A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  I roll over and grab my coat. “Meet me at Starbucks on the corner of Third and Ninety-Second.”

  chapter seven

  The smell of mocha makes any boy more attractive, right?

  That’s what I tell myself as Hunter opens the door of Starbucks for me. The sharp winter wind ruffles his brown hair, and when he speaks his breath comes out in icy puffs.

  “I’m surprised you agreed to meet me.” He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and I feel some of my old resentment melt like whipped cream on a caramel macchiato.

  “It’s been a night of oddities.” I give the barista my order, and before I can reach into my purse, Hunter has paid and tipped the lady.

  “How’s your dad? I heard about his financial troubles.” Something in Hunter’s expression stops me from telling him to mind his own business. “My dad had the same accountant. His money situation is pretty questionable right now too.”

  I take a sip of my mocha. “I had to get a job. On a farm.” I think about my grandmother hearing this news and can’t suppress a giggle.

  Hunter watches me and smiles. “I can’t compete with that, but my yearly Christmas trip to Europe got cut down to a mere week.”

  “Tragic.” I wrap both hands around my cup and let the warmth seep through. “How are you feeling?”

  Hunter shrugs. “I’m fine. I will be fine.”

  “Can’t you tell me about it?”

  “I don’t want to burden you. I guess you could pray for me or whatever you do.”

  “Until a few weeks ago, I stuck pins in my Hunter Penbrook voodoo doll.” I bite my top lip on a wicked grin. “I guess I could try some prayer instead. You know, I’m not leaving until Sunday afternoon. You could go to church with me.” This was always a sore spot between us. I was into God and church. Hunter was into . . . Hunter.

  “Okay.”

  I nearly spew the Starbucks. “Seriously? You know Sunday isn’t Easter or Christmas, right?”

  He twists a napkin in his hand. “I’m changing, Bella. I don’t know how or why . . . but I am. I know I need something more.”

  I don’t know what to do with this, so I leave it alone.

  We finish our drinks, and Hunter insists on riding in the cab to see me back to my house. He walks with me up the steps, and we stop under the light.

  “I’ve missed you.” He reaches out and gives my scarf a tug.

  “Thanks for the coffee.” And before my brain can override, my arms are around him, pulling him into a hug.

  Disengage! Disengage!

  “See you Sunday.” I pull away and rush into the house.

  “I want to talk to you.” My dad’s voice stops me on the stairs. I turn around and find him standing below, his arms crossed.

  Here we go. “Look, I didn’t do that stuff tonight, Dad. Do you seriously not believe me?” Though I don’t want to, I walk down and sit beside him on the first step. “I don’t know what that little girl is up to, but she’s as crazy as Grandpa.”

  “Bella, Christina is very important to me.”

  So were my shoes that got mash-potatoed. “You didn’t even take up for me. Her little sister is screaming like a banshee, and you guys act like I had put her in a choke hold.” Which I seriously considered at one point.

  Dad studies his hands, hands that know precision and don’t miss a single detail. “I’m sorry if things were blown out of proportion. It all looked bad from our end.”

  “If you think your end was bad, you should’ve been in the kitchen with the little freak.”

  “I’m going to ask Christina and the little freak to move in with me.”

  “What?” No! “But you’re my dad. Er, I mean . . . that’s wrong. You can’t live with her. Is money so tight you need a roommate? I can loan you a few bucks.” Just please don’t move that Brazilian weirdo into this house.

  “I really like her, Bella.”

  “I really like that guy who has the underwear ads on Times Square, but you don’t see me asking him to shack up.”

  “I’m not sure what happened tonight or where the truth is. I don’t know that it really matters—”

  “It does. I’m your daughter, and you should trust me. No, you should know me. I wouldn’t antagonize that little girl.” Not to mention if my dad really knew me, he’d know I’d come up with something better than Marisol’s amateur hour. Throwing potatoes. I’m sure.

  “Those two are very important to me,” Dad says.

  It’ll fade. I can speak from experience.

