"Oh, and they come unstuck." -Riptide, Vance Joy
THERE ARE SMALL TOWNS, AND THEN THERE ARE towns that shouldn't even be classified as towns. Cailbridge is very much the second one; a deadbeat, pointless dot on the map that people may pass by on the way to their cottage and wonder, who the hell actually lives here?
The six hundred people making up Cailbridge, I guess. There's Northside and there's Southside, and although there really shouldn't be much of a difference, there really is. Northside- where I come from- is still small, but at least has some people living in it. There are neighbourhoods, most plazas are there, and the movie theatre is too. Southside, however, where James and Ford come from, where houses are spread out far and wide, roads are practically unmanageable and the closest store is a corner store, ten minutes of a drive away.
I don't go to Southside often- no one does unless they live there- but the one time I had to had ended up in me running out of gas. I had been parked outside a house, completely unable to even start the car, when the one and only Ford Wilson had come out of his house, a laugh on his lips and a container of gas in the other. I didn't ask many questions- just thanked him repeatedly, listened as he explained that I wasn't the first one to come around with a broken down car, and then I had left.
Ford and I don't really talk about that day. It's never really come up in any of our conversations- not that we have many conversations- and I've never really gotten around to telling anyone about it. So it's kind of always just stayed between Ford and I. Every time we see each other in the halls, we might smile to each other, and I'll see the amused grin on his face when he came running out of the house, and he'll probably see my blonde hair tied up in a messy ponytail and the coffee that I had ended up placing on the roof of my car as he filled my car, but we'd just continue smiling and walk away without a single word.
Today was supposed to be like that. Everything has been the same- almost routine- between us since freshman year. When we pass each other in the hall at the end of the day as the school rush is high to get home, I smile as him, as usually. But Ford doesn't smile back. His expression is panicked- almost desperate- as he shoves people aside to get to me, his big hand reaching for my arm to wrap around it and getting me to stop.
"Hey, Wilson," I say, not bothering to hide the confusion in my voice. "What's up?"
"I need to talk to you," he says.
Upon the realization that we're blocking people's ways, I pull Ford into the emptying science room, ignoring the weird looks some of the students shoot our way. Once we're alone, I turn to Ford, taking in Ford and his white sweater, dark hair and grey eyes. "What is it?" I ask, feeling slight anxiety build up from the slightly panicked look on Ford's face.
"You took wood shop last year, right?"
I give him a weird look. "Sure, yeah. Why?"
Ford's voice drops to a whisper even though we're the only ones in the room. "I need your help." He heaves a deep breath and launches into speech, "I have this project due, well, tomorrow, and I'm not even close to finished. Mr. Stevens says I can stay, as long as I have someone who can stay with me and help with the equipment, who, obviously, knows what they're doing. The half of the class that I actually can stand are busy, and the other half makes me want to vomit."
I blink. "What?"
"Will you stay with me while I finish my project in the wood shop room? You're the only other person I know who I can stand and has done wood shop. Plus, Mr. Stevens loves you, so he might improve my mark. Who knows. Point is, if I don't have this done for tomorrow, I get a zero, and it's kind of worth twenty percent of my mark."
I seriously want to get home, but then I think about the day Ford had come running out of his house to give me gas and decide that yeah, I really owe him one. So, I sigh, and say, "Do you have food at least?"
"Cafeterias open," he points out.
"Buy me a cookie, Wilson, and you have yourself a deal."
By the time we walk back out to the hall, it's pretty much empty. Jas and James have left, and I'm never exactly sure where Lucas is, so I don't even bother questioning it. After getting our stuff, we head downstairs to the cafeteria.
The lunch lady is just cleaning up, but she smiles at us when we enter. "A late lunch, huh?" she asks.
"I was forced to spend my money," Ford disagrees. He hands the lunch lady two dollars and gestures for me to pick out my cookie. Just to bug him a little, I pick out the biggest cookie.
The lunch lady turns to Ford. "That's two dollars and fifteen cents."
Ford frowns. "Get the medium cookie," he tells me.
I pout. "I want the big cookie, though."
"Jesus," Ford mutters and reaches into his wallet, putting down the rest of the change. I laugh loudly, and although Ford seems annoyed, he cracks a smile, too. With my cookie in hand, Ford and I make our way down to wood shop.
