The Sweetness of Salt by Cecilia Galante Page B

didn’t. Those kinds of words might have worked on me, but Sophie was someone else entirely. I was afraid to keep pushing, afraid of what it might do to Sophie, afraid of what Sophie might do to me.
    Instead, I watched as she raced back into town, her legs making long, determined strides over the sidewalk, her spine tall and rigid. She had shoved her pack of cigarettes into her back pocket, hitched up the waist of her overalls, and her arms swung by her sides. Only her chin, which was lowered slightly, gave the slightest indication that anything was wrong. When I couldn’t see her anymore, when she made the turn into the driveway of her little ramshackle house, I turned around and started walking in the opposite direction.
    I didn’t have the slightest idea where I was headed. From what Sophie had said earlier, if I kept going straight I would either end up at some mom-and-pop store in East Poultney or at the bottom of a gorge. I didn’t even know what a mom-and-pop store was, and I sure as heck wasn’t interested in hanging out in the bottom of a gorge. I made a sharp right instead, and walked swiftly down a shaded dirt road behind the high school.
    It felt good to move again after so much time in the car, even if my legs did feel like tree trunks and there was a sour taste in the back of my mouth. What was I supposed to do now? There was no study guide in the world that would show me the steps to follow after a family secret had been exposed. Another one of Dad’s attorney mantras drifted through my brain: “ Well, what are your options? ” My options? I didn’t have options. I was here in Vermont for thirty or so more hours and then I had to go home. I had to start an internship at the courthouse, get ready for college, finish registering for fall classes at the University of Pittsburgh.
    Didn’t I?
    There were a lot more trees on this road, and a lot fewer houses. A thick canopy of green blocked out the sun, scattering the road with pale, leafy shadows. I kept going, slowing only when I heard a whirring sound ahead, followed by two emphatic grunts. White and purple irises swayed beneath the front windows of a yellow house, while the lawn (woefully in need of a good cut) stretched out before it like a hairy carpet. Pieces of shale formed a kind of haphazard path through the grass, and the front door was dressed with an enormous wreath made entirely of what appeared to be little white rocks. At the top of the house, a thin line of smoke curled out from inside a brick chimney.
    It was like looking at a painting, or turning the page in one of the fairy tale books Mom had read to me as a little girl and seeing this house—this very house, in all its perfect imperfections—spread out before me.
    “That’s where I want to be,” I thought.
    Right there.
    Right now.
    Inside that house.
    Nowhere else.
    Another grunt—louder this time—followed by a slapping sound, made me jump. I tiptoed forward a little bit, keeping close to the thicket of bushes on my right. Someone was pacing back and forth across a brick patio in the backyard, muttering under his breath. His baggy pants hung low over his hips, while the sleeves of a cotton shirt were pushed up to the elbow. A black hat, soft and droopy, sat atop brown shoulder-length hair, and his hands and arms were covered with dried mud all the way up to his elbows.
    He paused from his pacing suddenly, to stare down at a strange looking contraption on the left-hand side of the patio. It had a backless chair, three legs, a broad, flat surface with a wheel in the middle, and another smaller ledge above it. Without warning, the man reached back and kicked the whole thing to the ground. One of the legs broke off instantly, sailing through the air like a miniature baseball bat, while the rest of it slumped against the patio. I gasped instinctively and took a few steps backward.
    The man looked up, his dark eyes narrowing as he spotted me. “Hey!” He strode across the grassy