by M. F. Lorson
“Say anything and you’ll be eating paint.” Turning back to the wall, I watched her fumble with her phone before the heavy bass of her music could be heard from three feet away.
“I’m not so sure the Girl Scouts would approve of such violent threats.”
She turned her music up.
“Do you have to sell cookies?” I continued.
She turned away.
“Can I see your patches?”
This time when she glared at me, I sent her a wink. It was so easy to get her going. How could I resist? With the long roller in her hands and a scowl on her face, she jabbed it at me, and I was able to back away in time but not before it sent white flecks of paint all over my clothes. (Good thing they were Gabe’s.)
Seeing the damage she did, we both froze with our jaws hanging open. In a rush, she pulled out her earbuds. “You asked for that.”
“Oh did I?” I answered with a taunting laugh. I held out my paint roller like a weapon, aiming it for those itty-bitty cut-offs with the pockets peeking out. She jumped away, giving me a warning glare.
“Landon, I swear…don’t even think about it!”
With an evil laugh, I had her cornered. “What’s with the Girl Scouts, huh? Why do you try to act like such a badass all the time if you’re spending your summers roasting marshmallows with a bunch of six-year-olds? What are you hiding? What’s in that secret box Sloane was talking about?”
“You could dump that whole bucket and my head and I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Worth a try.” I lunged and left a large blot of white on her tie-dye tank top. She gasped, staring down at the mess.
“You’re such a jerk, Landon Maxwell!” She lunged back, leaving most of my left arm covered. “What about you, huh? You want to be a cop—my aunt Fanny! What are you hiding?”
“Ha!” I answered swiping for the other side of her shirt. “Maybe I want to be a productive member of society instead of pretending to hate everyone all the time.”
She let out a howling laugh. “You, a productive member of society? Hilarious. All you care about are your stupid wrestling trophies and your parties and your sports cars.” This time, she caughts me square on the cheek, getting some in my hair. I could already feel it drying when I lifted my hands in surrender. We were both out of breath and making more of a mess than we were cleaning, and I was quite sure if we let it get out of hand, neither of us would live to hear the end of it from Hunt. We’d be painting walls until we were seventy.
Instead of tagging her back, I set the pole down and looked at her with a skeptical expression.
“You know…” I said, leveling my voice from a playful tease to a tone I hope she took seriously. “I may have a reputation as a partier, a bully, a pretentious rich kid. But at least I’m honest about who I am.”
She was grinding her teeth so hard I could see her jaw clench. “Congrats. Everyone knows you’re a jerk.”
“That’s true. Which is why I’m gonna find out what you’re hiding, Huntington. I work for your dad now, and your best friend is dating my brother. By the end of summer, I’ll figure you out.”
The harsh look on her face softened as she tried to assess how serious I was. Then, grabbing a towel from the bucket, I wiped as much of the paint off my face as I could. I put my headphones back on, and the two of us didn’t say another word to each other for the rest of the day.
Harper
I entered Burger Barn with my head high and my skin reeking of paint thinner.
“You smell like you’ve been embalmed,” said Reagan, making a big show of plugging her nose and scooting away from me in the booth.
I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back into the vinyl cushioning. “And you smell like a dirty rotten traitor.”
Reagan gasped. “Never.”
“You threatened me with the box!”
“You left me no choice,” she declared, squinting at me over the top of her paperback romance. “I cannot go to Girl Scout camp alone. Not senior year. That’s too depressing.”
“I’ll show you depressing,” I growled, launching forward to wring her neck.
“Ding, ding, ding,” sang Sloane arriving at the table just in time to prevent mass destruction. “Round one is a tie. Round two is milkshakes.” She pushed a chocolate shake into my waiting hands and pulled a chair up to the end of our table. “How was juvenile detention with baby bro Maxwell?” she asked, wisely changing the subject.
“It was not juvenile detention. It was worse than juvie. It was like doing chores with Stalin, or spending the afternoon watching Bob Ross paint happy little trees.”
Reagan grimaced. “So, those are the same thing for you…”
“That’s dark,” said Sloane, bobbing her pretty little redhead. “Very dark.”
“No, what is dark is being forced to spend hours, whole hours, with Landon Maxwell.”
“It can’t be that ba—”
“He asked me if I sell cookies,” I said, staring hard across the table at Reagan. She knew as well as I did, that there was nothing more insulting to a scout ambassador than having your role reduced to cookie sales. Cookie sales were for kids. Our troop was doing a heck of a lot more than schlepping thin mints.
“Alright, so he’s the worst of the worst,” said Reagan. “But you still have to play nice. Please? I don’t want to waste our chance at a Gold Award creating a damn rain garden.”
My permafrown subsided. As much as Reagan and I differed, we had one solid thing in common. We hated the other girls in our troop. We had been hating them since our brownie days, and those Barbies had all but exploded with enthusiasm when our project advisor suggested we create a rain garden. In my opinion the rain garden was the lamest possible project. Not only did it involve plant-life (blah) it required that you mentored younger scouts. Like, if I am going to waste my time mentoring young impressionable girls, it is going to be a tried and tested strategy for sneaking out your bedroom window, not digging a hole for rain to drain into.
