Wicked Charm

by Amber Hart

  “You are terrible at advice,” I grumble.

  Students pass us, but Charlotte is an expert at not being heard when she doesn’t want to be. Her voice is low enough for only my ears.

  “Let’s try again,” she says. “How can I help? You need a different distraction, since you’re too hung up on Willow, even though we’re pretending you aren’t. Join a sport or something. Maybe check out some after-school clubs and activities.”

  I frown. “None of that sounds like me.”

  Charlotte taps her nails against the fountain. “And this isn’t you, either.”

  “I think I’ll try to figure it out on my own.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t want my help?”

  Though I’m exasperated, I feel the beginnings of a smile. “Charlotte, you make no sense, but thank you for trying.”

  She eyes a guy walking by like a cat eyes a mouse.

  “No problem. I’m here for you anytime.”

  There it is, the thing that I think she means for me to see above all.

  She’s got my back.

  Odd as Charlotte sometimes is, she is still my sister, and she cares.

  I have the urge to say something more to my twin, like how at the moment she reminds me of Mom. She looks too much like her, but that’s not really what I mean. More than anything, Charlotte’s acting like Mom. Compassionate. Trying to dole out advice and comfort.

  I catch sight of Willow. Electricity zaps my bones. Natural rays of light shine in on her from the large window she stands beside, and she looks as though she’s been draped in gold.

  More faces blur past, but only one, aside from Willow, catches my attention. I spot my best friend, a head taller than the rest of them. He shoulders his way through until making it to my side.

  “Willow still won’t talk to you, huh?” Pax steps next to me and nudges my shoulder. To my sister, he offers a small smile. “Have you tried making it up to her?”

  Pax and Grant witnessed the advances of the pool girl firsthand that day.

  “She won’t let me within ten feet. Every time I try, she is suddenly busy hurrying to class or racing back to her own front door. I’m pretty sure she has the wrong impression about what happened.”

  “Maybe she needs time.”

  “Maybe I need to hear her voice because I miss it too much.” I don’t mean to say the words aloud.

  Pax shifts uncomfortably. My sister inhales sharply. This is not a topic we broach so openly. We joke. We have fun. We don’t free-fall off a cliff of emotions.

  “Sorry.” I try to grin but have a feeling it comes out more like a grimace. “I haven’t slept much. I think the swamp murders are getting to me.”

  “It’s okay.” Pax’s voice is forcibly light. “On both counts. It’s okay if you—” He looks around to make sure no one else hears, Charlotte being the exception. Down the hall, Grant makes his way to us. “If you actually care. You’re allowed to do that, you know. Like the law of gravity or something. Jump enough and eventually you’ll fall. It’s inevitable.”

  “What’s inevitable?” Grant asks, offering a friendly fist bump. He notices Charlotte and pauses. I wonder if he’s remembering their run-in last time, when Charlotte insulted him. She must feel bad because she actually speaks to him nicely.

  “Hi, Grant,” she says.

  He’s too stunned to respond.

  “Your terrible taste in shirts is what’s inevitable,” Pax jokes, easing the tension.

  I watch Willow. Her eyes skate to me record-fast, like she knows I’m looking. She glances back down at the textbook she’s thumbing through to pass the time. Her eyes find me again. I can’t decide if they’re more full of anger or want. I hold her stare for several heartbeats, each one quickening the longer she maintains contact. We are in a staring contest, seeing who will break first.

  “What’s wrong with this shirt?” Grant pinches the unfortunate fabric between his fingertips. It seems to be a mash-up of street graphics—a graffiti wall in the background, a record table in the forefront with a cat spinning music.

  “What’s not wrong with it?” Charlotte says jokingly.

  Grant appears flustered to have Charlotte speaking directly to him. His cheeks grow bright, and he shifts from foot to foot. I notice because he’s in front of me, like a sharpened image, Willow in the background, a bit blurry around the edges.

  I tune out the conversation and focus instead on Willow’s gaze. I imagine touching the rope that ties the two of us together. I can’t stand another day of this, being shut out by her.

  I take one step toward her. She takes one step back. Grant moves out of my way. The crowd parts for me now that I am more visible, out from behind my friends. People whisper as though they think I can’t hear them. It’s not hard to figure out what they’re doing, labeling me as a suspect even though I’ve been cleared.

  “Willow,” I say.

  For one moment, I think she’ll respond to me.

  But no. She walks in the other direction, as far away as possible.

  …

  I don’t see Willow again for another week, except in school, where she breezes past. I hope that she will give me a chance to make things right and to explain what happened, or more that nothing did happen. Charlotte’s right. I never did anything with the pool girl. I couldn’t, not while knowing how I feel about Willow.

  Tonight, she swings on her porch, oblivious to me exiting my cabin. I don’t stop until I’m nearly at Willow’s porch. She looks up and startles.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  “I miss you.”

  “Why would you do that?” She stops swinging. “There’s obviously nothing going on with you and me.”

  My breath hitches. “Do you want there to be something between us?”

  The rickety screen door bumps against the frame.

  “I don’t know. The answer to that depends on a lot. You had a group over to your house, including a girl who seemed to be into you.”

