by Laura Miller
Natalie gives him a funny look. “So, I get the window then?”
“No, we both get the window,” Isaac says, patting his thigh. “Come on, there’s not enough room.”
“Well, I can scoot over some more,” Iva says, scooting more toward the driver’s seat. And with that, I send a silent thank you up to the good Lord above.
“Nope, nope, still not enough,” Isaac says, not even bothering to move an inch. “Climb on in, Natalie Jo.”
Natalie cocks her head to the side and looks up at Isaac with a pair of reprimanding eyes.
“Come on, Natalie Jo,” Iva chides, through soft laughter.
“Yeah, Natalie Jo, time’s a wastin’,” I say, as I make my way to the driver’s side.
“Fine.” I hear Natalie huff as she climbs on top of Isaac’s lap.
I get in last and turn the key in the ignition. Immediately, I feel the warmth of Iva’s skin against my arm. And for a split second, I forget how to put the truck into gear.
“First, I believe it is,” she quietly says.
I stifle a nervous laugh under my breath. Natalie and Isaac are too busy giggling about something that they don’t even notice us anymore. I let the air in my lungs funnel past my lips, not really knowing if I should feel excited that she talked to me—the hum of her voice sends chills down my spine—or embarrassed that she noticed I was momentarily frozen.
I move my hand to the stick shift, and at the same time, I unintentionally brush my fingers against her bare leg. An unsteady breath follows—from each of us.
“You drive a truck,” she says.
Both the truck and my mind shift gears.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I do.”
“I prefer fast cars,” she whispers near my ear, leaving a trail of heat on my neck.
My eyes drop to her mouth and to her pretty smile, and then I look back at the road, nodding. “I bet you do.”
We go about a mile without saying anything after that. The highway is dark, and the radio is down low. In between Natalie and Isaac’s incessant chatting and giggling, I can hear a soft mumbling sifting through the speakers. But to be honest, neither is loud enough to drown out the rhythmic purr of her breaths and the voice in my own head that keeps telling me I’m dreaming.
“So, this, um, place we’re going ... it’s a shed?” she asks, plucking me right out of my dream.
I clear my throat. “Well, it’s more like a big barn, I guess. It’s on my parents’ farm. We just go there to hang out every once in a while.”
I take my eyes off the road for an instant to glance at her. She meets my gaze, then quickly drops her eyes.
I swear my heart is going a mile a minute. And if that’s not enough, my palms are sticking to the steering wheel, and I can’t seem to swallow down the lump that keeps rising up in my throat. And meanwhile, every time I have to shift, my fingers brush against her leg. And every time, I know she notices, which makes my heart race just a little more.
“Your parents have a farm?”
I nod. “They do. It was my grandparents’.”
“Oh.”
I can almost see her mind trying to connect all the dots.
“This is it,” I say.
I pull onto the gravel path and up to a dark patch of rocks. And I stop the truck.
“Isaac, if you touch my butt one more time,” Natalie scolds, throwing open the door.
“I would never,” Isaac says. I hear a fake shock in his voice.
I get out, and Iva slides my way. She’s calculated with her actions—as if she’s carefully planning her next move. But then again, she’s also smooth and adult-like, as if she’s lived a thousand lives before my one. I think I’m just in awe—of her.
She plants her feet on the ground, then stops and looks up at the sky above us. It’s a new moon, so you can see the stars especially good tonight.
I watch her fingers delicately play with the little gold necklace around her neck. What is she thinking? Is she as nervous as I am?
Her eyes gradually land on the old, wooden barn in front of us.
“This isn’t where nightmares start or anything,” I assure her, through a thin smile. “I promise.”
Her gaze quickly finds mine, and she searches my eyes, as if she’s looking for something there.
“I was thinking it was more like where dreams are born.”
There’s this twinkle in her eyes that I can’t quite figure out, but I want to. Everything about her is so foreign, but then again, it’s not at all.
I lower my gaze and nod my head before looking back up at her again. “Yeah,” I say. “You could say that.”
I watch her lips edge up just a little more, and I’m damn sure mine do, too.
“Berlin, you gonna get this thing open? I can’t see a damn thing,” Isaac yells out into the night.
I look up toward the voice and then back at Iva.
“Here,” I say, holding out my hand.
She looks at me and then at my hand.
“It’s dark,” I say.
She gives me that look that says she knows it’s not that dark. But in the next moment, I feel her hand in mine.
Her fingers gently weave a soft web, making it hard to know where her hand stops and mine begins. And with it, comes so many emotions I haven’t felt in a really long time.
I swallow hard, and she must notice because immediately, her eyes find mine.
“Damn it, Berlin, hurry it up!” Isaac shouts.
I ignore Isaac, taking my time. This girl’s hand is in mine, and I’m in no hurry to speed up time.
As we walk, I take a deep breath and then force it out. And then I try to say something, but it doesn’t come out, so I just retire to the comfortable silence between us.
Every once in a while, our eyes meet, and we both just smile. But that’s the extent of our conversation, until we make it to the big door of the barn, and I pull out my keys and search for the right one—all the while, holding her hand.
Within a few moments, the padlock clicks, freeing the door. And Isaac is there to slide it open.
He charges right in after that and flips the light switches. There’s a half-second delay, and then the barn lights up in a soft, yellow glow, making the pitchforks hanging on the wall look more like a scene out of the Christmas story than one out of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
“I’ve got the music,” he says, plopping down on a straw bale. He sticks a phone cord into a set of dusty speakers and fidgets with his phone.
