“Oh. Hey.” Murphy crossed her arms tightly against her, which was a rare modesty for her. Rex stared at her, then looked at the ground.
“Hey.”
Murphy’s heart started to pound out a rhythm. Not like the rhythm she usually got with boys who saw her breasts. It was sort of bigger and more unpredictable at the same time. Holding her shirt tight against her chest with one hand, she ran her other hand through her hair, slicking it back.
“Can I have some privacy, please?”
Rex rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, scratching it hard, and looked hard at her face but nowhere else. “Yeah. I was wondering if Leeda was back yet.”
“Nope.” Murphy frowned. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Rex?”
“Yep, sorry.” He turned his back to her so that she had a view of his sunburned neck as she moved around the corner of the dorm. The water was still running behind her, but she was focused on that neck, that head of his, wondering what was going through it.
Murphy pulled her T-shirt on tight, crossing her arms over her chest again. For a moment she felt wide open, and it was an achy, horrible feeling. Murphy searched herself for some reliable emotion to tackle this strange, unsteady one. She knew there was a reason she could find to be angry. And it took only a fraction of a second to find it.
Rex had been watching her. Like any other guy would have.
The open spot in the inside of her chest closed with a snap, and the anger settled over her like a fog. Rex was like every other guy. In the end, that was it. He was the same as anybody else.
Murphy breathed a sigh of relief. It felt good to be let down.
Compared to the heat and dirt of the orchard, the inside of Breezy Buds Plantation, the Cawley-Smiths’ mansion, felt pristine and deliciously crisp and cool. Leeda laid her sunglasses down on the banister and looked around. She had never looked so disheveled—her Sweetee shirt was unbuttoned at the bottom; her shorts hung slackly off her hips. “Mom?”
“Did you tell them what time you’d be here?” Birdie asked.
Leeda nodded, not surprised but hurt all the same. She hadn’t seen her mother in three weeks.
She sighed. She wanted to look for her mom, but she didn’t think she should have to. “I’m gonna take a shower. Meet you at the pool?”
Birdie started toward the back of the house.
Upstairs in her bedroom, Leeda basked in the pleasure of her own bathroom and all the good smells of her soaps and shampoo. When she emerged, surrounded by a cloud of steam, after an incredibly long shower, she slipped into her favorite pink, low-hipped bikini and wrapped a towel around her waist. A pile of mail was scattered on her bureau, and she sifted through it—a bunch of magazine subscriptions she wanted to renew, a few outfits she’d ordered from girlshop.com. A thick, square envelope was at the bottom of the pile. It was addressed To Miss Leeda Cawley-Smith in black calligraphy.
Leeda slid her finger through the seal and opened it, pulling out a card wrapped in tissue paper. It smelled like lilacs and had lilac petals stamped into the card stock. It was Leeda’s invitation to the wedding.
She walked downstairs into the family’s huge living room, then the parlor, then out onto the grass. The pool was large and completely square, with a rock wall built into the back of it, which cascaded a steady, clear stream of water into the pool. The patio was large and Italian tiled and glowing in the sun. There, stretched out on their stomachs, were Mrs. Cawley-Smith, Danay, and Birdie.
Birdie had pulled her recliner a little to the side, closer to the pool. She was dripping wet and drinking a Diet Coke, and she smiled at Leeda as she came out. Mrs. Cawley-Smith and Danay had their faces turned toward each other and their sunglasses on. Danay was topless.
Sometimes Leeda was stunned at how perfect her sister was. And how much she and their mom looked alike. Lying side by side, they looked like a before and after of the same woman.
Leeda tugged on her bikini bottom and dragged a chair up to the pool.
“Are we allowed to go nude at the pool now?”
“I need an even tan for my dress. It’s backless,” Danay mumbled, not moving an inch except for her lips. Leeda hadn’t even known she’d gotten a dress yet. Wasn’t the maid of honor supposed to know these things?
“What about lunch?”
Leeda’s mom scratched an itch at her waist. “I’m sorry, honey. We got hungry. You and Birdie tell Lydia what you want the next time she comes up.”