  “Doesn’t mean I was into her.”

  I probably should have made that clear from the beginning.

  She searches my eyes. “Do you like her? Is that why she was there?”

  She doesn’t know that Charlotte invited the girl, not me.

  “It was my sister’s idea to have everyone over, not mine. I didn’t want the girl there. Not when I feel the way I do about you. That’s what I wanted to tell you before.”

  Willow seems to exhale the tension in her shoulders.

  “I didn’t realize,” she says.

  She thought I liked another girl.

  “I only want you, Willow.” The truth comes out. It’s time she heard it anyhow. “Will you ride with me tomorrow?”

  Driving to school with Willow beside me has become my norm, and I miss her there, changing the radio station, chatting about little things, hair blowing in the wind.

  “Maybe.” She takes a step toward the door.

  I wait for more, but what I get is one last glance, and a tiny smile, before she slips inside, leaving me alone with only the bog for company.

  Hopefully tomorrow morning, she’ll be waiting at my truck.

  17

  Willow

  I decided to ride to school with Beau again today.

  “Willow,” he says as I enter his truck. “I want you to know how sorry I am about the pool situation. I know I explained it to you, but this is the first time you’re riding with me again, and, well…I’m really happy about that. I apologize that the situation looked like more than it was.”

  I bite back a smile. It’s odd to hear Beau nervous, to witness him apologizing, but I’m glad he is.

  “So.” He starts the engine and lets it stutter to life as he watches me. “Are we good?”

  I nod. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  The ride is uneventful, and before I know it, we’re entering the front doors of school and walking down the crowded hall. I make my way to homeroom, with Beau on my mind.


  “I get to drive you again regularly, right?” he asks, just to be sure.

  I pause outside the class.

  “Yeah, and I’ll keep taking the bus home.”

  He reaches for me, softly running his hand down the sensitive underside of my forearm.

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” he says before slipping off down the hall, carried away in a sea of bodies.

  I can’t seem to rid my thoughts of him all day. I was wrong about the pool girl. Beau never wanted her. A thrill of excitement passes through me, and I can’t wipe the grin from my face.

  As soon as classes end and the bus drops me back off, I spot something waiting by the front door steps. A bouquet of white flowers. I push open the screen and place them in a vase on the counter.

  “Who are they from?” Gran asks, turning to greet me. She spills a little salt on the counter as she seasons the soup she’s cooking.

  There’s a single notecard in the center with a name scrawled across.

  “Beau,” I reply plainly.

  I don’t have to look at her to know that she’s scowling.

  “I thought he was out of the picture.” She hobbles up to the bouquet and inhales deeply. “Smells beautiful. Charming just like that grandpa of his, I see. Go figure.”

  “What do you know about his grandpa?” She has my attention.

  “None of your damn business,” she says, no malice to her words but also no invitation to discuss the subject any further.

  That’s fine. I don’t want to talk about Beau’s flowers with her, either. I’d rather enjoy them.

  She walks off shaking her head. If only I knew why she thought Beau being anything like his grandpa was a bad thing.

  That night, I sleep better than I have in days. The scent of roses lingers in my dreams.

  …

  “Thank you for the flowers,” I say the next day as Beau walks with me through the front doors of school, all the way to my locker.

  “You’re welcome.” He grins. “Hey, do you think you can meet me at the path when the sun slips away today?”

  His eyes are fire, burning every inch of me.

  “I might be able to do that.”

  I notice the way his teeth clamp together suddenly. I follow his line of sight.

  Brody approaches with a smile. He already knows Beau and I are friends. He also knows that I’m not spoken for and not interested in being someone’s girlfriend. Unless that someone is Beau, my mind tells me, but I tell my mind to go on and hush. Brody and I are friends, too.

  “Hey, beautiful,” Brody says.

  I am stuck between the two of them, pinned down by differing stares. Brody’s, sweet and relaxed. Beau’s, intense and disarming.

  “Hey, man.” Brody offers a greeting to Beau.

  Beau nods.

  “Hi,” I say. “How was your math test?”

  Brody had complained about it the other day, worried that he might not pass. Since we exchanged numbers, I occasionally get texts from him, and we often see each other at school, too.

  “I actually did okay.” He shrugs.

  Beau steps closer to me, and I try not to notice the sorts of things he does, like shift to one hip, exhale near my ear, and whisper my name in a soft, tantalizing breath.

  “So, I don’t think the next one will be as bad, you know?” Brody is saying.

  I try to act like I’m paying attention. “Right. Piece of cake. You’ll do fine.”

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “Willow.” Beau drawls my name out in that slight Southern accent of his, completely different from the way he just whispered my name, as though in a plea. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  He shoots Brody a hard glance. One that doesn’t go unnoticed. And then walks away. After an awkward heartbeat, with not much time to go before the bell rings, I say goodbye to Brody.

  “Well, I’d better get to class.”

  Brody nods, but I notice the cautious look in his eyes. Like Beau, he walks away.

  The worry that I’ve somehow created animosity between the two of them settles into my mind.

