THE WILD SEASON

Chapter 4

There's a bomb in my trunk. If I hit the slightest bump on the drive to school, it could detonate and send me, my Ford Mustang, and my carefully manicured life three thousand miles into the atmosphere.

I go over the contents of my explosive device: clothing, water bottles, canned tuna, granola bars, a pot, matches, fishing wire, lighter fluid, a knife, a tent, a notebook and my drafting pencils, a sleeping bag, forty-seven dollars in cash, a copy of Survive the Woods that belonged to my mother, and a color-coded folder with maps of Alleghany National Forest. Oh, and a box of Cocoa Puffs, because obviously.

It's not like I'm planning to run away. But all morning, as I laid out my dad's work clothes and buttered his toast and started a load of his laundry, I thought of that forest. And after I waved goodbye as he left for work, and then strategically packed my car as if I were leaving, I've felt ten pounds lighter. It's like a thousand strings tied me to earth, and suddenly, I severed them with one swift scissor cut. And now here I am, floating toward the sky, unsure what will happen, but reveling in the endless possibilities.

I pull into a parking spot, and walk toward shop class, which I'm late for. I can envision my teacher staring at my empty desk, scratching her head and saying, But Molly Bates is never late. She taps her wristwatch then. I must have the time wrong.

***

I expertly measure a piece of mahogany plywood Ms. Villanova special ordered for my year-end project. I'm putting the finishing touches on a bookshelf that I suspect my teacher will pilfer for her own home, but I'm happy to make it for her. I wish I could make her an entire room full of them.

I wish I could lay plans out on the hood of my car, and oversee a team of builders as, stud-by-stud, a home is erected under my direction. A home that will stand tall through decades of snowstorms and humid summer days and spring rain dripping peacefully from eaves. A home that will embrace a family as they laugh together, and fight together, and quietly slip into each other's arms and whisper softly, I'm sorry for what I said. I love you, I love you.

My mom built luxury homes too, but hers ended up in people's back yards, jilted by the dogs they were intended for. Whether the animals appreciated their lavish houses was irrelevant, at least to me. My mom was phenomenal at what she did. If a family in Upper St. Claire had a pooch, you better believe they'd be making the drive toward Pittsburg to meet my mom.

Luxury Living for Man's Best Friend! Custom Orders Only. Two Months to Final Delivery.

As I pencil in cut marks on the wood, Anna sits on the bench next to me and swings her legs much like I did as my mom made her cuts. Anna isn't even pretending to work on anything. No one is. Their heads are already on Saturday, and the first day of summer. I wish mine were too.

"So your dad brought up the biz again, huh?" Anna asks, biting her thumbnail.

I shrug. "He's just so sure about everything, you know?"

"When are you gonna tell him it's not what you want to do?"

"I want to do it," I say meekly.

Anna laughs. "You want to build dog houses like I want to sleep with Ms. Villanova."

I frown. "Just because she's gay doesn't mean she wants to sleep with you."

Anna leans forward with a devilish smile. "If she doesn't want to sleep with me, then she's not gay."

I shake my head. "My aunt needs me to step in. My uncle's okay with building them, but trust me, he's counting down the years until I can take over. And my aunt is tired of meeting with," —I do air quotes— "pretentious a-holes. Besides, my uncle can't make them the way my mother did."

"Explain to me again why your dad doesn't contract the jobs out?"

"We do contract the jobs out. It's just...we keep it in the family." I lift the wood and gauge the marks. "It's a family business."

Anna scrunches up her nose. "Gross. You sounded like your dad just then."

I toss a wood chip at her, and she dodges to miss it.

"So, you guys haven't contracted out any work then," she says, like she's surprised. "Not really."

I look up from my project. "Uh, no. Were you here the last two minutes?"

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Its just people were talking. But that's what idiots do. They talk."

I slide the wood away, and tilt my head. "Who was talking, exactly?"

"Well..." Anna begins.

"Well, what?"

She scrunches up her face like she's bracing for my reaction. "Gabe said that Colt was talking shit."

"Wait, what?" I shake my head, because Colt and I avoid each other at all costs, taking out-of-the-way hallways, asking for different locker assignments, sitting on opposite ends of the cafeteria whenever possible. "What did he say?"

She shrugs. Shakes her head. "It doesn't matter, Mol."

But it does matter, and I can see that she wants to tell me. "Spit it out," I say.

Anna looks around like she doesn't want to be overheard, then she leans toward me conspiratorially, and whispers, "He said you guys use child labor from Indonesia to build the houses."

"Why?" I yell, as if she has the answer. "Why in the world would he say that? Why would he say anything about my family at all?"

I slam my pencil, point down, into the table.

Anna leans back. "Annnd...he said the Indonesian paint causes the dogs to get sick."

I hang my head, breathing through my nose, trying to regain my composure. Any other day, I might be able to forget about this. But I'm wound too tightly. I'm too on-edge, my toes sliding over a slippery precipice. This boy is the reason my painstakingly curated world has tilted on its axis. I was fine before he shoved his way into my school. I was fine holding on by my fingertips.

I was never fine.

I storm away from Anna, who's calling my name, and Mrs. Villanova, who's probably checking the clock, and make my way toward the automotive engineering class one door over. I've seen that boy slinking in late more times than I can count from outside the woodshop window. No one ever says crap to him, but I'm not afraid to put him in his place. Not if he's sullying my mother's legacy. Not when a test that will decide everything is twenty-six hours away.