Shifting

Shifting Page 37

“Well, that’s not necessarily bad. You’ll see. He probably just wanted it more romantic. Or maybe he’s sorry he didn’t have the cojones to kiss you first.”

“Maybe,” I said. But I’d heard the regret in his voice and seen it in his eyes.

“Don’t worry too much. With the way Bridger looks at you, I have no doubt he’ll come to his senses. You’ll see.”

I nodded, hoping she was right, but not daring to believe too strongly. It would hurt less if I never truly hoped.

“So, is he picking you up tonight?”

“No. He’s taking care of some family stuff.”

“He’s probably hunting. The O’Connells are really big into hunting,” Penney said, picking up her half of the garbage bag again. “They use the abandoned mine as their own personal shooting range. You can hear the guns echo clear over here sometimes. I heard Bridger is a perfect shot and the army tried to recruit him to be a sniper the very day he turned eighteen. And the CIA, too. But I don’t know if that is true.”

A wave of unease washed over me. “Really? He’s never mentioned anything about guns or hunting to me before.”

“Are you serious? He and his dad seemed to live to hunt before his dad moved. When Bridger was in elementary school, he wore camouflage clothes every day, and at recess he had the other students pretend to be wild animals and he’d pretend to shoot them. Kind of creepy, if you ask me. But I suppose, if you have a buttload of money, you can afford to be creepy.” She must have seen something in my face. “Oh, Magdalena, I’m not saying he’s creepy. Just that his love of hunting is.”

I smiled, though it was strained. “Whatever. I don’t think Bridger’s creepy.”

When the restaurant was put back to rights, I got my bike and walked it through the kitchen.

“Is your boyfriend picking you up tonight?” José asked jovially, glancing up from the pot of beans he was stirring.

“He’s not my boyfriend and Mrs. Carpenter is picking me up.”

“Be safe, Magdalena,” Naalyehe said.

“I will,” I promised.

Mrs. Carpenter was thrilled by my desire to play games every day. “I miss Bridger, even miss Katie sometimes,” she said, laying her Scrabble tile onto the board. “But there’s nothing like spending time with you, Maggie Mae. Just the two of us. And you’re getting so good at Scrabble, you might be able to give me a run for my money before Bridger comes back.”

On Thursday afternoon, I went to the park an hour before I was scheduled to work and watched the guys play Ultimate. Deep down I hoped Bridger would be there. He wasn’t. Walt seemed happy enough to see me and said if they were ever short a player he’d put me in.

It was miserable, having Bridger suddenly removed from my life. I wondered, at times, if his presence had been a really great dream and I’d just now woken up to reality.

But then I’d think of Kat’s icy blue eyes watching me, or take one look at the clothes crammed into my closet, hardly worn name-brand clothes, and knew he was for real. Plus, I couldn’t have dreamed up that kiss.

I missed him so thoroughly that any time I saw a tall, dark-haired man in the grocery store, at the park, or in the restaurant, my heart would jump to life as I strained to glimpse his face. Living in a city populated with Hispanic and Navajo men, my heart was fluttering on a very regular basis.

Though the Navajo guys I’d played Ultimate with started coming into the Navajo Mexican every day for lunch, I never saw Bridger.

Since I had discovered what life was like with a friend, life without one felt even lonelier, as if Bridger had increased the depth of loneliness I was capable of experiencing. It sucked big time. I felt as if the best part of me was missing.

27

I could feel the pull of the full moon when I rolled out of bed. Shash looked at me and whined.

“I’ve got to make Mrs. Carpenter breakfast,” I said. He wagged his tail and spread out in my bed.

It was Monday and I was scheduled to work both the lunch and dinner shifts. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt and took a deep breath before I could stop myself.

“Is his smell ever going to wash out of my clothes?” I asked. The dog opened a bleary eye and peered at me.

Ten agonizingly slow days had passed since the morning Bridger and I kissed. Every time Mrs. Carpenter’s phone rang, my heart went ballistic. But when I answered, Bridger’s voice was never on the other end of the line. I’d been tempted to call him just to hear his voice, but didn’t. If he wanted to talk, he’d be calling me.

I made Mrs. Carpenter’s bed and then cooked oatmeal and boiled eggs for breakfast. She’d told me several times that I didn’t need to take care of her anymore, that she was feeling great. But being with her and doing things for her chased away some of my loneliness.

I stood over the sink, cracking a hard-boiled egg beneath cold running water, when I heard her cane thump into the kitchen.

