The Blood That Binds by Madeline Sheehan

 

Willow

“So y’all are comin’, right?” Britta raised one sharply curved brow.

It was early morning, the sun a glowing sliver on the horizon, the scents of cooking food rushing up to greet us alongside the warm morning breeze. Britta and I had crossed paths on our way to the dining hall, both of us headed to breakfast before work. Joining me, Britta was eager to share the news that EJ had asked her to attend Maria and Jim’s wedding with him, an offer that Britta had found downright hysterical. He was too young for her, and too straitlaced and clean-cut for her to even consider. She preferred her men more rugged, more like Logan, she’d said, winking.

“I’m coming,” I replied slowly. Britta liked… Logan? Moody, miserable Logan? Something about that made me feel… strange.

“Not Eddie, though, huh?” Laughing, she mimed a scissor motion with her fingers.

“Nope. He’s being, you know… himself.” I flicked my eyes skyward. “He hates all forms of fun. Always has, always will.”

I’d hounded Logan for the past few days, attempting to convince him to come along, but in true Logan fashion, my persistence had only resulted in him digging his heels in further, remaining absolutely adamant about not attending.

“That man is backed up worse than Talladega on race day,” Britta said with a sly grin. “I could set him straight. Whip us up some of my daddy’s hooch and get me a few hours alone with him—he’d be right as rain. Not like it’d be a hardship. That man is hotter’n Georgia asphalt.”

I stopped walking, staring after her. The imagery she’d just provided me with—her and Logan alone together—made my stomach flip, and not in a good way.

“Speak of the devil,” Britta drawled, as Logan pushed through the dining hall doors. “We were just talkin’ ‘bout you, Eddie, weren’t we, Will?”

Logan descended the stairs without as much as a glance in Britta’s direction, his long blond hair hanging wild and free around his face and shoulders. He’d so rarely worn it down since letting it grow out, not even to sleep, and so I was shocked to see it. Even more surprised to find that he looked considerably younger because of it, too.

“Uh, hey,” I said, blinking up at him. “Your hair is… down.”

Logan sent a hand through his unruly waves, shoving it back from his face. “Yeah,” he replied. Silence followed while we stared at each other. “I’ve got to go to work,” he eventually said. “Got to finish Joe’s roof before it rains today.”

Britta made a noise of disbelief. “The sky’s as blue as an old country song—how you figure it’s gonna rain?”

“His knees,” I said.

“My knees,” Logan replied, both of us speaking at once.

“Every damn time,” he said with a roll of his eyes and a small, surprising smile. “See you later?”

“Yep,” I replied, smiling after him as he turned to leave.

“Well, well, well,” Britta murmured, coming to stand beside me. Together, we watched as Logan disappeared down the path. “That was mighty interestin’.”

Glancing sideways, I asked, “What was interesting?”

“That.”

“What?”

“Oh hey there, Eddie.” Britta batted her eyelashes and furiously fanned herself with her hand. “My, oh, my, look at your hair hangin’ down all gorgeous and shit.”

My eyes flared wide and my face flushed hot. “That’s not what happened.”

Britta leered at me. “Ain’t it though?”

“That’s not what I said to him. And that’s disgusting.” I marched loudly up the stairs and wrenched open the double doors.

Britta was still laughing when she joined me in the food line. “What’s wrong, sugar? Was it somethin’ I said?”

“‘Morning, Willow, Britta. You want cinnamon or honey on your oatmeal?” Behind the counter, Xavier held up two steaming bowls of oats.

Along with Betsey, Xavier was in charge of food distribution. Unlike Betsey, a stern-faced former librarian with a headful of snow-white curls, Xavier was an easygoing guy, with short black hair, sun-kissed skin, and a friendly smile for everyone. A former biological engineer, it had been Xavier who’d designed most of the economically friendly resources in Silver Lake—everything from the solar-powered buildings to the biodiesel-run vehicles. Food service, however, he did for fun.

“Cinnamon, please,” I replied.

“Honey for me, honey,” Britta said, pursing her lips into a silky smile.

Shaking the spice over the oats, Xavier flashed Britta a white, toothy grin. “Anything for you, Brit. Speaking of, you should have gotten here earlier; we had eggs again.”

“Dammit, Xavi!” Britta growled. “Shouldn’t a’ told me—can’t miss what ya don’t know.”

