The Rules of Burken

by Traci Finlay

  Running didn’t excuse the lack of bra necessity, unless puberty was going to be as generous to me as it was to Ian. I grabbed the cupcake and peeled the wrapper off, tossing it to the floor and looking back in the mirror.

  I analyzed myself as the cupcake soaked in my mouth, and tried imagining how I’d look with some lip gloss and eyeshadow. Maybe some dangly earrings. Then I might look older, like Chrissy. I pulled my hair up, entertained the thought, then let it flop back down in its outgrown bob. Nah. Not today.

  “Here, Charlotte, I got this for you.” Chrissy trotted up with a ketchup-doused foot-long. “It’s your birthday hot dog.”

  “A birthday hot dog?” I asked, and we burst into laughter. “Gee, thanks, Chris.” I bit into it anyway and watched Chrissy stuff her hands into her sweater pockets, the ripe wind tinting her cheeks a muted melon. The sun shrieked in our retinas, determined to prove its existence despite the chilled atmosphere.

  “Hey, there’s my girl!” A hand landed on my shoulder and grittily massaged. I angled back into the jack-o’-lantern faces of my father and Coach Preston. “You ready to watch your brother kick some tail today?”

  “You know it. Hi, Coach,” I said, muffled through processed pork, which wasted no time in surrendering its warmth to the sharp climate.

  “Hi, Charlotte! Hi, Chrissy! So, Charlotte, you going to join my track team once you’re in high school? Follow your big brother’s footsteps?” he asked, his bald head matching my father’s. What a nerd. But at least he was a sporty nerd. Unlike my dad, who was the jack of all nerds.

  I nodded as I stuffed the rest of the subzero foot-long in my mouth. “Charlotte’s already on the JV cross country team, and she’s only in seventh grade,” my dad bragged. Then he looked at Chrissy’s glowing face and nodded. “Hi, Chrissy.”

  “Hi, Mr. Stahl.”

  I utilized the conversational lull to search the crowd for my brother. I saw him in the corner next to the sand pit and shot-put crew, stretching and prepping for the four hundred. A few of his teammates walked by, slapping him high fives, exchanging masculine head tosses, but he remained mostly by himself. I found that strange, considering he was, in fact, Ian Stahl—the most popular senior jock at Cadillac High.

  My thought was shattered by Coach Preston’s voice. “All right, girls, I gotta get back to my team. See you later, Tim,” he said, and he and my dad slapped a rough handshake before he jogged out onto the field.

  “Heeey, Mr. Stahl!”

  I winced at the shrill squawks of approaching cheerleaders, and turned to behold three of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen, gushing all over my father. “Seriously, Mr. Stahl? Like, you don’t even know? How much you saved our lives today. That history test? Oh, my gosh, that was, like, torture! I totally would have failed if you didn’t give us extra credit! You totally rock!”

  His chest swelled like a cauldron of boiling milk as they continued acting the fool. “Yeah, I can’t even with him!” another one chimed. “Like, Mr. Deering? Sucks. Like, I know that’s messed up to say with him in the hospital or whatever, but if he were in class and you weren’t subbing for him? I’d totally be failing history. Like, I’d seriously be ineligible for Friday’s game.”

  Chrissy and I glanced at each other and swallowed giggles at the matinee of bobbleheads and bubblegum.

  “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, ladies.” My dad spoke in a hushed tone as he leaned down closer to the trio, his smudge of a mustache writhing above his grin. “But I need your cooperation.”

  They blinked a moment, then one piped up. “Oh, totally. We promise.” And the other two followed suit: “Yeah, for sure. For sure.”

  “Let’s go ahead and keep that extra credit to ourselves, hmm? Not everyone was so lucky, if you know what I mean.” Then he straightened up and winked.

  The girls’ jaws swooped and they clutched their chests, looking at each other like they just won Miss Universe. “No way, Mr. Stahl! You’re the best!” They squealed and squirmed, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I rolled my gaze over to Chrissy, who was gagging and turning away.

  “They’re so full of it,” Chrissy whispered once we bowed out of the drama pageant. “If they really worshipped your dad that much, don’t you think they would’ve acknowledged his daughter at some point? I mean, you were standing there the whole time. Unless they’re as blind as they are stupid.”