“Is Bridger back yet?” she asked, as if maybe she missed him as much as I did.

“Um. He’s still gone. But he should be back any day.” I couldn’t meet her eyes, just stared at the half-peeled egg and wished my fingers would stop shaking. Would he be back? No one ever came back into my life once they’d left it.

“I don’t need a ride tonight,” I said, scooping oatmeal into a bowl.

Her eyes narrowed. “And why is that? Tonight is the full moon.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m going to shift and explore the countryside.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Mrs. Carpenter asked. “What if the wolves are out? Or the wild dogs?”

“I’ll go somewhere far away. Like the old mine. It seems like a safe place.”

Mrs. Carpenter barked a laugh. “The old mine? Safe? That thing is a disaster waiting to happen! What if you fall into a mine shaft?”

“I can see in the dark. I won’t fall,” I said.

“You let me know the minute you get home! And just to warn you, some of the Quilting Bee ladies are coming over tonight, so don’t come knocking in your birthday suit!”

I laughed. “All right.”

“Do you want me to drive you to work?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Thanks, but walking clears my head. And it’s a nice day.”

“Suit yourself.”

As I shut the front door, I wondered at the dread curling in my stomach. Surely the mine would be safe—I was just overreacting to Mrs. Carpenter’s concern.

A thick layer of clouds hid the late morning sun, making the air thick and heavy. Overhead, the golden eagle circled, its feathers a dark reminder that I needed protection. I shivered and kept glancing up as I walked to work. The bird stayed overhead, always circling.

On the emptiest stretch of road, the mile-long expanse with no houses and hardly any cars, the hair on the back of my neck started to prickle. I stopped walking and tilted my head to the side, listening. The air was still. No swishing leaves, no droning bees. Not even a bird chirping.

I resumed my steady pace, but before I’d taken three steps, I paused, peering into the sparse woods that framed the roadside. I’d heard something—a stick cracking, or dry weeds rustling, the noise a snake makes as it slithers through the underbrush. For a long moment I stared into the woods, holding my breath. Maybe I should have ridden the bike, I thought, wiping my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. I faced forward again and made myself walk.

Not ten steps later, I heard the rustling yet again. This time, though, it was on the far side of the road. I had the eerie feeling that if I started running, I’d be chased. I walked as fast as I could, trying to ignore the instinct to bolt.

But then I heard it again.

I stopped dead and slowly turned, peering into the wild, scraggly underbrush hugging the edge of the road where the noise had come from—from right beside me—so close I could have reached out and touched the source of that sound. I tried to quiet my ragged breathing, for I couldn’t hear anything over my own noise. I couldn’t see anything in the weeds, yet I knew I was being followed. Every cell in my body was screaming a warning.

As slow as I could manage, I crouched down and peered into the underbrush. Rocks and dry soil littered the ground beneath shrubby green-and-brown plants loaded with thorns. Cactus plants spotted the dirt in places, little tiny things hardly bigger than my palm, and a little ways back, pines shadowed the weeds. My human eyes saw nothing, my human nose smelled nothing out of place, but I heard the rustling again, now right in front of me.

A flash of movement caught the corner of my eye, something darting out of the underbrush. I made the mistake of turning to see what it was. And that was when the bushes in front of me exploded.

A bird shrieked and a snarling, snapping weight hit me, knocking me to my back. I threw my hands in front of my face and grappled with fur and paws, trying to get a look at the animal attacking me. It wasn’t that big, just a scrawny coyote, but it was smart and it was fast. Yellow teeth snapped at my nose just as I thrust my arm in the way. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the teeth to sink into my flesh. When they barely grazed the skin, I opened my eyes.

The coyote lunged away, pushing off from my stomach with its hind legs. The piercing screech of a bird echoed as a dark mass passed over me, so close that its giant wings fanned a gust of dusty air into my face.

I rolled to my stomach just in time to see the eagle clutch the coyote in its long, sharp talons. The bird of prey held the animal for a heartbeat and flapped its giant wings before dropping it. The coyote thumped against the pavement and yelped. It got to its feet and started to run, but the eagle dove in again.

I didn’t see more, for a mass of coyotes seemed to appear out of nowhere, standing up in grass only a few inches tall, or walking out from behind a tree trunk no wider than my wrist. They yelped and howled and started running frantically, clumsily, in the opposite direction of the bird—away from me. Two glossy golden animals burst out of the underbrush on the other side of the road, two muscular cougars. They sprinted past me, flush on the heels of the coyote pack.