Leeda clenched her teeth. She sank back on her chair and looked at Birdie, who shrugged at her. She hated how hurt she felt. But she was above saying it. She turned to her sister and said airily, “I got my invitation. You forgot to add the ‘and guest.’”
“What do you mean?” Danay lifted her head slightly.
“Well, for my date.”
Danay sank back down flat in an “is that all” gesture. “Lee, it’s a small wedding. A lot of people aren’t bringing dates. Unless they’re married or engaged.”
Leeda felt her heart sinking. “But what about Rex?”
“Leeda,” Mrs. Cawley-Smith said, “you can do without him for one night.”
“But I’m the maid of honor.”
Silence from both Danay and their mom. Birdie had reached the bottom of her Diet Coke and made a sucking sound with her straw, then looked at Leeda self-consciously.
“That’s not fair. Mom?”
Lucretia merely rolled over onto her back and pursed her lipsticked lips.
“Leeda, the maid of honor usually partners up with the best man,” Danay said flatly.
Leeda winced. Brighton’s best man was Glen, his bald, gay cousin. The few times they’d met, he treated Leeda like a princess, to the point of it being embarrassing.
“But…” Leeda felt desperate. It went beyond feeling shafted. She didn’t think she could take the hours being trapped with her family in such a major act of Danay worship without Rex at her side. She would shrivel into nothing. She would lose herself. She would get the feeling she was getting right now, only times ten.
“Birdie got an invite,” Danay interrupted, “and it didn’t allow for a guest either, and you don’t hear her complaining.”
Birdie looked up, startled.
“Birdie doesn’t complain. Ever.” Leeda made sure to keep her voice even.
Danay turned to Birdie. “Birdie, help me out here. You’re not upset you’re not allowed to bring a date, are you?”
Birdie looked at Danay, then at Leeda nervously. “Um. I don’t know.” She stood up, walked to the base of the diving board, and pin-dropped into the pool, then surfaced and swam as far away from them as possible, treading water. Leeda felt too persecuted herself to notice Birdie’s obvious discomfort.
Danay stood up. “I’m going to find Lydia and get her to bring us some snacks. What do you want?” Danay rubbed the top of Leeda’s head in her affectionate, oblivious, condescending way.
It gave Leeda the same feeling she always had with her family, of pounding against a giant wall. She looked at her mom. And it hit her like a brick. She really did love Danay better. Maybe it was just by a fraction, but she did. Leeda watched Danay disappear into the house.
Both Cawley-Smith daughters had been named after goddesses, in the pretentious Cawley-Smith way, though neither of their names had been spelled correctly since Lucretia didn’t know as much about mythology as she wanted to act like she did. Only Danay seemed to merit the allusion—sliding in through the glass door, trailing that extra fraction of love behind her like a yo-yo.
Leeda picked at a nail, wanting badly to go inside and call Rex because that was what she always did. But she knew, grudgingly, that Birdie would hate to be left alone with her mom. Instead she tried to tell herself the things Rex would say to calm her down. But she couldn’t think of an excuse he could give her for the reason she wasn’t good enough for her family.
Murphy was sitting on the front porch when they got back.
“Are you
waiting for us?” Birdie asked.
Murphy looked around and shrugged. Clearly she was. She looked like a little lost puppy.
“I thought you guys might have drowned in the jacuzzi or something,” she murmured sarcastically.
“It’s too hot for the jacuzzi,” Leeda joked back.
“You guys wanna go to the lake?”
They plopped down on the grass by Smoaky Lake, stretching out on their backs. Leeda felt so helpless, but she also somehow felt like she didn’t have to say it. Watching the clouds go by with Birdie and Murphy was very Zen.
“Will you guys come with me to the engagement party?” Leeda asked suddenly, surprising Birdie and Murphy and even herself. “I don’t think I can take it by myself.”
Silently Birdie and Murphy nodded.
“That one is Danay getting jilted at the altar,” Leeda finally said, pointing to a fat white cirrus that was drifting by.
“That one is Danay and your mom tied to some train tracks,” Murphy added.