It smells bad, like it always does. I still remember coming down everyday of the semester and scrunching up my nose from the stench last year. Ford doesn't seem fazed by it, though; he just drops his backpack by the door, cracking his knuckles and beginning to prepare a station.
"Alright," I say, getting my goggles on. "Where's the piece you already started?"
Ford gestures to the empty station.
I narrow my eyes, "You haven't started it yet? And it's due tomorrow?"
"I've started," Ford corrects. He runs a hand through his dark hair. "But it was really bad, and so I started to try and fix it and it got really tiny and I tried to use it but just couldn't and it was just really bad, Ava, like, really bad."
I can't help but hold back a laugh. The Ford I've always known is calm, smart as hell, and collected. He's obviously stressed and anxious now, but I can't help but silently admit that his rambling is a little endearing.
"What are you supposed to make anyway?"
"Something that holds a lot of meaning to us," Ford says. "That's really important. I guess that's why I had so much trouble the first time; usually I can just try to cover up small mistakes or anything, but I want to make this perfect."
I watch as Ford strips off his plaid shirt, leaving him in a green long sleeve. He rolls up the sleeves, tossing the shirt on the ground and putting on his goggles.
"Well, what do you want to do?" I ask.
"A jewellery box," he explains, rather quietly. "It was my mom's."
A silence settles between us as Ford continues to work to get the machines ready. After all, how the hell am I supposed to reply to that? It's no secret Ford's mom is dead- there can't be any secrets in this town, really- but for him to just share something like that when we've barely talked? It feels... strange.
"Can you get some wood from the back?" Ford asks. I glance up, not realizing he had made his way back over to the station. I step away from the station I'm leaning against, clearing my throat.
"Sure," I say. I make my way through the maze of station, pulling out multiple boards for Ford. Adjusting them in my grip, I make sure not to knock anything down as I walk back to him. The hum of students that is usually heard isn't here anymore, and I have to admit, Cailbridge High after school hours is eerie and unsettling. The sound of my footsteps and Ford working to get things ready echoes in the large room, jumping off the large walls and high ceilings of the cold room.
I put the wood down on his station table. Ford's combat boots tap against the floor of the shop. I lean against the table, watching as Ford picks up a piece of wood. My eyes flicker to his plaid shirt on the floor.
"Do you mind?" I ask, pointing to the shirt.
Ford blinks, taking a couple of moments to understand what I'm meaning. "Oh! No, go ahead."
I nod as a thank you and bend down to pick up the shirt. It's thick and warm, which I'm incredibly happy about. I shove my arms in the long, baggy sleeves, buttoning it up to make sure I let no more cold against my thin t-shirt.
"How big is the jewellery box?" I ask.
Ford stops positioning the wood underneath the cutter for a moment, making some gestures with his hands. "This big? Like, the size of a tissue box- it's not big."
"Are you going to paint it?" I watch as the muscles in Ford's arms twitch as he moves the other wooden planks to the ground to make room.
"I wish I could," he says, "But I really don't have the time. I don't want to keep you here all night, after all."
I don't reply to that. Ford turns the machine on, the whirring noise blaring through the room. He didn't draw out any guiding lines, but I suppose he just doesn't have the time. He at least has the decency to use a ruler, looking back and forth from the machine and diagram that lays beside him. As he finishes slicing one side of the wood, he removes it, but leaves the machine running.
I quickly go to turn it off. Ford turns at the sudden stop of the obnoxious noise, before sighing when he realizes he forgot to turn the machine off. "I can see why he wanted someone to stay with you," I joke.
But Ford agrees. "This school would have been burned down by tomorrow morning if I had to do this alone."
"Would that really be such a bad thing?"
Ford laughs. "For this dump to be burned to the ground? That would be a blessing."
I tilt my head slightly as I think about his words. Although he's joking, I can't help but notice the note of bitterness hidden in his voice. I guess it compels me to take what he says more seriously, because I say, "Well, it's not that bad."
"This town is suffocating," Ford simply says. I consider leaving it at that, but then he adds, "But it's home, I suppose."
I nod. "I suppose."
