by Maria Padian
“Favorite pizza?” she says.
“Oh. Pepperoni. No contest,” I tell her. I’m distracted, watching Sam, who’s helping his dad stoke the fire. I can see them through the glass doors. There seems to be a lot of smoke.
Everything in the house is back to normal already: the glass swept up, the damage repaired. The Shackeltons don’t live with duct-taped windows.
“Figures,” she says. “It’s Sam’s favorite, too.”
I snap open a chair. “You okay with that?” It’s the first time I’ve asked. Since the Night of the Rock (and the hand holding), there’s been a lot not said out loud.
“Sure,” Aubrey says. “He’s dated worse.”
For a second I think she’s serious. Then I see her sly smile. I fake-punch her arm.
“Thanks, I love you, too,” I tell her. “But seriously. This isn’t weird for you?”
“Oh, it’s totally weird!” she says. “I don’t want to imagine what you two do when I’m not around. Ew. But here’s the thing, you were my friend first. So in a way, I introduced you.”
Sam chooses this moment to come inside. He smells like smoke. “Bree? Dad needs you.”
She skips outside. Really. She skips.
The second the door closes, Sam moves in. His lips brush my ear as he speaks. “Actually, he doesn’t. Follow me.” He grabs my hand and we race upstairs, both laughing like two kids playing hide-and-seek. It’s probably a little mean, but honestly? Bree’s been on us like a second coat of paint all afternoon.
I wouldn’t mind some Sam-alone time.
We’ve been texting all week. Mostly dumb stuff, but also updates. Like how after the police questioned Melissa all hell broke loose, not just at school but in their parents’ circle. Melissa’s folks were pissed the Shackeltons didn’t call them first. But after what happened to Aubrey (and after they saw the #SteamerGirl Instagram posts), they decided not to mess around.
As it turns out, Melissa was at another party that night. So the identity of the rock thrower remains a mystery.
Sam leads me to his bedroom and closes the door. It’s the first time I’ve ever been alone with a boy in his personal space. Where he sleeps. Dresses. Reads, does homework, texts . . . all the things guys do alone. My mind starts to go places it really shouldn’t, especially given that his whole family is downstairs. I look around for something safe to distract me, to keep me from breathing in too deeply the warm-Sam smell of the place, and I fixate on the shelves packed with trophies and plaques. I try to will my heart to slow.
“Wow,” I say, pretending to read the brass plates. “Do you ever not win?”
He stands beside and slightly behind me, his chest brushing my shoulder. “Sometimes I come in second,” he says.
I glance at him. His expression is serious. I burst out laughing. “Oh my god! You mean that!”
Sam looks hurt. “What?”
I don’t even know where to begin. He’s not being snotty or bragging. He’s just . . . unaware of a world in which he doesn’t crush it. How can someone be so completely oblivious to his own dominance? That he breathes rare air?
Looking like a sweet, beautiful boy the whole time.
“You’re . . . incredible,” I tell him. Which is pathetically clichéd but utterly true. So next thing I know, I’m kissing him, my fingers behind his neck and creeping up into that hair I’ve been dying to touch, and he’s kissing me back. Pulling me down onto his bed, his hands on me, at the hem of my shirt and slowly moving up and under, and . . .
“Sam! Mom says come down. John’s here.” Aubrey accompanies this announcement with a few hard raps on the door. Which is, thankfully, locked.
He groans, burying his face in my neck, which is an unsurprisingly awesome feeling.
“I’m gonna strangle her,” he mutters into my ear. But he lifts his head and calls out, “Be there in a minute.” We both tense, listening for the sound of her retreating steps. When she’s gone, Sam rolls away, props his head on one hand, and stares into my eyes.
“We need some alone time,” he says.
“We do,” I agree.
“Next week. Friday night. My parents have plans and Bree is going to a birthday party for one of our cousins. We’d have the place to ourselves.”
A shiver runs the length of my spine. That’s a lot of . . . privacy. With a guy who’s had a lot of girlfriends. Izzy Crawford, on the other hand, has had exactly zero boyfriends. And only one makeout session pre-Sam. I don’t know if I’d even call it a “session.” Or making out. I’d mostly call it . . . forgettable.
