“She ever goin’ to say anything?” Travis Oakham asked loudly. He was the wide receiver on the football team and thereby everyone’s favorite human. That was beyond unfortunate for a myriad of reasons.
“Allow me to begin,” I said quickly in response, vamping as my pulse accelerated to a pace I didn’t stop to analyze. Allow me to begin? Did I actually say that in front of my classmates? Kill me now. Notify my family it wasn’t pretty.
Travis made a sweeping gesture with his arm and then accepted a note passed his way from the gaggle of cheerleaders at the back of the class. The cheerleaders lived to pass Travis notes. He smirked at its contents and I attempted to focus.
Time to get my A in spite of it all. I came here with a goal, and I’d achieve it if it killed me.
“Abraham Lincoln was more charismatic than Travis Oakham,” I said with confidence. All eyes shifted to Travis and then back to me. It wasn’t the opening I’d planned on, but I went with it. “And we all know Travis is charismatic. Like Travis, Lincoln knew how to hold court. People listened to him.” The confused look on Travis’s face let me know that I had his attention, and for the remaining five and half minutes of my presentation, I held on to it, along with the rest of the room. I wasn’t a rock star up there by any means, and the applause when I finished was tepid at best, but I felt steady on my feet when I returned to my desk. I hadn’t crashed and burned, which was everything. I’d remembered my material and Mr. Blankenship seemed pleased as he jotted away on his legal pad. The jury was still out on how my opening comments about Travis had been received, but I’d worry about that later. One lily pad at a time, I reminded myself.
“That was really good,” the new girl whispered as I sat down. “Truly. I’m not just saying that.”
“Thanks,” I said, briefly meeting her eyes. She was unfortunately even prettier than I’d thought and apparently polite. I didn’t trust it but was brought up with manners. “Welcome to Tanner Peak.”
Her smile widened. “Thanks. This is my fourth school in five years,” she whispered with a weary smile and then crossed one leg over the other, lace-up boots and all, as she focused on the next presenter. She would do well here. Travis and his flock would scoop her up and place her square in the world of the elite and sought after. It was only a matter of time.
Flying high on my not-a-failure of a morning, I floated into the cafeteria following fourth-period geometry and dropped my brown bag lunch on my standard table. My cousin Berta, also a junior, smiled at me. “And? What was the verdict?”
“I didn’t choke. I almost choked. Then didn’t choke. It was a record save.”
“Proud of you,” she said. “You earn a strawberry tart made from your family’s very own awesome fruit.” Berta tossed a Saran-wrapped tart in the air and I caught it handily.
“Score. Oh, and we got a new girl,” I said. “Yet another—”
“Is anyone sitting here?”
I glanced up, stunned to see Courtney Carrington holding a lunch tray and smiling nervously down at us. I passed a glance to Berta, who smiled back at Courtney. “Uh, no,” I said. What the hell was happening?
“Great.” Courtney took the seat next to me, and I marveled at this turn of events because why wouldn’t Courtney sit with Melanie Newcastle or Travis Oakham or all the other Kens and Barbies? Didn’t matter. They’d recruit her soon enough. “I’m Courtney,” she said to Berta and extended her hand across the table. Interesting. You didn’t see a lot of teenagers shake hands. She carried herself with a certain maturity I wasn’t used to.
“Roberta Wicks, but everyone calls me Berta. You must be new.”
“It’s my first day,” Courtney said and hooked her thumb at me. “We have history together. It’s Margaret, right?” I cringed a little. I hated my name. Always had and probably always would.
“Yeah.”
“What’s your last name?” Courtney asked.
“Beringer,” I supplied.
“Oh, like that strawberry farm on the way into town. There’s a cute hanging sign in the shape of a strawberry.”
“Yeah, that’s my family’s place.”
“Seriously?” she asked, sitting up a little straighter. I was reluctant to answer due to my whole farm-kid status. It hadn’t been easy. Tanner Peak was a small town in the hills of California made up of roughly twelve thousand people. Within that, the makeup was divided into those who lived in the center of town and those on the berry farms that made up its perimeter. I’d heard the term “dirt under her nails” used as a shorthand one too many times. Nevertheless, I nodded.
