Memaw hunches over the stove, arm whisking furiously. The frying pan beside her sizzles, little oil pellets popping above the bacon strips. A stack of pancakes, swimming in melted butter, sits on the butcher block island.
She glances over her shoulder. “Morning. Grab those pancakes and put ‘em on the table.” She nods toward the white-washed farmhouse table in the breakfast nook. I grab the plate, my forearm screaming under the weight, and have to use two hands to carry it over.
“You know, I don’t have much of a morning appetite. I hope you have room for all this.” I set the plate on the table, stopping to scan the place settings. One, two, three, four, five. “Why are there so many plates?”
“You never know when company might pop by.” She winks at me and begins humming as she shovels scrambled eggs into her china bowl.
“Memaw…”
A loud clunking echoes from the front porch. The doorbell rings.
“Now, who could that be?” She doesn’t turn around from where she’s forking bacon strips out onto a paper towel-lined plate, her curiosity obviously piqued. I shake my head. I’ve traded in Dad the Ignorer for Memaw the Instigator.
“Funny how guests magically show up.”
She spins around from the stove, bacon plate in one hand, egg bowl in the other, a Miss America grin on her face. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
“Do I have a choice?” We both know the answer is a resounding no.
She bites her bottom lip and pretends to look at the ceiling before catching my eyes once more. “Uh-uh.”
“Didn’t think so.”
I turn and plod through the den to the foyer, my bare feet slapping the hardwood floor. I stomp a little bit harder and glance over my shoulder, but Memaw’s ignoring me, bent over the table, piling food on each plate.
The door’s cut glass utilizes both clear and frosted panels, pieced into a mosaic through which three distinct forms take shape. I pull the door open wide, the chattering outside ceasing as six eyes turn toward me.
“Come on in.” I pan my hand beside me. Gin bounces through the door first, wearing a happy yellow tank top and jean shorts and wiggling her fingers hello.
“Morning, CJ.” Her voice has more sugar than the pancake syrup, but I smile back at her anyway. Bo reaches around from behind for a fist bump. As my knuckles meet his, Jett strolls in, the corner of his top lip curled slightly, holding his fist out toward me as well.
I stare at him, unyielding, pulling my hand into my chest.
“What’s this? I’ve known you as long as they have,” he points toward Bo and Gin, “and we’re online official.”
Gin’s eyes dart between the two of us. “Online official?”
“Jett sent me a friend request.”
“I figured it’d be okay since you about broke your neck watching me out the window this morning.”
Caught, dammit! Three sets of eyes float back to me, two of them wide and eager, one pinched at the corners in a cocky smile. My heart skips a beat (or three) as a fiery wave floods over my cheeks and neck, and I’m acutely aware of them staring at me as the roaring silence rips through my head. “Wasn’t me.” I slam the front door and walk toward the kitchen. The others follow. “Maybe it was Memaw?”
“Yeah. Maybe.” His smug grin translates through the air. I don’t even have to look at him.
Memaw looks up from pouring coffee into a mismatched collection of mugs. “Maybe what was Memaw?”
“Nothing.” I open the refrigerator door and rifle through the top-shelf containers, searching for the glass carafe with the painted dancing oranges circling the rim.
“Why, Jett Ramsey, you get cuter each time I see you!” Memaw clicks her tongue a few times. “You’re all grown up and filling out nice. So handsome. Isn’t he, CJ?”
It’s improper to tell your grandmother to shut up, right? I kick the door shut, walk over, and slam the glass jug down so hard the plates and forks rattle against each other. All the while, Memaw’s pinching his jaw in her palm, wagging it back and forth. I glare at her, trying to hide that shrinking feeling gripping my insides, like all my organs are huddled in a little ball somewhere south of my pounding heart.
“Shouldn’t we eat before it gets cold?” I ask, pulling out the closest chair. Memaw drops Jett’s face and barrels toward me, sliding it from my grip.
“No dear, over there. And Jett, you’re beside CJ.” She motions us to the back of the table, and he falls in line behind me as I walk around to my assigned seat.