Somehow, I suspect an evening alone with Sam would be anything but forgettable.
“What do you have in mind?” I ask. It’s an actual question. But when I see the look on Sam’s face, I realize it sounded like a come-on. And he answers with a kiss that tells me exactly what he’d like to do.
Someone else pounds on the door. “Dude! Your mom’s asking where you are!” John.
Sam sighs, resigned. “We’d better go down.”
A decent number of people arrived while we were upstairs. I’m amazed at how comfortable they seem in the Shackeltons’ home. As if it’s their own. No one bothers to ring: they just walk in, carrying bags of food, helping themselves to drinks, their conversations seeming like a continuation from an earlier party, as if this evening is simply a chance to complete a thought they’d had a few days ago.
They also seem muy interested in me, especially the adults. As Sam and John disappear downstairs to collect more chairs, I find myself listening in on a conversation:
“Who’s the girl with Sam?”
“Donna says she’s a school friend of Aubrey’s.”
“I thought he was with Dan and Faye’s daughter!”
“Didn’t you hear? They broke up and Melissa hurled a rock through the window!”
“My son says it wasn’t her. The kids were all at Paul and Meredith’s that night.”
“Well, I heard the police are still speaking with her. Faye’s very upset.”
“This new girl is very striking. Is she Italian?”
“Donna says her name is Isabella.”
“She has lovely eyes.”
Aubrey interrupts my eavesdropping. “Dad just put two of the white pizzas in the oven. Let’s get over there so we can nab a slice before Mr. Taunton eats them both. Look, he’s practically standing guard.”
I glance over to the brick oven, where I see Mr. Shackelton listening, a pained look on his face as a man with a crew cut and very red face speaks emphatically to him. Crew Cut doesn’t seem to be standing guard so much as lecturing.
As Aubrey goes to retrieve a couple of lemonades for us, I wander toward the oven. I stand close enough to hear the two men, but not so close that they notice me and invite me into their conversation.
Which actually sounds less like a conversation and more like a one-sided argument. With Crew Cut Dude doing most of the arguing.
“I’m telling you, Mike,” he insists, “it’s going to kill property values in East Clayton. And it’s wrong. People have worked hard and made sacrifices to create the right sort of community out here.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘the right sort,’ Phil?” Mr. Shackelton asks.
The question seems to anger Crew Cut. “You know what I’m talking about. Riffraff. People who get in cheap, park their rusty wrecks on the front lawn, and don’t maintain the property. Our house values are going to take a hit, you mark my words.”
“Riffraff,” Mr. Shackelton repeats. “Sure that isn’t code for people who don’t look like you, Phil?”
Even though the sun has set at this point, I can see Crew Cut turn redder. “You know I’m not a racist,” he fires back.
“Well, I know you’re not. But I wonder why you aren’t upset about the houses down the road from the new development. Half-acr
e lots, buildings completely neglected. Of course, those owners are white—”
“All I’m saying,” Crew Cut interrupts, “is that there are plenty of those Humanity houses in downtown Clayton, and that’s where they belong.”
Aubrey appears with our lemonades.
“Daddy! Are you burning my favorite pizza?” she demands.
Mr. Shackelton looks startled, as if that’s exactly what he’s doing. He grabs a long-handled wooden paddle and slides two bubbling pizzas from the oven. He deposits them onto a cutting board, then scoops up two more pizzas and slips them into the oven’s fierce mouth. Meanwhile, Aubrey takes this cutter that looks like a miniversion of an old-fashioned tree saw and quick-slices one of the pizzas into four wedges. We each take two, then find seats on the wall.
The wall where Roz and I were hiding a few weeks ago.
“Saved these in the nick of time,” Aubrey says, blowing on her slices.
“Does your dad always burn them?” I ask.
She takes a bite. “Not saved from Dad. From Mr. Taunton. Guy’s a pain.”
I blow on my pizza. I think I agree with her about Crew Cut. “How so?”
“He’s always angry about something. His latest thing is some new houses not far from here.”
