True Colors

Winona considered her words carefully. Of all the land mines buried in the dirt of their past, none was more easily triggered than discussions about Noah’s problems.

The past year had changed everything; it had happened almost on the day of his thirteenth birthday. In one summer he’d gone from being a skinny, smiling Labrador retriever of a boy to a sullen, sloop-shouldered Doberman. Quick to anger, slow to forgive. He’d caused talk in town with his temper. Some even whispered the word violent, usually paired with just like his father.

Winona thought he needed counseling at the very least and possibly placement at a school for troubled teens, but offering Vivi Ann that advice was problematic. Especially coming from Winona. Their reconciliation was complete, but a little conditional. Some things were just out of bounds. “It’s not surprising that he’d have trouble dealing with . . . stuff,” Winona said. She never mentioned Dallas’s name if she could avoid it. “Maybe he needs counseling.”

“I’ve tried that. He wouldn’t talk.”

“Maybe get him into sports. That’s good for a kid.”

“Could you talk to him? You remember what it was like to be picked on, don’t you?”

Winona didn’t want to agree. The truth was that she didn’t like Noah lately. Or, maybe that wasn’t quite accurate.

He frightened her. No matter how often she told herself that he was just a boy and that he’d had a rough shake and that the teen years were hard, she couldn’t quite make herself believe it. When she looked at him, all she saw was his father.

Dallas had almost ruined this family once, and she was terrified that his angry, violent son would finish the job.

“Sure,” she said to Vivi Ann. “I’ll talk to him.”

I can’t believe I used to like Founders Days. What a joke. Like people don’t think I’m enough of a loser already, I have to sit in Aunt Winona’s “campaign center” and hand out cheap buttons to old people.

When they started that stupid kick dancing in the street I wanted to hurl. Of course that’s when Erik Jr. and Candace Delgado walked by. I totally wanted to smash his grinning face, and Candace looked like she felt sorry for me.

I HATE THAT.

I’m so sick of people thinking they know something about me just because my dad shot some lady.

Maybe she gave him one of those you’re scum looks. Maybe That’s why he shot her.

I’ve tried to ask my mom about it, but she just looks like she’s gonna cry and says none of that matters anymore, that the only thing that matters is how much she loves me.

Wrong.

She has no clue how I feel. If she did she’d take me to see my dad.

That’s the first thing I’m gonna do when I get a license. I’m gonna drive to the prison and see my father.

I don’t even want to talk to him. I just want to see his face.

You probably want to know why, don’t u, Mrs. Ivers? U think I’m being an idiot to want to see a murderer and you’re wondering if I’ll steal a car to do it.

Ha ha.

You’ll have to wait and see.

In June, the Bits and Spurs 4-H Club was having their first official get-ready-for-the-fair meeting. The girls, and several of their mothers, were in the cottage, seated on the floor, on the sofa, on the hearth. The pine-plank floor was dotted with blank squares of poster board. On each white sheet sat a bucket of supplies. Colored markers, rulers, glitter paint, decorator scissors, Scotch tape; more than twenty years of experience had taught Vivi Ann exactly what they would need. Trends came and went, the words changed with the generations, but how girls expressed themselves remained the same: with bright colors and glued-on glitter.

Vivi Ann stepped around the room, positioning each of her girls in front of a piece of poster board. “Go ahead and begin,” she said finally. “Start with your horse’s name. It’s his stall, remember, and neatness and spelling count. The barn judges will read every word.” She stepped over one girl’s outstretched legs and sidled past another. At the dining room table, she paused. From here, she could look out through the old, rippled kitchen window and see the shingled exterior of the addition.

Noah’s light was on.

To the girls, she said, “Excuse me for a minute,” and walked into the new wing of the house. To the left lay her bedroom and bathroom. She turned right and went down to the end of the hall. She hadn’t found the time yet to pick out carpeting for this area, so her cowboy boots creaked on the springy plywood flooring.

She knocked on Noah’s door, got no answer, and went inside.

He was on his bed, knees drawn up, eyes closed, rocking out to music on his iPod. White wires snaked down from the buds in his ears and plugged into the thin silver player.

At her touch he flinched and sat upright. “Who said you could come in my room?”