I begin circling the table,
placing a dish in front of each chair.
Flynn trails after me, setting down the napkins.
I can feel his eyes burning right through my dress.
I continue circling,
placing a fork on each napkin.
Flynn follows behind me, a seductive shadow,
putting down the knives.
Wherever I go,
Flynn goes, too,
gliding along next to me
as though we’re doing the tango.
I put down the spoons
and Flynn sets out the glasses,
his thigh hovering
dangerously close to mine now.
He begins passing me
the little paper umbrellas for the glasses.
That’s when it happens—
his fingertips brush my wrist!
Suddenly, this quivery sort of shiver
is fluttering all through me
and Flynn’s taking a step closer to me,
his fingers finding mine, lacing us together.
The heat that this is generating
could melt Alaska!
Now I take a step closer to Flynn,
lifting my chin toward his and—
“Hey, kids,” Paris calls.
He’s standing in the kitchen doorway smirking,
with his arms crossed over his chest,
one eyebrow raised.
“Can you give us a hand grating these coconuts?”
I Muddle Through the Next Half Hour
Avoiding eye contact,
avoiding any contact
with Flynn the Magnificent.
Because it’s entirely too weird to be falling for him
while his father is watching,
not to mention my aunt and my nosy big brother,
who for some strange reason
has decided that his baby sister is off-limits
to every boy on the entire planet.
At least Aunt Ginger and Leon
are still way too into each other
to notice what’s going on with Flynn and me.
They don’t even seem to see
all the lightning flashing in the charged air
that’s crackling between us.
But no matter what I’m doing,
whether I’m helping Aunt Ginger and Leon
dice the chicken for the adobo,
or stirring the coconut pudding over low heat, or wrapping up the butterfish in the ti leaves for the lau lau,
all I can think of is Flynn—
because he’s so completely and utterly
wow wow!
When We Finally Head Out onto the Patio to Eat
Flynn practically breaks into a trot to grab the seat next to mine. This totally goose-bumps me.
Paris flops into the seat on my other side,
while Aunt Ginger and Leon
settle in across from us.
They’re too entranced by each other
to be able to hear the cymbals crashing together
when Flynn presses his thigh against mine.
I wish the same thing could be said of Paris.
“I think maybe we’re crowding Flynn,” he says.
“Let’s give him a little more space.”
And he scoots his chair over
six inches to the right,
embarrassing me into doing the same thing.
Oooooo . . .
When I get that brother of mine alone
he’s gonna be dead meat.
But Flynn Won’t Give Up Without a Fight
He rises casually from his seat,
and lifting the pitcher of Mai Tais from the table,
he offers to pour the rum-laced drinks
for the twenty-one-and-older crowd.
I can’t take my eyes off Flynn’s long fingers
as he circles the table filling each of their glasses,
doing this really funny impression
of a drunken bartender.
A second later, when he sits down again,
he somehow manages to surreptitiously
slide his chair back in my direction,
successfully closing the awful gap between us.
And when his thigh touches mine for the second time,
and I feel the delicious heat of it,
an entire marching band
suddenly starts playing in my chest.
We Share a Secret Smile That Lasts a Nanosecond
Then,
while Paris is passing the adobo chicken to Leon,
Flynn slithers his hand into mine under the table,
and a dizzying current of energy surges between us.
“So, Flynn,” Paris asks,
“were you in Maui with your father when he met Ginger?”
But Flynn doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t even appear to have heard the question.
“That son of yours,” Aunt Ginger says fondly,
resting her head on Leon’s shoulder,
and smiling across the table at Flynn.
“He’s such a daydreamer.”
“What’s the matter, boy?” Leon asks gently.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“Hey, speaking of cats,” Aunt Ginger says,
“has anyone seen Bitsy?”
Did she just say “speaking of cats”?!
“Who . . . ,” I ask warily, “. . . is Bitsy?”
Aunt Ginger heaves a dreamy sigh and says,
“Only the most wonderful kitty on the face of this earth.”
“She really is terrific,” Leon says.
“I wonder where that little rapscallion could be.
It’s not like her to be late for supper.
She’s always home by eight. . . .”
I check my watch—
It’s 8:25!
My Heart Freezes in Mid-beat
Under the table, Paris grabs my other hand.
We sneak a quick peek at each other.
He’s obviously thinking what I’m thinking.