Birdie searched the clouds too. “There’s a big chocolate Easter bunny,” Birdie said. “Sitting next to the Virgin Mary.”
They all laughed.
Chapter Sixteen
It drizzled all day the next day, so peach picking was called off. Birdie walked around the orchard in the rain, looking for ripe blackberries along the perimeter. The cider house was at the far back corner of the farm, and Birdie could see from under the hood of her sweatshirt that the door was open, an orange glow coming from inside. She pulled her hood back and gave herself the breath test. If Enrico was inside, she was not going to do what she’d done last time, with the Band-Aid. She wasn’t going to screw it up. She walked up to the threshold.
Enrico sat below the bare lightbulb, reading. When he saw Birdie, he didn’t smile, but merely nodded to her. She straightened out her sweatshirt and ran her fingers along her denim shorts to smooth them out. They hung low on her hips, like either Birdie had shrunk or she’d been wearing them for too many days.
“What’re you reading?” she ventured, stepping beside him and behind him so she could look over his shoulder. The smell of sickly sweet cider and sawdust filled up her nose. Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel García Márquez.
“I already read this in Spanish,” Enrico said. “I think this will help me with the English book.”
“Oh.”
Birdie knew she was breathing warmly on his shoulder. She backed up a step.
“What do you read?” Enrico laid his book down on his lap and turned to look at her. Though it was raining, it was still sticky and humid, and sweat had collected above his lips.
“I watch TV,” Birdie said, smiling sheepishly. She tugged on the cord that the bare bulb was hanging from, letting it swing back and forth. “Aren’t you lonely out here?”
Enrico smiled softly. “No. I like being alone. Too much talking at the house.”
“I know what you mean.” Birdie leaned against the cider press, watching his big serious eyes, her stomach starting to ache. “I like being alone too. I can get away to my room sometimes, but…”
“These rooms are too small to do.”
“I know.” She sighed unevenly. “Sorry.”
Enrico shook his head, still smiling. “Not your fault.” He looked down at his book, then up at her. “Maybe you help me with a few of these words?”
“Sure.”
Enrico flipped through the pages of his book, frowning in concentration. He opened a page and held it out toward Birdie. The word frivolity had been marked with a pencil.
“Oh,” Birdie said, thinking of the right way to put it. “That’s, um, having fun.”
Enrico nodded and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully. This alarmed Birdie. It made her feel like she was going to cease to exist. Something was going to happen to her. She couldn’t go on this way.
“This one?” He thrust out another page with another word: shrouded.
Birdie looked at it. It danced on the page in front of her like something in the wavy hot air of the desert. She could swear her pulse was loud enough for him to hear. “Um, I think that means covered up, hidden.”
When Enrico pointed to the next word, Birdie’s finger darted out to touch the page and slid next to his.
“Um, I think that means…um…”
Birdie looked up at Enrico. His face was just inches from hers. Her first instinct was to look away, but bravely she kept her eyes on his profile, forcing herself to stay still. He didn’t notice for a second. He was still looking at the page and the place where their fingers were touching, and then he tilted his face toward her, sending the shadow cast by the lightbulb on a slow trek from his forehead to his jaw.
Enrico jerked slightly and cleared his throat. Then he pulled back, fanning the pages of the book against his fingers. “Maybe I look in the dictionary,” he said faintly, apologetically.
Birdie was suspended in space. She could feel her skin flushing, radiating prickly circles. She sank back on her right foot, retreating, but trying not to retreat idiotically fast. “Well, um, I guess I’m not sure.” She hadn’t even seen the word.
Crap. Crap crap crap.
Maybe he hadn’t even noticed that a second ago she’d been trying to be kissed.
“Okay,” she said breezily, clutching to this possibility with all her might. “Well, I gotta go get some blackberries for Poopie.” She showed him her teeth, and for a second she felt like Horatio Balmeade—fake. “She makes great pie.” Her voice caught embarrassingly, so that it actually came out “pi-ie.” God. “But if you need any more help, let me know.”
Enrico watched her as she backed up, his eyes wide. He looked like an onlooker at a train wreck.