“I’ve lived there all my life. On that farm.”
Berta looked my way. “The Beringers are one of the largest producers of strawberries in probably a hundred miles.”
“Wow,” Courtney said. Again, this girl was making an effort.
I inclined my head. “Berta is my cousin, I should point out, and thereby predisposed to say that.”
Courtney nodded. “Cousins, huh? You know, there is a slight resemblance, now that you mention it.” And there was. Only the boring brown straight hair on my head was curly and fun on Berta’s. What was more, Berta always seemed to know how to tame it into a cute and sassy style, a talent I lacked. Berta’s eyes were brown. Mine have always been described as more hazel.
Courtney looked thoughtful. “It’s amusing that your family is known for berries and your last name is Beringer.”
“Trust me,” I said. “The irony is lost on no one.”
“So where are you from, Courtney?” Berta asked as we dug into our lunches.
She took a minute to finish her bite of salad. “Originally, Chicago, but my family moves a lot. My father’s line of work. It’s not the easiest, moving so often, but I’ve been told that we’re settling down for good this time. I guess we’ll see about that.”
“What does your dad do?” Berta asked.
“He owns a chain of department stores.” Courtney took another bite and Berta and I froze. I played back her name in my head. Courtney Carrington. Of course. I was an idiot.
Berta set her cream soda down in shared shock. “Are you talking about Carrington’s Department Store? You’re that Carrington?” For the past four months, it was all anyone in town could talk about. We had three stoplights, a handful of restaurants, and finally the town was getting its very own department store. This was huge. Monumental. There would be no more forty-minute drive to Westover for school shopping. No half-day commute just to buy a decent birthday present. In only a few short weeks, we could shop for clothes or appliances right here in town. It was still hard to imagine.
“Right,” Courtney said. “My father grew up in Tanner Peak, so it was important for him to open a store here at some point. I guess ‘at some point’ means now.”
“I just can’t believe it,” Berta said, shaking her head in awe. “You realize you’re a celebrity. At least to people like us.”
Courtney laughed. “Trust me. I’m not.”
“It’s cool of your dad to bring a store here,” I told her, remembering what my parents had said on the topic. “It’s going to bring a lot of jobs to Tanner Peak and probably make it more attractive to outsiders looking for a place to land.”
Courtney inclined her head in thought. “Well, I’m sure it had to be a favorable investment as well, if I know my father. Plus, my grandmother still lives around the corner from the school, so there’s also a personal connection.”
Berta pointed at me. “Netta!”
It all came together in my head. “Oh my God. Netta Carrington.” The woman gave out whole Snickers bars on Halloween and was practically a grandmother to everyone she met. We just never realized she was the department store Carrington. And why would we? She was Netta to us.
“Yes!” Courtney said. “You guys know her?”
“Everyone knows her,” I said. “She’s awesome, so I’m guessing your dad must be.”
“Oh, let’s not get carried away.” There was an almost eye-roll t
hat came with the comment, indicating that she didn’t think her dad was so great. My intuition steered me past it.
“So what’s there to do around here?” Courtney asked. “I’ve been here ten minutes and haven’t really had time to explore.”
I opened my mouth and closed it, looking to Berta for help because there wasn’t much. “We have a movie theater,” she said, offering up our two-screen Cineplex.
I nodded. “And a pretty okay sandwich shop.”
“There’s a park.”
“And a kick-ass Laundromat,” I said. “I spend most of my Saturday nights at the Laundromat. Everyone who’s anyone is there.” Horror slashed across Courtney’s face and I held up a hand in reprieve. I may have been a low-ranking high school socialite, but I wasn’t a lost cause. “Just a joke. I’m kidding, which I tend to do a lot. Probably a nervous thing. As is announcing to others when I’m nervous. Just a heads-up for you.”