The time ticks by as Ford cuts piece of wood after piece of wood. Eventually, I turn to helping him, unsure how he's one of the best students in the school when he's seriously unproductive. As soon as all the piece of wood are cut and laid in front of us, the hunt for wood glue begins. And it's a long one.
"Have you checked the cabinets above the sink?" I ask, closing the drawer I had opened.
"Yes," Ford practically groans. "It's not there. Jesus Christ, where the hell can someone hide a giant container of wood glue?" He checks another drawer, only to find it empty and slamming it shut. He turns to me. "Where would wood glue hide?"
I can't hold back a laugh. "I'm pretty sure the glue isn't the one hiding."
"I have wood shop last period," Ford disagrees, walking the room and patting a desk at the front of the class, "And when I was leaving, it was sitting right here."
"Maybe it doesn't like you," I snicker, "So it ran away."
"Wood glue can't run, Jesus, Ava."
I know it really shouldn't, but the way Ford sends a weird feeling through my stomach. I clear my throat. "Alright, hypocrite. Wouldn't there be some in the back?"
"Well, yeah," Ford says. "But I don't have a key."
I bite down on the bottom of my lip. Yeah, that's a problem. I make a few desperate hand gestures, before finally sighing heavily. "I'm going to o find a janitor and ask for a key." I toss off my goggles, speed walking to the door before abruptly stopping, turning on my heel to face Ford quickly. "Don't break anything."
"Your faith in me is fascinating," he deadpans.
The time it takes for me to find a janitor is exhausting. I circle the school at least twice, even calling out, "Janitor, janitor?" a couple of times. After lazily roaming the halls for a while longer, I finally manage to bump into Mr. Witlocke.
"What're you doing here so late, girlie?" Is the first thing he yells down the hall when he sees me. I practically jump into a sprint, ecstatic to finally end my endless wandering.
"Mr. Witlocke! Thank God," I say. "Can I have a key to the back room of the wood shop?"
"Who let ya in the wood shop classroom after hours?" Mr. Witlocke asks, small eyes narrowing in on me.
"I'm helping Ford with a project," I explain. Upon noticing Mr. Witlocke's confused look, I add, "Ford Wilson."
"Ah, Wilson," Mr. Witlocke hums. "Smart kid. Got it from his mother, I'm tellin' you. Shame the lady's gone."
I stop for a second, unable to not notice the casual way Mr. Witlocke seems to talk about Ford Wilson's dead mother. I clear my throat, "Well, yeah. But-"
"I didn't know he took wood shop, though," Mr. Witlocke continues. "The kid doesn't seem the type. He should be sittin' in a chemistry class, y'know?"
"I guess-"
"And I get you're helpin', but don't ya think your parents are gettin' worried? You really outta be headin' home."
"Mr. Witlocke," I say, voice firm enough to finally get him to shut up. "Could I just have the key? Please? We just need to get some wood glue, and then I'll give the key back."
Mr. Witlocke sighs, seemingly upset with being interrupted. He reaches into the pocket of his pants, the sound of metal clicking letting me sigh with relief. He doesn't take it out yet, though. "I give you these, and no more silly questions, yeah?"
I blink, hoping that I don't look too offended. "Um, yeah, sure."
"Here ya go," he tells me, handing me the giant ring of keys. There has to be thirty different keys on the ring, I realize, and they all look exactly the same.
Before the janitor can go back to mopping, I say, "Hey, which one is for the back room?"
"No more silly questions, remember?" Mr. Witlocke points out. I hold back a loud groan, fed up with the janitor, and turn on my heel to head back to the wood shop. As I walk, I try and see if there's any sort of label on the keys, and when I realize there's no indication as to which keys belongs to each room, I start to wonder how the hell Mr. Witlocke remembers which to use. I slip into the wood shop quietly, causing Ford not to notice me. He's sitting underneath a table, sitting against the wooden leg of the station, head leaned against his knees as he stares the opposite direction. When I clear my throat, his head shoots up, grey eyes locking with mine and then drifting down to the keys in my hands.
"Awesome," he says, grinning. I can't help but notice how he smiles; all teeth showing, his whole face relaxed, his mouth slightly crooked. "Which ones for the back room?"
