leaning toward the direction of cosmetics.
The boys were about as different from each other as they could be. The first was tall, thick, and handsome, his mouth partway open as he stared. His elevator didn’t look to be stopping at all the floors. The second boy was shorter—as short as the girls, light-haired, and thin—and cute as a hormonal button. More with-it, definitely, than the tall boy. The third one was still growing into his face, his ears and nose larger than what might be required, and his body hung softer and rounder than the others.
Death wandered toward the lamp and stopped at its base, blowing at the flame. It flickered, but didn’t go out.
“This is our place,” the tall guy said.
Casey held out her hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll go. I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes. I just needed a place to sleep.”
“Wait.” The first girl came closer, studying Casey’s clothes. “You don’t look so good.”
Death laughed. “Told you so.”
“Where are you from?”
Casey held her non-threatening stance. “I’m just traveling through. I can leave.”
“No. Hold on.” The girl nodded to the guy holding the flashlight—Terry, had the girl called him? “You bring the usual?”
“Sure. Everybody’s favorite.”
Oh, great. A teenage drinking party. Or something worse. Casey let her hands drop. “Look. I’ll just go, okay?”
“No. Stay.” The girl gave a little smile. “I’m Bailey. Bailey Jones.”
Casey checked a laugh. “Nice to meet you, Bailey. Are we related?”
“Probably, if we go back far enough. That’s Johnny.” She pointed at the tall one. “Sheryl, Martin, and Terry.” She indicated the pudgy one. “Terry’s got the goods. Martin?”
Martin slid a bulging backpack from his shoulders and pulled out two little speakers. He set them on one of the wall’s wooden slats and attached them to an iPod. Music filled the room; some singer-songwriter Casey didn’t recognize. Death immediately pulled out a guitar and began strumming, crooning along with the music, following a tune Casey had never heard.
From his still-fat pack Martin retrieved a blanket, which he spread out on the dirt floor. Terry, also carrying a bag, set it down and pulled out a stack of napkins, paper cups, and plates, setting them all in the middle of the blanket.
Casey wondered when teenagers had gotten so finicky about getting drunk.
“Pick a spot,” Bailey said.
When Casey hesitated Bailey took a seat herself, followed by all three guys. Only Sheryl still stood, watching Casey from beside the oil lamp.
“So sit,” Death said, strumming a chord. “At least pretend to be social.”
Casey found a place on the edge of the blanket and sat butterfly style, ready to jump up at a moment’s provocation. She could feel Sheryl watching her, and kept the girl in her sightlines.
“What did you bring tonight?” Bailey leaned toward Terry.
Terry smiled and reached into his bag. When he brought his hand back out, it was holding a Tupperware container, one of the kind big enough to hold a pie.
Casey glanced at Death, who had stopped playing long enough to stand over Terry, sniffing. “Looks promising.”
Terry set the container down, looking around at the others. “Voilà!” He peeled off the lid, and there sat…
“ Cinnamon rolls ?”
Terry glanced at Casey, his eyes pained. “What’s wrong with cinnamon rolls?”
“Nothing. I mean, cinnamon rolls are great, but…just not what I was expecting.”
“Oh. You were probably expecting this.” He reached back into his bag and pulled out a half-gallon jug of milk.
Casey laughed. “Nope. Can’t say I was expecting that, either.”
Bailey grinned. “Terry’s folks own the bakery in town, so Terry’s always bringing us day-olds. What was it last night?”
Johnny moaned. “Blueberry muffins. They were amazing .”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “I missed those. Bummer.”
“Wait a minute.” Casey rubbed her forehead.
The boys were about as different from each other as they could be. The first was tall, thick, and handsome, his mouth partway open as he stared. His elevator didn’t look to be stopping at all the floors. The second boy was shorter—as short as the girls, light-haired, and thin—and cute as a hormonal button. More with-it, definitely, than the tall boy. The third one was still growing into his face, his ears and nose larger than what might be required, and his body hung softer and rounder than the others.
Death wandered toward the lamp and stopped at its base, blowing at the flame. It flickered, but didn’t go out.
“This is our place,” the tall guy said.
Casey held out her hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll go. I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes. I just needed a place to sleep.”
“Wait.” The first girl came closer, studying Casey’s clothes. “You don’t look so good.”
Death laughed. “Told you so.”
“Where are you from?”
Casey held her non-threatening stance. “I’m just traveling through. I can leave.”
“No. Hold on.” The girl nodded to the guy holding the flashlight—Terry, had the girl called him? “You bring the usual?”
“Sure. Everybody’s favorite.”
Oh, great. A teenage drinking party. Or something worse. Casey let her hands drop. “Look. I’ll just go, okay?”
“No. Stay.” The girl gave a little smile. “I’m Bailey. Bailey Jones.”
Casey checked a laugh. “Nice to meet you, Bailey. Are we related?”
“Probably, if we go back far enough. That’s Johnny.” She pointed at the tall one. “Sheryl, Martin, and Terry.” She indicated the pudgy one. “Terry’s got the goods. Martin?”
Martin slid a bulging backpack from his shoulders and pulled out two little speakers. He set them on one of the wall’s wooden slats and attached them to an iPod. Music filled the room; some singer-songwriter Casey didn’t recognize. Death immediately pulled out a guitar and began strumming, crooning along with the music, following a tune Casey had never heard.
From his still-fat pack Martin retrieved a blanket, which he spread out on the dirt floor. Terry, also carrying a bag, set it down and pulled out a stack of napkins, paper cups, and plates, setting them all in the middle of the blanket.
Casey wondered when teenagers had gotten so finicky about getting drunk.
“Pick a spot,” Bailey said.
When Casey hesitated Bailey took a seat herself, followed by all three guys. Only Sheryl still stood, watching Casey from beside the oil lamp.
“So sit,” Death said, strumming a chord. “At least pretend to be social.”
Casey found a place on the edge of the blanket and sat butterfly style, ready to jump up at a moment’s provocation. She could feel Sheryl watching her, and kept the girl in her sightlines.
“What did you bring tonight?” Bailey leaned toward Terry.
Terry smiled and reached into his bag. When he brought his hand back out, it was holding a Tupperware container, one of the kind big enough to hold a pie.
Casey glanced at Death, who had stopped playing long enough to stand over Terry, sniffing. “Looks promising.”
Terry set the container down, looking around at the others. “Voilà!” He peeled off the lid, and there sat…
“ Cinnamon rolls ?”
Terry glanced at Casey, his eyes pained. “What’s wrong with cinnamon rolls?”
“Nothing. I mean, cinnamon rolls are great, but…just not what I was expecting.”
“Oh. You were probably expecting this.” He reached back into his bag and pulled out a half-gallon jug of milk.
Casey laughed. “Nope. Can’t say I was expecting that, either.”
Bailey grinned. “Terry’s folks own the bakery in town, so Terry’s always bringing us day-olds. What was it last night?”
Johnny moaned. “Blueberry muffins. They were amazing .”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “I missed those. Bummer.”
“Wait a minute.” Casey rubbed her forehead.
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