  He runs his fingers through his short, spiky hair. “It’s been a long night. We’ll start again in the morning.”

  I wait for Dad to tell me he’s sorry—that he was wrong.

  He walks up the stairs and never looks back.

  chapter eight

  Hunter went to church with you this morning?” My mom wheels into our driveway, ending the hour-long drive from the Tulsa airport.

  “Yeah, he’s been asking me about God and stuff.” I tell her what I know about his illness. “He doesn’t really talk about his condition, which makes me think it might be bad.”

  “Well, I think that’s great he’s interested. I know you don’t really want to be around him after everything that happened, but, Bella, you could lead him to the Lord.”

  A few months ago I wanted to lead him off the Empire State Building. Now, I’m not sure about anything. The Hunter I was with this weekend . . . I liked him.

  “Did you see anything fabulous while you were shopping?” Mom asks, that old gleam in her eye. The one that says, I can spot Chanel couture from twenty paces.

  “Hermès had some of their new spring bags out already.”

  Her gaze turns dreamy. “I can smell the leather from here.” She shakes her head as she turns off the Tahoe. “There have been some changes this weekend.”

  “Oh, more changes! Just what I wanted.” Too much?

  “The camera techs rigged up the inside of the house, like the producer talked to us about.”

  We climb out of the SUV, and I follow Mom inside. There are automated cameras set up everywhere. “This . . . is creepy.” My skin tingles with goose bumps. People are watching me somewhere in a control room.

  “The bedrooms and bathrooms are camera-free, but sometimes we’ll have a real camera crew following us around in the house or in town.”

  “Perfect.” The weight of the weekend sets in, and I climb upstairs to unpack.

  When I get to my bedroom, I do a sweep of the area, searching every nook, cranny, and panty drawer for anything that looks like a microphone or camera. I come up with nothing. Thank God for small favors. That’s all I need—to be changing bras and find I’m on a webcam in front of millions of viewers.

  When my alarm sings the next morning, my eyeballs might as well be stuck together with Krazy Glue. I only travel to my dad’s once a month, but that next Monday back at school always kicks my tail.

  When I walk by Luke in journalism class, I offer one single crisp word, not sure where we stand. “Hey.”

  He lifts his chin in greeting and goes back to his conference with Steven Ludecky, our sports reporter.

  Thirty minutes later when Luke stands behind me, I recognize his scent before he announces his presence. “Captain Iron Jack did a great job Friday night.”

  I swivel in my rollie chair. “Glad to hear it.”

  His eyes never leave the copy on my computer screen. “How was New York?”

  “Cold.”

  He leans down until our faces are level. It’s a contact lens day for him, and without the glasses his eyes are even more intense. “Is this how it’s going to be? We’re back to being enemies again?”

  I survey the room, but everyone is busy working on their own stories. “I don’t know. You’re the boss here. I guess you set the tone.”

  He pulls out another chair and wheels it forward until we’re knee to knee. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted. Sometimes . . . sometimes I get very possessive about this p
aper.”

  “Nooo.” My face is sheer shock. He is not amused.

  “I’m trying to apologize here.”

  “And for your first time, you’re not botching it up too much.”

  “Don’t you have anything to say to me?”

  How about when you sit this close to me, my heart races like I just finished the Boston Marathon? I still think about our one kiss on that crazy night we were running from football players. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I remember that moment in the cabin when we both could have died, and you pretty much saved me.

  “Hung out with my ex-boyfriend this weekend.” Did not mean to say that. Bella, thy name is maturity.

  Luke’s grin is slow. Sly. “This would be the boyfriend who cheated on you?”

  Um, yeah. That would be the one. “So I gotta get back to my e-mails. Lots of work-related thoughts to write about. Job ponder-ings and occupational musings.”

  Luke stands up, but not before his lips pause near my ear. “I accept your apology too.”

  During fourth hour, the secretary announces a required junior class meeting at lunch in the library. When the bell rings to release us from calculus, I head down the hall to the meeting, knowing Lindy will be in a state of panic over having to preside.

