Free Believing Cedric by Mark Lavorato Page B

hour, could become quiet and giving, could turn into a whisper in the grass that moved as fluidly and hushed as a garter snake. But mostly she loved it because everyone else she knew—even Hilda—hated it, endlessly complained about it, scrambling from one form of cover to the next. It made it hers somehow.
    â€œCome on. Open it. Please?” Hilda continued to plead with the group of boys. “I have to talk to my grandma . . . like right now. Come on, guys. Open the door. Just for a second.”
    But the boys were also growing nervous, knowing, as the girls did, that the policeman would be returning within minutes, seconds even. So they eventually stepped away from the glass, and, glancing guiltily up and down the street for a moment, they walked away in a single huddled group.
    Except for one of them—the one who had been gaping around at the neighbourhood while the others were teasing them. He had started to walk away with everyone else, but stopped for some reason, and was now hovering beside the car with a searching look on his face, like he was using this moment, of all moments, to decipher some annoying riddle that had been bothering him for days.
    One of the other boys noticed he wasn’t following and turned to walk backwards for a few steps. “Come on, Ced,” he called out, his tone disappointed, even bored. “Let’s get outta here.”
    â€œHey, Ced,” Hilda shouted through the glass. “On your way, open the door, will ya? Come on.”
    The boy, who was blond, the collars of his short-sleeved shirt ironed crisp, took a step toward the cruiser, hesitating at the door handle. It wasn’t quite clear if he was gazing in at the girls or at his own reflection in the car’s side window. Either way, he looked satisfied.
    â€œYou know, I think you want to open it. Hey?” Hilda giggled, turning to look at Brandy for a moment. “I think he wants to.”
    This was how it always was with her cousin Hilda. She could often get people to do things they shouldn’t. Especially Brandy. But this was mostly because she never meant anyone any harm. She just had a knack for finding enthralling things to do (climb that tree, hide there, scare him, “borrow” that). And as she’d been Brandy’s closest friend for as long as she could remember, there was also an unspoken obligation to follow along. And most of the time, it was fine. Things rarely went this far. The mischief they usually got into was spontaneous and felt like it was over in seconds. Like the last Sundance they were at.
    Brandy and Hilda would invariably get dropped off for a few days at Sundance, and sometimes for the entire length of it, having to help out like the other young people there, looking after children, gathering things for the elders, the boys digging postholes for the lodge. During the ceremonies, they would sit off to the side, feeling a little embarrassed, wearing blue jeans and T-shirts, watching the older people dancing around in headdresses and moccasins. It was a strange sensation because there was a part of her that wanted to stand up and join in, ask questions, be taught, and a part that didn’t, that felt silly and withdrawn. And these two feelings seemed to rise up in her with equal strength, until the only thing she could do was just sit there, still and awkward.
    But then, in the middle of a long dance, the drumbeat rising insistently above the singers, two motorhomes had turned off the road and were driving toward them, looking for a place to park. At first Brandy and Hilda thought they were drunk because a few of the men walked briskly out to tell them they couldn’t stay, which is what you did with people who wanted to drink at Sundance, you ushered them away, coaxed them into a car and took them back home. But it turned out that these people were white, with their faces gawking out of the windows as their vehicles turned around. Later