  I burst out laughing as Mrs. Jones, the school superintendent, announced the start of the track and field competitions over the loud speaker.

  Chrissy and I wove our way to the bleachers and plopped down on the bottom row. “Can you see?” I asked Chrissy, who nodded even though she was stretching her neck over the milling people and biting her bottom lip.

  Finally, after thirty minutes of small talk with friends and parents between a couple boring competitions, the four-hundred-meter run was announced. Chrissy’s foot began bobbing a little higher, and my heart vicariously fluttered. But my heart went from fluttering to wrenching when Ian strode up to Mrs. Jones and gracefully took the microphone from her, like he’d just won an Oscar.

  “Excuse me, everyone? Can I have your attention?” his voice sailed over the loud speakers.

  Chrissy and I looked at each other. “What’s he doing?” I whispered.

  “I have an announcement. If you don’t know me, my name is Ian Stahl, and today is my little sister’s birthday.”

  My heart stopped. Chrissy grabbed my hand. The audience aww-ed and some applause rippled through the crowd, but Ian wasn’t finished. He cooed as if puppies were gushing forth from his vocal cords. “Charlotte, can you come down here? Guys, can we sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to my sister? She’s twelve today.”

  Then the whole field—which suddenly included everyone who was ever in Cadillac, ever—was clapping and staring at me, but I was frozen in my seat. Chrissy tried pushing me, but my legs felt like menthol and plasma until my dad, laughing like a true chump, strutted over and grabbed me by the arm, dragging me off the bleachers and onto the field with my brother, waving and nodding as if this were all about him.

  I tried maiming Ian with my eyes, but he grinned impishly and knelt to hug me as the crowd erupted in a spontaneous rendition of “Happy Birthday.” I shook my head at him in disbelief. “Only you,” I said in his ear, “could turn a countywide track meet into a twelve-year-old’s birthday party.”

  Ian sent his head back to a theatrical forty-five-degree angle and cracked up, then, to my absolute mortification, repeated what I said into the microphone. The whole field sounded of laughter and clapping as my face grew hotter and hotter.

  “You’re such a comedian,” I quipped as I pushed away from Ian, refusing to succumb to the drama. “I am actually going to kill you for this.”

  He grinned mischievously and tousled my hair. “Happy Birthday, Chuck!”

  I grabbed his wrist and brought the stupid tattletale of a microphone down to my level. “Thank you, everyone!” And with a little ripple of my fingers, I scampered back to my seat, where I prayed a hole would form and swallow me up.

  Ian placed first in all his races, and by the end of the meet, I was suddenly best friends with the Mister-Stahl-cult cheerleaders, along with every other high school girl within a mile radius.

  “Oh, my gosh, Charlotte, you are so lucky to have such a sweet brother,” Cheerleader One prattled. “Seriously? He’s, like, so cute. You’re such a pretty girl. Could I do your hair sometime?”

  “Uh, sure,” I stumbled as Cheerleader Two grabbed my hand and examined my fingernails.

  “You have such gorgeously? Long? Nail beds. Let me paint them! I’ll give you a manicure? And it’ll look so. Good.” I politely withdrew my hand and nodded. Then Cheerleader Three actually pulled me away from my new prep team and sat me on the bleachers, much to my relief/dismay.

  “Charlotte, could you give Ian my number? I’d love to go on a date with him.”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  She pulled out h
er phone and looked at me expectantly. When I continued staring at her, she said, “Well, get your phone so you can save my number.”

  “I don’t have a phone. My dad said not until high school.”

  “Oh.” She crinkled her nose and pulled a piece of paper and pencil from her backpack. She scribbled on it and slipped it into my hand, folding my fingers closed and gripping my fist like she had just given me a live fairy. “Don’t lose this,” she whispered in my ear. “Tell him Selena wants to talk to him. And if he pretends he doesn’t know me, just tell him watermelon lip gloss.”

  “Watermelon lip gloss, Ian!” I mocked that evening as he, Chrissy, and I sat on the couch under my Holly Hobbie quilt, Billy Madison glowing on the TV. “Come on, how do you not remember Selena? Clearly you made out with her.”

  Ian rested his head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “What does she look like?”