  Ten minutes later only a third of the class has shown up, and Lindy begins. “As you all know, Harry Wu Fong got accepted into some smart-kid program at Princeton University and is bypassing the rest of his high school years, so that leaves me as your president.” A group of athletes cheer. “Unfortunately Fong had not done much in terms of prom planning. I guess he was too busy being a genius.” She stops and stares toward the door. We all turn around.

  Luke Sullivan walks in—holding hands with some girl. Harvard girl.

  Lindy continues. “So not only do we need to hustle on making some prom decisions, but Friday we learned someone has wiped out our junior class account. So basically we’re broke.”

  I so relate.

  “We need a fund-raiser,” someone yells.

  “Yes, we do.” Lindy chews on her bottom lip. “Does anyone have any suggestions?”

  Mikey Sprinkle pushes up his bottle-thick glasses, then holds up a hand. “We could have a car wash and the girls could wear bikinis.”

  In your dreams, dude.

  “We could sell pies.” This from the guy in the back of the room who’s as wide as a Dodge Ram. “I know I’d buy a few.”

  Luke’s girlfriend is cute. And she looks disgustingly smart.

  That’s a bad combination. I mean, I knew she’d be intelligent, but I was hoping she’d look like the butt end of a Doberman.

  “Okay, so a bake sale.” Lindy writes this down. “Who knows how to bake?”

  Everyone just stares at each other. We’re teenagers. We know how to eat pies—not how they’re created.

  “We have an idea over here.”

  I bristle at Luke’s voice behind me.

  He smiles at his girlfriend and she laughs. “Go ahead, Taylor,” he says.

  “Last year when I was in high school we did this thing for Valentine’s Day. It was called Match-and-Catch. You fill out this personal survey, and it pairs you with your ideal match in this school. Everyone fills out the surveys, but you have to pay to get your results.”

  Four-foot-nine Will Newman pipes up. “Are you saying I could get a girlfriend out of this?”

  “Yes.”

  Whoops go up all around. “Let’s do it!” Dorks and athletes alike high-five and chest-bump.

  Whoa, she said you’d get a match. She didn’t say you were guaranteed second base.

  Lindy whistles through her teeth and brings the meeting back to order. “Thanks so much, Taylor. That’s a great idea.”

  Big deal. She’s from Harvard. She’s supposed to have great ideas.

  “We also need to set up a Web site so people can start nominating seniors for prom king and queen. Who can do that?” Lindy asks.

  As if on cue, all heads swivel toward Budge Finley, who does not look happy to be giving up his chicken nugget time for prom talk.

  “I’m busy. I have a gamer’s competition coming up next month.” He sees our faces void of any sympathy. “December is a hectic month at the Wiener Palace. Wieners are in high demand right before the holidays.” He crosses his arms. “Not gonna do it. Final answer.”

  Lindy looks like she’s about ready to cry. “But you’re the only one who can do this. Last time we needed a Web page for our class, Zach Dilbert created it and it somehow got hijacked by senior citizen nudists.”

  Petey Usher shakes his head. “Dude, I saw my grandma on there.”

  By this time I’ve made my way over to where Budge sits at a library table. “If you don’t do it, I’m going to tell all these people that you have your own loofah and have taken over my cucumber facial scrub.”

  He sighs. “I can have it ready by Wednesday.”

  After school I drive my Bug ten minutes out of town to Dolly’s sprawling property. Her house looks like a Southern Living centerfold, and she has it all decked out for Christmas inside and out.

  She swings open the front door before I can touch a finger to the bell. “Let’s go. Time’s a-ticking. I gotta get back to Sugar’s for the dinner crowd.” She shoves me off the front porch and toward her Jeep. “Hop in.”

  “Where are we going?” She pulls back onto her dirt road and into a field. I hold onto the handle above me as we jostle down the well-worn path.

  “I have a little barn back here. Need some work done. I’ll introduce you to Clyde, and he’ll get you started.”

  “Started with what?”

