Page 3 of Sawyer

As I round the aisle, I find a young girl staring up at a rainbow of cereal boxes. Jenny Caswell. Coach Caswell’s olderdaughter and Poison Ivy’s cousin.That’swho I must’ve seen walking into the store. At twelve years old, she’s about five feet tall now, only a few inches shorter than her older cousin.

“Hey, Jenny!” I call to her. “Did you grow a whole foot this year?”

She turns to grin at me, her metal braces on full display. “Hi, Mr. Stewart. Yep! I’m the tallest in my class.”

“I believe it!”

Putting her hands on her hips, she tilts her head to the side. “I’m dating Travis Clearwater.”

“Sandra’s son?”

Like many indigenous women, Sandra Clearwater kept her maiden name and passed it down—along with her clan and nation—to her children. Most people even call her husband Bart, who’s last name is actually Shriver, BartClearwater, and it doesn’t seem to bother him at all.

“Yep. We’re totally in love.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be dating?” I ask her.

“Yes, she is,” confirms a voice from behind her. “Waytoo young!”

I look over Jenny’s shoulder to see two more red heads join us in the boxed goods aisle—Jenny’s pint-sized little sister, Vicky, and the girls’ older cousin…Ivy.

Shit! Itwasher!

“S-Sawyer,” she says, stopping in her tracks. “H-Hi.”

I watch Ivy’s face as she stares at me—the way her pupils dilate, making her eyes less green and more obsidian—and the way she licks her lips. Her fucking lips. I know exactly how they feel pressed against mine. The taste of her haunts me fucking daily.

“Ivy!” I exclaim, dragging my gaze away from her lips and back to her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Grocery shopping.”

“No. I mean…why are youhere? In Skagway? In the off-season?”

She scoffs, toying with the Denali-sized diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand. “Am I not allowed to be in Skagway in October?”

“You can be wherever you want to be,” I say, sliding my eyes from that fucking ring back to her face. Her pursed lips remind me of our last conversation and make me feel churlish. I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ve just never seen you here after Labor Day.”

“Whatever.” She looks away from me dismissively.

I glance down at Vicky, who’s eight years old and holding Ivy’s hand. “Hey, lil’ one.”

“Hey, Mr. Stewart,” she says. She doesn’t smile at me. “Mama’s sick. Ivy’s helping.”

I look back at Ivy, whose face slips for a second before she lifts her chin. Squatting down, she looks into her cousin’s scared, wide eyes, and pulls her close for a hug. “She’s gonna be okay, Vix. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” says Jenny, hands still on her hips, though her smile has faded. “Cancer is a motherfucker.”

“Jenny!” exclaims Ivy, standing back up. “Don’t say that word!”

“I can if I want,” snaps Jenny, marching out of the aisle and disappearing from sight.

Ivy’s cheeks are red when she shrugs. “She’s having a tough time.”

“I didn’t know Priscilla was sick,” I say, feeling awful for Coach Caswell’s wife, who often baked cookies for my high school lacrosse team. “I’m so sorry.”

“She’s doing chemo at home,” Ivy tells me, running her fingers through Vicky’s red hair. Vicky leans her head againstIvy’s hip, blinking her eyes before closing them. I suspect she’s on the verge of tears.

“Vicky,” I say, “did you know that Ms. Antonov loves giving kids free candy when they shop at the IGA?”

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