I squeeze his hand in panic.
Paris knocks back the rest of his Mai Tai in a single gulp.
“I hope that dear little cat hasn’t gotten herself
into any trouble . . . ,” Aunt Ginger says.
And a line creases her forehead.
“Don’t you worry, doll,” Leon says.
“I’m sure our Bitsy’s just fine.”
“She better be,” Flynn says,
finally emerging from his love trance.
“I’ve gotten way attached to the Bitster.
I can’t wait for her to get home
so you can see her, Bria.”
“Me neither,” I barely manage to croak.
Paris Pours Himself Another Mai Tai
As Aunt Ginger’s eyes start misting over.
“You know,” she says, “if it weren’t for Bitsy,
I never would have even met Leon.”
Then she tells us this long story about
how she was taking a walk on Hamoa Beach in Maui,
and she was feeling so sorry for herself,
because there she was,
all alone in this tropical paradise,
letting this fabulously deserted beach go to waste,
when she heard this tiny mew coming from behind her.
So she turned around and there was this scruffy kitten,
following right along after her.
“She could easily fit into a single one of my footprints,”
Aunt Ginger says.
“She was such an itsy-bitsy little thing.”
“Hence . . . the name?” Paris asks,
with a visible lurch of his Adam’s apple.
“Exactly,” Aunt Ginger says,
not seeming to notice his oddly strangled tone of voice.
There’s a Question Burning in My Throat
A question that has to do
wit
h whether or not
a certain little wonder cat is tiger-striped
But I’m way too scared to ask it.
“I figured she was lost,” Aunt Ginger continues.
“So I picked her up and started knocking
on all the doors of the houses nearby
to try and find her owner.”
“When Flynn and I answered our door,” Leon says,
“there was this absolutely gorgeous woman
standing there, smiling at us,
holding this scrawny little feline in her arms.”
Well, apparently,
one thing led to another,
and the three of them spent the rest of the day together,
searching to no avail for the kitten’s owner.
But before the moon rose that night,
Leon was in love with Aunt Ginger.
And they all were in love
with Bitsy.
“Which Was Totally Strange for Dad and Me,” Flynn Says
“Because both of us had always been allergic to cats.
And neither one of us had ever really even liked them.”
“To be honest,” Leon adds with a little chuckle,
“we’d never even liked the people who liked cats.”
Aunt Ginger snuggles up to Leon and says,
“But that was before they met Bitsy and me.”
He gives her a hug and says, “A couple of weeks later,
your aunt and I were married by a justice of the peace.”
“At sunset, right there on Hamoa Beach,”
Aunt Ginger says, getting all dewy-eyed.
“With Flynn as the best man
and Bitsy as the flower cat.”
And Flynn says that even though he and his dad
had been sneezing their heads off for two solid weeks,
the three of them decided right then and there
to bring Bitsy home to live with them.
“We knew it would be hard,” Flynn says.
“But Dad and I decided that we’d rather spend
the rest of our lives on antihistamines
than have to give up the Bitsinator.”
And Flynn
squeezes my left hand,
while Paris
squeezes my right one.
My Stomach’s Doing the Jitterbug
I can’t take this anymore.
I’ve got to find out if Bitsy’s the one I hit.
I’m trying to muster the courage
to ask them what color she is, when Leon says,
“Then the most amazing thing happened.”
“Two weeks ago,” Flynn says,
“we stopped being allergic to Bitsy!”
“The allergy doctor says
my boys must have somehow managed
to build up a resistance to her,” Aunt Ginger says.
“But I say it was a real bona fide miracle!” Leon cries.
“It’s a lucky thing, too,” says Flynn,
“because I was wheezing so bad
I couldn’t sleep at night.
I was willing to put up with it, though,
because Bitsy’s . . . Bitsy’s . . .”
“One cat in a million?” I squeak.
“She sure is!” Flynn says,
stroking my knee under the table
as if he’s patting a cat.
It’s a shame I can’t enjoy it.
But How Can I Enjoy Anything
When I still don’t know for sure?
I have to ask them. . . .
I have to ask them. . . .
Just then, Paris takes a swig of his Mai Tai,
and, in an offhand sort of way, he says,
“What does the Bitserino look like, anyway?”
“Yeah,” I say hopefully.
“What color is she?
Gray? Calico?”