Courtney relaxed into a grin. “Helpful tip. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry,” Berta told her. “There’s plenty to do, especially when you add in school activities.”
“I play tennis,” Courtney said, brightening.
Of course she played tennis. I mean, of course. Instead of rolling my eyes at the cliché, I decided to be helpful. “We have a team. There’s only a few weeks of school left, but you could maybe see about practicing with them.”
Berta joined in. “Official tryouts happen in August for next year. You’ll want to hit up Coach Barnhart.”
Courtney scribbled a note in her spiral. “Barnhart. Got it. This is awesome. Thanks, guys.”
“Anytime,” I said.
“Hi, there. We haven’t met yet,” Melanie Newcastle purred as she landed alongside our table. And here we go. Pretty much right on time. Courtney stood and offered her hand with a smile.
“We haven’t. I’m Courtney.” Instead of accepting Courtney’s hand, Melanie did what she and her friends always did and pulled Courtney into an embrace, the multitude of bracelets on her wrist cling-clanging along. This time I actually did roll my eyes.
“And I’m Melanie. We’re so glad to have you. How about I introduce you around?”
Courtney’s smile doubled in wattage. “Oh, I’d love that.” With Melanie’s hand on Courtney’s shoulder, they headed off in the direction of the beautiful and sought after.
“We’ll catch up later,” Courtney said over her shoulder. She held my gaze and nodded sincerely. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be until that sincerity was replaced with the sugar-coated niceties germane to the elite.
“Bye, Margaret. Bye, Berta. You two enjoy the rest of your lunch,” Melanie said in a friendly / false farewell. Yeah, kinda like that.
I sighed and smiled at Berta as we picked up the remains of our lunch and headed to the trash can. The new friend possibility had been nice while it had lasted.
Onward and upward.
Chapter Two
The afternoon sun beat down gloriously over the farm, making the green seem extra vibrant and the color on the strawberries pop for days. I snagged a ripe one on my way into the farm and bit into it, closing my eyes at the burst of sugar and fruit that filled my mouth. Nothing like it on the planet. The sea fog from the Pacific had rolled off for the day and in its wake had left a mild afternoon, maybe even warm enough for that swim in the creek if I was lucky.
“What’s up, Scrapper?” my brother Clayton asked, approaching from the cooling rooms. The nickname he’d given me from childhood had stuck. What could I say? It was better than Margaret, and I wore it as a badge of honor. I’d always been tenacious about proving myself on the farm. Scrappy I could cop to.
“Well, I’ve survived another week of public education and have returned home at long last.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“I am not. I’m what you call a realist. My existence is a struggle.”
“It is not. Your nose has been in too many damn history books. You’re not one of the oppressed. You’re a middle-class kid living in Southern California. This is the time in your life when you should be soaking it all up, enjoying yourself,” he said, wiping down the windshield of his pickup. “High school is the best.”
Well, yeah, it certainly had been for Clay, who had graduated three years ago with titles like quarterback and prom king and favorite student in all of the universe. Girls lusted after him. Guys wanted to be him. Strangely, I hadn’t received the same adoration during my time in high school.
“I think we’ll have to agree to disagree on the whole high school high-note thing,” I said. “But it’s fine. What’s going on around here? Need any help?”
“Nope. Knockin’ off for the day. The guys are laying the last run of plastic to the northern fields. Pop’s out there with them now, wrapping up. Berries are looking good this year, kiddo.”
“Tasting good too. We were lucky. Not too many storms.”
He whistled. “I’ll take that luck again next year.”
We were easing out of peak season, in which everyone on the farm had to put in immense amounts of overtime. There were still plenty of strawberries on the plants to harvest, but the bulk of the work was behind us. Kinda nice to see my brother breathing a little easier as we moved into the summer months. My father would now shift his focus to some of the administrative tasks it took to keep the farm up and running as Clay focused on replanting the fields for the fall harvest. My brother had taken over a good chunk of the responsibility on the farm in the last year. At least the parts my father was willing to relinquish to him. Beringer’s had belonged to my grandfather first, passed down to my father, and one day would belong to my brother and me. Something Clay took very seriously.