There’d been fresh eggs for breakfast every morning up until three days ago, when a fox had dug its way under the wall in the dead of night and murdered half the chickens. The hens that had survived had been so traumatized by the attack, they’d only just started producing eggs again. I wished there was some way to let those poor chickens know that Joshua had caught and killed that fox—providing us with fox stew that very evening. Maybe then they’d sleep a little easier and resume laying eggs on a daily basis again.

“Grab your fruit and move along, ladies,” Betsey ordered us with a frown, her many lip lines deepening. “Line’s getting backed up.”

Britta saluted her. “Yes, ma’am—right away, ma’am.”

While Betsey tsked our departure, we hurried to our usual table, where Ella was sitting alone. Sliding onto the bench opposite Britta, I stuck my spoon in my oatmeal and left it there. Britta’s comments about Logan were a twister in my gut, having swept away my appetite.

“’Mornin’, Willow; ‘mornin’, Brit.” Dropping his tray of food on the table, Jordy slid onto the bench beside me. “I heard we missed the eggs,” he said, nudging my arm with his elbow. “Got stuck with the slop again.”

“Food is food,” EJ said, taking the seat beside Britta.

“Yes,” Cassie agreed, dropping down beside Ella. “Be thankful you have some.”

“Oh, I’m thankful, alright,” Jordy replied. “I’m thankful Betsey’s always sneaking me an extra helping.” He patted his bare stomach. “I’m a growin’ boy, you know?”

Britta snorted. “You grow any taller and you’ll be a skyscraper.”

“All the better to climb, though, amirite?” Jordy flashed a sly smile around the table.

“Yeah, that’s gross,” Ella snapped, making a face. “Super fucking gross, Jordy.”

Jordy smirked, unconcerned, and gave Ella a long, lingering look. Snarling, Ella flipped him off with both hands that resulted in Jordy throwing his head back with hearty laughter.

Britta banged her spoon on the table. “Did y’all hear—Willow’s comin’ to Jimmy and Maria’s shindig.”

“Yeah?” Jordy nudged me again—something he’d been doing with increased frequency lately. A nudge here. A hand there. A grin every time he saw me. “That’s awesome—you’ll have to save me a dance.”

I flushed again, this time due to the intense way Jordy was looking at me—directly into my eyes, as if he were trying to silently convey something. Something I absolutely did not want to know. Unable to hold his gaze for another uncomfortable second, I resumed poking my oatmeal.

“I don’t really know any dances,” I muttered. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Lucas and I had danced all the time, but never the sort of structured dancing that went on at formal events. Rebels without a cause, we’d always danced to the beat of our own drum.

“Hell, Willow—it ain’t like it’s hard,” Britta spoke around a mouthful of food. “You just throw your arms around and shake ya ass. The real issue is what we’re gonna wear. I got nothin’ but ratty jeans and leather.”

“Does it matter?” I asked. “I mean, given the circumstances, are we expected to dress up?”

I hadn’t given any thought about what I might wear to the wedding, figuring it didn’t matter. Everyone in camp dressed mostly the same, usually in work-appropriate clothing that was sweat-stained, full of holes and half patched together.

“I’m sure some will dress up,” Cassie said. “But nobody will make a fuss if you don’t.”

“Literally nobody,” Ella added. “Maria doesn’t even have a wedding dress to wear.”

“Hell nah. Nu-uh, no way, no how!” Britta thumped her fist on the table. “We are dressin’ up for sure. Willow, when was the last time you dressed up?”

I chewed on my bottom lip, thinking back through the years. “Homecoming dance my freshman year, I think?”

Britta shot Cassie a pointed look. “We can’t let that stand, Cass. You gotta give her the day off and lemme take her shoppin’. You wanna go shoppin’, dontcha, Will?”

Excitement stirred inside me, and I nodded enthusiastically. An adventure was exactly what I suddenly wanted—new clothing would just be the icing on the cake.

“I’m happy to give you the day off,” Cassie replied, smiling warmly at me. “We’re way ahead of schedule, thanks to you. But I don’t know what you think you’re going to find out there, Britta—pickings have been slim for a while. And you’ll need to run it by Leisel before you do anything.”

“Seems kinda risky to head out only for clothes.” Jordy frowned at me. “Is it just the two of you going?”

Britta guffawed. “Oh, bless your heart, Jordy. I’m the best shot in this whole dang camp. I can kill those fuckers with my eyes closed. And you know it.”

