Libra Rising Page 3

I still don’t see any signs of the girl or the old man as I slip back into my room, leaving the door partially open to allow any potential breeze access to my sweltering accommodations. Deciding to take a quick shower, I shut the door to the bathroom and turn on the faucet, making sure the water borders on cool.

  Standing beneath the stream of water for a long time, I wonder what my best friends, Brent and Kylie, are doing right now. I filled them in before I left, letting them know I had no idea when I’d be able to get in touch with them. The anger begins to bubble up, and I do my best to tamp it down, knowing it won’t do me any good.

  I turn the shower off, shake the excess water from my hair, and step out. I grab a towel off the wooden rack and wrap it around my waist.

  Stepping through the door, I immediately notice a brown paper sack sitting on the beat-up dresser, a bottle of water sitting beside it. I don’t like the fact that someone was in here. I’m curious what’s in the sack, although I have a hunch.

  I unfold the crease and pull out a sandwich wrapped in plastic wrap – a BLT. My stomach rolls in anger, reminding me that I withheld food from it earlier. There’s also a bag of chips, an apple, and two chocolate chip cookies.

  Hunger overrules my stubbornness as I discard the plastic wrap, sinking my teeth into the best BLT I’ve ever had. The tomatoes burst with flavor, juice running down my chin. I hate giving in, but I hate going to bed hungry even more.

  That night, as I lay in complete darkness, the crickets even louder than they were this afternoon, I can’t help but wonder who left that brown paper bag.

  The old man?

  Or Harper?

  Chapter Three

  Harper

  June 2010

  I’ve just finished the dishes from our dinner tonight, stacking the pots to dry in the rack on the counter. After being in Mr. Hainley’s kitchen, I notice how run-down our kitchen looks. The cabinets’ missing handles, rips in the linoleum floor, a burn mark on the counter top where Dad set a piping hot skillet on it. I guess it doesn’t matter much, since no one is ever at our house. Dad keeps to himself, and I don’t like to advertise to my friends his new, unhealthy lifestyle. I’m sure people know, though. Everyone talks in small towns, this one being no exception.

  It makes me wonder how fast the news will travel about Reed (Mr. H told me his name) taking up residence at the Hainley farm. He hasn’t left my mind since I got home today. Everything about him fascinates me. Sure, he’s got anger issues and he was rude as hell to me earlier, but after putting myself in his shoes, I realized I would be just as hostile. He’s lashing out from anger. So, he might need more than one chance.

  I nearly stopped in my tracks when he came out of the bunk room this morning, his eyes scanning my entire body. I’ve never felt quite a reaction like that to a boy before. The angles of his face made him look more like a man, even though I know he’s only sixteen. The small cleft in his chin drew my attention right away. That, and his impossibly thick, dark eyebrows that overshadowed his chocolate-brown eyes. His medium brown hair contained natural streaks of gold where the sun had faded it, and it was long enough to be tossed by the wind, parted off to one side. The way he stood in the doorway, his lean, muscular frame leaning against the jamb, taught arms crossed against his chest, certainly puts the boys around here to shame.

  Dad’s already in his bedroom so I make my way to mine. My room faces the road and I peek out through my shabby, light blue curtains, wondering if I can make out Reed’s room in the dark. I don’t see anything. Hard to tell if it’s just not visible or if he’s already in bed, asleep. I like knowing that he’s so close, and if I wanted to, I could just walk across the street and talk to him. Not that he’d want me to. He acted like I disgusted him. It’s just nice knowing I could.

  Picking up the newspaper page that printed out my horoscope for the week, I read it again, feeling my cheeks heat. The full moon may have you slightly insecure this week, talkative, given to rambling at times if you are nervous…

  He certainly had me rambling, going on about zodiac signs and such. I can’t help it. I’ve always been fascinated by astrology and horoscopes, especially since it’s the first thing my mom would read to me when she received the paper. I guess it’s just another piece of her I grip tightly, not ever wanting to lose that bond we shared. Guessing peoples’ horoscopes is just something I do. My reading said I might be clumsy and I grin to myself, remembering that I broke one of Mr. Hainley’s glass horses he had sitting on the bookcase when I was dusting. He just smiled and said, “One less thing to dust” when I confessed.