“Nope,” Flynn says,
pulling out his wallet, like a proud father,
to show me her picture.
“She’s a cute little tiger-striped thing.”
No!
Suddenly I’m choking on my lau lau.
Or is that my heart that’s stuck in my throat?
Paris and Flynn start slapping me on my back.
“Dang hairballs,” Paris says.
And everyone laughs.
Even Paris and me.
But anyone who took a close look at either one of us
would be able to see the ohmigod!!!
in our eyes.
Flynn Reaches for My Hand Again
“Why don’t you come into the living room, Bria,
and I’ll show you some more pictures of the Bitster?”
And he leads me inside, away from the others,
sitting down real close to me on the couch.
He reaches for the thick photo album
on the coffee table and places it on my lap.
I can’t do this.
I can’t look at any more pictures of my victim. . . .
But Flynn doesn’t open the album.
Instead, he slips his arm around my shoulder
and traces a circle on my lips with his fingertip. . . .
At least if I faint, I won’t have far to fall.
Maybe Flynn would like to show me
some pictures of Bitsy,
but I think there’s something else
that he’d like to do first!
And I Want to Do It, Too
I want to kiss Flynn
just as much as Flynn wants to kiss me.
Maybe even more than Flynn wants to.
Maybe even more
than anyone in the whole entire world
has ever wanted to kiss anybody before.
I turn my face to meet Flynn’s gaze.
Those eyes of his—
melting into mine.
Telling me exactly what he wants to do.
Asking me if I want to do it, too.
And I do.
Do I ever.
I do.
I do!
But I can’t.
I can’t kiss him.
Not until I tell him the hideous truth
about what I’ve done.
But If I Tell Him
He’ll hate me.
And then I’ll never find out how his hands would feel slipping into my hair, how his fingers would feel at the nape of my neck, guiding my mouth toward his, how his lips would feel, pressing onto mine. . . .
Maybe I could kiss him first. Just kiss him one time.
And then tell him.
But That Wouldn’t Be Right, Would It?
No.
It would be evil.
Ohmigod, though. I’m sooooo curious.
But you know what they say about curiosity. . . . Oh, the irony of it all!
I’ve got to find out what it would feel like to kiss him. I’ve just got to know.
I close my eyes,
letting my face drift toward his and—
Suddenly,
we hear footsteps approaching!
“Hey, Flynn,” Paris calls from down the hall. “What have you done with the birthday girl?”
“Bria,” Flynn whispers urgently, letting his lips thrill against my ear.
“We can look at these pictures later.
Let’s take a walk to see if we can find Bitsy, okay?”
Find Bitsy?! Oh, man . . .
“Sure,” I gulp, as Flynn takes my hand and yanks me out the front door,
before Paris even sees where we went.
I Try
To steer Flynn
in the opposite direction
from the scene of the crime.
But he says that Bitsy sometimes visits the cat that lives at the apple farm a few blocks down the road, so we ought to check there first.
Now it’s just the full moon dappling the lawns, the echoing of the cricket choir, and Flynn’s long, warm fingers entwined with mine, as we stroll together through the
summer night lit with stars and fireflies and possibilities. . . .
The only problem is
that every step we’re taking
is leading us closer and closer still
to a certain heap of roadkill.
“Here, Bitsy, Bitsy, Bitsy . . .”
Flynn’s calling softly to her, in that devastating voice of his.
One block . . . Two blocks . . .
Now Flynn’s telling me stories about his life. Funny ones.
Stories that make me like him even more than I already did.
The sound of his laugh, the feel of his hand, those lips, those lashes . . .
“Here, Bitsy . . .
Here, Bitster, Bitster, Bitster . . .”
Three blocks . . . Four blocks . . .
Now Flynn’s letting go of my hand, slipping his arm around my waist,
and I’m slipping my arm around Flynn’s, lightly pressing my hip against his
as we walk down the road, linked together in perfect sync.
I’m trying not to think. Trying not to think.
Trying not to think about anything.
But I Can See It in the Distance Now
I can just make it out at the far end of the block— the lump that’s lying in the middle of the road! The poor little kitty that I snuffed out . . .
Then, without warning, Flynn slows to a stop and pulls me around to face him.
But I keep my eyes trained on the ground. Because if I look up into his, I know what will happen.
And I can’t let that happen.
Can I?
Sixteen Page 13
