F. Wilson - Secret Histories

He’d been joking but his chest tightened when he saw her eyes puddle up.

“That’s what he’d like me to be. But I just can’t be a bowhead. It makes me sick.” She blinked and glanced at him. “No, I mean real y sick. If I had to knot

a paint-splatter shirt at my hip, or wear floral-pattern jeans and Peter Pan boots, I real y think I’d throw up.”

“Only kidding.”

“I know, but my dad’s not. He wants me to look like everybody else. And he lets me know it.”

Weezy’s father was a pipefitter. Like everyone else in town, it seemed, he’d been in Korea. But he hadn’t fought. He’d been in the construction crew

that built Camp Casey. More than once Jack had heard his father say that instead of going to col ege after the war, he should have enrol ed in a trade

school and become a pipefitter like Patrick Connel . If he had he’d be less stressed and making more money.

“He just doesn’t get me.” She glanced at Jack again. “Do you?”

Jack hesitated. He wasn’t about to lie to her, but knew he needed to put this just right.

“Truth?”

“Of course.”

He took a breath. “I don’t get you either.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Oh, great. Ettu,Brute? Just great!”

He held up a hand. “Let me finish. I don’t get you, but I don’t need to. I don’t get the black clothes or the downer music—it’s like you’ve joined some club

where I’l never be a member—but so what? We’ve known each other forever, Weez. You are who you are. You’re Weezy Connel , the smartest and also

the strangest person I know. Yeah, I don’t get you, but I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

She dropped the stick, hopped off the bench, and walked maybe a dozen feet away. She kept her back to him but he noticed her chest heaving, as if

she was sobbing, or maybe holding sobs back.

What’d I say? he thought.

He’d been trying to make her feel good but he guessed he’d screwed that up. Would he ever learn how to talk to a girl?

Watching her made him uncomfortable so he stared at the ground where she’d been doodling with the stick. He noticed with a start that they weren’t

random scratchings—they looked an awful lot like the pattern etched on the inside of the mystery cube. The longer he looked, the more convinced he

became. Had she memorized it? But then he remembered how Weezy had told him she had a photographic memory.

Suddenly two black-sneakered feet stepped into view. Jack looked up to find Weezy’s face only inches from his. She kissed him on the lips. Not a long

kiss. Barely a second. But her lips were soft and their touch sent a shock through him.

And then it was over. She straightened and looked down at him. She was smiling but her face was blotchy and her eyes red.

“You’re the best friend anyone could have. I don’t deserve you.”

She stepped over to where her Schwinn leaned against the side of the bench. She swung her leg over the banana seat and looked at him.

“Come on, Jack. Don’t sit there like a lump. We’ve got to get you back to civilization.”

But Jack did sit there, total y confused. He’d upset her, but then she’d kissed him. Weezy Connel had kissed him. Not that he hadn’t kissed a girl before

—sometimes hanging out turned into making out—but this was Weezy.

Of course, it hadn’t been a make-out kiss, but stil … she’d kissed him. And the feel of her lips lingered against his.

Unable to sort out the strange mix of feelings bubbling within, he pushed himself off the bench and grabbed his bike.

They took a different way home. Weezy, who seemed to have this entire end of the Pine Barrens laid out in her head, led him along deer trails and

firebreaks he’d never seen before.

Al along the way he watched her butt.

Wel , what else was there to look at? As far as size went, it wasn’t much. Hard to tel what her baggy clothes hid. She was thin, he knew that, but curvy

thin or straight-up-and-down thin he couldn’t say. Either way, he found he liked watching her from the rear as she pedaled along.

Her shortcut back to Johnson led through Old Man Foster’s land and now things were starting to look familiar. When they came to the clearing with the

spong where they’d found the leg-hold traps, she skidded to a stop, turned to give him a surprised look, and pointed.

There in the clearing stood a lady in a long black dress and a scarf around her neck. She carried a bundle of sticks in one arm and was moving from

trap to trap, springing them with the sticks. Her three-legged dog stood by, watching.

Mrs. Clevenger.

Without hesitating, Weezy hopped off her bike and walked into the clearing. She seemed to believe in just about every kind of weirdness, but maybe

she didn’t believe in witches—or maybe she didn’t believe Mrs. Clevenger was one. Jack wasn’t so sure about that, but he fol owed anyway. The dog

watched their approach but made no move toward them.

“Hi,” he heard Weezy say as she neared.

Mrs. Clevenger looked up. She didn’t seem surprised to see them. Jack had a strange feeling this old lady didn’t surprise easily.

“Hi, yourself, Weezy Connel .”

She took a stick from the bundle in her arm and jammed it into a nearby trap. It snapped shut, breaking off the end. She used the broken tip on a

neighboring trap. When this one snapped closed, it trapped the stick. She abandoned it and grabbed another.

“Looks like fun,” Weezy said. “Can I try?”

Mrs. Clevenger gave her a long look, then handed her a stick.

“I like you, young lady. But be careful where you step. Nasty things, these.”

Jack grabbed one of the already sprung traps and worked its anchor free from the ground. Then he tossed it into the spong where it splashed and sank.

“You threw them in there a few days ago,” Mrs. Clevenger said. It didn’t sound like a question—she seemed to know. “A good thing, but in the end, only

a temporary solution, as temporary as springing the traps. The trapper simply fishes them out and resets them. Al we accomplish by what we do here is a

respite for the animals and an inconvenience for the trapper.”

Jack said, “That’l have to do, I guess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “For now, yes. But someday he may do harm to creatures that must not be touched. Should that happen, he wil pay dearly.”

Her tone chil ed Jack. For some reason he found himself very glad he wasn’t that trapper.

“Oh, and we anger and frustrate him as wel ,” she added, “so don’t let him catch you at this.”

Weezy looked up. “What do you think he’d do?”

Her expression was grim. “A man who sets these traps for unsuspecting animals coming to the spong to ease their thirst? What wouldn’t he do?”

Jack looked over at her dog who hadn’t moved from where it sat. He feared it might be a touchy subject but he had to ask.

“Did he …” He pointed to the dog. “Did a trap do that to him?”

Mrs. Clevenger looked at him and smiled. “No, he chose to have only three legs. Perhaps in sympathy for the animals hurt in the traps, perhaps for

another reason. He’s never said.”

Jack could only stare at her. What on Earth was she talking about? It made no sense.

“What’s his name?” Weezy said.

She turned toward Weezy, and as she did, Jack craned his neck to see if he could catch a glimpse of a scar beneath her scarf, but it was wrapped too

tightly.

“He’s had many names, and he has none. He simply is.”

More weirdness. Mrs. Clevenger seemed to like to speak in riddles. Weezy took a step toward the dog. “Can I pet him?”