“We don’t like to put labels on things,” September said.
“I’m talking to him,” Foster said. He didn’t look at her, and the words were flat and low.
Outside, the wind in the yew creaked and rustled.
“I think I’m getting a headache,” September said in a bright, trembling voice, and she slid out from the table.
Foster was still watching me. He had dark eyes. He was pretty in that soft, boyish way, and the dark eyes were part of it, but right then, there was something else in there. SomethingI didn’t like. Something that had September holding an old pill tin. Her hands must have been shaking because I could hear the pills rattling around inside it.
A year ago, I would have made up—and then stammered—some excuse to get out of there. And maybe if things had been different, I still might have. If he hadn’t reminded me so much of Owen Markham, who’d pulled my shorts down in sixth-grade gym class, and who’d gotten a girl pregnant in eighth grade. If I’d been anywhere else, instead of squarely in the middle of the life Keme had hidden from me. If we’d been talking about anyone but Keme. And, of course, if it hadn’t been for all that personal growth stuff, and how I’d changed and gotten braver and bolder.
(Also, if I’m being totally honest, the fact that I knew my boyfriend could beat Foster up.)
So, I barely recognized my own cool, detached tone as I said, “That’s right: you’re talking to me.”
Contestant voices buzzed on the TV in the background. The click-click-click came of the big price wheel spinning. Foster examined me like he hadn’t seen me before.
“If Keme didn’t stay here,” I said, “why did he come by?”
“He owed us some money,” Foster said.
“Her teenage son owed you money?”
“That’s right. He wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place.” Foster cut his eyes to September, and I followed his gaze.
She hadn’t been able to get the tin open, and now she clutched it so tightly her knuckles blanched. “It was just a little,” she whispered. “He never asks—”
“We don’t believe in giving handouts,” Foster said over her. “We believe in teaching children to be independent.”
“Oh,” I said. “Like you?”
I heard the words. I wasn’t sure where they’d come from. I couldn’t seem to think; my hands were shaking, so I pressed them against the dinette cushion I was sitting on.
This time, Foster was quiet longer before he said, “Who are you?”
“He came back to give you the money,” I said. “Did he give it to you?”
“Of course.” September gave a wilting laugh. “He’s very responsible.”
“And what happened then?” I asked.
“He saw—” September began.
Foster didn’t move, not exactly, but his body tensed, and September cut off.
I looked more closely at Foster. At the bruise on his cheekbone that was still darkening from red to blue-black. “What did he see?”
“He left,” September said with a kind of desperate cheeriness. “He stayed with a friend.”
“This is about JT,” Foster said. He didn’t smile, but some emotion lit up his face. “You think he had something to do with it.”
“What happened to JT?” September didn’t seem to remember she was still clutching the pills. The bones in her hand stood out, and her cheeks were flushed. A few strands of hair hung in front of her face, and her eyes were blank with panic. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you know where Keme went after he left?” I asked.
“Yeah, he went over and picked a fight with that dumb jerk who owns this place.” (Dumb jerkwasn’t exactly what Foster said.) “That’s what I told the deputy. There’s something wrong with that kid. It’s not my fault; I told September she wasn’t strict enough with him when he was little.”
September clutched her whatever-the-smocked dress with one hand. Her breathing sounded gaspy. “What deputy? What are you talking about?”