Jordy put his hands up. “Can’t argue that, Brit. All I’m saying is Willow is gonna look good in whatever she wears.” He nudged my arm again. “I gotta head out. You be careful out there, alright? I’ll see you later?”

“Sure,” I mumbled, studiously avoiding eye contact with him.

“That boy has it so dang bad for you,” Britta said, eyeing Jordy’s departure. “You could tell him to jump and he’d ask how high.”

“Jordy has it bad for everyone,” Ella said pointedly. “No need to single Willow out.”

“Thank you,” I said firmly, looking at Britta. “We’re just friends—I don’t like him like that.”

Britta’s lips twisted into another sly smile. “Is that ‘cause you like someone else like that?”

“What? Who?” Realizing her meaning, I flushed hot once more. Slamming my spoon down, I growled, “Could you stop? I already told you, that’s disgusting.”

“Fine, fiiiine,” Britta drawled, making a face. “I’m just messin’ with you, is all.” Straightening, she slapped her hands down on the table. “So about our shoppin’ trip—you ready to ride?”

“Don’t forget to run it by Leisel first,” Cassie warned. “Especially if you plan on taking a vehicle. And make sure you’re back before dark or—”

Britta groaned loudly. “Jesus Christ on a goddang cracker, Cassie, I know the rules.”

“You ever wonder why they didn’t name more schools after women?” Britta pointed a freshly sharpened machete at what remained of the building’s overhead lettering. RONALD HOPKINS HIGH SCHOOL, it read, give or take a few missing letters.

We’d been driving for most of the day, stopping at places that looked promising, only to pull away empty-handed. Now we were thirty miles or so from camp, and about to call it quits when we’d happened upon a school. Recalling my high school drama club, and the vast number of costumes they’d kept in storage, I’d suggested checking it out.

“Or why hurricanes and storms were only named after women?” I replied, swinging Britta’s beloved baseball bat from hand to hand.

Britta grinned. “Nuh-uh, I’m keepin’ that one—that’s a dang compliment. We’re the hurricanes, sugar, and all them storm chasers better take cover.”

Returning her grin, I gestured to the graying sky. “Speaking of storms. Logan’s knees never lie.”

Britta glanced up just as the first droplets of rain began to fall. “Best make this quick then,” she replied, gesturing me toward the school. “Ladies first.”

The glass entrance doors had been shattered, and we ducked easily through their gaping holes, stepping onto a floor littered with broken glass and debris. Like most man-made structures, nature was in the process of reclaiming this building as her own—bursting through the cracks in the walls, in the floor, and through the rotted ceiling tiles above.

The main office loomed just ahead, its interior window streaked with dried blood. A Creeper stood just inside, its mangled face staring blankly through the Plexiglas, its head and arms twitching.

Britta pointed and snorted. “I’m hopin’ that’s what my high school principal is doin’ right about now—twitchin’ like a dyin’ fish. Mr. O’Shea—that fuckin’ dirtbag—he used to wear these dang tap shoes, clickin’ his way down the hall so that the whole school would know he was comin’. Click-click-click—Lord, did I hate that man.”

Laughing, we moved down the hall, passing classrooms filled with toppled-over desks and ransacked shelves. Faded posters wallpapered the once colorfully decorated rooms while graying skeletons sat like Halloween decorations in various states of decay.

“What’s up with Eddie’s knees, anyway?” Britta asked. “He looks too young for his bones to be hollerin’ so loud.”

“He played football growing up, so that didn’t do him any favors,” I murmured, peering inside the damp and decaying remains of the school library. “But I think it’s mainly because he always carried the heaviest bag out on the road. And you’ve seen how many weapons he carries.”

Laughing, Britta shook her head. “Boy’s got more blades than a butcher.”

“More scalpels than a surgeon,” I added with a grin.

“More swords than a sea-roving pirate!”

“More knives than a ninja!”

“… do ninjas have knives?”

We staggered down the hall, howling with laughter. And, god, it felt good to laugh so freely, so deep from the belly, and without reservation. I hadn’t laughed this hard since… since Lucas.

“Well now, I’ve seen some crazy shit, but this might take the cake.” Britta bent down in front of an open locker, gently fingering the flower-covered vine growing within. The vine, peppered in pink and white blooms, had somehow found its way into the locker from the wall behind it, growing through a busted seam in the metal.

“It’s honeysuckle,” I told her, smiling wistfully at the flowers that Logan’s mother had allowed to grow freely around her garden gate. “It can grow anywhere.”

