Black Creek Crossing

Chapter 20

ON’T LISTEN, ANGEL TOLD HERSELF. IT’S ONLY A sound and it doesn’t matter. She was standing at her locker, trying to concentrate on the combination, but every time she worked the dial, the sound would come again. She knew who was doing it — Jared Woods, whose locker was only about twenty feet down the hall from hers. Seeing him standing in the hall when she first came up the stairs, she almost turned back, but she’d left the heaviest of her books in her locker that morning, and now she needed it. Steeling herself, she’d mounted the last stair and started down the hall, staying as close to the opposite wall as possible. As she passed behind him, she thought maybe he hadn’t seen her. But then, just as she started turning the dial on her locker, it began.

The same ugly-sounding kissing noise he and Chad Jackson had been making in the cafeteria.

She tried to just shut it out, but lost track of the combination, and when she tried to lift the handle of the locker, nothing happened. She started over again, but the sound seemed even louder, and she lost track of the number of times she turned the dial between the second number and the third.

Then, as she was starting over for the fourth time, she felt someone behind her. She froze, her fingers still on the dial, and stole a glance down the hall. Jared Woods was still there, still making the disgusting sounds with his lips, but now he was staring at her, thrusting his hips toward her as if—

The kind of movement Jared was making shoved against her from behind, slamming her up against her locker. Before she could react, she heard Chad Jackson’s mocking voice, “This what you want? Huh?” and the awful memory of yesterday and last night rose up in Angel’s mind.

Once again she heard her father’s accusing voice: Whore!

Once again she felt the touch of the unseen hand pressing against her breast in the darkness of the night. Now she recalled her mother saying: Filth! You will not speak it… you will go to church and confess your sins to Father Mike!

Confess… confess her sins… confess her guilt. Maybe it was true; maybe all of it was her fault. Maybe—

No! It wasn’t her fault! She hadn’t done anything!

Bracing herself against the bank of lockers, Angel shoved hard, but Chad anticipated her move and suddenly stepped away. Losing her balance, Angel tumbled to the floor, her left elbow striking the hardwood, her backpack skidding down the hall. As a sharp stab of pain shot from her elbow down into her hand, she sat up.

There were more kids in the hallway now, and they were staring at her.

Jared Woods was still making the horrible noises.

Then Heather Dunne rolled her eyes, shook her head, and turned away.

A few seconds later the hallway was empty, and even the ugly sounds died away as Jared Woods headed down the same stairs Angel had come up only a couple of minutes before. The sound of laughter exploded up the stairwell, and tears of humiliation streamed down Angel’s cheeks as she struggled to her feet, finally managed to open her locker, and found her history book.

The bell had already rung by the time she got to her classroom, and a ripple of not quite muted laughter ran through the room as she slunk into her seat.

The afternoon dragged on, and as Angel moved from one classroom to another, she did her best to ignore what was going on around her. But what Chad Jackson and Jared Woods had begun in the cafeteria seemed to have spread through the school like a virus, and each break between classes was worse than the one before. Wherever she went, the kissing sounds followed her, and even though no one else shoved up against her the way Chad Jackson had, more and more of the boys began thrusting their hips toward her as she approached and bursting into laughter as she passed.

Laughter, and more of the increasingly obscene-sounding noises.

Maybe it was her fault — maybe she was doing something. But what?

The day wore on and grew steadily worse, until by the end of the last period, which it seemed to Angel would never come, all she wanted was for the ground to open beneath her feet and swallow her up. Knowing that wasn’t going to happen, she simply sat in her chair when the final bell rang, letting all her classmates drain out of the classroom ahead of her. At least half the boys made the sucky-kissy sound as they passed her, and three of them thrust their crotches into her face, but only after making sure Mrs. Holt wasn’t looking. Don’t cry, she told herself. Just act like nothing’s the matter. The seconds turned into minutes as the sounds of laughter and chatter and slamming lockers rose then slowly began to die away. Only when the corridor had fallen completely silent did Angel finally reach under her desk, pull out her backpack, and begin stowing her books away.

“Angel? Is something the matter?”

She froze, then shook her head.

“You’re sure?” Mrs. Holt pressed. “It seemed like some of the boys were acting — well, a little strange.”

“I–I didn’t notice anything,” Angel stammered, and heard the quaver in her own voice as she stood by her desk, ready to leave.

“I don’t know,” the teacher went on. “It certainly seemed as though—”

“They were just teasing me,” Angel broke in, searching for a way to escape before she had to tell the teacher about what had happened to her since lunchtime. “Because I’m new.” Finally she turned and hurried to the door, risking a glance at the teacher. Mrs. Holt’s brow was furrowed, and Angel could see the pity in her eyes. “Can I go now?” she asked.

Mrs. Holt seemed on the verge of saying something else, but then nodded, and Angel darted out before the teacher had a chance to change her mind.