Reagan and I both wanted to earn our Gold Award this year. It was the highest honor for a girl scout, and let's be honest, why on earth would anyone stay in scouts until graduation if they didn’t plan to finish strong? We knew our individual project proposals would elicit eye rolls from the rest of the troop so our plan was to back each other up. I hated to admit it, but Reagan was right, she needed me to actually be at camp for that to work.
“I’m doing my best, but he’s not making it easy.”
“So, you were just vandalizing alone?” asked Sloane, sipping her shake with caution. She had been doing this thing lately, where she insinuated she knew about Drake, but she wouldn’t come right out and say it.
“Patrol car ride for one,” I replied with a tight smile. It wasn’t a lie. I just left out the part where Drake shoved the evidence in my hands and took off for the hills. He still hadn’t texted me back, which was starting to royally piss me off. Like hello, how about a thanks for saving my bacon, baby, couldn’t have embraced my freedom without ya. I would have settled for a simple sorry.
“At least it’s over,” said Reagan, completely oblivious to the subtext of the conversation between Sloane and me.
“Not yet,” I grumbled. “Dad has us painting over graffiti on the riverwalk till Friday.”
Reagan offered a sympathetic pout. “Surely there is something you can do to make it better.”
“Like push him off the embankment,” I replied. A serene smile transformed my surly expression as I imagined Landon plummeting to the rocky riverbank below.
Sloane laughed, “That is one way to handle it. Or you could take advantage of his desire to impress your dad.”
Now that was an interesting idea. “Keep going.”
Sloane’s eyes lit up with a plan. “You know like, you could plant a bunch of fake intel. Tell him your dad’s favorite band is Wham and he loves listening to it on ride-alongs. Or you could tell him he’s trying to lose a few extra pounds so it would be helpful if he too
k temptations like donuts out of the break room and replaced them with healthy alternatives.”
I let out a cackle. “Sloane, you are a friggin genius!” It was so easy to picture Dad’s reaction to his morning jelly donut being subbed out for celery sticks.
Sloane popped an imaginary collar. “I know.”
The three of us spent the rest of our time at Burger Barn coming up with ways to torment my father through Landon. It was immensely satisfying plotting against the two of them. So satisfying in fact that when I finally did get a call from Drake I hit ignore.
Landon
It took me ninety minutes in the shower to get the paint out of my hair. It was really dried in there, and for a long anxiety-ridden hour, I was sure I would just have to shave it. On one side. I cringed at the thought.
Today, my contempt toward Harper Huntington elevated to a new level. I always disliked her and loved to torture her, but now I was sure that whatever she was doing had something to do with her dad, and that grated my nerves. It’s like she was trying to make his life hell. The guy was a saint. Works long hours for this city and this was how she repaid him? It’s bull.
That girl had secrets, and I was going to figure out what they were.
When I finally came downstairs, my dad was gone (again), and Gabe was sitting at the dining room table with papers scattered all over the surface.
“Does your community service include draining all the lakes in Grover?” he mumbled over the form he was writing on.
“Did you see how much paint that girl got in my hair?” I headed straight for the fridge since it looked like dinner was on us again tonight.
“I’m sure you didn’t start it, right?”
I rolled my eyes toward my brother while hidden behind the refrigerator door. Mr. Never Screws Up would never start a paint fight with a feisty delinquent by the riverwalk. He was probably busy writing essays about how perfect he was right now.
“There’s leftover Chinese takeout on the counter,” he said after he noticed me scavenging the fridge.
As promised, there were three boxes waiting for me. The kung-pao chicken was still half-full, and I glanced at my brother to see his plate was empty. “You don't want anymore?”
“Nope. All yours.”
Gabe hated kung-pao chicken. It was my favorite. The other two boxes had chow-mein and rice, which meant he ordered it and left more than half of it for me.
“Thanks,” I answered, taking the chopsticks out the paper sleeve and sitting down next to him. “Whatcha working on?”
“Essay for my scholarship application.”
My eyes just rolled on their own, but he caught it.
Setting down his pencil he just looked at me. “This is really stuff you should be thinking about.”
“I am,” I retorted with a little too much intensity. “I’m doing the internship, and it has a grant that would pay for college.”
“That’s one grant, Landon. What if you don’t get it? What if it doesn’t cover college? What are you going to do?”
“I’ll get it. Stop being such a buzzkill, Gabe.”
I tossed my half-eaten carton on the table, a splash of kung-pao sauce landing on one of his folders. He leveled his evil glare on my face.
“I know you’re just buying time until you can get to your trust fund.”
After a loud scoff, I jumped up from the table. “I don’t care about the stupid trust fund.” Which was a lie. A major lie. “I’m going to get this grant, go to college, and join the force. At least I have a plan.”
“Don’t turn this around on me. I’m just trying to help you.”
“No you're not,” I argued. “You’re trying to make me feel like crap again because I’m not on top of it like you are. I’m not buying dinner when Dad’s gone. And filling out scholarship applications.”
“Whatever, Landon,” he sighed, going back to his form.
