Gods & Monsters

Oh shoot.

I lost my shoes again. I swear I had them on when I was up in the treehouse. Should I go back and check? Mom’s going to be so, so mad. Like, super-duper mad where she pinches my thighs and my waist to get my attention. I hiss as the pain flares up on the right side of my waist where Mom was pretty brutal last time I lost my shoes in the woods, and showed up with muddy cut-up feet.

I’m ready to go back because I’m not going to risk getting pinched again, but I notice Sky up ahead, standing by the mailbox, her eyes on something. I can’t see what it is but it’s got me curious so I keep walking forward.

As I reach her a few seconds later, a white truck whooshes into my view. It’s more rusted than white, the paint peeling off the sides and the doors. It shudders and screeches like it’s going to break down any second as it hurtles down the dirt-path. The dirt-path that breaks off the highway and circles around our farm, leading to our neighbor’s house.

Peter Adams.

He’s the town’s loner. He hardly goes out or even talks to people. There are only a handful of times I’ve seen him around town. He has dark blond hair with gray sprinkled in, and eyes that look a little lost sometimes. He’s quiet and he’s always been nice to me.

Last year, I had this huge tower of books that I’d just checked out of the town library and as I was walking down the street to where Mom had parked the car, I stumbled and dropped all of them. Mr. Adams came to my rescue and helped me gather all the books. When I thanked him, he didn’t say anything and left. People were giving me weird looks and the news of it traveled to my mom. Of course, she retaliated — she retaliates against everything that has to do with the Adams family. She yelled at me for about an hour. The bruises that week were more brutal than anything I’d ever endured.

Oh well. It is what it is. Although I never talked to Mr. Adams after that, I still think my mom over-reacted. Her hatred of Peter Adams is a bit exaggerated. I mean, he isn’t responsible for what happened fifteen years ago. He isn’t responsible for what his brother, David, did. So what if Peter Adams belongs to the same family?

The truck lurches to a stop under a leafless tree. It’s summer and there’s greenery everywhere but I’ve never seen this tree grow any leaves. How strange is that? It’s always been thin and skeletal. Like it died a long time ago. It makes me sad. Everyone deserves a bit of color in their life.

The door on the driver’s side opens and out comes Peter Adams. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and faded pants. His hair’s become thinner over the last year and almost all the strands are grayish white. He walks to the back of the truck and opens the tailgate with a giant screech and lowers a small bag.

Does he have visitors? I’ve never seen anyone visiting him before, though. I’m beyond curious now, and looks like Sky is the same way.

A pair of long legs swing out of the cab and thud on the ground. Whoever it is, their shoes are dirty: that’s my first thought. White canvas sneakers with smudges of mud all over. Oh, I can totally relate to that. I can never keep my shoes clean, if I’m wearing them that is. I wiggle my dirty, naked toes in the mud, hating the fact that I’m in for a good bruising by my mom.

All thoughts of getting punished vanish from my head when the visitor jumps out of the truck. It’s a boy.

A tall boy with loose and wrinkled clothes, and a backpack riding on his shoulder. It looks thicker than the bag Mr. Adams is carrying. There’s a rip in the boy’s jeans, white threads hanging out like a set of teeth.

His hair’s all messy, touching his eyebrows. It flickers in the wind that suddenly seems to have picked up. It’s blond. Well, not like my blonde. My hair’s yellow like the sun, whereas his is more of a dirty sort of blond. Like if you dip the sun in creamy coffee, you will come away with a shade that matches his hair. Golden.

Mr. Adams approaches him and the boy whips his eyes to glare at him. Whoa. There’s so much anger in them. I’ve never seen anyone this angry. Not even my mom. If I were Mr. Adams, I’d be quaking in my boots. Gosh, this boy is tall. He’s taller than Mr. Adams, even. And his fists are clenched like he wants to punch Mr. Adams’s face.