  Before I shut my eyes and surrender to sleep, there’s one thing on my mind that I just can’t seem to shake.

  I’m just dying to know what sign Reed is. He certainly has characteristics of a Taurus.

  The next morning, after putting the coffee on for Dad, I hustle on over to the farm. First, I notice that our grass really needs to be mowed and wonder if Reed is up yet. My biggest fear is that Mr. Hainley will send him out in the fields, and I’ll not get to see him or talk to him. Or try to win him over.

  I’m very comfortable in this house now. Mr. Hainley told me to let myself in in the mornings. I catch him as he’s just ready to head out to the fields. “Hey, Mr. H. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  His eyebrows shoot up and he smirks at the realization of the nickname. I think he likes it, the way his eyes smile at me. “It is indeed, Harper. See you at lunch. I left you a request on the fridge.” His boney finger points to the appliance over my shoulder.

  My eyes travel to the almond colored monstrosity, spying a three-by-three yellow Post-It note stuck in the middle. Walking closer, I read Sure have a hankerin’ for a reuben sandwich. I frown at this, knowing he doesn’t have any corned beef – I would have noticed. Opening the door to the fridge, I see he’s been to the grocery. Sure enough, all the ingredients I need are there, down to the Thousand Island dressing.

  To keep myself busy until it’s time to fix lunch, I gather up all the rugs that cover the hardwood floors - there are six and they are quite heavy. I take them to the front porch, dropping them at my feet, then proceed to pound them against the brick railing, just like my mom used to. My arms are like Jell-O when I’m finished, but hopefully, most of the dust is out of them. I leave them to air out, hanging over the short wall while I Swiffer dust the floors, no rugs hindering my work.

  Next, I tackle stripping Mr. H’s bed and wash the bedding, along with the towels that were in his hamper.

  I’ve just about got lunch ready when Mr. H comes through the door. He watches as I pull the sandwiches out from under the broiler, a wide grin on his face. “Would ya look at those!” he says, stepping to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “Any sign of Reed today?” he asks over his shoulder.

  I shake my head. I’d been wondering about him myself all morning, peering out the window every time I thought about it, hoping he’d show up.

  “His stomach will bring ‘em around. Why don’t you go and ring the bell, just in case?”

  Maybe leaving him food yesterday backfired on me.

  Walking through the mudroom, I swing open the screen door, and I’m just about to grab the leather strap of the clapper when a strong hand wraps around mine, holding it steady. I turn into a solid body. We’re chest to chest, and if I leaned in a little bit farther, my forehead would touch his lips. “That won’t be necessary,” he says in a hoarse whisper, his breath bouncing off just above my eyebrows.

  Reed.

  It takes a minute for him to let my hand go. Well, more like seconds, but it seemed like a long minute. Gathering myself, my words pass through my lips in a breathy voice. “It’s time for lunch.”

  He steps back from me, an amused expression on his face. “Gathered that.”

  Turning away from him, I walk back in through the screen door. I let it bounce shut behind me, not caring if he was following or not. His amused expression reveals to me that he knows he got to me. And I like that he got to me.
I just don’t want him to know that I like it.

  Mere seconds later, Reed enters the kitchen, Mr. H eyeing him as he takes a seat at the table, plopping down on the country-patterned cushion in his chair.

  “Nice of you to finally join us.” Mr. H’s tone is extremely calm, letting Reed know his absence yesterday didn’t rattle him in the least. He motions to the counter with a nod of his head. “Grab a plate and help yourself. Don’t expect Harper to wait on you.”

  Having just fixed my plate, I keep my back to them, pouring myself a glass of iced tea. I don’t want to see Reed’s reaction at the mention of my name. From the scrape of the chair to the scuffle of his boots, I know he’s in front of the stove, placing one of the reubens on his plate. Then, the ruffling of a bag tells me he’s adding chips to his plate. Knowing he’s coming for a drink next, I spin away from the counter, taking my seat opposite of the one he’s already claimed. I place my meal in front of me, never once looking at him.

