burial the previous day, but by Maria.

  Along with the electric bill and Saturday’s coupon booklet, Cel had collected a small envelope addressed to Yesenia when she checked the mailbox Sunday morning. The envelope held two small scraps of paper that reeked of rotten beans and were speckled with black droplets. Cel’s name was scribbled on one scrap, Yesenia’s the other. Yesenia said she knew the sickening curse well. It was a juvenile curse. Perfect to fly under the radar of most protection spells. She and Dolores had used it on schoolmates who teased them when they were young. Maria was toying with them. Cel had helped Yesenia perform a cleansing ritual, burning the paper, envelope, a smattering of herbs, and chunk of Palo Santo, but by that afternoon, they were sick nonetheless.

  So while her abuela had napped this afternoon, Cel had pulled the old chest out of the closet and dug through the grimoires until she found the one labeled MALDICION. Inside, she’d found what she wanted: the process to cast the name-on-paper sick curse, a simple curse even an inexperienced bruja or warlock should be able to adequately concoct. Completing the ritual had only taken her about five minutes. She shoved the envelope holding the smelly, hexed piece of paper with Maria’s name and dried drops of blood on it in her back pocket as she hurried across her front yard.

  She let down her hair to blanket her cheeks and neck and shoved her hands in her pockets as she headed down Cobalt Street. A cool breeze had pushed out the day’s heat, chilling her depleted body. A small cup of tortilla soup was all she’d managed to hold down today.

  She needed her bike. It would not only make life easier on her weak legs but would also make escape easier if she ran into trouble at Maria’s house. But she hadn’t seen Parker since late Saturday night after Dillo’s funeral, hadn’t talked to him since Sunday afternoon. He’d been at school all day, at Abby’s ever since. When she rounded onto his street, she saw his dad’s truck in the driveway but not Beverly’s car. The porch light was on, but all the windows including his were dark. She lightly tapped on Parker’s window and whispered his name a few times, anyway. After trying a second time with no response, she crept around the perimeter of the entire house, hoping, but didn’t find her bike.

  It might be at Abby's house, Cel thought, and quickly headed that direction. If Parker had ridden it over there after school but then was taken to the police station to answer questions about Tom and Jeff, which would explain why Beverly's car was gone this late, too, it would still be there. Either way, she needed a bike. If she didn’t find hers here, she’d take Abby’s or Jeff’s.

  She found Abby’s house nearly identical to Parker’s. Porch light on, the windows dark. Abby’s mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway, making Cel believe her assumption had been right. Parker and Abby and their mothers were probably at the Oak Mott Police Station. Or the hospital, if something terrible had happened. The thought triggered her to kiss the clasp of her infinity necklace, whisper the good fortune charm, and spin it back into place.

  She walked around the right side of the house, opened the wooden gate, and although the back porch light was off, the security light on the electrical pole in the alley provided enough glow for her to see her bike laying in the yard next to Abby’s Schwinn. Perfect.

  She had crossed half the distance to her bike before a dim, flickering light teased the corner of her eye. She froze and looked toward the house. The light was coming from behind the sliding glass doors. A TV light. The blinds were twisted closed and covered three-fourths of the two glass panes. Curious, she crouched low, made her way onto the porch, and ducked behind the lawn chair to peek inside.

  The TV’s glow highlighted the coffee table and couch, the brightness growing and dimming when the images on the screen changed. For a brief moment, Cel started to rise and knock on the glass. Parker was sitting on the center couch cushion, facing the TV. But she quickly squatted back down when Abby looped around the couch in a knee-length, nightgown-large T-shirt, sat next to him, and laid her head on his shoulder. When the TV light hit Abby’s face, her eyes looked puffy, like she’d been asleep or crying, or both. When Parker put his arm around her shoulder, Cel’s barren stomach clinched. He’s just consoling her, she thought. He’s caring like that. Probably feels guilty for taking her to the snow cone stand. A good friend. Abby on the other hand…

  She watched them sit there silent and unmoving for five long minutes before Abby’s hand started rubbing on Parker’s thigh and slipping her fingertips under his cargo shorts. He didn’t respond. But he didn’t stop her either. His face stayed fixed on the TV. Cel’s breathing grew deep and thick, allowing the smell from the ashtray crammed with menthol butts under the lawn chair to saturate her nose, fill her lungs, absorb into her taste buds. Nervous sweat collected in her armpits, adding to the stench. She wanted to jump up and hurl the fucking nasty ashtray through the glass. Instead, she gritted her teeth and watched, hoping Parker would set Abby straight.

  When Abby’s hand touched Parker’s crotch he put his hand on her and said something short. One or two words. No, Abby? Don’t? Stop?

  Abby stood and stepped in front of Parker, shading his face from the TV’s glow and Cel’s eyes. Cel pursed her lips as Abby hiked her shirt up to her armpits and he
ld it there. She had on pink underwear and a white bra. Do you like what you see? Isn’t it better than Cel? Cel didn’t know if he was smiling or not, ogling Abby or not, but she did know he wasn’t reaching for her, or rising and kissing her, or pulling her onto him like he had Cel.

  Long seconds passed. Then Abby dropped her shirt and straddled Parker, her breasts inches from his face. Cel watched Parker’s arms, waiting for any sign of movement, willing him to reject her, but before he reacted, Abby scooped the remote up off the couch cushion and flicked off the TV, shrouding the room in darkness.

  Cel balled her fists and squeezed hard enough to drive her nails into her palms. Fucking Abby. Tits. She was throwing herself at Parker, trying to manipulate him, seduce him, sway him, tease him, win him, all while her little brother was missing, possibly kidnapped, or being tortured, or even dead, and it was all her fault for leaving the kid alone. Disgusting. Weak. Pathetic. Slut.

  Cel stared at her reflection in the dark glass for what felt like an eternity, mentally begging Parker to flick on a light, before finally slinking off the porch, retrieving her bike, and wheeling it through the gate on the side of the house.

  She was no longer cold. In fact, her cheeks and hands felt as if they were on fire, the chords in her neck tight. Her heart pounded. Chest ached. Whether more from hurt or anger, she didn’t know. She wanted to cry. To scream. She wanted answers. Wanted a fight.

  She pedaled toward Clover Lane harder than she’d ever pedaled in her life. The more distance she put between her and Abby’s house, the worse she felt. After she dismounted her bike and propped it against the back of the rusty camper three houses down from Maria’s house, a wave of light-headedness lapped over her. Her vision blurred, equilibrium tilted. She put her hand on the back of the camper to brace herself, but the sensation traveled down her body. Her knees turned to rubber, unable to support her weight, forcing her to the pavement. She’d pushed herself too hard, stretched herself too thin in too many ways. She lowered her face into her hands and sobbed.