  Dolly only laughs, a throaty sound that probably sends men’s hearts racing, but has me wanting to throw open the door and jump out.

  A faint snowflake spits every few seconds as Dolly drives up to her so-called “little” barn.

  “Do you keep Donald Trump’s horses here or what?” I climb out of the Jeep and just stare, my mouth wide open in awe. Before me is a sprawling horse ranch. Five or six people mill around. There’s an enormous barn with stalls. To my left is a giant tracklike area where a man is walking with a bucking pony. Horses are everywhere. And so is the Circle D symbol.

  I turn in a full circle. “What is this, Dolly?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “A little hobby of mine.” Dolly gives me a light tap with her gloved hand. “What, you didn’t think I built that house on what Sugar’s pays me, did you?”

  We walk together toward the man with the wild pony.

  “After Mickey left me, I needed something. Everything in my life was gone—my girls, my husband. I sold our two-bedroom house, bought three acres out here, and lived in an RV. After three months of not even getting out of bed, I woke up one day and decided I needed something to do besides smoke and watch One Life to Live. I remembered when I was a kid I had a horse. So I bought one. Started working with it. Twenty years, two hundred horses, and a few acres later, I’m now a breeder. Waitressing—just a hobby.”

  “Are you any good?”

  We reach the old man with the pony, and he stops. “Is she any good? Ever heard of Holy Smokes?”

  It sounds familiar. “The horse that won the Kentucky Derby?”

  “That was Dolly’s third Derby horse. This lady here has the magic touch.”

  Dolly laughs and shakes her head. “This is Clyde Mullins. And he’s been with me for fifteen years. Knows a horse farm like you know those fancy shoes. He’s going to show you some of the most important jobs of running the place. Clyde, you take it easy on my girl here. I’m out.” Leaving me with the white-haired man, she takes off in a loud roar.

  “This way, girl.”

  “Am I going to brush some tails?”

  “Nope.”

  “Dress some ponies?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “File some paperwork?”

  Clyde stops at the “little” barn and spits. “You ever seen horse poop?”

  I swallow.
“Never.”

  He grins. “You’re about to make up for lost time.”

  chapter nine

  God must totally be mad at me.

  I scoop up my last batch of horse manure and throw it in the wheelbarrow. I’ve been breathing through my mouth for the last two hours. During the first hour, I OD’d on the smell and had to put my head between my legs.

  “Get the wet shavings now,” Clyde calls out as he sticks his head in. “It’s gotta be real dry.”

  “Do you have some potpourri or maybe a nice scented candle for the horse too?” Maybe a Jonas Brothers poster?

  He laughs and keeps walking.

  Ten minutes later I’ve swept the floor until my arms ache.

  “Don’t fill that wheelbarrow up with too much manure at once.” Clyde walks by and throws out another helpful tip, and I find myself really tired of his Horse Crap Tutorial.

  Swishing the broom across the floor one last time, I decide this is pretty stinking good. Seriously, this horse’s bedroom has to be cleaner than mine.

  Okay, now to wheel this pile-o-poo out to the manure area.

  Before today I didn’t know people collected manure. I collect vintage Chanel bags, so I guess to each her own.

  With gloved hands, I grab onto the wooden handles and drag the wheelbarrow around, pointing it toward the open stall door. Okay, here goes. Using all my upper body strength, I lift up on the handles and push it outside. And Clyde didn’t think I’d be able to handle a full load.

  This thing is heavy. Wobbly.

  I look ahead the fifty feet it takes to get to the manure pile, and it stretches out before me like another continent.

  Clyde ambles by again, his eyes on my progress.

  “See?” I raise my chin. “This isn’t so bad. Easy! A piece of—” The wheelbarrow pitches to the left. I suck air and lean to the right, pulling with everything I’ve got. Sweat explodes on my forehead, and my arms burn with the effort to right the wheelbarrow.

  I run over a rock, and all control is lost.

  The wheelbarrow goes left. The manure flies out in great, steaming globs.

  And I fall right into it.