Bloodroot by Amy Greene Page A

hope he always figured I tookthat ring and just didn’t say nothing because he wanted to keep it as much as me. I could tell he felt like I did about them red stones. I’d like to believe we was in it together and I had no secrets from him. The guilt of stealing that ring devils me to this day, but back yonder in the cornfield, when Macon tried it on his finger, I didn’t feel as bad. It fit so good, seemed like it had finally been give back to its rightful owner.
    DOUG
    When school let out the summer of my fourteenth year, it was like being turned loose from prison. All three of us were in high spirits when we got off the bus at the foot of the mountain, laughing and running most of the way up the dusty road. Mark and I waited outside as Myra stopped to ask her granny if she could visit Wild Rose before supper. She came out smiling, cheeks flushed and hair blowing back as she ran to us.
    We were panting by the time we made it to our house but Mark wouldn’t let us go in for a drink of water. He said, “I got something better in the chicken coop.” I followed Mark and Myra out to the tree line where the old coop leaned next to the wire fence. Mark had to wrestle the door open and the stink hit us right away. Daddy used to store junk in there but the smell of chicken droppings was still musty and strong. We climbed over the rusted tools and tractor parts and broken dishes and made a place to sit in one corner. Mark reached between some boxes and pulled out a jar of sloshing liquid.
    “White Lightning,” he said.
    Myra covered her mouth, eyes wide. “Where’d you get that?”
    “This old boy at school, Buddy Roach. His daddy makes it.”
    “You better hope Mama never finds it,” I said.
    Mark grinned and held the dirt-smeared jar up to the light falling through the chicken wire. “I believe I can outrun her,” he said, and took a long swig. He squeezed his eyes shut and coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. Myra laughed and clapped her hands. I twisted my head away, burning with jealousy.
    Mark was laughing, too, trying to catch his breath, eyes streaming water. Then he held out the jar to Myra. “I dare you,” he said. “Just one sup.”
    My back stiffened. I wanted to reach out and grab her wrist as she took the jar, halting it on the way to her lips, but my dread of being mocked won out. I knew Mark would tell me not to be a chicken and Myra would probably think less of me, too. I saw how she was looking at him. Even if she liked me best, it was my brother she admired.
    At first she thrust the jar back at Mark, spluttering and choking, but he handed it back to her. “First drink always burns going down,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”
    He was right. We passed the jar around a few times and the more we drank, the easier the fiery liquid went down and settled in my stomach, radiating heat. I kept watching Myra and before long her face looked different to me, cheeks and eyes bright in a way I didn’t like. After a few drinks the world tilted each time I moved, but I didn’t refuse the jar when it came to me. Myra and Mark seemed to find everything funny. Pretty soon they were laughing at nothing, looking at each other and busting out in foolish giggles. Moonshine didn’t have the same effect on me. I just felt dizzy and green around the gills. I was about to pretend I heard somebody coming, anything to get out of the stinking heat of the chicken coop, when Myra said, “I want to go somewhere.”
    Mark took another long swig from the jar. “There ain’t nowhere to go,” he said. “That’s the trouble with being stuck up here on top of a mountain.”
    “This isn’t the top of it,” Myra said. “Granddaddy went to the top and he said you could see all the way to town.” Her words sounded slurry. I took the jar from Mark and forced myself to drink, even though I was heading fast toward being sick.
    “It’s not that high,” I said. Myra wobbled getting to her feet. She