Memaw plops in her place at the head of the table, Bo takes the opposite end, Gin sits facing us, and suddenly it’s all crystal clear. Memaw’s coerced them into her matchmaking game, and they’re corralling me and Jett into the alcove of windows, cornering us like cattle on the way to the slaughter.
I sigh and glance over at Jett, who’s rearranging the pancakes and bacon on his plate, acting oblivious, but I can’t help thinking this slick scheme has his name written all over it, too.
“The food’s awesome, Ms. Bessie,” Jett says as he cuts his pancake into small triangles, which he spears onto his fork. A short golden trail of stickiness dribbles from the corner of his lips. “Thanks for inviting me. I owe you one.”
Invited, huh? Memaw glances in my direction, lips pressed into a thin line. She shrugs and dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin, her smile peeking out from behind the paisley paper square.
Gin plows a forkful of eggs into her mouth, stifling a giggle, while Bo stares at his plate and gnaws a bacon strip. Now everyone wants to suddenly clam up? I shift my eyes to Jett. He looks up and shrugs. Five minutes lapse without a word, just a combination of slurps, lip-smacks, and clangs of silverware on plates.
Gin finally breaks the lull and asks me if I’d like to plan a sleepover at her house sometime in the next couple weeks. She sips her orange juice as I mull it over, swirling a spoon around the inside of my coffee mug. It’s been almost a year since I’ve had a sleepover, and that was with Emmalyn. It was always with Emmalyn. The thought of going over to Gin’s almost feels like cheating on my best friend, except I’m not totally sure she’s my best friend anymore or if she’ll even want to talk to me. A twinge of longing circulates in my belly, mixing with the syrup and pancakes.
“Please?” she asks, her doe eyes springing wide in anticipation as she thumbs over at the boys. “It’ll be nice to have someone besides them around.”
Gin’s an innocent, totally unaware of the suckiness life can bring. The worst thing she’s probably encountered is a flaming pimple on the first day of school. But her sincerity is endearing, and the way she’s looking at me, I can’t imagine anyone being able to tell her no. Even cynical old me. “Let me get acclimated, and we’ll plan it.”
“Yay!” She giggles, clapping her hands together.
Bo mocks her in a high-pitched sing-song voice. “We’re gonna have a slumber party and talk boys and do our make-up!”
Not to be outdone, Jett joins in, fluttering his fingers in Bo’s direction. “Oh my gosh, and then we’ll do our nails and our hair, and we’ll spy on Bo!”
I roll my eyes, but Gin’s smile drops as she leans over to swat Bo’s arm. “And what exactly are we going to spy on? My stupid brother with his collection of girly mags, or him chatting online with his internet girlfriend?”
Bo’s cheeks bloom like pink carnations as he squirms in his chair. “Quit making it sound bad. She’s not some random internet girl. She comes here every year with her family, and we…keep in touch.”
“All that work for one week a year,” Jett mumbles.
I elbow Jett’s ribs, and he recoils. “Don’t listen to him. It’s sweet. Any girl would appreciate that kind of effort.”
Bo nods a silent thank you as Memaw pounds her fist on the table, demanding our attention. “So…what’s everyone’s plans for the day?”
What can be so exciting in a sleepy little town like this? My room is already unpacked, but a few interesting-looking books on the ha
llway shelf caught my attention—ones I wouldn’t mind checking out before visiting Beachin’ Books later. I shrug. “Not much. My interview this afternoon.”
“Dad needs help at the docks,” Jett volunteers, scraping up the last of his syrup along the fork’s edge. “It gets a lot busier once the weather gets warm.”
“Bo and I have to work at the market later. Dad says there’s a big shipment of—” Gin begins, but Bo interrupts, waving his phone in her face.
“Actually, we need to go now. Just got a text. The shipment arrived early.”
They jump from their seats in unison, juggling empty plates and cups in their arms.
“Drop those in the sink. I’ll tend to those.” Memaw looks at her watch then bolts up, too. “Later. I’ve got to get going myself. Promised to help at the charity flower show over at the State Park.”
