In the Arms of Stone Angels (2 page)

I'd never told my mom about my nightmares. I had screwed up so much already, guess I never wanted her to know that I couldn't handle it. And since I was sneaking out of the house at night, she never heard me cry in my sleep. But every time I had those bad dreams, I thought about White Bird and how we first met.

It calmed me to remember a time when things were simpler, but inside I ached with regret for not being a better friend to him.

 

It was hard for me to imagine being thirteen after everything that had happened, but that was how old I was when I'd first met White Bird three years ago. I used to spend hours away from home, mostly walking through old graveyards and reading headstones or playing along the creek that backed up to our house in Shawano. I only tolerated Facebook and wasn't into the latest video on YouTube or chatting up virtual strangers. I loved being outdoors, even though most kids made fun of me. To them I was a skinny weird geek who hung out with dead people.

The town kids laughed at me. And I pretended not to care.

One afternoon I found a bird with a broken wing by the creek. It was flopping on the ground near the water and chirping, struggling to get away from a calico cat that was stalking it. The cat was flicking its tail and was ready to
pounce. One second later and that bird would have been dead meat. And I would have witnessed a bent version of the circle of life, with me having a ringside seat to something I didn't want to see.

“Git!” I yelled. “Leave it alone.”

I waved my hands to scare the cat away. It hissed at me and eyed the bird one more time before it took off into the bushes. I was left with a hurt bird and had to catch it to bring it home.

I bent over to scoop it in my hands—trying not to hurt it more than it already was—but the scared little thing thrashed around until I thought it would die. The bird was frantic and I was afraid it would keel over from shock. In that bird's eyes, I was scarier than the cat and way bigger.

But a husky voice stopped me.

“Don't chase it. Make it come to you.”

I turned and let out a scream. I'm sure I looked like a lunatic, all wide-eyed and frightened like that panting little bird.

“Back off…or I'll scream. And I'll kick you in the nuts. I swear to God, I'll do it.” I threatened him and tried to look as if I knew where his nuts were, with my heart pounding out of control.

“Thanks for the warning.” He grinned.

I had to remind myself to breathe. Sure I was still scared, but something about this boy tickled a feeling deep in my belly. My stomach was doing flip-flops like hitting the peak of the roller coaster and barreling down the track out of control. And I wanted to hold on to the feeling, but I made the mistake of glancing down.

I was trapped inside the body of a thirteen-year-old girl dressed in neon blue shorts with matching shoes and a floral top that looked like I'd barfed bright yellow daisies down my
flat chest. And to make things worse, I smelled like creek water and I had deliberately wiped my muddy hands all over my lame outfit—the only retaliation I had against my mother's taste. At the time I thought coming home caked in mud would be funny, but at that very moment…not so much.

The boy at the creek wasn't much older than I was, but his low voice made him sound mature. He wore his straight dark hair long to his shoulders and his appearance made him stand out from anyone else I knew. Most of the boys at my school had a burr cut that looked like they wore a bowl on their heads.

He had on worn jeans cinched with a woven leather belt that was beaded, something handmade. And he had on an unusual shirt—nothing off the rack—a gray-and-white print shirt with pale blue ribbons sewn into a crisscross pattern over his chest. Strands of satin hung down, blowing in the faint breeze. I'd seen a Native American Ribbon shirt before, but not close up. The shirt matched the bead colors threaded into his leather moccasins.

And the boy's skin was dark as if he spent time in the sun. I liked that. My skin was tanned, too. He also moved with a confidence that I hadn't seen before. Boys my age roughhoused too much, but this boy wasn't afraid to be gentle. And when he kept his distance, I knew it was because he was waiting for me to get used to him being there.

“I won't hurt you.” His voice was calm.

That was the first time I had seen White Bird. I found out later that he liked coming to the creek, too.

“Will you let me help?” he asked. After I nodded, he said, “Then back away and give me room.”