I feel my heart beat a little faster. “The ones about a mile down the road? On the left, where they cut a bunch of trees?”
“I have no idea. Maybe.”
“What’s his problem with them?” I ask. I stare at the pizza. It smells delicious, but I can’t manage a bite. My throat feels tight.
“Somebody have a problem?” we hear Sam ask. He and John Mayhew balance plates stacked with slices in one hand, cans of soda in the other. Sam sits close to me, his thigh pressed against mine.
“Mr. Taunton,” Aubrey says, as if that’s all the explanation needed.
Sam rolls his eyes.
“What’s the dude on about now?” John asks.
“He seems upset about some new houses,” I say. I try to sound casual. But all the muscles in my body feel like tightly stretched wires.
Sam shakes his head in disgust. “The guy is such a loser,” he says. “Somebody wants to build a couple of houses on old man Jensen’s land. It’s basically this cow pasture, and Taunton’s got his jock strap in a knot about it. He started a group to oppose it and wanted my dad to join, but my parents told him to blow.” Sam turns to me. “That’s the dinner they’re going to next Friday. It’s a benefit for that development.” He leans into my shoulder and speaks softly into my ear. “And we get the house. All. To. Ourselves.”
“Ew. Stop,” Aubrey orders. “Can’t handle the PDA.”
John sort of smirks, then fills his mouth with pizza.
“If he’s such a jerk, why do your parents invite him over?” I ask.
Sam ignores his sister. His lips have migrated to my shoulder.
“He lives next door. And doesn’t bring anchovies,” Aubrey says. As if that explains everything.
It occurs to me these people are very good at a game I’ve never played. And have no idea what the rules are.
25
Two doors down from the entrance to lovely Meadowbrook Gardens Mobile Home Park is this sweet house where an old lady lives. Alone. At least, I assume she’s alone. I’ve never seen anyone with her when she’s out watering her flowers.
I’ve also never seen her lights on past ten at night, so I’m pretty sure this is a safe bet. Still, as we approach the driveway, a fierce prayer plays like background music in my head.
Please, God. Please. Don’t let her come out. Please let this work.
Thankfully, when Sam pulls the Jeep Cherokee up to the garage door, the house remains dark.
“I’d invite you in but they’re all asleep,” I tell him, unbuckling my belt. I need to make a quick getaway. Before the old lady hears the idling jeep and comes out to investigate.
“I’m pretty quiet,” he says, cutting the engine. His smile a hesitant question.
“My mother has ears like an elephant’s,” I tell him. “And I don’t think the first time she meets you should be with both of us sprawled on the couch.”
“Sprawled,” he repeats. As if it’s an option he’s considering from the dessert menu. “Interesting thought.” He leans in for a kiss, which I’m happy to return.
But then I unlock my door. “Good night, Sam. Thanks for driving me home.”
He looks a little surprised. “Uh . . . okay. Want me to wait for you to get in?”
I reach in my pocket and pull out my keys. “No worries,” I tell him. “And I’m going around back. Good night,” I say again as I get out.
I slip around the side of the house in the pitch dark, hoping I don’t crash into something loud, like aluminum garbage cans. Once in back, I peek from behind a bush at the Cherokee’s retreating headlights. Not until Sam disappears down the street do I set off for the entrance to Meadowbrook Gardens and the winding walk home.
It’s chilly, but the cool air and quick walk help clear my head. Not that clarity helps. Actually, the more I examine my situation, the worse it looks:
1.The Shackeltons are going to the Habitat fund-raising dinner. Next Friday they’ll be sitting at one of those round tables covered with a linen cloth, sipping wine with their other rich friends, when Mr. Lyle steps up to the mike to introduce the recipients of all their generosity . . . and what do you know! It’s their son’s new/latest girlfriend. From the trailer park.
2.That’s if I go. Which would mean I have to back out on Sam’s big plans for next Friday. Which, honestly, I’m not at all sure I’m ready for. Gorgeous as he is, he’s moving fast. For me, anyway. On the highway of love, Sam Shackelton is a Maserati cruising down the Autobahn, while Izzy Crawford is a tricycle weaving along the sidewalk. Okay, maybe not a tricycle. A two-wheeler. With training wheels. In any case, it’s pathetic.