  After Reed sits back down, the silence around the table hangs in the air. Only the chewing of food and swallowing can be heard. When I feel brave enough to let my eyes wander from the sandwich in my hands, I look up to see his molten brown eyes staring at me, no readable expression on his face whatsoever. Blank as a fresh sheet of paper. Determined to not allow him to fluster me again, I hold his gaze, repeating the alphabet in my head to keep my mind neutral.

  Mr. H breaks the spell. “How good are you with tools?”

  Both of our heads turn to him, but his words are directed at Reed. I notice he shrugs in a lackadaisical way. “Decent.”

  “Got some fencin’ that needs to be repaired. I’ll show you what to do then leave you to it.” Mr. H gets no response.

  As soon as Reed plucks the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth, Mr. H stands. Pushing his chair back with the backs of his knees, he says, “Let’s go, Reed. Time’s a wastin’.” He grabs a bottle of water out of the fridge while he waits for Reed to follow. “Thanks for lunch, Harper. Your temporary basis is over, girl.” I beam at his words, glad to be over that small hurdle, even if I never believed my employment to be temporary to begin with.

  Reed leaves without any acknowledgment.

  I didn’t expect anything less from him.

  I finish my work around three and reluctantly head home. I’m feeling a little deflated since it’s Friday, and I don’t work for Mr. H on the weekends. I like being here, and even if he is a jerk, there’s something alluring about Reed. I don’t know why, but I want him to like me.

  As I cross the lonely, country road, I notice Dad’s old red Chevy sitting in the drive. Since school’s out, he picks up odd jobs here and there for summer income. I think he told me that the parks department hired him to help mow lawns. I just hope it will keep him busy, earning enough income so I can pocket all of mine.

  Going to college is something I dream about. Like I told Reed, I was so taken by Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird that I’ve talked about nothing else since. But I’m scared to death the money isn’t going to be there. I’m a good student, but my counselor was none too quick to point out that the kids who have GPAs well above a four point zero are the ones who will walk away with the scholarships. And that’s not me. It never will be. I study hard, but I’m a B student through and through. That’s why I’ve decided to do whatever it takes. Next year, when I can drive, maybe I can get a job in town. But that would require us to get a second car, which we probably can’t afford.

  Mr. H and I didn’t discuss pay because, let’s face it, I had no other options. I’ll take whatever he thinks I’m worth. And I will save every penny I make. I’ve got two more years of high school to complete, but some day, I’m going to have to ask my dad where we stand on our finances, so I can go to college. Most days, I look at him and I just don’t have the heart. I don’t want to remind him that, sometimes, he just disappoints me.

  Over the weekend, I get the grass mowed and weed some of the flowerbeds. Anything to be out in the open where I might catch a glimpse of Reed. I saw him one time, walking up to the house from his room. He glanced my way and I know he saw me. I thought about waving to him, but that would make me look desperate. But I am kind of desperate…desperately counting down the minutes until I can go back to work on Monday.

  Who does that?

  I’m not acting like an Aries. She would have walked right over there and demanded some of his time.

  I’m still growing into my Aries persona; one I have a lifetime to perfect.

  Chapter Four

  Reed

  June 2010

  My prison sentence drags. Time on this farm is moving like an ant on heroin, crawling its way from New York to California. No exaggeration whatsoever.

  The only thing keeping me sane are those plump, pink lips, amplified by a shiny film of gloss at times. The sheen lures my eyes like a temptress. And those damn lashes mesmerize me to the point that I daydream what it would be like to touch them. I wonder if they would be as soft as I’d imagined, tiny wisps tickling the tips of my fingers.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look forward to seeing Harper nearly every day. But I keep my cards close to my chest, cloaking myself in indifference whenever she’s around. I’m not sure if I can trust her. Mr. H gives me a list of things to do each day before heading out to the fields, but I don’t always get around to them, feigning ignorance or just a bad memory. I slip away to sit by the secret pond I found on my first day here. I don’t need a second set of eyes on me, reporting back to him. But I think Mr. H is on to me by the way he holds my gaze, calling bullshit without even breathing a word.

