Page 2 of Cocky Secrets

But itismuch too quiet when the active Ciphers are on a mission. Much,muchtoo quiet. Empty. “Want me to pick up some food?” I ask.

Mom glances to her book, page held by a patient forefinger. “Strange not having Melody here to cook.”

I nod.

She and Denita went on a trip to see Melody’s mother who hasn’t been well. Four would have been too many for the somber trip, had Mom and I joined them. Besides, we’re often the connectors when phone calls come in from The Ciphers, and things are needed for missions. Someone’s also got to stay home and be ready if anyone returns hurt.

After thinking a moment, Mom suggests, “Italian? I’ve got a craving for it. And it’s easily reheated if it cools during your ride back.”

“Okay,” I shrug, “But I can ride that bike faster than you think.”

Mom uses her free hand to slide a thick lock of red hair, the color I inherited, behind her ear. “Just be safe.”

I smile, “Always,” heading out at a brisk pace, and breaking into a jog as I hit the porch, racing down our old front steps and jumping onto my forest-green bicycle complete with handlebars basket. Kicking the kickstand into place, I pump my legs with all my might, determined to show her, were she to look outside, that I am very fast. It’s not a Harley, or a Triumph like Sofia Sol has; it’s not motorized at all.

But it suits me.

As I drive down our extensive driveway, remote control for the gate in my jeans pocket from earlier planning, I smile into the dappled sunshine made by a canopy of oaks, four dozen of them to be exact. Thank God I’m out of the house on such a beautiful day.

We all need the wind in our hair.

And a fun place to go.

I’m free and on my own.

What’s the best that can happen?

TWO

Sage

There’s naught but a supermarket, bar, and gas station to serve the people of South Vacherie, Louisiana, where we call home, so I spin my wheels to North Vacherie and come to a stop in front of Viola’s Arts and Gifts shop. Scooping myself off my ride, I stroll in with a wide smile for its owner. “Hi Vi!”

“Good afternoon, Sage, honey,” she drawls in a southern accent The Ciphers never let any of us kids acquire, nor the adults keep. It might indicate where we live. Where we could be traced to. Scratch, now up in the northern states, had a strong one and it was Jett’s idea to teach everyone Standard American dialect, leaving our origins anonymous. Melody’s Southern accent isn’t altogether gone, her stubbornness forcing against change.

I purr, “Oh, these are good ones,” spying a new selection of medium-spread paint brushes displayed in a tin, once used for coffee, from its etched writing. Viola’s children are familiar to me from my many, many visits to her shop when I’ve found them playing here after school, on holidays and summer breaks, so I ask after them, “How are Bobby and Billy Mae?”

“Good. At home with their father. Billy Mae causes trouble wherever she can’t find it, but Bobby tends to keep his nose in a computer even when I wish he’d socialize more,” she drawls from behind the counter, twilight-blue pencil suspended by onyx fingers above a leather-bound ledger. I look closer to find a neat array of numbers swirled on graph paper and note that only the titles of each column ignore the narrow confines of its cornflower boxes. “He wants to be a coder,” she says, adding in a quieter voice, almost to herself, “So different from me.”

Happy to be browsing, I inspect blank canvases, dreamily touching the 20”x 30”, much larger than I could transport on my bicycle, so I’ve never gone this large before. “Is it inventory day?” I ask, motioning my naked nail-bitten caramel fingers toward her work.

“Once a week I log my sales in this way. The computer tallies it all automatically.” She continues with pride warming her russet eyes, “But I don’t care. I was trained by my grandmother, andhermother trainedher. It feels clearer to me toseewhat’s coming in, what’s going out, if I write it by my own hand.”

I imagine a young Viola on a high stool to make up for her tiny size, perched beside a patient, loving grandmother who probably shared stories from her own youth as she taught the future businesswoman the value of numbers, how knowledge of them would empower her freedom in life.

As someone who loves the feel of a paintbrush’s firm wooden stem, I am viscerally awake to writing’s beautiful tangibility. Mine isn’t of words but rather of shapes and strokes in colors as varied as Viola provides me with. But even though our modes are as different as our purposes, I understand.

Over the pointy bottles of colors I already have at home, I run my smooth palm searching for something new, and stop in surprise. “Cerulean!” I breathe, lifting the effervescent blue I’ve been waiting for.

“Came in two days ago!” Viola beams. “Ialmostcalled you, more than once, but I love to see your face when you discover a new shade of paint I’ve hidden among the others, just for you.”

I flick at its sealed cap, not to open it but to imagine what it will be like when I do. “I’ve beenlongingfor Cerulean.”

“Thank you, Sage.”

The sad tone in her voice turns my head. “For?”

“For not buying your art supplies online,” Viola sighs, modern technology weighing down her analog-loving shoulders.

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