At least she didn’t trip on her way out.
Back at the house, Poopie was waiting patiently with her pie crust for Birdie’s berries. But Birdie had forgotten all about them.
“Birdie, where is your head?” Poopie asked, shaking hers in aggravation.
Birdie ignored her, digging into the fridge for something crunchy to take out her aggression on. The only thing they had was a bag of carrots. No cookies in the freezer. No nothing. When had she stopped buying snacks?
“Your father wants you to take some papers to Mr. Balmeade tomorrow,” Poopie said behind her, but all Birdie heard was “your” and she assumed Poopie was still getting on her about forgetting. She whirled around, slamming the fridge door behind her.
“Who cares about the goddamn berries!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.
Poopie’s face twisted to a look of comic shock. She shook her head and gazed up toward heaven. And then she went out for the berries herself, tapping Saint Jude on her way down the porch.
“I don’t even know why I’m going with you. I can’t stand the sight of this guy.”
“You’re going because you can’t stand the sight of the guy. So you can make fun of him once we get there,” Leeda replied to Murphy, who was trailing behind her and now stuck out her tongue.
“You can read me like a book,” Murphy said, deadpan.
Birdie tossed the manila packet of papers over the fence that separated the Balmeade Country Club from the orchard, then began to climb, sticking her toes between the metal squares, swaying slightly, and slipped over effortlessly, bouncing on her feet as she hit the ground. She wore an uncharacteristically pissed-off look, one she’d had on all day. And the minute she landed on the Balmeade grass, it seemed to Leeda to settle harder onto her features.
“Hey, Birdie, you’re having a skinny day,” Murphy said, sounding like she noticed the look too. Leeda always cringed when Murphy said things so bluntly, but Birdie smiled distractedly.
“Thanks.”
Birdie was actually in short overalls and a flowy orange top. And she did look skinny. But she also looked miserable. She had told them about her incident with Enrico in the cider house. And now they were headed into enemy territory. Birdie shuffled her feet, waiting for them like
a person standing on a deserted alley at night rather than on a bland lawn in the middle of the day. She looked distinctly threatened.
“Thanks for coming with me, you guys,” she said, her face softening for a moment.
Walter, Birdie had said, had asked her to bring the packet of papers to Horatio Balmeade, who was supposed to be in his office to receive them at two o’clock. He had asked her to go alone. He had also asked her to walk in through the front entrance like a civilized human being. But Birdie was taking Leeda and Murphy with her and—thanks to Murphy’s needling—she was going over the fence.
“What’s in the envelope?” Murphy asked.
Birdie shrugged.
“Aren’t you curious? Maybe it’s naked pictures of Mrs. Balmeade.”
Birdie didn’t even crack a smile at the joke. “I don’t think I should look. It’s private.” She let out a soft, distressed sigh. “You guys are going to behave yourselves, right?” she asked Murphy diplomatically.
“Tweety Bird,” Murphy answered, gnawing on a peach she’d pulled out of her pocket, “Leeda will do her best.”
Leeda had stopped at the fence, not quite sure how she was going to get over. Since they were going to the country club, she’d worn a skirt. And Leeda had never climbed a fence in her life, except the time her friend Alicia’s party got busted and she ended up with a huge bruise from when Rex had pulled her over.
“Go on, Lee,” Murphy said, catching up.
Leeda looked at the fence, then stuck a foot in one of the gaps in the wire. It hurt. Her toes jammed together. She pulled her foot out and put it down.
“Just climb it,” Murphy ordered.
“I’m wearing a skirt.” She knew as she said it that Murphy wouldn’t let it drop. Which made her feel embarrassed and annoyed.
Sure enough, Murphy looked at her like she was an alien. “Oh my God. Birdie, I can’t believe we brought Leeda all this way so we could see her undies, and now our plan’s not going to work!” Leeda blinked at her, confused, but Birdie giggled halfheartedly. Murphy turned a duh face on Leeda. “Who cares? It’s just Birdie and me.”
Peaches with Bonus Material Page 15
