by Maggie Bloom
Chapter 6
WHEN Mick and I finally unlocked our lips, I couldn’t stop smiling. I was happy-as-a-lark, over-the-moon, on-cloud-nine ecstatic. And Mick seemed just as thrilled, but in a slightly less dopey, less obvious way.
“So would you like to meet my parents?” he offered, as we exited the far end of the nature trail hand in hand.
“Sure,” I said. What the hell. Even if it was still a bad idea for him to meet my parents, I saw no good reason why I couldn’t meet his parents. After all, they had to be at least halfway decent to have such a wonderful son.
Speaking of parents…
I turned my attention to dreaming up excuses to feed Mr. Tightwad and the Mental Hygienist when I returned to camp. Because even though they could be pretty gullible, they’d never actually believe I’d spent two hours in the bathroom like I’d threatened to.
I was thinking wild animals. Maybe I could convince them that a bear, or a coyote, or even a rabid raccoon had cornered me and held me hostage.
Mick squeezed my hand. “Hey, we’re here. This is it,” he said.
“Oh, sorry. I guess I spaced out for a minute there.”
He grinned, like he found my flakiness endearing. “That’s all right. You ready?”
Ready? How ready did I need to be? Suddenly that one little word made me nervous. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said with a jittery laugh.
Then my new boyfriend and I strolled right into the heart of his family’s compound. And I must say, the place was—in a word—interesting. Spanning the perimeters of at least three or four campsites were numerous trucks, SUVs, and campers that had all seen better days. Total, I counted seven ragged vehicles. But what stood out most about the place was the incessant buzz of activity.
At the back of the compound, the redheaded twins I’d seen the day before were Hula-Hooping with oversized, glittery hoops. To the left, a plumpish woman about my mother’s age was cooking something delicious on a big charcoal grill. And at a dilapidated picnic table by the woods, the two young guys I’d tripped over at the rest area were hunched together over a laptop computer.
I was still drinking in the scene, when Mick reached for the door of a small RV. “Ladies first,” he said, stepping aside.
“What? No. You go,” I pleaded. Honestly, the thought of coming face-to-face with my boyfriend’s parents for the first time in such a confined space made me physically ill. I mean, at least if Mick took the lead, I could hide behind him to avoid direct scrutiny.
“If you insist,” he agreed. “But don’t say I didn’t offer.”
We climbed the single metal step to the RV’s living room, but it was immediately clear that the place was empty. Mick’s parents weren’t home after all.
“This is it. Home sweet home,” he joked. “You like it?”
The entire RV was probably smaller than my bedroom. “Oh…yeah…I like it,” I said tentatively. “It’s…”
Shit. I couldn’t think of one nice thing to say about the cramped, disheveled space—not that I thought I was better than Mick or anything. It wasn’t that. It was just that no specific feature of his home was jumping out at me as something to compliment. And on top of everything else, I was starting to get a superiority complex (if there even is such a thing). Because suddenly I felt very privileged and totally guilty and undeserving.
“I know,” Mick said, saving me further embarrassment. “It’s not much to talk about, is it?”
I shrugged indecisively.
“Would you like a drink?” he offered, opening a small built-in refrigerator in the kitchen. “We have iced tea and water.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll take some water, please.”
He handed me a cool plastic bottle. “If you come over here, I’ll show you my bed,” he said in a teasing, seductive tone.
“Ooh. Your bed?” I giggled. “I don’t know if I should. That sounds a little dangerous.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” he promised. “Cross my heart.” He boldly swept his hand across his chest in a giant x pattern.
“Well, if you promise…”
I followed him to a small alcove near the back of the RV, where he sat down on a couch that was tucked against the wall and patted the cushion next to him.
“I thought you were showing me your bed,” I said, still standing in front of him in protest. I mean, he shouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t really willing to deliver.
“I am. This is it,” he said, grinning playfully. “This folds flat.” He pointed at the back of the couch. “I sleep right here. Come on. Sit with me.”
“It’s not really what I expected,” I admitted, disheartened. “But why not?”
Even though there was plenty of room for me to sit beside him, I stretched out horizontally and rested my head in his lap instead. And the cool thing was, he didn’t act surprised. He just dug right in for a deep, relaxing backrub. I guess it was another benefit of having a boyfriend with big, strong hands: He could turn my muscles to Silly Putty.
Now I know this sounds pretty goofy, but the backrub was so pleasurable I had to just about glue my lips shut to avoid moaning out loud. After all, I didn’t want Mick thinking I was some horny tramp getting all revved up over him touching me.
“So tomorrow’s your birthday?” he asked, as I started to slip into a sleepy dream.
I sort of half nodded.
“We should do something special,” he declared. “Something memorable. It is your sweet sixteen, after all.”
I’m not gonna lie. The idea of a sweet sixteen grossed me out a little. I mean, all I could picture were phony, overdressed debutantes—dripping with money and attitude—partying it up at some ritzy, star-studded venue. Definitely not my thing.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Then think about it,” he ordered. “I want you to remember this birthday for the rest of your life.”
Well, that was a tall order. How the hell was I going to think of something so fantastically original to do that it would stick in my memory forever, especially here at good ol’ Wild Acres? And by the way, shouldn’t my awesome new boyfriend be in charge of the thinking anyway? I mean, I hated to turn into such a bossy nag so early in our relationship, but…
“Isn’t that your job?” I teased. “Why don’t you surprise me? I love surprises.”
Okay, so I might have misrepresented my feelings about surprises. But at least maybe I wouldn’t get stuck doing all the dirty work.
“A surprise it is,” Mick declared.
Out of the blue, the RV’s door jumped open, causing me to develop an immediate case of rigor mortis.
“Eh, Mick. Cy’s lookin’ for ya,” one of the card-playing, internet-surfing dudes said, poking just his head through the doorway.
It was the first time I’d gotten even a halfway decent look at the guy, since he always seemed to be staring at the ground. And even though I assumed he was one of Mick’s relatives, he was absolutely nothing like Mick. He had flat, greasy hair, a bunch of ready-to-pop zits, and such slouchy posture he resembled an invertebrate.
“Thanks, Cal. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Mick said.
For less than half a second, the mystery guy made eye contact with me. Then he shut the door and left. “Who’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s my cousin. My Aunt Billie’s kid.”
“Kid? How old is he?” I said, sort of confused. Honestly, the guy looked about thirty.
“Cal? Hmm… I think he’s about four years older than me. So about twenty. It’s hard to keep track, since we don’t go to school. We don’t really measure time the same way you do.”
“Huh?”
“We gauge time mostly by the seasons,” he explained. “By the rhythm of nature. Every few months, things shift. And then there are events too. Special experiences that mark new chapters, like meeting you.”
It could not possibly be true that meeting me was a serio
us turning point in this sweet, gorgeous boy’s life. “Really? I’m a new chapter?”
Mick leaned in and delivered a French kiss that literally curled my toes. “Best one yet,” he whispered. “But let’s keep writing.” And on that sappy note, a rap on the door interrupted us again. “Oops, I forgot. My dad’s looking for me. You are very distracting, Miss Fontain,” he scolded. “I’ll probably be busy for a while. Can I walk you home?”
Tupelo-9? Home? I’d almost forgotten that, technically, Mick was at home here in Wild Acres.
“That’s okay. Thanks for the offer and everything, but I’ll be fine on my own,” I said. After all, if I’d shown back up at Tupelo-9 with Mick in tow, I would’ve been inviting an even bigger argument than I’d already signed up for.