  …

  I decide to meet Beau like he requested. He pushes the boat off the embankment and hops inside just in time. We row achingly unhurried, careful to not miss an inch of the swamp. My eyes and flashlight go to everything. Mangroves twisting above the murky water. Trees swaying in the wind, moss like hair billowing.

  I admire the sounds the water makes mixed with the buzzing of insects with wings and the chattering of insects without them. If it weren’t for the mosquito spray slathered over my skin, I might be able to smell the fresh fungus that always accompanies the swamp at night.

  “Why did you purposely give Brody a mean look today?” I blurt.

  It’s been eating away at me little by little the whole day.

  “It wasn’t mean,” Beau says, but I hear his grin. “I’m sorry if I ruined something between you two.”

  I doubt he’s actually sorry. In fact, I bet he knew exactly what he was doing. I shine a flashlight at his face to confirm, and he throws a hand up to block his eyes from being blinded.

  “You liar,” I retort.

  He laughs.

  “Besides, there’s nothing between him and me. We’re friends, that’s all.”

  Just then something bumps the boat, and I look down to see a gator, ten feet, if I had to guess. It could easily flip us. I meet its eye and hope that it’s one of the gators Gran feeds because the way she explains it, there’s an understanding between her and them. She feeds them, and they don’t eat us. So far, it’s worked.

  The gator moves past.

  Good thing, too, because it would have been a shame to have to use the shotgun I brought.

  “So the date you and Brody had…was it not serious?” Beau asks.

  I’m not sure how he heard about the double date. “It was an evening playing golf, that’s it. And it was before this.”

  I motion between the two of us.

  “Willow.” I love the light Southern accent that twines around each syllable of my name as he speaks it. “Do you plan to go on another date with him?”

  “No.”

  Beau’s smile reaches his eyes. I shine my light back on the spindly, bony trees that remind me of curling octopus limbs stretching toward the sky. Beau doesn’t much care for talking anymore and that’s fine, because neither do I. His smile stays put for a good, long while.

  We wind through the bog for an hour, listening to the sounds of darkness until finally I fall asleep to them. I know because I feel someone rocking my shoulder.

  I’m in the middle of dreaming about brown eyes and soft lips brushing mine.

  “Willow,” Beau says. “You stopped rowing.”

  I yawn. “That could be because I’m falling asleep.”

  I stretch and peer around. What I see makes me uneasy. Beau nudges my oar, reminding me to row again, so I do.

  The part of the bog we’ve entered now allows more moonlight. Half of Beau’s face is coated in it. A mist creeps over us. Hangs low like a fresh dusting of snow. There’s something about this part of the swamp that has me on edge.

  I look closer and realize why.

  “Where are we?”

  I’ve seen the whole swamp within miles of the property, which must mean we’re far out. Seems impossible to know the entire bog, though. It’s too big for that. One day you see grass, next day it’s covered in swamp. One day there’s water, next day portions are dried up. It’s constantly changing.

  “Deep swamp.”

  I remember Mom’s request to stay close to the house. Panic makes my heart race.

  “Do you know this place?” I glance around, committing the new scenery to memory.

  “A little.”

  “I think we should go back,” I say.

  He nods. “Me, too.”

  I decide, as we prepare to turn around, that this is as good a time as any to ask him something that’s been on my mind. I’m just t
ired enough to not sugarcoat anything.

  “I have to ask you a question.” I chew on my lip and gauge my next words, anxious to be voicing my concerns aloud, afraid that saying the words will make them more concrete. “How many enemies do you have?”

  “Well, that’s a loaded question.” He mulls it over. “A few, I suppose. Older brothers and fathers who don’t like that I hurt their daughters and sisters. Some of the girls themselves. None too obvious. I don’t really know that many people. Why?”

  “What if the killer has a vendetta against you?”

  “That would explain a lot.” His casual tone tells me he’s wondered the same thing. “The victims are connected to me. But I don’t see why someone would go that far. What have I done aside from breaking a few hearts?”

  “It’s weird, you being connected to them,” I admit. “Awfully strange that you knew them both.”

  “I agree. Stranger still is this deep part of the swamp. Do you hear that?”

  I strain my ears. “No. What is it you hear?”

  I don’t like the deadening quiet that descends on this portion of the mire.

  “Beau?”

  He has gone statue still. He does nothing but stare at me.

  I wonder for the first time if maybe he really could be the killer. His alibi is tight. But then why do I get the pinch in my stomach that tells me I don’t know all the parts of him, that maybe he’s hiding something? My heart is pounding too fast with unease. I’m almost certain he can hear it.

  “Beau,” I say again.

  “Shh,” he finally replies.

  The mist curls around the branches, the boat, my neck. It feels too thick. Suffocating. The unknown too heavy.

  Someone’s here, Beau mouths.

  Shock halts my thoughts, and I don’t process his words at first.

  We shut off our flashlights. On the edge of the bank I make out a thin shadow. One that doesn’t fit the tree next to it.

  I sit frozen. Beau, too. Neither of us rows. Neither breathes. The boat bumps the shore. The point gets lodged under a bulging tree root, and we still.

  The shadow that could be anything doesn’t move.

  Something tickles my cheek. The shadow slowly peels itself away from the tree, and someone screams. I realize after a heartbeat that it’s me.