Becoming Grey: Episode 3

Note: It looks like I misdated 2 and 3, so you get Thursday’s as well on today. So no post on Thursday, as you got it today, and then Friday will go live as normal. 

Chapter Three 

July 1st, 2017 — Evening 

By the time Callie and the others started biking back toward Ridgemont proper, the worst of the afternoon heat had finally begun to give up. 

The sun still hung high enough to throw long bars of gold through the trees, but there was no longer that oppressive feeling of July pressing down from directly overhead. A breeze moved through the streets and felt almost cold against Callie’s damp hair, lifting the strands that had escaped her ponytail and sticking them briefly to the back of her neck before tugging them loose again. Her swimsuit was still wet beneath her clothes, and every so often the breeze found one of those damp patches through the thin cotton of her shirt and sent a little shiver across her skin. 

Nobody was in much of a hurry. 

They rode in a loose pack for most of the way back, spreading themselves across the sidewalk and occasionally into the edge of the street whenever somebody drifted too far sideways while talking. Maggie nearly clipped Jensen’s rear tire twice because she kept turning her head instead of watching where she was going. Luke insisted both times that she was trying to kill him even though he was nowhere near either bicycle. Somebody brought up what they might do tomorrow, which became an argument about whether tomorrow counted as “doing something” if all they did was go to somebody’s house and sit in the basement. 

Callie mostly listened and laughed, pedaling easily, her legs pleasantly tired from the creek and the ride out there earlier. 

Eventually Ridgemont began dividing them back into their separate lives. 

They reached the first intersection where someone had to break away, then another. Bikes peeled off one by one toward different neighborhoods, plans becoming vaguer with every goodbye. 

“See you Monday!” Maggie called when her turn came. 

Callie looked over her shoulder. “Maybe!” 

“That means yes!” 

Callie lifted one hand from the handlebars in a lazy wave as she turned. “Bye!” 

Maggie’s answer carried after her for another few seconds, mixed with Luke shouting something Callie couldn’t make out. Then she rounded the corner, and the noise of the group disappeared behind the houses. 

Within another block, she was alone. 

Callie settled both hands on the handlebars and pedaled a little harder. 

The quieter streets of her neighborhood were familiar enough that she hardly needed to think about where she was going. Trees shaded sections of the sidewalk. Sprinklers clicked back and forth across neatly cut lawns. Somewhere nearby, somebody was mowing, the distant engine rising and falling whenever the mower changed direction. A little kid in a helmet too large for his head rode circles around a driveway while his father watched from the garage. 

Callie glanced toward the western sky. 

She had plenty of daylight left, but Stuart and Sally had rules about that sort of thing. Most of them were reasonable in the annoying way parental rules tended to be reasonable once you stopped arguing long enough to think about them. If Callie went somewhere during the day, she needed to be home before dark unless they had agreed otherwise. 

Callie considered this deeply unfair. 

Callie also understood that nobody had requested her opinion. 

Besides, dinner would be soon, and there was no reason she couldn’t go back out afterward if everybody decided to do something. She’d ask. Depending on where they wanted to go, one of her parents might even drive her, which was objectively better than biking across Ridgemont again after spending half the afternoon in the creek. 

Her stomach gave a sharp little twist at the thought of dinner. Swimming, Callie had decided years ago, consumed approximately nine thousand calories an hour. Possibly ten thousand. Science had simply failed to catch up. 

She turned onto her street, coasted past the neighboring houses and finally swung into the Grey driveway. The familiar brick and siding of home looked especially welcoming after a day of sun, creek water, mosquitoes and bicycles. She let momentum carry her toward the garage before hopping off, catching the bike by the handlebars and punching the code into the keypad beside the door. 

The garage door groaned upward. 

Callie wheeled the bike inside and parked it in its usual place against the wall, nudging the kickstand down with the side of her shoe. She was reaching for the button to close the garage again when the smell found her. 

Smoke. 

Garlic. 

Something herbal. 

And beneath all of it, the rich unmistakable smell of meat cooking over a grill. 