I picked up a paper on top of the stack, and the logo made my stomach twist. Florida State. Setting it down, I glanced at the one next to it. Southern California. Chicago. Georgia.
He was leaving again.
Since my brother was gone for most of his high school years, he got a late start on the college search and decided on taking a gap year to prepare and help out the family. On top of that, he just got a new girlfriend who he could just not shut up about. And I guess I just figured, if he was staying, he was staying. The gap year would turn into two, three, five.
By the time he did leave, I’d be gone, doing my own thing. But it looked like things were just about to go back to the way they were before.
“Does the ginger know you’re applying to Florida?”
He sat back in his chair and looked at me for a long moment before answering. “Her name is Sloane, and she’s applying to the same places I am. I’ll be home until next year, Landon. You’ll be leaving then too.”
“Yeah, I don’t care what you do,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek.
Letting out a sigh, he shook his head and went back to work on his forms. I grabbed the takeout boxes from the table and headed for my room. I couldn’t just sit here and watch my perfect brother plan out his perfect future, far away from here.
Harper
Harper: Day two in purgatory. I regret my choices on Earth.
Sloane: Dramatic much?
Harper: I can hear a white rapper coming from his earbuds.
Sloane: I take it back.
“Ahem,” coughed Landon. “I’m not painting this sucker while you screw around on your phone.”
I tucked my phone into the back pocket of my shorts and let out a long exaggerated sigh. “But you’re doing such a nice job.”
Landon set his roller down on the paint tray and leaned back onto his heels. “I’m going to do an even nicer job telling your dear old dad that you wasted the afternoon texting your friends.” He was like, expert-level good at getting on my nerves, but I wasn’t about to let him have the last word.
“What’s wrong, Landi-poo? The Khaki Collective on the outs?”
Landon quirked one eyebrow. “The Khaki what?”
“Haven’t you ever noticed that you all wear khaki. It’s like the Gap exploded and you were all in range of the fallout.”
I watched with a smirk, as his eyes darted down to his khaki cargo shorts.
“Apparently I spend less time worrying about what my friends are wearing than you.”
Touche, I thought.
I really wanted to argue back. There was a great deal of pleasure to be had watching the vein in his forehead pulse with anger, but the familiar hum of a bike engine pulled my attention elsewhere.
Drake popped over the curb and cut the motor on his Harley. He was in dark denim jeans with a black leather jacket that didn’t have any place at 4:00 p.m. on a 90 degree day, but lord almighty he made it look good. I could practically read Landon’s mind as his eyes swept from Drake’s Vans to his helmet-free head.
“Oh, this is rich,” said Landon. “Please, please tell me this is your boyfriend.”
Ordinarily I would answer with yes, and you can shove your opinion in dark places. But I couldn’t say that because Drake was within earshot and he refused to be labeled.
“Gee, as fun as this has been, I’m gonna head out.”
Landon glared down at his watch. “We aren’t finished for fifteen minutes. We still have to clean up.”
I smiled sweetly. “I have complete and utter faith in your ability to clean up without me.”
I knew there was a small chance that Landon would rat me out to Dad, but I was banking on him being too embarrassed that I’d managed to duck out early on his watch to actually tell on me.
I scampered down the three steps from our spot on the riverwalk to where Drake’s bike was illegally parked, and took my seat behind him. The summer breeze felt delicious on my skin as we sped down Main street to Drake’s apartment.
His crew was already there, lounging in the backyard with cheap beer kept cool by a ki
ddie wading pool full of ice. I grabbed an ice tea out of the fridge and grabbed a seat next to Julianne. She didn’t belong with these guys, not with her long blonde hair and pretty pink tank top, but the way she told it, she was done-for the day she met Mike. She was a total Cherry Valance, you know the redhead from the Outsiders that is supposed to hang out with the Socs, but can’t stop making eyes at the Greasers?
Sloane would have loved to fold her into our trio, only she couldn’t because I couldn’t tell Sloane about Julianne without first telling her about Drake. It wasn’t that I was worried they wouldn’t like him. I didn’t like Gabe and that hadn’t impacted our friendship. It was more like I was worried they would ask me what I liked about him. Truthfully, some days I don’t know. It had started as something new and exciting. He threw rocks at my bedroom window and snuck me out to chug energy drinks and cruise around town on his bike.
I like taboo things and Drake being older than me, and outwardly despised by my sister, made him especially taboo. The problem was, he wasn’t into being boyfriend and girlfriend. He didn’t want to meet my friends, and sometimes it felt a little bit like his primary purpose for hanging out with me was pulling one over on my father.
Breaking up with him was the obvious smart thing to do, but I wasn’t ready to let go. I loved sitting in his stupid backyard listening to Mike explain for the four hundredth time that he was gonna get his bike ready to sell by August. I loved the way no one commented on my hair cut, unless it was a compliment, and I especially loved that a Cherry Valance could sit among a flock of juvenile delinquents and not feel one bit out of place.
The only thing I didn’t love was Drake. But maybe that would come with time.
Landon
She made me clean up by myself. Honestly, I was too stunned to react when she climbed onto the back of some guy's bike—a guy I could only describe as if a Hell’s Angel and a Jonas Brother had a baby.