I did as he told me. And when I was far enough away, I watched him ease near the injured bird. He had such patience
and even though his hands were bigger, they weren't as clumsy as mine. He spoke to it in a language I didn't understand with his voice low. It was comforting, even to me. The bird didn't move. It stayed put—mesmerized like me—and cocked its head toward him. Eventually that little bird came to him and I'd never seen anything like it. He cradled it in his hands with such gentleness.

“You want to see it?” he said quietly.

Seeing the way he was with that small creature, I knew I didn't need to be afraid of this boy. I nodded and stepped closer to take a peek. The hurt bird had nuzzled into his hand. It was too weak to move, but it trusted him enough to close its eyes and rest.

“I'll fix its wing. You want to help?”

I grinned and nodded. A little voice in my head—mostly Mom's voice—warned me against going with him. I'd heard how perverts lured kids with missing kitties and puppies. But when I looked into this boy's eyes, I was like that bird with a busted wing and I knew he'd never hurt me.

“Hi. My name's Brenna. What's yours?” I whispered and looked up at him. He was taller than the boys I knew at school.

“In town, they call me Isaac Henry, but my Euchee name is White Bird.”

“Which do you like better?”

“No one's ever asked me that.” When he smiled, I did, too.

At that moment, I remember hoping he'd be my friend—a
real
friend. But if I had known then what I did now, I never would have let him near me. I would have run and not looked back.

For his sake.

 

“You didn't eat your nachos.” Mom's voice jerked me from my daydream.
Harsh, real harsh.
I was back at that lousy truck stop and sucked into my life, having faux breakfast with my mother.

“What?”

“I said, you didn't eat much.” Mom looked at me like she knew I'd been somewhere else. And she was on the verge of asking me about it, but she must have changed her mind. She scarfed cold nachos off my plate instead. “We'll be there before the sun goes down.”

Was that supposed to make me feel good?
She gave her ETA like it was a good thing. I felt my jaw tense and I shoved the cold nachos away. Mom had a jacked-up way of commiserating. We were both heading to a place that would have burned us at the stake in another century. And all she could do was remind me that I had until nightfall before I became the human equivalent to a S'more.

Way to go, Mom!

Shawano, Oklahoma

We turned off the interstate at dusk and I had forgotten how intense the sunsets could be here. The sun was a molten orange ball on the horizon. Even behind my sunglasses, the light made me squint and I had to raise a hand to block the glare below my visor.

Mom hadn't said much in the past hour. Either my nerves were contagious or she was dealing with her own demons. I wished her silence meant she understood, but I didn't ask. She could have been quiet because she was tired. And if I had made a big deal about her mood, she would have blown me off and refused to let me in. I was only a kid in her eyes.

“Let's stop at the grocery store. We'll need a few things before we head to Grams's,” Mom said as she turned onto the main drag of Shawano.

It surprised me that she still referred to the house as belonging to my grandmother as if she was still alive and would be waiting for us to arrive. That made me ache inside and I missed my phone calls to Grams, but when I didn't say anything, Mom raised her voice.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, I'm right here, duh.” I rolled my eyes and grimaced out of pure reflex. I could have spared Mom the attitude after she'd driven all day, but attitude was all I had left.

The town was how I remembered it, only way smaller. Most places on Main Street looked dirty and bleached by the sun. And graffiti was the new black. Any fond memories I had were tainted by the ugliness of why I left. I had no real purpose for coming back—except to deal with my past.

I guess Mom had her reason and I had mine. And maybe we both had something to prove.

We stopped at Homeland on the way into town to pick up groceries. The few things I wanted, I tossed them in our cart and I let Mom do the rest while I headed back toward the entrance. I had seen a pay phone at the front. And where there was a pay phone, there'd be a phone book. Yes, an ancient phone book, complete with Yellow Pages.

Mom had bought me a basic phone without the bells and whistles most kids had. Guess that was another way she punished me, so I resorted to desperate measures. When I found what I wanted, I looked over my shoulder and waited until I knew I wouldn't be caught tearing a sheet out of the damned phone book. I folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket of my jean jacket.