"You're going to have to get out from underneath the table and help me with that," I say sheepishly.
Ford gets up, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously? Who'd you get it from?"
"Mr. Witlocke," I grumble. Ford hums in acknowledgement, following me to the door of the back room.
I shove the first key in, only to have seemingly no luck. I heave a frustrated breath, going to the second silver key, only to have it fail as well. I try key after key, until Ford is leaning against the wall, glaring against the lock.
"Okay, let me try," he says, obviously fed up by the way he runs a hand through his dark, messy hair.
I move aside and give him the keys. He begins from where I left off, sticking one key in at a time, groaning and cursing every time one doesn't work. As Ford tries the keys, my eyes wander up the ceiling, where small windows peek through the top of the walls. The sun is setting, causing for the rays of sun to shine through and illuminate the pieces of dust flying around in the air. I watch as the twirl around in their spots, almost as if they were dancing. The rays of sun from either side of the walls collide in the middle point, causing a criss-cross of light.
I begin to wonder what time it is. Six? Seven? Have I really been here that long? The school practically never closes- that I've known from all the nights my friends and I used to spend because of dares- but my thoughts can't help but wander to how my parents are feeling about me still not being home. They probably think I'm at Jas', if anything, since I don't have any missed calls from there. It would be unheard of that I'm spending the night with Ford Wilson. After all, I'm Ava Jackson; not the smartest, not the prettiest, but from Northside, and that should be a good enough reputation. And then there's Ford Wilson; genius but no money to do anything with the smarts, dark, rugged looks, not muscular but not willing to take anything from anyone.
And bitter. That's not a word I may have associated with Ford before, but the way he spoke about Cailbridge and the way he was sitting when I entered the room- like he was angry, upset, and... bitter, changes my view of him completely. And I've only really been with him for a couple of hours. Then again, this is the most I've talked to Wilson, and all my other impressions of him had been from him giving me gas, the way he aced every test and the way his jaw would clench and he would slam his locker every time someone would poke fun of his Southside family, but he would never raise a finger.
Even when his mother died freshman year. I had been doing a project with him, and was supposed to come over that day to work on it, but Ford had called me to say that I couldn't come over because of some family emergency. By the way he was practically in tears during the call, I didn't waste time to tell him I hoped everything was okay, and then hung up to let him be alone. I had told my mother, and her eyebrows had just furrowed in the way they always do when she's worried, and told me that she's sure everything would turn out fine.
It didn't. News of Ford's mother's death had traveled fast. But soon enough, people weren't referring to it as just a death, anymore. No, soon enough, people were whispering the most morbid things I had ever heard in this small town.
"Did you hear about Mrs. Wilson's murder?"
"It was a hit and run."
"Heard she died slowly."
"Bet it was Mr. Wilson- Mrs. Wilson was always the type to sleep around."
"Only Southside, I'm telling you."
Ford missed school for a couple of weeks, and even when he did come back, people walked on eggshells around him. It was a murder, that much was confirmed, but to this day, the killer hasn't been found. And that has to be the most eerie thing about Cailbridge; people still talk about how there's a murderer on the loose, maybe even in our own school.
Ford wasn't, still isn't, patient at the topic of his mother. But even when Thomas Davidson had approached Ford to ask if he could do an article about the possible theories of Mrs. Wilson's death, Ford's hand had simply clenched dangerously around his pencil as he shook his head, calmly telling Thomas that if he ever turned his mother's death into a media show, he wouldn't live to see the next day.
"Got it!"
Ford's voice pulls me out of the my thoughts so abruptly I find myself blinking. My vision focuses on seventeen year old Ford- not the fourteen year old Ford I had been remembering- gesturing to the now open back room door. I roll my eyes, muttering, "Good job," and take the keys from him. Throwing it onto an empty station, I follow Ford into the dark room.
"Is there a light switch somewhere?" I yell out blindly, hoping that Ford hadn't gone too far in.
"I'm trying to find it," Ford says, his voice surprisingly close. There's some shuffling, and as I try to make my way around, I end up hitting something tall. Ford groans- he probably hit something too. Our suffering finally stops when the room lights up, Ford hands on the light switch in front of him. I blush slightly when I realize just how close we are- practically chest to chest- and that Ford was the 'tall object' I had bumped into.
