Innocence by Suki Fleet

Author:Suki Fleet [Fleet, Suki]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2015-02-12T00:00:00+00:00

THE DAY before my birthday, it rains heavier than the night of the lightning storm. Malachi comes to pick me up in the morning and tells me he’ll bring me home again at lunchtime if the rains carry on, as we can’t work when it’s like this.

I try not to think about the fact that Dad told me to find somewhere else to live by my birthday, and that I’ve done nothing, told no one. And if I think about Jay, it immobilizes me completely.

We build a makeshift garage out of tarps, but by 10:00 a.m. the rain is so heavy the roof buckles and Malachi sends me to his van to keep dry and wait for him while he takes it down. The noise of the rain hammering down on the metal roof is deafening. For a while I just sit there, staring at the photographs on the windowsill, staring at the image of Malachi, aching for him to smile at me as he’s smiling at whoever is taking the photograph. But then I decide the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and I want more than that. Restlessly I drum my fingers against the veneer beneath my legs. The seats in caravans are hollow like the seats in boats, for storage. Out the window I can see Malachi still battling with the plastic. I would go and help him, but he was pretty explicit that I come inside and keep dry, and I’m so fucking nosy. Giving in, I stand up and lift the seat cushion, nearly laughing aloud when I see what’s beneath it—biscuits: packets and packets of cookies, digestives, custard creams, and bourbons. Quickly I lift up all the seats: food, books, and musical scores and guitar strings. I pick up a few of the books, curious about his tastes, and an old black binding catches my eye at the very bottom.

A photo album.

I hesitate. I should just put it all back. I have no right to pry into his life, his past, and if he doesn’t want to tell me, I should respect that. But he doesn’t want to tell me anything, ever, and I can’t imagine he ever will.

I sit down and lay the album open on my lap. The photographs are in a mess. Most are loose, though some of the older ones are carefully labeled and stuck neatly to the pages. The very top one catches my eye. In it he is so young, younger even than me, and so, so beautiful with his wild mess of hair and smile that illuminates everything. It makes me feel weak inside, and I could look at him for hours. I want this picture. It tugs at me… something about it, him… I can’t quite put my finger on it. Glancing out the window again, making sure Malachi is still busy, I shove it in the back pocket of my damp jeans.

Slowly I leaf through the rest of the loose pictures. In these he’s older,

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