  But then, words were finally spoken later in the week. “Son, the next time your list isn’t checked off entirely, I’ll have you waterin’ each stalk of corn with only a straw and a bucket, you hearin’ me? And I won’t care if you do it all night until the light of the day. That’s what tractor headlights are for.”

  Well, let’s just say that Mr. H is a man of his word. I don’t know how he stayed awake on that tractor all night, but I now know that the word ‘bluff’ is not in his vocabulary. I suddenly have the memory of ten elephants combined.

  He lectured.

  I failed.

  He schooled.

  I learned.

  I’m not making the same mistake twice. That night was one of the worst I’ve ever experienced. And I’ve experienced some shitty nights. The worst one is what landed me here in the first place.

  I still slip away to my oasis when no one’s paying any attention. Only, now I make sure my chores are finished, or they will be once I’ve had my afternoon escape. But it’s been a couple of days since the straw and bucket night. My lack of sleep is catching up to me, and I crash in the woods after taking a dip in my pond. I sleep so long I miss dinner, and there is only about an hour left in the day before night falls.

  A huge lump forms in the pit of my stomach when I realize I haven’t mucked the horses’ stalls yet. There are only two, but the fact they aren’t done has me visualizing a goddamn straw and many buckets of water. Mr. H inspects everything before dinner, and I know I’m so screwed.

  My sweat glands are in overdrive as I maneuver my way through the thick brush closing in on the intended path. My footsteps tamp it down as I battle my twitchy muscles, a direct result of my onslaught of nerves.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  As soon as I’m at the edge of the woods, in front of the corn field, I stop and take stock of my surroundings, attempting to get a feel from the energy in the air.

  I feel nothing. It’s quiet and still.

  Deciding to take the long way around to the stalls, I slink past the storage shed and dip into the barn undetected. Letting my eyes adjust to level of light, my other senses dominate, especially my sense of smell. My body relaxes a bit. The barn does not offend. A slight musty smell wafts my way, but the stench of ammonia and manure are long gone. It’s already tossed in a muck bucket, nothing in the beds but fresh straw and sawdust.


  So, why is my stomach still clenching? Because this is exactly a move Mr. H would make, finishing my chores so he can put the whammy on me when I least expect it. He loves to hold shit over my head.

  Just wanting this day to be over with, I skulk to my room. My limbs are weighted with a heaviness I can’t explain.

  Softly shutting the door behind me, I flip on the overhead light. I immediately notice a familiar scene - a brown paper bag sitting on top of the dresser. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I peel my shirt off and toss it aside as I move closer to inspect.

  I’m leery to open it, half expecting horse manure to be sitting at the bottom. I brush off the thought, knowing the aroma coming from the bag is not that of horse droppings, but the sweet, tangy smell of barbeque. Reaching into the bag, I pull out a sesame seed bun piled with mouth-watering barbeque pork, wrapped in plastic wrap and still warm. Not one, but two. Sitting beneath the sandwiches are two Ziploc bags, one stuffed with cornbread and the other a chocolate-frosted brownie. My mouth salivates as I unpack the sack. I carry the contents to my bed and sit in the middle with my legs crossed, a picnic dinner spread before me.

  Even though I inhale the food, that doesn’t stop me from enjoying every bite. My mind drifts to who would have left it. Leaving sacks of food for me is not Mr. H’s style. He would rather teach me a lesson by withholding food. I suddenly feel a little uneasy, a small amount of guilt surfacing as it sinks in that Harper’s more than likely the culprit.

  And then, my mind travels to the cleaned stalls.

  Harper again?

  Possibly.

  Wadding up the bag with the trash inside, I toss it in on the floor and lay back against the pancake pillow, staring up at the lonely bare bulb that hangs from the ceiling. A couple of moth’s dance around it, unable to pull themselves away from the hypnotic glow. Dragging a shaky hand down my face, I try to swallow past the huge lump in my throat. I know I don’t deserve the kindness she’s extended. Why would she help me?