The Moon and More(31)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Wow,” he said after a few minutes. I looked up to see him peering closely at a stack of plastic milk crates, piled up just by the front door. “Do these . . . does this really say Craint Farms?”

I pushed the bowl back where it had been and walked over to see. “Looks like it. Why?”

“Because . . .” He shook his head for a second. “They’re prominently featured in one of Clyde’s contrast pieces. One of the early ones. But most critics have assumed the name was intended to be meaningful. Like a metaphor.”

“Craint?” I said.

“Cray,” he corrected me. “It’s French. Means ‘feared.’”

“You think he was afraid of milk crates?”

“No,” Theo said, shooting me a look. I smiled as he squatted down to look closer at the stack, which, judging by the cobwebs around it, had been there for a while. “The most accepted criticism is that it represents how the agricultural world feared the encroachment of urban industry. But because the piece had both worlds overlapping and, therefore, interdependent, the fear was necessary, and, actually, shared.”

Whoa, I thought. Before I could reply—or even begin to think of something to say—Mr. Gertmann said, “The Craints farmed out off of William Crossroads for years. Sold to a developer about five years ago. Condos going in there now.”

“So the Craints were a real family?” Theo asked him, shooting footage of the crates from one side, then leaning in closer from another. “With a real farm?”

Mr. Gertmann looked at me. I shrugged, making it clear Theo was on his own, wherever he was going with this. “Doubt it’s a farm anymore. Think they at least got it perked before the bubble burst.”

Now it was Theo who glanced my way, wanting a translation. “They started building,” I explained. “Then ran out of money. Pretty common around here in the last few years.”

“It has been written that Clyde might have worked on a dairy farm when he was in high school. But if this is a connection that clear, it’s pretty amazing. Ivy’s going to freak.” He looked back over at Mr. Gertmann. “Any chance these might be for sale?”

“You want to buy my milk crates?”

“He’s from New York,” I told him, like this explained everything.

“Maybe just one of them?” Theo said, ignoring me. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for it.”

Mr. Gertmann looked at the stack, taking his time. Finally, he shrugged. “Why not. Doubt the supplier will miss it.”

“Great,” Theo said, a big smile breaking across his face. He walked over to the counter, pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket. Mr. Gertmann and I both watched as he peeled off a few twenties. He was just about to hand them over when he saw the bowl of bracelets. “Oh, and, um . . . one of these. Actually, I’ll take two.”

“Milk crate and two bracelets,” Mr. Gertmann said, punching buttons. “Sixty-two even.”

Theo pulled out a couple more bills, then slid the pile across. Mr. Gertmann turned his attention back to the TV, now showing a car dealership commercial, as Theo picked through the bowl to make his selections.

“Have a good night, Mr. Gertmann,” I called out, as we started for the door. After a quick survey of the crates, Theo selected one from the middle of the stack, then arranged the remaining ones neatly, how they’d been, the cobwebs barely disturbed. He might have been long-winded, but the boy did have an eye for detail.

“Thank you!” Theo added. Neither of us got a response.

Back in the car, I realized he was beaming. Like, literally grinning ear to ear as he turned the crate in his hands. “This is amazing,” he said. “I mean, seriously. I never would have even hoped to find anything like this.”

I laughed. “It’s a milk crate, Theo.”

“It’s a huge find in terms of Clyde’s backstory!” He shook his head, still smiling, then turned to me. “Thank you, Emaline. Seriously. You just helped me impress Ivy, which is not easy to do. I could kiss you right now.”

I blinked. “Don’t do that,” I said. “It’s really not necessary.”

“I just meant . . . I’m just . . .” He stopped talking, thankfully, as his face flushed pink, then a deeper red. “Sorry. It was just an expression.”

“I know,” I said. He was still pink. “I’m just joking around.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat, then gave me a smile. “Anyway, it’s just been sort of a hard trip so far. This will help. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I started the engine and we pulled away from Gert’s, back onto the highway towards Colby. I’d driven a couple of blocks before I said, “So which bracelets did you pick?”

“Bracelets?” A beat. “Oh, right! Yeah, the bracelets. These two.” He held up one with green beads, another with white. “I wasn’t going to buy any. But they looked sort of sad, set up like they were there.”

I kept my eyes on the road ahead, which was dark, no coming traffic. “His daughter makes them. Rachel. She went to school with my sister Amber until she had this accident the summer before eleventh grade.”

“Accident,” he repeated.

I nodded.

“What happened?”

I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “She was riding her bike home from her boyfriend’s one night and got hit by a drunk driver.”

Theo looked back down at his bracelets. “God. That’s awful.”

“It was. The guy that hit her just left her in the road, like an animal.” I cleared my throat. “Went back to his hotel, parked his bashed-up car, then passed out in his room. Didn’t even remember getting behind the wheel when the cops finally tracked him down.”

“He was a tourist?”

I nodded. “She recovered in some ways, but her head injury was pretty severe. She started making the bracelets when she was in rehab. There’s something in the patterns, the braiding, the colors . . . it helps her. Or so her mom says.”

We were coming up to the outer edge of Colby now, where neighborhoods began and lights gradually became more and more visible. I tried to think of all the times I’d driven down this road, coming back home from one place or another. It seemed it was always this time of night, the air sweet and warm whistling through my half-open window, but I knew that wasn’t true. There were winters and falls and springs, too. I just never remembered them.