3.But if I don’t go to the dinner, I back out of my deal with Mami and the Habitat folks. Epic levels of pissed-off-at-Isabella will occur.
4.Dinner or not, here comes the fund-raising letter. Which the Shackeltons will actually read because they’re donors. But their neighbors aren’t. This is who Mr. Lyle was talking about: the Buttheads who were holding up the project.
Is that what the “charm offensive” is all about? Convincing people like Crew Cut Taunton that people like us deserve a decent house? I feel a furious knot form in my stomach. Who does he think he is? He knows nothing, nothing, about us but already has his mind made up that we shouldn’t live near him and his precious family? God, I could just . . . kick something. Scream. Throw something.
Like a rock.
Roz is the only person I know who would completely get how calling Mr. Taunton a pain or a loser isn’t enough. Only she would understand the WTF?-edness of serving that guy pizza in your own house. What was it Aubrey said about Sam being too nice to see how mean some people can be? Maybe he got it from his parents. Too polite to tell the awful neighbor to beat it.
Mami and Jack are sound asleep when I creep in, which is fine, I don’t want to talk about my evening. Instead, I climb straight into bed and open my Chromebook, fingers crossed RubyFish_guest is up. I need a distraction.
I’m in luck . . . or not. Because while the internet is up, the first thing I see is a Facebook message from Mark.
Correction: Facebook messages. Plural. I check the dates and times: Mark’s gone all hypermanic on me, typing up a storm late at night.
“Doesn’t this guy have any actual friends?” I wonder aloud as I scroll through. It seems to be a massive catch-up on his life for the past six years, with interesting holes (“I’m doing better these days, and got my GED,” he writes, without explaining the parts when he wasn’t “doing better”), typical drama (“My girlfriend and I broke up”), and boring complaints (“My boss is a jerk”).
M
ostly, though, it’s about the Crawfords. Not his mom and dad: the extended circle of Crawfords, to which we both belong. Or not. Seems like I’m not the only one who feels like an outsider. He doesn’t go into detail, but according to Mark, he’s the cousin the Crawfords all love to hate.
Which I get.
“Honestly, Cuz?” he types at the end. “I’m not kidding about you all coming to Reunion. I told Ma you and I were in touch, and she said to tell your momma hey and you all can stay with us. So no more weakass excuses!”
What was it Mami said about choices? They define us. In the big, complicated world of good luck and bad luck and things we can’t control, we do control our choices.
So what does it say about me that given all these choices—Habitat dinner or a night alone with Sam? newsletter profile?—I pick None of the Above.
Instead, I move the cursor to the bottom of Mark’s long, multipart message and type: “Hey, Cuz. Guess who’s coming to Reunion?”
26
Here’s what you can count on for breakfast when you’re in the hog business: really good ham.
Here’s what’s an added Aunt Carrie bonus: hot-from-the-oven biscuits, the butter liquefying on contact. Fluffy scrambled eggs. Grits, with something called red-eye gravy poured into a well in the middle. She has this feast ready and waiting for me when I stumble downstairs in the morning. It’s the first I’ve seen of her; Mark picked me up at the bus stop at midnight and everyone was asleep when we got in.
“Oh my lord, there she is!” Aunt Carrie exclaims when I appear. She stands at the stove, where something that smells sausage-y spatters in a cast-iron pan. The sun is bright in her cheery kitchen. She opens her arms wide. “Give me some sugar, girl.”
I sink into her warm hug. She’s wider . . . and whiter . . . than I remember. Mami’s hair is still jet-black, but Aunt Carrie’s has morphed mostly silver. She wears jeans and a loose, smock-type shirt. She presses me into her pillowy bosom, then holds me at arm’s length.
“Look at you! You’re a beauty!” she says. “And so grown up. How did that happen?” We both laugh, and she gestures to a kitchen chair for me to sit. Without asking, she pours me a cup of coffee and begins shoveling food onto a plate.
