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"I'm the mysterious new guy in town. You like that. You just won't admit it. So, yes, relative honesty. Ask me anything."
"Fine. What's the scariest thing you've ever done?"
He laughed. "Wow. Straight for the jugular." He took a deep breath. "Okay. Scariest thing? Scariest thing I've ever gone through was my mom dying. But you said scariest thing I've done. That would be coming here. I'm used to moving, like I said. But this was different. I'm not a legal immigrant, obviously, but we needed to get away, and we knew we'd inherited this cabin, so we had to take the chance and hope nobody asked too many questions."
"You had to get away because of Annie. Because you were afraid she'd lose custody of you."
"Partly, and partly ..." He chugged his beer, as if shoring up his nerve. "The scariest thing I've ever done was coming here, and the dumbest thing I've ever done was the reason I had to."
After a minute of silence, I said, "Are you going to tell me or was that just a tease?"
I expected a smile. Instead, he drained the rest of his beer in one long, almost desperate swallow.
"I took money from the wrong people," he said.
I stiffened, certain he was pulling his bad boy crap again. But he'd gone very still, watching me, his eyes anxious, like he wished he could take the words back but was glad he couldn't.
I'd asked for honesty. He'd given it, more than he should, because he wanted to earn my trust, wanted it badly enough to offer this. I wondered why, but I couldn't seem to hold on to the thought, couldn't seem to care as that lazy, drifting feeling returned.
I knew he was waiting for me to say something. But what? I was dying to ask what he'd done, but even for me, being that blunt crossed a line.
"So I was wrong," I finally said. "You are a bad ass."
He laughed at that, a long whoosh of relieved laughter, the spark returning to his eyes. "That's right. I've earned my rep the hard way. I'm as bad as they come."
He leaned in, until his breath tickled my hair. "Seriously? That's the worst thing I've ever done, as well as the dumbest. Otherwise, I'm strictly minor league."
He lifted the empty beer bottle. "First drink I've had in about six months. I've been drunk once in my life. It was after my mom died. I went to a party, and I started drinking, and I didn't stop until I woke up covered in puke. Which, let me tell you, is a serious turn-on for girls."
"I bet."
"I've smoked pot once." He leaned in again and whispered, "You'll notice a lot of firsts and lasts in this confession." He set his empty bottle aside. "I was fourteen, in a new place, trying to make friends. Annie caught me. Dragged me away and said if she ever caught me doing that again, she'd tell Mom, who was sick then, so it was the last thing she needed. I found new friends."
He shifted, getting a little closer but subtly, like he was only restless. "What else? I've shoplifted. Small stuff, years ago. Another new school, more bad choices in friends. You'll notice a lot of that pattern, too. I almost broke into a house once. A guy told me this other kid swiped his iPod and he wanted me to get it back. I almost fell for it. At least he bothered lying to me. Most times, kids just figured I'd be happy to help them do something illegal."
"Because you look like the type?"
"Yeah, but not in the way you mean. A lot of the places we went--small towns and that--were very white. You're lucky here. I mean, I'm sure you get some problems, but you're ..."
"Sheltered."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"It's okay. I know I am. When I leave Salmon Creek, there's a distinct change in tone." I motioned to his arm, now covered by his jacket. "I saw your tattoo. Hopi, isn't it? The crow mother?"
"Very good. Yeah, Mom was Hopi. Annie and I got the tattoos after she died."
He went quiet, then snapped out of it and tugged his jacket sleeve up to give me a better look. It was a gorgeous tattoo. Before he pulled the sleeve down, I touched the cat's-eye bracelet.
"I like that," I said. "From a girlfriend?"
"Looks like something a girl would give a guy? Right idea, wrong person. It was from my mom. Last gift before she died." Again that quiet grief threatened to fall. Again he shook it off. "Anyway, so, yes, Mom was Native and my father was, apparently, Latino. So kids would try to get me to commit their criminal acts for them, either figuring I'm a dumb Indian who needed money for booze or a dumb Mexican who needed it for dope. Either way, they were sure I was dumb enough to do something illegal." A pause, then a crooked smile. "And, apparently, they were right."
Another minute of silence. The question was hanging there: What did you do? Instead I said, "Are you ... okay?"
"You mean, are we in danger of federal marshals barreling through the woods with a warrant for my arrest? Nah. It wasn't like that. I just ... After our mom died, we didn't have as much money as she thought we did, because Annie and I had sneaked into her savings to get stuff for her. Medicine, food she liked, whatever. It wasn't bad at first. Annie was working. Two jobs sometimes, and selling her sculptures on the side. Mom was a carver, and Annie got the artistic genes. I wanted to quit school and work, so she could concentrate on her art, but she wouldn't let me. She helped me get a parttime job, though, so I felt better about it."
I thought of the girl I'd met. Tried to imagine her as the big sister who'd dragged her brother away from pot-smoking friends, wouldn't let him quit school, took care of him. It sounded like he was talking about a completely different person. I guess, in some ways, he was.