Clearing my throat, I take a step back. Ford rubs the back of his neck, also a little uncomfortable, and steps around me. We move to stand in the middle of room, looking at the different shelves of items.
"So," Ford says. "Wood glue?"
We begin our search of what feels like fifteen minutes for the stupid wood glue. I'm the one who finally finds it, underneath an old, broken station placed back here. We get out of the suffocating room as quick as possible. As Ford begins to glue his wood together, I go back on the search for Mr. Witlocke- rather reluctantly- I'm still kind of pissed at him. But then again, when am I not pissed at him? I find Mr. Witlocke packing up to get home at the janitor's office, humming a song rather loudly.
By the time I get back, Ford is halfway done. I'm not sure if he's just a faster worker because I was gone, or it just seems fast because we've wasted so much time, but he's certainly speeding through it. As he pours the glue and gently sticks two more pieces together, I speak up, "Why'd you take wood shop? You obviously don't really like it."
Ford bites down on his lower lip in concentration, pushing the two pieces together firmly before replying with, "I don't hate it. I just needed something that would look good on my resume."
I raise an eyebrow. "How does wood shop look good?"
"If you're going into auto, it shows that you've done stuff with your hands before," he explains, moving onto the next piece.
I almost choke when I hear that. "You want to make cars? Are you kidding me? You're the recreation of Albert Einstein, and you want to is to make something that goes vroom vroom?"
Ford scoffs, "What type of Albert Einstein worthy job am I going to get in this town?"
After a couple of moments on contemplating, I realize that I just don't have an answer for that. Most people go out of town for any office jobs, like my dad, but that's only because his dad had worked there. That's really pretty much the only way to get a good job if you're from Cailbridge, and as far as I know, Ford's dad just works at one of the pastry shops in Northside.
"I can get a job in the auto shop in Northside," he continues. "It's better than minimum wage. It's not like I can get an office job, you and I both know that. People avoid me like a disease because of my mom."
He said it, I didn't, I think, but choose not to comment further.
I hop onto a station and watch as Ford finishes up with the gluing. I munch on the cookie Ford had gotten me earlier, noticing the way his grey eyes scrunch up when he can't figure something out, and the way he seems to constantly be doing something with his hair, like every time he fixes it, it just bothers him again within minutes. When he waits for something to dry, he likes to tap his fingers against the wooden station, looking up at me and smiling which creates a small twinkle in his eyes. When he finally does finish, he looks back on the cube box, taking out a scalpel like tool and leaning forward on his elbows. Using the pattern he had sketched earlier, he begins to a beautiful pattern into the wood, with artistic skills I wouldn't have thought he had.
I leap off of the station I was sitting on, making my way around to have a better view of what's he carving. "Wow," I whisper, Ford not even jumping at my presence. "It's beautiful."
A small smile make it's way to Ford's face. "Yeah, it is." He leans back, examining the soft lines and curves he's created. "Is it just me, or does it kind of look like snakes?"
I chuckle lowly, tilting my head to see what he means. "Yeah, I see that."
"My mom always told me that they weren't snakes, and I was delusional," Ford laughs softly. "She was joking, obviously, but every time I look at it, all I see are the snakes I imagined when I was seven."
"It's beautiful," I say. "Snakes or not. I kind of see vines, if I'm honest."
Ford's smile grows slightly bigger. "Yeah, I see that too."
It's eight when we finally do start to pack up. I leave a little before Ford since he assured me that he's got everything. When I get in my car, I make sure to turn the heat up, since it's not that warm outside, but before driving anywhere, I lean my head against the window, exhaling heavily.
I really don't get Ford Wilson.
WHOO! A long chapter that didn't actually take that long to write someone high five me.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's not edited/ proofread, so if you notice mistakes, I'm sorry and I promise that I'll get around to fixing them soon! If you liked this chapter, please be sure to leave a comment below and vote because it would mean so much to me! (And Ford c;)
Oh, also, I didn't mention this before but @EmSlough made the amaaazing cover so that's why this is dedicated to her c:
Love you all so so much! (: xoxo