He tossed the hand towel into the truck bed. “You just missed your buddy on the refrigeration truck.”
“Oh yeah? How’s Jimbo?” I was sad to have missed him. Jimbo happened to be my favorite of the drivers. Quick witted. Smart.
“He left a book for you. Something about Hemingway’s life. I put it on the kitchen table in the big house.” The big house, where I lived with my parents, stood on the southern end of the farm, closest to town. Clay occupied the smaller cottage a few fields over to the east. It gave him space for…extracurricular activities.
“He knows I’ve been on a Hemingway kick.”
Clay laughed in disbelief. “Whatever bookworm gene came your way by birth certainly skipped my hard head.”
“Whatever. You just prefer the outdoors, and I can’t say I blame you.” I rolled my shoulders and stared skyward. It sure was a nice afternoon.
Clay walked to the driver’s side of his truck and called to me over his shoulder. “Headed to town for beer and Oreos. Coming or not?”
“Coming.” I’d been following Clay around religiously since childhood. He pretended to tolerate me, but I knew he enjoyed the company. I ran inside, dropped my backpack on the kitchen table, and scurried back out to the truck.
“Margaret Eileen Beringer, get back in here!” I froze at the sound of my mother’s voice, held up a finger to Clay, and headed calmly back inside.
My mother stood in the entryway with a hand on her hip. Her hair was a shade lighter than mine, closer to Clay’s blond locks, and cut to her shoulders. I’d always found my mom pretty. “Yes, ma’am?” I asked, already aware of the infraction.
“I know my only daughter did not just race in this house and then out again without a word about how her history report went when I’ve been waiting to hear all day, checking the clock.”
I grinned. “I’m very sorry. I’m a thoughtless daughter ready to make it right.”
“And? How’d it go? Were you nervous? Did you forget anything?” My mom had always been my biggest cheerleader.
“Petrified as always, but it went really well. Best part of all? It’s over and I don’t have to agonize over it ever again.”
“That’s great, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you. I knew you’d ace it. Now, where are you runnin
g off to like a crazy child?”
“Klein’s Grocery with Clay. He’s craving beer and cookies. He might be pregnant.”
“Well, he should lay off the beer in that case. Wait a second.” She walked to her purse and found a ten. “Please pick up some white vinegar. The coffee machine’s been going nuts and I can’t work if I can’t caffeinate.”
“Will do. Back soon.” My mother, believe it or not, was a romance writer. As in, the torrid kind of sexy romance you see in the checkout lines at the grocery store. The ones with the shirtless man with rippling muscles on the cover that make you feel embarrassed to be alive. She chose to write under the pen name Bella Charmed but would happily talk about her work to most anyone who asked, and those who didn’t, for that matter. While I found it slightly embarrassing where my classmates were concerned, I was also really proud of her and all she’d accomplished.
I kissed my mom on the cheek, tore out of the house, and jumped in the truck just in time for Clay to pull away. “Turn it up,” I said, and he blasted the Beach Boys, as we were nothing if not throwbacks. With the windows down, “Fun, Fun, Fun” on the radio, and the entire weekend laid out ahead, I didn’t think the afternoon could get much better.
The parking lot at Klein’s was overflowing when we arrived, typical for a Friday afternoon when the weather was nice. Various barbecues, picnics, and get-togethers would certainly be taking shape. But it was the blonde sitting in the rocking chair in front of the store that snagged my focus. Courtney Carrington, still wearing the plaid skirt and the boots, sat there writing something in a notepad. No, wait, drawing something. She’d glance up briefly and then go back to her page, biting her bottom lip in concentration. Her long hair was now pulled into a side braid that rested on her shoulder. She looked infinitely more relaxed than the last time I’d seen her, as if in her element. I stopped to watch her draw for a moment, captivated by the serenity of it all.
Strawberry Summer Page 2