She headed toward the stairs leading to her locker on the second floor, but then changed her mind — if any of the boys were still waiting to torment her, they’d be upstairs where her locker was. Veering away from the stairs, she headed instead for the front door, pushed her way through the inner set, then paused in the vestibule to peer out into the afternoon sunlight. Seeing no one except Seth Baker, who was on the other side of the street, looking like he might be waiting for her, she pushed the outer door open and stepped out onto the landing at the top of the steps.

She was about to wave to Seth when she heard the awful kissing sound.

Whirling, she saw her cousin standing a few feet away, just far enough to the side so he’d been invisible from inside the doors. As she glared at him, Zack Fletcher thrust his crotch forward, pursed his lips, and made the disgusting sound one more time.

“I’m gonna—” Angel began, then stopped herself, but could see by the malicious sparkle in Zack’s eyes that it was too late.

“You gonna tell?” he taunted. “What are you — still a baby?”

“Why don’t you just leave me alone?” Angel asked, and once more heard the quiver in her own voice.

Zack heard it, too. “Ooh, is the baby going to cry now?”

Her eyes welling with tears, Angel turned away from Zack, hurried down the stairs and started toward Seth. But as she crossed the lawn, a car pulled up in front of Seth, he got in, and the car drove away. Wanting to run now, but having no place to run, Angel dropped her head down so no one would see the tears in her eyes. She crossed the street and headed for the corner, but instead of turning toward home, she kept going straight for another block until she came to the corner where the Catholic and Congregational churches stood across the street from each other. The sun had moved far enough across the sky so that the shadow of the larger church no longer fell over the smaller one, but even without the shadow, the little Church of the Holy Mother looked oddly defensive, as if it were afraid that at any moment its far larger and grander neighbor across the street might simply devour it.

Angel made her way into the church, dipped her fingers in the font and crossed herself. No lights were on in the church, and only a few candles were lit for the Holy Mother and the saints, but just enough light made its way through the darkly stained glass of the windows that Angel was able to find the confessional.

It was empty.

Nor was there a sign telling her what time the priest would be available to hear her confession. But if there was no priest, how was she supposed to confess her sins?

Maybe she should just leave — after all, she’d tried, hadn’t she? She turned toward the door, but before she’d taken even a single step she heard a voice.

“May I help you, my child?”

Turning back toward the altar, Angel saw the figure of Father Mike emerging from the shadows.

“I–I need to make my confession,” Angel stammered.

Father Mike nodded toward the confessional, and a few moments later she was sitting in one side of it, with the priest hidden in the other.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” she heard the priest ask.

“A — A month,” Angel said, though she wasn’t really sure.

The familiar ritual began, and though she still wasn’t certain exactly what she was supposed to confess, she did her best. But fifteen minutes later, when it was over and she had left the church and started home, she felt no better.

Indeed, she felt even worse.

Seth had felt one faint ray of hope as he saw Angel come out the front door of the school. After the last bell rang, he’d gotten out to the sidewalk as quickly as he could, knowing better than to keep his father waiting for even a minute or two. There’d been no sign of the Lexus, but Seth also knew better than to risk leaving without waiting for at least fifteen minutes, and fourteen of them had already passed when the front door of the school opened and Angel Sullivan appeared. He raised his hand to wave at her, but she turned — apparently to say something to her cousin — before she noticed him. Then his father’s car rolled around the corner and pulled up next to him.

“Get in,” his father commanded. “We’re already late.”

Seth’s hand dropped back to his side and he pulled the door open and got in. His father was pulling away from the curb even before he’d shut the door, and Seth could tell by the throbbing vein in his father’s forehead that whatever happened when they got to the country club wasn’t going to be pleasant.

“I don’t understand how come you’re not on the team at school,” Blake Baker said a couple of minutes later, barely glancing at Seth as he spoke. “Do you have any idea how much dues I pay the club every year? If you’d just take advantage of the opportunities I provide…” His voice died away as he shook his head, both his tone and the gesture letting Seth know how incomprehensible — and annoying — he found his son’s behavior.

Seth said nothing, certain that any response would turn his father’s irritation into a full-blown rage, and neither of them spoke again until they were inside the clubhouse. As his father checked in at the desk, Seth gazed out the picture window, and once more felt a faint ray of hope — nobody was on the practice range, so at least he wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of having people watch while he tried to master swinging his driver. His heart sank again as he heard his father talking to the guy behind the counter.

“Taking my boy out for a practice round,” Blake Baker was saying. “We’re gonna kick some serious ass on Saturday.”

Five minutes later Seth stood at the first tee box, gazing down the narrow fairway toward the green, which looked like it had to be at least five hundred yards away even though he knew it was only a little more than three hundred. “Easiest hole on the course,” his father had told him two years ago, the first time Seth tried to play golf. “Half the guys can drive the green, and even the kids always get on in two.” Seth hadn’t gotten on the green at all that day — it had taken him five swings with the driver just to hit the ball, and finally his father had told him to pick it up. “Can’t hold up play all day,” he’d said, giving Seth an encouraging pat on the shoulder and grinning apologetically at the four men waiting a few yards away, watching every clumsy swing he’d made. He’d put the driver back in the bag, picked it up, and tried to sling it over his shoulder the way his father did, and almost lost his balance. His father had steadied him, but as soon as they were alone, Blake Baker’s grin had faded. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he’d demanded. “Anybody can carry a golf bag!”