The three of them rush toward the door in a coordinated flurry, Gin glancing over her shoulder to quickly wish me good luck on the interview. Memaw stops and backpedals into the kitchen, her hand on the doorway molding. “Jett, remember that whole ‘you owe me one?’”
He nods.
“I ordered a patio set and a swing for the yard. It comes in to the hardware store on Thursday. What time Friday should I expect you to assemble it?”
Jett combs his fingers through his erratic hair. “I could be here around eleven, I guess.”
And Memaw strikes again. What she lacks in discretion, she makes up for in tenacity. I grab my dishes from the table and walk them to the sink. “But Memaw, isn’t Friday your volunteer day at the animal shelter? You mentioned it last night, remember?”
“So it is.” She shrugs, a smile creeping over her face. “I guess you’ll have to keep Jett company and bring his lemonade.” She waggles her fingers at us. “Ok, bye now!”
The door slams. We’re alone.
His chair scrapes across the tiles and heavy footsteps echo in the kitchen. I keep my back turned, rinsing the plates under a stream of water, then loading them in the dishwasher.
He stacks his dirty dishes on the counter and reaches for the one in my hand. “Let me help.”
“I got it.”
He grabs hold anyway, pulling it from my grasp, and secures it in the rack. “You told Bo a girl appreciates a little effort, right?”
I hand him two more plates. “Sincere effort.”
He clangs them into place, then grabs for another. His fingertips miss and land on my hand, shooting warm spirals of electricity pulsing across my wet skin. “You don’t think I’m sincere?”
“I don’t know what you are, Jett. I haven’t figured you out yet.” I pull my hand away, then wash out a few mugs and pass them his way.
He drops them into place on the top rack. “Why are you resistant to me and not the others? I’ve known you, like, a day, and you won’t give me a chance.”
Because the others are safe, but he’s trouble. Because I hate the way his eyes microscope in on me, as if he sees below the surface. Because I hate his self-assured swagger. Because I hate how something about him makes me want to like him. Like, really, truly like him. And I can’t have that. “Why should I?”
“Because everyone deserves a chance. Because they all see something apparently you don’t.”
I pop a detergent pack in the holder and slam the dishwasher door. With a push of a button, it whirs to action. “What does that mean?”
I slip past him, walking toward the foyer.
He snatches his phone off the table and follows. “Come on. You do realize this, and me coming over Friday, is a set-up, right?”
I shake my head, slack-jawed. “And you had absolutely no idea about what was going on?”
I swing open the front door, and Jett walks out onto the porch, turning back with a three-finger Scout salute. “I didn’t. Swear.”
His eyes zero in on mine, no looking to the left like liars do, and without a shadow of that world-on-a-string ego he wears like a mask.
I offer a thin smile. “Well, in that case, I’m sorry.”
His gold tooth glints against his extra-white teeth. “I’m not. See ya, Cami.”
A flurry of emotions swirls inside, a whirl of excitement with a twinge of fury. “CJ!” I yell out behind him, but he doesn’t turn around.
Chapter Five
The last person I expect to see at my job interview is Jett, but there he is, a 10-foot-tall decal plastered to the side of a monstrous racing trailer parked in the lot next to the bookstore. His image stands against a checkered-flag background with orange and red flames shooting up from under his feet beside an orange and black Dodge with the number 17 on the door. I guess it’s a picture of his racecar. A smattering of logos, probably his sponsors, lines the top edge. The largest belong to an energy drink and an auto supply store. They must pay the most.
I shake my head. Memaw, Bo, and Gin all trying to force us together when we’re the two least likely to make a match. I want to disappear, fly under the radar, and here he is driving around with his big mug on the side of a trailer.
A large wooden sign with Beachin’ Books painted across it stands at the far end of the next paved walkway. The cement, cracked and stained, is swept clean, and a hedge of white petunias line each side up to a set of wooden stairs. A neon sign flashes OPEN in the second-floor window.
“Cami!”
His voice cuts through the humid air, and I turn my head toward the trailer. Damn. I swore I’d never respond to that name, and here I am looking for him like a lost puppy the moment I hear it. Jett runs across the sparse lawn, more sand than Bermuda grass, from the ramshackle gray building next door. He wears the same clothes from earlier except for the knee-high rubber boots. “Wanted to tell you good luck on your interview.”