  “Pshh, I don’t know … all those cheerleaders look the same to me.” I turned to Chrissy. “What’s she look like, Chris? Besides yawningly beautiful.”

  Chrissy stared quietly at the television. She wasn’t her usual animated self, and I had a sneaking suspicion that she wanted to be sitting by Ian. Not that Chrissy had ever so much as insinuated a crush, but she was a girl, and every girl I knew had a crush on my brother.

  Chrissy cleared her throat and sat up. “Well,” she began, tipping her head and looking thoughtfully at the bowl of popcorn in my lap. “She’s got like silver-blond hair. It hurts your eyes, it’s so blond.” She reached into the bowl, her hand lingering before extracting a single piece. Ian and I watched her finger the morsel in front of her mouth. “You know her, Ian. Remember at church? She was there once. You guys talked.” She playfully rested the popcorn on her bottom lip as she spoke. Even I had a hard time not being mesmerized by it. But Ian shook his head.

  “You sure?” she asked, raising her eyebrows, and she finally—deliberately—popped the popcorn in her mouth and rolled it around with her tongue, her eyes challenging Ian’s. I tore my eyes off Chrissy and landed them on my brother. He sat staring at Chrissy, his eyes scrunched in concentration.

  “Nope,” he finally said, and I couldn’t blame him. Selena who?

  “Hmm.” Chrissy shrugged and sat back, returning her attention to the movie. Ian and I looked at each other, wide-eyed.

  “Well, anyway,” I said, breaking the trance. “Here.” I reached into my pocket and fished out the paper, dropping it on Ian’s lap.

  He unfolded it, and the grin on his face was as curvaceous and pretentious as the handwriting on the paper. “Huh. Interesting.” He tossed the blanket off and stood. “Well, if you ladies will excuse me, I have a Selena I need to acquaint myself with.” And he strolled off to his room.

  When he was gone, I cannoned a hard stare at Chrissy, who smiled innocently. “What?” she squeaked.

  “You realize he’s seventeen, right? And you’re not even thirteen?”

  Chrissy blinked and placed her fingers along her sternum. “Are you accusing me of liking your brother?”

  I shrugged. “I mean, I don’t care either way. You can marry him, if you want. Then we can be sisters. But when you guys are like, twenty and twenty-five. Not twelve and seventeen.”

  We started giggling, and Chrissy, in an attempt to hide her blushing, rested her head on my shoulder. “Don’t! You’re embarrassing me. Now can we please turn off your brother’s favorite movie and watch Moulin Rouge!?”

  “Gladly.” I jumped up and swapped movies, and we were barely five minutes in when the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock above Razzle Dazzle. “It’s ten-thirty. My parents are in bed. Who would be here?”

  Chrissy shrugged as Ian called out, “Get the door, Chuck!”

  I hesitated, wondering if it was another gag birthday gift from Ian, and moved to the door, swinging it open to reveal Selena on the porch. Happy Birthday to Ian, apparently.

  Selena smiled, revealing incisors the size of oyster crackers. “Hi, Charlotte. Is your brother here?”

  I felt him behind me. “Right here. How’ve you been?” he asked, wrapping his arms around my neck and resting his chin on top of my head. “Charles, you remember Selena?”

  “Of course.” I winced. “Ow! Stop, Ian! Your chin is stabbing into my soft spot.”

  Selena giggled as Ian kissed the top of my head, apologizing for his twelve-year-old sister whose sagittal sutures apparently hadn’t fused yet, and reached for Selena’s hand, leading her down the hall.

  I was left standing in the open doorway, wondering why my brother had just kissed my head, and why he was affectionate with me only when other girls were around. I shut the door and returned to the couch to see Chrissy with a pouty face.

  “Well, maybe she’s going to be Mrs. Ian Stahl. What if he marries her?”

  I shoved a handful of popcorn in my mouth and chased it with some Mountain Dew. “Don’t even sweat it. He’ll date her for a couple weeks then dump her. Just like he does with the others.”

  Chrissy balked. “He does that? But you won’t let him do that to me, will you?”