Callie’s stomach immediately reminded her that lunch had happened an entire geological age ago. 

Instead of going through the house, she crossed the garage and opened the rear door. 

Warm evening air rolled over her. 

“Hey, kiddo.” 

Stuart Grey stood at the grill near the edge of the patio, one hand around a pair of long metal tongs. Smoke curled up past him and disappeared into the evening air, carrying the smell that had already lured Callie through the garage like a cartoon character floating after a pie. 

She let the door swing closed behind her. 

“Ugh. Dad.” Callie started across the patio. “I’m not a kiddo. I’m fourteen. Practically fifteen.” 

Stuart glanced at her, then back at the chicken sizzling beneath the grill lid. “When’s your birthday?” 

“You know when my birthday is.” 

“November?” 

Callie stopped. 

“November eighteenth.” 

He considered that as though she had supplied particularly useful evidence. “So you’re fourteen.” 

“Practically fifteen.” 

“You’ll always be Kiddo to me.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re my kid.” 

Callie groaned with the deep suffering of someone burdened by an unreasonable parent. “So annoying.” 

Stuart smiled and went back to the grill. 

The Grey backyard was not enormous, but it was private, which Callie generally considered more important. A tall wooden fence enclosed the broad green lawn on three sides, softened here and there by trees and shrubs Sally had planted over the years. The patio was Stuart’s contribution, a raised rectangle of brick he’d built several summers earlier after spending an entire spring telling everyone he could do it cheaper himself. Strings of outdoor lights crossed overhead from the house to posts along the patio. They were still dark against the evening sky, though Callie knew they’d flicker on automatically once the daylight faded enough. 

Her backpack slid from one shoulder as she crossed to the patio furniture. She dropped it beside a chair and collapsed into the seat, stretching her legs out beneath the table. 

“What’re we having?” 

“Chicken.” 

Callie stared at him. 

“Just chicken?” 

Stuart looked genuinely offended. 

“Chicken breasts marinated in my world famous garlic, herb and wine marinade.” 

“World famous?” 

“Very exclusive world.” 

Callie smiled despite herself. “What else?” 

“Grilled potatoes. Corn.” He turned one of the chicken breasts with the tongs. “Your mother made an apple pie.” 

Callie sat upright. 

“Apple pie?” 

“Should be coming out of the oven about now.” 

“Okay.” Her opinion of dinner improved considerably. “That sounds amazing.” 

She sank back into the chair again, suddenly aware of how tired her legs were. 

“I’m starving. It’s been a day.” 

Stuart looked sideways at her. “Oh, yeah? Hard day at the creek?” 

Callie’s eyes narrowed. 

“How’d you know?” 

Her gaze immediately moved toward the sliding glass door. 

“Hannah.” 

Stuart laughed. 

“Your sister didn’t tell me.” 

Callie looked back at him, suspicious now. “Then how’d you know?” 

“I grew up here too, Callie.” 

She waited. 

“Things haven’t changed so much that I don’t know the hangout spots.” 

Her face tightened immediately. 

“They aren’t hangout spots. Nobody says that anymore.” 

“Apparently I do.” 

“That doesn’t make it better.” 

Stuart lifted the grill lid again. 

A stronger wave of smoke and garlic rolled across the patio. 

Callie watched him rearrange the chicken for a moment, then noticed the Coke sitting on the small table beside her chair. Without asking, she reached over, picked it up and took a long drink. 

Cold carbonation hit her tongue. 

Perfect. 

Stuart slowly turned his head. 

“Really?” 

Callie lowered the bottle. 

“What?” 

“That was mine.” 

She put it carefully back where she’d found it. 

“Thanks.” 

“That wasn’t permission.” 

Callie smiled sweetly. 

Stuart gave her the look of a man who understood perfectly well that justice would not be served here and returned his attention to the grill. 

Callie settled deeper into the chair. 

For a few moments she watched smoke curl through the evening light while her father prodded the potatoes around the grill. The setting sun caught the tops of the trees beyond the fence, turning the leaves bright around their edges. Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog barked twice and stopped. 