“Go ahead,” Blake Baker said now. “Keep it to the left and let it roll into the middle of the fairway.”

Seth carefully teed up the ball exactly as his father had shown him, putting the tee between his forefinger and middle finger, then pushing down on it with the ball itself.

As soon as he took his hand away, the ball fell off the tee. He tried it twice more, feeling his father’s eyes boring into him.

“Jesus,” Blake finally muttered. Edging Seth aside, he set the ball up, leaving it standing steadily atop the tee. “Now, just take it easy and hit it, okay?” he said, his voice making clear his doubt that Seth was going to be able to strike the ball at all.

Seth stood over the ball, trying to remember everything his father had told him. Holding the club in his left hand, he placed his right hand on the shaft so his little finger overlapped his left forefinger. He laid the club head behind the ball, then adjusted his grip so the face of the club was as square to the ball as he could make it.

He bent his knees slightly, and slowly pulled the club back. The head hovered in the air, then Seth brought it around, swinging directly at the ball.

He came close enough that the ball fell off the tee.

“Jesus.”

Seth put the ball back on the tee as quickly as possible and tried another swing.

And a third.

On the fourth try he finally managed to hit the ball, but it came off the toe of the club and shied away to the right, into the woods. “I’ll find it,” Seth said.

“Forget it,” Blake Baker snapped. “It’s just a junk ball anyway. Tee up another one.”

The second ball — to Seth’s utter amazement — shot off the tee on his first swing, flying at least fifty yards down the fairway.

“I did it!” Seth cried. “I hit it!”

“You call that hitting it?” Blake replied. “I could kick the ball that far. Let me show you how it’s done.” Teeing up his own ball, Blake stepped back, took a couple of practice swings, then stepped behind the ball and gazed straight down the fairway for a moment, moved into his stance, and drew the club back.

There was a sharp crack as the club face made contact, and Seth watched the ball soar high into the air, streaking straight down the fairway, finally coming to rest less than a hundred yards from the green.

“See?” Blake asked. “Nothing to it.”

Putting their drivers back in the bags, they walked down the fairway to the spot where Seth’s ball lay.

“Better use a three iron,” his father told him.

Certain it wouldn’t make any difference which club he used, Seth pulled the three iron out of the bag, did his best to set up the shot the same way his father did, even taking two practice swings, and standing behind the ball for a few seconds. But when he finally made his swing, the ball only bounced a few feet to the right.

Seth didn’t even need to look at his father to feel his disgust — it rolled over him like a breaking wave. Moving quickly to the ball, he swung again, and then a third time, and with each swing he felt his anxiety rising.

Finally, on the fourth swing, the club connected with the ball, but once again the ball only shot off into the woods to the right.

“I’ll get another one,” Seth said, moving toward his bag.

“You’ll find that one,” his father told him. “Once it’s off the tee, you play it. You’ve got five minutes to find it or it’s a penalty stroke.”

Seth looked pleadingly at his father. “I thought we were just practicing,” he blurted, and instantly wished he could reclaim his words.

“How are you going to get any better if you don’t know how badly you’re doing? I’m giving you enough of a break by not starting to count until you’re at least decently off the tee.”

Putting his iron back in the bag, Seth started toward the woods.

“What are you going to hit it with?” Blake asked, his voice stopping Seth in his tracks.

Seth went back and picked up his golf bag, slinging it over his shoulder, then trudged once again toward the woods. To his surprise, his father came with him.

“Maybe it’ll speed things up if I look too,” Blake told him. When they finally found the ball, it was lying half hidden under some brush. “Better declare it unplayable,” Blake said. “You’re just going to get another penalty stroke if you break any of the branches off the bush.”

Ten minutes later they finally arrived at the point where Blake’s ball lay. He took a pitching wedge out of his bag, swung it a couple of times, then set up the shot. The ball came to rest three feet from the cup.

After three more strokes, Seth’s ball finally rolled onto the green.

It took him five strokes with the putter before the ball fell into the hole.

As Seth picked up the flag, his father picked up his own ball from where it had come to rest after the second shot, a little more than a yard from the hole.

“Don’t you have to putt it in?” Seth asked.

Blake Baker glared at his son. “From that distance? It’s a gimme, isn’t?”

Seth said nothing.

“All right,” Blake said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I guess if you won’t give it to me, I’ll have to putt it out.”

Blake set the ball back on the green, and Seth was sure it was closer to the hole than it had originally been. He circled around, studying the putt from every angle. At last he stepped up, took three careful practice swings, and then struck the ball.

It rolled past the hole.

“So it’s a four,” he said, reaching down and picking up the ball.

When Seth finally got a glance at the score card two holes later, he saw that his father had given him fourteen strokes on the first hole.

He’d given himself three.