I couldn't stay the whole night at Grams's, not when it was my first night here. I had too many things on my mind. And sleep had become a waste of time.

“Honey? You ready to go?” Mom's voice made me jump. “What were you doing?”

I turned and kept everything off my face as I helped her with the groceries.

“Nothing. I was flipping through the phone book, looking for a few friends.”

“Did you find anyone you know?”

I had to give Mom credit for effort. She knew I didn't have many friends two years ago—and certainly none who had stuck by me through the worst of it—but she'd given me the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe it made her feel like a better mother if she thought she hadn't raised such a complete loser.

All I said was, “No.”

 

In his open garage under a dim light, Derek Bast sat on his weight bench working on biceps curls when his cell phone signaled he had a text message. It was the third one he had ignored. He took his workout seriously and jumping up every time he got a call or message wasn't something he did during the off-season. His grades were only marginal. And the only way he'd get a college education was through football.

“Dude. Spot me, will ya?” His buddy Justin was setting up for the bench press and needed him to stand behind him, ready to help if he got into trouble with the larger weight.

But when another text message came within seconds of the last one, curiosity got the better of him. He hoisted up his sweatpants when he stood and wiped the sweat off his face and arms with a towel before he went looking for his phone.

“Hold on. I gotta check this.” Derek glanced down at his cell to see what all the fuss was about.

911 brenna nash was at homeland tonight
why is she back???????
meet me at usual place…NOW!!!!!!

Derek grimaced and clenched his jaw when he saw the messages.

“You gotta go, Justin. Go on, beat it.”

“What? I was just…”

“I said beat it, shithead!” He glared and threw his sweaty towel at the guy's face. “I got things to do.”

Justin backed down and didn't argue. He wouldn't dare. He put his damned tail between his legs—like a whipped dog—and headed out without saying another word. Derek knew he had a reputation for losing his temper and it worked to his advantage. He got off on knowing people called him “Alpha Dawg” for a reason.

After Justin took off, Derek shut the garage door and headed for his bedroom to shower and change. If Brenna Nash was back in town, that bitch had the potential of screwing with his life.

And he couldn't let that happen.

 

By the time Mom and I got to Grams's it was almost too dark to see, but the old Victorian home was easy to spot at the end of the street. It was the biggest house on the block and not quite how I remembered it. In the past few years, Grams had let the place go. The yard and flower beds were overgrown with weeds and the house needed painting. Brick steps that led to the front door needed repair, the wraparound porch
railing could use paint and the bay windows and gabled roof looked scary at night without lights on. The place was real creepy and reminded me of a slasher movie.

Very cool.
I could totally shoot a video here. But I had a bad feeling the inside would need work if Mom expected to sell it.

“Wait by the car till I get in and turn on the lights.” Mom had parked in the driveway and was fumbling through her purse for house keys as I got out. “No telling what it's gonna look like in there.”

“Come on, Mom. What if it's gross? There could be—”

She didn't let me finish.

“If it's bad, we'll find a motel until we can do a little cleaning.” She pretended to be cheery. “Where's your sense of adventure?”

“In North Carolina. I forgot to pack it.” I crossed my arms and slumped against the car.

“Stay put. I'll need your help with the groceries if we stay tonight,” Mom yelled over her shoulder as she headed toward the front door.

I heaved a sigh and stared up at the old Victorian after my mom left me alone on the driveway. I wasn't afraid of the dark since cemeteries were my thing, but living in small town suburbia scared the crap out of me.

Hours Later—Near Midnight

After we ate and made up our beds—at least good enough for one night—I lay in the dark listening to the creaks and groans of the old house. And I swear to God that I heard my grandmother's footsteps walk down the hall and stop by my door. That would have disturbed most people, but feeling
Grams in the house gave me comfort. It felt natural and I welcomed her spirit.