“Sure can,” Britta replied, shaking her head. “Times like this, I wish I had a workin’ camera.”

“Hey, over here,” I called out, pushing through a nearby door. Joining me, Britta pulled an industrial-sized flashlight from her belt, bouncing the beam of light around the dark auditorium. The large room was fitted with sloped theater seats, each aisle slanting downward toward the band pit below. Above the pit sat a grand stage, its red velvet curtains hanging in tatters.

“You’re thinkin’ we should check backstage?” Britta’s voice echoed eerily throughout the empty room.

Suddenly conscious of how our voices carried, I glanced nervously around the dark. “Yeah, but keep checking the floor—watch out for crawlers.”

“Sugar, who ya think you’re talkin’ to?” Flashing her teeth, Britta sliced her machete through the air. “Ain’t no Dead Head got the drop on me yet.”

Gripping my bat with both hands, I followed Britta down the aisle, eyes peeled for the slightest movement.

“You ever play any instruments?” Britta asked.

“No,” I laughed softly. “I was usually sitting in detention… you?”

“Girl, same. I was a wild child—hardly ever showed up to class. And when I did, I was always gettin’ sent to Mr. O’Shea’s office. That man would be yellin’ at me, tappin’ that dang tap shoe and tellin’ me I’d never amount to nothin’.”

Chuckling, Britta climbed up onto the stage. Holding her arms wide, she spun in circles. “Look at me now, Mr. O’Shea, I’m a goddang star!”

Laughing, I pulled her across the stage and through the tattered mess of curtains. The backstage area was twice as dark and twice as eerie, with stage props and backdrops looming from every direction, their towering forms casting creepy shadows across the tomb-like room.

“Shine the light over here,” I whispered. The beam bounced around me, landing on a row of garment racks, each rack fitted with a clear vinyl covering.

“Well, shit,” Britta breathed. “Gotta hand it to you, Will—I woulda never thought to check a dang school for clothes.”

Britta propped the flashlight on the floor, shining its light on the clothing racks and we set to work. While I was busy searching for zippers, Britta was slicing through vinyl coverings with her machete.

“Looky here.” Britta held out the long billowing skirts of an opulent white wedding dress. “Now, I don’t know what Maria’s plannin’ on wearin’, but a woman needs options. Aw, hell, is that a dead mouse in there? Well, we don’t need to be tellin’ her about that part.”

Laughing, I plucked a plum-colored blouse with a pussy-bow collar from the rack, hung alongside a pair of wide-leg black slacks, the bottoms of which had been chewed through with holes. The tag on the hanger read, DONNA—MAMMA MIA!

“I like this,” I murmured. It wasn’t something I would have ever picked out for myself previously. It was simpler, and far more understated than the bold, attention-getting clothing I’d once worn. Fingering the soft fabrics, I wondered what Logan’s reaction might be to seeing me wearing something so out of character. Would he laugh?

“I woulda knocked ‘em dead in the twenties,” Britta said, touching the sequin headpiece she was wearing.

“You’re going to knock ‘em dead now,” I told her, nodding earnestly. Though Britta claimed to be in her early forties, she didn’t look a day over thirty. Her long blonde hair shone; her sun-kissed skin glowed gold, and she was confident in a way that defied age.

Eventually we amassed two piles of clothing—items we wanted to keep for ourselves and those we’d be gifting to Silver Lake. Among the piles were pinstriped suit coats with matching pants, frilly blouses, and flapper dresses that, with a bit of sewing, could be easily turned into something more modern. Britta had even found herself a little black number, beaded and fringed from bust to hem.

“You find any anything weddin’ worthy yet?”

“Not yet…” I trailed off as I pulled another garment bag free from the rack; unzipping the bag, a length of emerald green satin spilled into my hands. Holding the dress up to my chest, I swished the mid-calf-length skirt back and forth around my legs. Two skinny spaghetti straps held up the fitted bodice, which dipped low. At the waist, three small white pearls trailed down the center. The tag read, PARTY EXTRA—THE SOUND OF MUSIC.

“Maybe this one?” I asked, stepping around the rack.

Hands on her hips, Britta let out a low wolf whistle. “Sugar, that is definitely your dress. I don’t know about EJ, but you’ll have every other red-blooded man pantin’ after you.”

I turned away, still holding the dress against my body, a small smile tugging at my lips. Britta was right—this was definitely my dress.