Damsel in the Dust

30

Maive is a hurricane of nervous excitement the next morning as she races to get ready for school. She places her sketchbook into her bag, then pulls it out and tosses it on the counter before grabbing it and shoving it back into the bag.

"What are you doing?" Jake asks, perplexed.

"I don't know!" Maive wails. "It's a new school and I don't know anything about it. If I bring my sketchbook and people think my work is good, it's okay. But if I bring it and people see my work and hate it, then I'm the weird new girl doodling in the corner."

Jake opens his mouth to respond, then closes it and looks at me. He's clearly out of his depth. I'm not sure I'll fare much better, but I give it a shot.

"Maive? If I might make a suggestion - who the hell cares? If you want to sketch, bring your sketchbook. So what if others think it's not good? So what if they think you're Davinci or, um, Chanel? It doesn't matter. What matters is that you own who you are. You're the girl that decked a football player, remember? You're the girl who stood up for someone else without even knowing him. Speaking of, I'm sure Alex will think your work is great so you probably won't be the weird new girl doodling in the corner."

"See Maive? You've already got a friend. Besides, you're a weirdo no matter what you bring with you," Jake says.

Maive rolls her eyes at him and turns to me. "Thanks, Leah. You're right, I'm being crazy! But maybe I'll just leave this here for today while I feel things out at school."

She tosses the sketchbook onto the counter, zips up her bag, and gives me a quick hug and a whispered 'thank you' before turning to Jake. "Ready?"

"Yep. See you, Leah," Jake says.

We decided to limit physical contact in front of Maive, so Jake turns to leave without any other goodbye. I understand why, but at the same time it hurts a little to let him go.

"Maive!" I call after them before they get into my truck. "No punching people! Even dumb jocks!"

She waves at me as they climb into the truck and back down the driveway. I sigh, looking around the yard. I take in the empty flower boxes I'd tried so hard to cultivate gardens in, sweeping my gaze out over the overrun fields toward the mountains beyond. A tiny twinge of regret at leaving this house behind pulls at my chest, but memories of the prison that it's become quickly snuff out the feeling. This place is not my home. Not anymore. Maybe it never was.

The house is cleared out and I'm sure there isn't anything in the barn that I need to pack up, but I decide to go through it one last time. I climb the ladder to the loft and say a silent goodbye to the ghosts of the ranch hands that never returned to their bed rolls in the loft. I know it's silly, and they probably never existed, but it feels right. Satisfied, I descend the ladder and start toward the barn doors. Something stops me in front of the office though; a sharp curiosity buoyed by new found bravery propelling me toward the door. I had always thought it was odd that Shawn kept the door locked, but had also never given a second thought to why.

Until now.

On impulse, I try the knob. It rattles but holds firm. Locked, I think, Shawn probably has the key. I run my fingers along the edge of the frame anyway, and am only mildly surprised to find a key on the far edge. He probably never thought I would ever try to get in here. The thought both irritates me and amuses me.

I turn the key in the lock and open the door. At first glance, the office appears empty. There's a utilitarian wooden desk and a dusty chair, but no papers, no office supplies, no computer - nothing that a normal person might keep in an office. Why keep it locked? I wonder.

Then I open the top drawer and see why this room was off limits to me. Stacks of neatly bound, crisp bills in varying amounts cover the bottom of the drawer. On top of them is a small hand gun I have never seen before.

I slam the drawer closed and back out of the office, forgetting to lock it back up in my shock. My mind is racing with questions and possible explanations, each becoming increasingly outlandish. I am only vaguely aware of my feet carrying me out of the barn and back to the house, which is why I don't see the truck parked in the driveway, or the figure standing on my porch.

It's not until he speaks that I snap back to the present.

"Hey baby," he calls.

My heart freezes, the blood in my veins running cold.