“You came all this way to tell me that?”
He points over his shoulder to the building. Part of the bottom floor is an open breezeway leading to a long, wood-planked boardwalk. A row of faded, painted-on letters runs across the side: The Shrimp Shack / Fresh & Local Edisto, SC Seafood.
“This is my dad’s shrimping business. See those big masts out there on the inlet?” He points beyond the structure where two massive white boats sit on the water, each with two large metal arms stretching to the sky.
“Oh…” I mumble, ducking my head to hide my rosy cheeks while wishing for the ability to swallow my tongue for saying stupid stuff.
“But I would’ve.”
“Would’ve what?”
“Come all this way to wish you luck.” He grins as I run my fingers along my brow, swiping away the sweat freckling my skin, partly from the mile-long walk, partly from the way my anxiety skyrockets when he’s within spitting distance.
“Nice trailer.” I thumb over to it. “People never have to guess who they’re driving beside with that 10-foot twin over there.”
“I make it look good, right? My racing team’s idea. Speaking of which…” He turns and yells toward the trailer where two figures lean against the back, watching us. “Hey guys! Come over here.”
They saunter toward us, a girl and a guy about our age or maybe a couple years older. His black hair, dark eyes and russet brown skin contrast her ultra-pale complexion and cotton-candy pink hair. “This is Trévon and Rachel. We race together.”
“What’s up?” Trévon’s voice is gruff. He hinges his fingers in the belt loops of his jeans and stubs the toe of his black boot in the sand. Taller and more muscular than Jett, his prominent brow shadows his deep, almond eyes.
“Hi,” I mutter, forging a small smile, but never take my eyes off the girl.
Rachel walks behind Jett and wraps her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder while she smacks her gum. Stacks of silver and black bangles line her wrists, complementing the small rings in her nose and eyebrow, as well as a black arrow daith piercing. Pretty, in a punk sort of way. From the way she touches him, I automatically wonder if there’s more to their relationship. My stomach churns as the thought crawls deep into my spine
.
“You must be Callie?” She squints. “No, Candi? Cami!” She extends one arm in my direction, snapping her fingers. “Jett says you’re here for the summer?”
“It’s CJ, and yeah, until August.”
“And you’re staying with your Memaw? How sweet.” She cocks her head to the side with a condescending smile that implies I’m some sort of immature child. “I should warn you, though. Don’t get used to this face being around too much.” She pinches Jett’s chin and gives it a shake. “He’s gonna be workin’ his butt off to be in top racing form.”
“Jett’s already a beast on the track.” Trévon waves her off and high-fives Jett as Rachel shoots icy daggers in his direction.
“What I mean is he can’t get distracted. The team comes first. Especially this summer. Everything’s riding on it.”
Jett’s face stonewalls as he yanks from her grasp. “Funny, you’re making it sound more like a cult. And by the way, I have a manager, and it ain’t you.”
She narrows her eyes, hands planted on her hips. “Well, I’m sure your Dad…I mean, our manager…would agree.”
“My dad would tell you to concentrate on your own racing. Finishing in the last half of two races in the past season isn’t exactly prime.” He crosses his arms with a taunting grin. She sticks her tongue out at him, then playfully pushes into his chest. He stumbles back a few steps, laughing.
A wave of nausea slinks through me every time she touches him. Every time he flirts back. There’s a battle between the green-eyed monster and the red-eyed devil boiling inside me, and the only clear explanation is I’m sick of the race talk and this would-be lovers’ spat, or whatever this is. But the questions bouncing around in my brain are the worst. Why hadn’t he mentioned her before, and why would he flirt with me? More than that—why do I even care?
“I’m the last thing you need to worry about,” I volunteer, both hands in the air. “I’m not here to crash your racing practice or whatever, just interviewing for a summer job.” I pull my phone from my pocket, backing away from the group. “And I’m late. Gotta go.”
As Much As I Ever Could Page 4
