H. D. Dodson

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Ordinary Life of the Insect Collector, a YA mystery novel by Katharine

It’s only spring, but because it’s a clear day and late afternoon, it’s already hot. The sun casts a shadow in front of me as I crouch on the ground over the creature. My friend Liza sighs, for the second time, and fusses around next to our bikes. She’s getting impatient, but I don’t care. I can only focus on the insect.

“Bea, can you please hurry up?” Liza calls. “Some guys are coming down the street— they look like college kids, and I would rather not come off as a total freak, okay?”

“Nice, Liza,” I answer, “that is really a phenomenal way to treat one of your closest friends. If you don’t stop, I’ll wait until they’re right next to us and make myself look even weirder.”

“Is that even possible?” Liza says. She knows it’s no use: I’ll be ready when I’m ready. “Seriously, though, they’re cute,” Liza adds with a whine, dragging out the “u” in cute.

We were biking home from school when I insisted on stopping at the lot. It’s a sandy area, surrounded by a chain link fence, with a few patches of grass. The lot is completely undeveloped, which is almost unheard of around here. It’s technically private property, but everyone in the neighborhood uses it. There are often people throwing balls to dogs, or a few college kids hanging out and smoking cigarettes. I like it because you can find bugs you wouldn’t see in other places, because of the open spaces and sandy soil.

When we arrive, I put the kickstand down on my bike and walk back and forth across the sandy areas as Liza and I talk. I make my fourth pass, it’s going to be my last, and then I spot it: the cow killer.

For years, I had envisioned my juvie release under various scenarios: fanfare, nonexistent diplomatic immunity, and the detention center’s spontaneous combustion to name a few, but never as part of something so routine as scheduling my annual holiday retreat. I sat in Director Lady’s state-approved office with my uncle, Andy, to discuss my two full days away with the LaSalle clan. My mother’s brother had been my guardian for the last four and a half years. Not that he had an opportunity to flex guardian muscle since for the entire duration I was locked up for one life-altering mistake.

That mistake temporarily escaped my mind while I wrapped my head around the fact that that I was – for lack of a better term –no longer a ward of the State.

I looked at Andy, who nodded once. He sat next to me, both of us across from Director Lady’s way-too-cluttered metal desk. He wore what he called “business casual,” which meant khakis and no tie. His dark auburn hair was combed back, but overdue for a haircut; it made his face look gaunter. The director and I were both in jeans – mine the worse for wear. She also had on sandals with no socks. In December. In New England. During a Nor’easter.

Since departure was in my very near future, I forgave the terrible shoe choice.

“I’m done?” The giddiness in my voice ruined the calm I tried to project. Damn.

“In a week. The paperwork needs to be processed and we want you to ease in,” she said. “This is a probation period, Cheyenne. Your therapist has voiced his concerns regarding this move.”

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It all started at the corner of Main and Spring. I’d managed to catch the longest light in town, but even that couldn’t bring me down. I’d just bought the perfect dress and I had it on good authority that Trent Jackson, the cutest boy at Creekside High School, was going to ask me to the school luau tomorrow.

So there I was, sitting in the car, staring at the lavender blue hydrangeas, picturing Trent’s face when BAM!

My hand and knee flew forward, and my torso was jerked back by the seatbelt. My other foot slid off the brake pedal and my vehicle slid violently into the one in front of me before I could find the right rectangle to push again.

I’d never been in a wreck before, so I had no idea what to do. As I finally started getting my bearings again, I figured I should probably exit the vehicle and check for damages. Shadow Falls was so small, I also figured Pete, one of our two local cops, would be here in less than two minutes to start writing up whoever had plowed into the back of me. I unfastened my seatbelt and opened the door.

My legs were shaking as I stood up, and I actually felt a little dizzy. The noise had been so loud and unexpected. I could still hear it.

“Sh-t!” a tenor voice came from behind me. “Hey, I’m really sorry. Sh-t!”
I turned around to see a guy in faded blue jeans and a white t-shirt walking up.

I jerk forward when Dad cranks the U-Haul’s emergency break to keep the piece of junk from rolling back down the street. I don’t have the energy to rag on the broke-down old truck. I’m too distracted by the one-story rambler outside my window. It’s brown, just like the patches in the lawn, just like the dusty ground at the end of the street, just like the 360-degree view from any given place in this God-forsaken West Texas town.

“It’s not too late,” I say, not looking at Dad.

“Not too late for what?” He sounds tired. It took 23 hours to get here from Santa Cruz and he didn’t let me drive for a half second of it.

“To get a place of our own. In California. Oregon, even. Someplace where there’s a body of water closer than a state or a country away.”

Dad sighs. He’s been doing that a lot lately. I know my nagging gets to him but all this stuff has been hard on me too. And I’m only saying it’s our last chance because, well, it is.

“Poppy, we’ve been over this.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. Dad rubs my shoulder. I don’t look around. “You’re not a kid anymore. You need to have a woman in your life to teach you things.”

I look at him. Dad’s scraggly beard is a lot more salt than pepper these days. His face looks like an ill-fitting mask that has started sagging in all the important places.

“You did fine with the period stuff,” I say to get a smile out of him. It works, but turns to a grimace.