Page 2 of Catcher's Lock
“I’m almost done. Let them leave a message. It’s probably a junk call, anyway.” At this hour of the night, it’s most likely my sister Hannah, the only person who actually calls anymore in the age of text and IMs. But I’m too sober to talk about her twin Rachael’s current drama, or how we should bail our little brother Jeremy out of his latest scrape. Or, god forbid, my mom. I’ll call her back tomorrow after I’ve had a couple hours of sleep. Maybe.
“The screen says ‘Asshole.’”
I sit up so fast I knock my head against a beam, and the headlamp goes flying. For an eternal moment, all I can see is blue sky and sea, and my stomach swoops to the screaming of gulls.
“Jesus, you okay?” Ellis’s voice echoes from a thousand miles away, and his startled face peers under the edge of the stage. “Here.”
My phone lands in the dust at my side, dark and still.
Wake up, Josha. You’ve had this dream.
I pick it up with numb fingers and almost drop it again when it buzzes in my hand, the screen lighting up with a name from another lifetime.
“Gem?” My voice is a barely recognizable husk.
Hisvoice is rust and ash and a thousand whispered secrets buried in the vivid past.
“Hey, Rocket. I could use a little help.”
2
Grounded
Josha
Age 13 (Then)
“Hey! You got a hex wrench in that toolbox? I could use a little help.”
The boy materializes out of the manzanitas at the border of our backyard, pushing a green bicycle by its slightly mangled handlebars. He looks close to my age—lanky, with the hint of new muscle and the sharpening jaw I’ve started to notice on my classmates. His gray T-shirt hugs his shoulders, and his eyes are an aquamarine blue beneath thick lashes, prettier than any girl’s. He shoves a hand through his dark brown curls as I stare, and the bright streak of blood on his forearm yanks my gaze from his face.
“You’re hurt.” I set the DeWalt on the roof of the chicken coop, wedging it carefully into the corrugated metal so it doesn’t slide off. “I can get some Band-Aids and Neosporin.”
“Nah.” He shrugs, letting the bike slump against a cocked hip while he squints at the scrape on his elbow. “It doesn’thurt. But I can’t ride home unless I fix my handlebars, and I hate pushing it through the woods.”
“Oh.” I turn to rummage through the toolbox, conscious of his gaze on my back and wishing I was wearing a shirt. Or that I had muscles of my own instead of freckled shoulders and worn jeans that dig into my hips. “What size hex do you need?”
“Um, the medium-sized one?”
When I glance over my shoulder, he’s sucking on his lower lip and eyeing the coop. “Did you build this whole thing all by yourself?”
“No. My dad did most of it. But he messed up the roof, so I’m fixing it. See how the corrugation runs sideways instead of vertical? I gotta flip it, but it’s taking forever because he’ll never buy me more screws. So I have to be extra careful not to fuck up the gaskets or the threads.”
“And he lets you use his power tools?” The boy juts his chin at the cordless drill. “That’s so cool.” His obvious admiration strums at my chest, making my heart flutter strangely, and I uncurl from my crouch with the small case of hex wrenches heavy in my tingling fingertips.
I have no idea how this boy ended up in my yard, but he feels like the answer to a question I didn’t even know I was asking.
“Do you want to help?”
His smile is staggering, and it hits me like the streak of light across the ocean when the sun dips below the fog.
“Can I use the power drill?” he asks.
I hesitate, my mind flashing to my dad passed out on the couch in the double-wide behind us. I’m not supposed to use the tools with my friends. Which is a stupid rule because the only one who comes over is Penny, and all she wants to do is watch Marvel movies and play vintage Mario Kart on the Switch.
Reading my uncertainty, the boy’s shoulders sag.
“It’s okay,” he says, tossing his head with a nonchalance I don’t believe. “I’m not allowed to use the one at home either.”