  I sputtered on my Mountain Dew. “Chrissy, please! By the time you’re twenty and he’s twenty-five, he’ll be done with silly high school flings and ready to get married. That’s where you’ll swoop in. And you’ll have the most beautiful babies. Now I’m going to get more pop and birthday cake. Do you want more?” I unfolded myself off the couch, and Chrissy followed me into the kitchen.

  “But what is he doing now?” she asked as she glanced toward his room. “Charlotte? Does Ian, you know, have sex?”

  I almost dropped the bottle of Mountain Dew. No part of me wanted to talk about my brother’s sex life. “Seriously, Chris? I mean, are you really thinking about this now? We—well, I—haven’t even started my period yet.”

  Chrissy leaned on the counter. “Does he? Have sex? Charlotte?”

  I hmphed and stuttered and looked back and forth between my best friend and my brother’s closed door. “Chrissy, I don’t even want to know, and I’m going to start clawing at my ears if we don’t change the subject. Now stop being stupid, or I’m going to use this conversation in my Maid of Honor speech at your guys’ wedding.”

  I meant it as a joke, but Chrissy stayed quiet as I poured two glasses of Mountain Dew and handed her one. She set it on the counter and stared at me. “What?” I asked.

  “I’m serious, Charlotte. Sister Anne says we should wait until we’re married before … you know.”

  I almost forgot about Sister Anne; we stopped going to Mass a year after my confirmation, when my mom overheard some lady talking shit about her. I scoffed and felt the beginnings of a fight between Chrissy and me. “Chris? Two things. One, why are you taking sex advice from a nun? And secondly, your little show with the popcorn on the couch is not something a girl who wants to wait until marriage would do. You were flirting with him, and you were trying to be sexy.”

  Chrissy’s eyes darkened, and I braced myself, waiting for her to yell at me. But her eyes dropped to the countertop, and she actually looked ashamed. “You’re right,” she finally said, and she freaking had tears in her eyes. Geez, I wasn’t looking forward to puberty and the raging hormones.

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte. The truth is, I do like Ian, okay?”

  I shook my head. “You don’t have to apologize for that. Every girl I know has a crush on Ian. I’d probably be a little concerned if you didn’t.” I smiled, trying to lighten the mood, but she wasn’t finished sacrificing herself.

  “No, mine isn’t a crush. I love him. But I love you more, and I promise I’ll confess to Father Dunne.”

  I just nodded. What could I possibly say? My best friend was torturing herself for liking a boy, and all I knew was that I must be the bad one, because Chrissy Kredglen was hands down the purest person I’d ever met in my life, and not even Ian deserved her.

  I spend the first fifteen minutes in the rotted-out Dodge Ram sending up prayers through cigarette sm
oke and honky-tonk twang.

  I’m not sure what exactly to tell this redneck, but I wipe the devious look right off his face when I tell him my brother’s trying to murder me, and I barely escaped an axing. I don’t want to scare the kid, but he seems less affected by it than his dad, so there’s that.

  So after dropping that bomb, I turn the questioning around. What’s your name? –Spencer. What do you do for a living? –Drink. And that’s my cue to pretend to be sleeping. This conversation is over.

  Somewhere near Claire, I do fall asleep. Logical, since I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, but the problem comes when Spencer’s shaking me awake. I sit up to see that we’re parked outside an Irish pub, and our little chaperone Buddy is nowhere to be seen.

  “Where are we?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

  Spencer laughs in sporadic snorts. “We’re in Bay City, ay. This is your stop.”

  I look around. I’ve no idea if he’s lying. In a masked panic, I twist around and grip the headrest, scanning out the back window. We’re on a main street, that’s for sure. Buildings—historical, but not as charming as Cadillac—box around us, a huge ratio being pubs and bars. I stretch my neck to peer down a cross street and see an aboriginal brick building with Unclaimed Freight painted in huge white letters across the top. I huff. “You’re telling me,” I whisper.

  “What’s that?” Spencer asks, becoming jittery the more I look around.

  “Uh, nothing. So this … this is Bay City?” I ask, finally looking at him.

  He gives me a suspicious look. “You’ve never been to Bay City?” He shuts off the ignition, the silence unsettling and invading my personal space.

  “No. Where’s Buddy?”

  “Dropped him off at his ma’s.” A grin peeks through the corner of his mouth, and he scratches his poorly shaved chin.