Then something occurred to her. 

“I guess the creek makes sense for you, though.” 

Stuart turned another piece of chicken. “How’s that?” 

“You could let your horses drink while you were there.” 

The tongs stopped halfway to the grill. 

Callie kept her face perfectly straight. 

“And then tie them to the trees or whatever.” 

Stuart slowly turned his head. 

“We didn’t have horses.” 

“No?” 

“No.” 

“Huh.” 

Callie pressed her lips together. 

Her father pointed the tongs at her. 

“How old do you think I am?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Callie tilted her head, pretending to consider the question seriously. 

“They were talking about that stock-market-crash thing at school.” 

Stuart stared at her. 

“So…” Callie continued thoughtfully, “around then?” 

“The stock market crash.” 

“Yeah.” 

“When do you think that happened?” 

Callie looked toward the yard as though searching her memory. 

“Like nineteen-ten or nineteen-twenty or something.” 

Stuart slowly lowered the tongs. 

Callie’s expression lasted another two seconds. 

Then the corner of her mouth betrayed her. 

Stuart nodded once. 

“Okay.” 

Callie immediately began laughing. 

“That sounds like the answer of somebody who wants to open with me tomorrow morning.” 

Her laughter disappeared. 

“No.” 

Stuart turned back toward the grill. 

“Six thirty.” 

Callie sat forward so quickly the patio chair creaked. 

“Dad!” 

“Bright and early.” 

“I was kidding!” 

“Truck comes at seven.” 

“Nooo.” 

She was laughing again now despite the horror of the threat. 

“You’re not playing fair!” 

Stuart chuckled and shook his head as he checked the potatoes. 

“Maybe respect your elders.” 

Callie pointed at him. 

“You said you weren’t old!” 

He paused. 

“I walked into that one.” 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Still opening at six thirty.” 

“No.” 

“We’ll see.” 

“Dad.” 

He grinned. 

Callie knew perfectly well he wasn’t serious. 

Mostly. 

The problem with growing up around Stuart was that there was always at least a small chance he’d decide that teaching his daughter a lesson through manual labor was hilarious enough to justify getting her out of bed at an hour she considered morally objectionable. 

She sank back into her chair. 

“You know child labor is illegal.” 

“You’re practically fifteen.” 

Callie stared. 

Stuart smiled. 

“Your words.” 

She pointed at him again. “I don’t like when you use things I’ve said against me.” 

“I’ll make a note.” 

“You won’t.” 

“No.” 

The grill hissed when fat dripped onto the flames. 

Stuart lifted the chicken one piece at a time and moved the finished breasts onto the upper warming rack. Callie’s attention followed them automatically. They were browned along the edges, dark grill marks crossing their surfaces, the smell somehow becoming worse now that she knew dinner was nearly ready. 

“Run inside and tell your mom we’re about done out here, will ya?” 

“Sure.” 

Callie pushed herself from the chair. 

Her legs complained mildly when she stood, reminding her of every mile she’d biked and every minute she’d spent fighting creek current earlier. She stepped around her backpack, crossed the patio and slid open the glass door. 

Cooler air from inside the house touched her face. 

Callie leaned through the doorway. 

“MOOOOOM!” 

Stuart looked over. 

“Dad says we’re eating soon!” 

The second sentence was only marginally quieter than the first. 

Somewhere inside the house there was a muffled response. 

Callie nodded as though she’d just completed a complicated errand and started sliding the door closed. 

Behind her, Stuart was staring at the doorway. 

“I could’ve done that.” 

Callie stopped halfway. 

She leaned back outside. 

“What, Dad?” 

He looked at her for a long moment. 

Then shook his head. 

“Nothing. Just saying thank you, honey.” 

“You’re welcome!” 

Callie slid the door shut. 

Through the glass, Stuart watched her disappear toward the kitchen. 

He turned back to the grill, shook his head to himself and reached for the tongs. 

“Fourteen going on forty.” 

Inside, Callie was already following the smell of apple pie. 

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