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Authors: Michael Marshall
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rather than leaving a series of men staring bemusedly at
brief notes left on kitchen counters.
Yet here she was, back where she came from, under her own
steam and with no one else to blame. And she had been here—she
was horrifi ed to realize—almost nine months now. She didn’t want
to be here.
And yet (and the words were beginning to feel like a spike in her
brain, banged deeper and deeper by a hammer she held in her own
hand) . . . here she was.
She accepted a refill from the server, a girl who—despite nose ring
and turquoise hair—was so bovine it made you want to set fi re to her
(and not just because she so obviously resented her sole customer for
being thin: well, sweetie, news fl ash—your hips are what happens if
you won’t eat anything except nut loaf and cheese). She wondered
briefl y where the girl had caught her counterculture vibe from. Some
two-years-ago crush who’d entranced a teen, fl ipped her world, and
moved on? The uncle who always seemed cooler than mom and dad,
while quietly tapping them for money on the side? Or the girl’s own
parents, dragging her hither and yon as a baby, borne on mom’s fl eshy
B A D T H I N G S 59
hip from festival to protest and back. Not that Kristina was so differ-
ent, she supposed. You think you’re being yourself and then one day
you realize you’re in beta testing for turning into Mom 2.0, the worst
of it being that the observation is so fucking trite you get no points for having hacked your way to it the long way around.
And had she fi nally got down to the point? Was she back in town
because part of her knew being elsewhere would never make a differ-
ence, that these mountains and trees and the scratchy pattern of these
streets were where she came from?
She didn’t think so. And yet. . .
Oh, fuck it.
She stood before she could complete the sentence yet again, left
a large tip just to fuck with the hippie’s head, and went out onto the
street.
It was cold outside. Winter was knocking on the windows, and she
knew she basically wouldn’t get her shit together now to ship out
before Christmas. She’d always liked fall and winter here anyway—
the land was made for it, so long as you didn’t mind snow and the
somewhat oppressive company of trees—so maybe that could serve as
an excuse. Perhaps she was proving you could come home again, and
then leave for good. She hoped so.
People came and went up and down the sidewalk, some nodding
at her, most not. She walked slowly up the street, in search of some-
thing to do until it was time to go to work. It was as if she’d been
awake for ten years and then allowed herself to fall asleep again. Or
maybe the other way around, she wasn’t sure. There was nothing for
her here. Nothing she wanted, at least.
And yet here she was.
C H A P T E R 9
We touched down a little after three o’clock. Driving up into the
foothills of the Cascade Mountains took an hour, and then I turned
north off 90 and through thirty miles of trees before reaching the
outskirts of Black Ridge itself. It would be easy to imagine the town
only has outskirts, on fi rst meeting. Even if you know better, and
where to fi nd what counts as the main attractions, driving too fast
will still have you out the other side before you know it.
Black Ridge is a place of small wooden houses on lots through
which you can see the next street, and stands at an altitude of about
three thousand feet. It stretches twenty disorganized blocks in one
direction, twelve in the other, before blending back into the forest
which climbs into the mountains toward the two major lakes of the
area, Cle Elum and Kachess. There are kiltered crossroads holding
hardware and liquor stores, a few diners where no one’s bothering
to string up fi shing nets or kidding themselves as to the quality of
what’s on offer, and a couple rental-car places. Presumably to help
people leave. The older part of town—an eighty-yard
brief notes left on kitchen counters.
Yet here she was, back where she came from, under her own
steam and with no one else to blame. And she had been here—she
was horrifi ed to realize—almost nine months now. She didn’t want
to be here.
And yet (and the words were beginning to feel like a spike in her
brain, banged deeper and deeper by a hammer she held in her own
hand) . . . here she was.
She accepted a refill from the server, a girl who—despite nose ring
and turquoise hair—was so bovine it made you want to set fi re to her
(and not just because she so obviously resented her sole customer for
being thin: well, sweetie, news fl ash—your hips are what happens if
you won’t eat anything except nut loaf and cheese). She wondered
briefl y where the girl had caught her counterculture vibe from. Some
two-years-ago crush who’d entranced a teen, fl ipped her world, and
moved on? The uncle who always seemed cooler than mom and dad,
while quietly tapping them for money on the side? Or the girl’s own
parents, dragging her hither and yon as a baby, borne on mom’s fl eshy
B A D T H I N G S 59
hip from festival to protest and back. Not that Kristina was so differ-
ent, she supposed. You think you’re being yourself and then one day
you realize you’re in beta testing for turning into Mom 2.0, the worst
of it being that the observation is so fucking trite you get no points for having hacked your way to it the long way around.
And had she fi nally got down to the point? Was she back in town
because part of her knew being elsewhere would never make a differ-
ence, that these mountains and trees and the scratchy pattern of these
streets were where she came from?
She didn’t think so. And yet. . .
Oh, fuck it.
She stood before she could complete the sentence yet again, left
a large tip just to fuck with the hippie’s head, and went out onto the
street.
It was cold outside. Winter was knocking on the windows, and she
knew she basically wouldn’t get her shit together now to ship out
before Christmas. She’d always liked fall and winter here anyway—
the land was made for it, so long as you didn’t mind snow and the
somewhat oppressive company of trees—so maybe that could serve as
an excuse. Perhaps she was proving you could come home again, and
then leave for good. She hoped so.
People came and went up and down the sidewalk, some nodding
at her, most not. She walked slowly up the street, in search of some-
thing to do until it was time to go to work. It was as if she’d been
awake for ten years and then allowed herself to fall asleep again. Or
maybe the other way around, she wasn’t sure. There was nothing for
her here. Nothing she wanted, at least.
And yet here she was.
C H A P T E R 9
We touched down a little after three o’clock. Driving up into the
foothills of the Cascade Mountains took an hour, and then I turned
north off 90 and through thirty miles of trees before reaching the
outskirts of Black Ridge itself. It would be easy to imagine the town
only has outskirts, on fi rst meeting. Even if you know better, and
where to fi nd what counts as the main attractions, driving too fast
will still have you out the other side before you know it.
Black Ridge is a place of small wooden houses on lots through
which you can see the next street, and stands at an altitude of about
three thousand feet. It stretches twenty disorganized blocks in one
direction, twelve in the other, before blending back into the forest
which climbs into the mountains toward the two major lakes of the
area, Cle Elum and Kachess. There are kiltered crossroads holding
hardware and liquor stores, a few diners where no one’s bothering
to string up fi shing nets or kidding themselves as to the quality of
what’s on offer, and a couple rental-car places. Presumably to help
people leave. The older part of town—an eighty-yard
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