“Isaac, we’re not listening to that stuff you call music,” Natalie says, making her way toward him.
My eyes get caught on the two of them for a moment. I’m thinking I’ve already had enough of both the music and the party—neither of which has even started yet. I’m thinking I need some Iva time—just me and her and the moon, for a little while.
“Can I show you something?” I turn to her, and this time, my eyes get stuck on our hands, interwoven together.
“Okay,” I hear her softly say.
My eyes flick up to hers, and I lose some time in her blue gaze before I come to and remember what I’m doing. In the meantime, she just smiles.
I clear my throat and run my hand through my hair. “Okay,” I say.
I lead her out a door near the back of the barn. I don’t think Isaac or Natalie even notice us leaving.
We get outside, and instantly, I’m blinded by the black outside. I stop for a second to let my vision catch up.
“They’ll all show up soon,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut a couple times.
“Who?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Anyone who wants to. Mostly people I went to high school with. A few other stragglers. All decent people. But everybody will stay in the barn. They don’t know about this place.”
“The place we’re going?”
I look at her. I can just barely make out the soft features on her face now. “Yeah,” I say.
We walk in silence for about a dozen more steps.
If I were to say there were a thousand things running wild through my mind right now, I’d be lying. There’s a million. But honestly, there’s only one thing I’m really concerned about—and it’s her.
We get to the base of a little, wooden ladder, and I stop.
“Is this a tree house?” she asks. I can hear a smile in her voice.
“Yeah, it was my dad’s when he was little.”
And without me saying another word, she starts toeing off her boots and making her way up the tree. I let go of a wild grin and then follow after her.
“Doesn’t a house usually have a roof?” she asks, looking up at the sky, once we’ve both made it up the tree.
“That it does,” I say. “But Grandpa had this thing about the stars.”
Her face instantly turns my way, and our eyes lock for a few heartbeats.
But right before I fall completely apart, her gaze leaves mine, and she rakes her fingers through her long hair.
I let an uneven breath go and watch her as she finds a spot along the floorboards and leans her back against the wood railings that make up the wall.
My first instinct is to sit right next to her, but I decide against it. Instead, I sit with my back against the opposite wall. Our legs are outstretched and crossed in front of us. They’re not touching, but they’re so close, they could be. She eyes me up and down. I watch her in the little natural light there is mixed with the glow from the barn. I wonder what she thinks of me.
I feel her shameless stare crawl up my skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins; I can’t even think straight. My own eyes start at her red-painted toes and travel up her long, tan legs to where that short, little dress starts. I follow a path from her wrists to her bare shoulders and then to her neck and that little, gold necklace. It’s as if I’m seeing every inch of her for the first time. And then suddenly, I get stuck in that ocean in her eyes and stay there, while the silence deepens, and my breathing quickens.
Then, without so much as a warning, she parts her red lips, and my eyes drop to her mouth. And that’s when the silence is broken—like a tiny needle to a big balloon.
“How did you get over me?”
I hear her words, and everything just falls away—the soft breeze, the echoes from the barn, time. It all just disappears into the quiet space between us, while the sea in her eyes rests its heavy weight in mine.
“Berlin Elliot?”
So delicate and innocent, and yet somehow, her voice cuts just like a carving knife.
I clear my throat and then try to swallow down all the uncertainty and anxiousness swirling around us.
“I didn’t,” I manage to say in my next breath.
And as if the earth suddenly shakes and causes her expression to shift, a small smile slowly claws its way back to her pretty face.
“I didn’t,” I repeat, with more conviction, this time.
Chapter Four
Did You See?
Twelve Years Old
Iva
“Daddy, I have this weather project I have to do for school. Can you help me with it?”
“Sure, honey. What do you gotta know?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Well, I’m doing this paper on how we need rain to grow crops to make money.”
He laughs. “All right. So, maybe we can look up the years we had good rain and compare those to the years we had good yields.”
I nod. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Daddy smiles at me and then goes back to his supper.
“Did you see who moved into the Gunners’?” Momma asks, looking up from her plate. Her question is directed at Daddy.
He nods once and then goes back to stabbing his peas with his fork.
I stop chewing and look at Momma. “Who?”
Momma’s scolding eyes scrape a jagged trail into the supper table’s surface and meet mine. “Not with your mouth full.”
I swallow and try again. “Who moved in?”
“Um, a family, I think.” Her words come out softer, this time, as she pushes her long, brown hair behind her ear.
“Awesome! How old are they?”
I watch Momma shrug her shoulders and look at Daddy. Daddy meets Momma’s gaze for a second before going back to his plate. I hate when they do that. It’s as if they have this secret eye language, where they can just glance at each other and have an entire conversation. And it’s impossible to decode. I’ve tried.
“I don’t know,” Momma says. “There was a girl, who looked like she might be in high school. And there was a boy—maybe around your age.”
“A boy?” I ask.
“No,” Daddy says, shaking his head. “No boys.”
I imagine my face scrunching into an awkward question mark. I’m appalled he would think I would like some boy in this town.
“I mean, he’s probably too old for you to play with anyway,” he says, almost scrambling for words.
Instantly, I feel a whole different kind of offended. Play? First, he’s talking to me as if I’m an adult. Now, he’s acting as if I’m a little, helpless baby.
“I don’t need someone to plaaayyy with, Daddy.” I draw out the word play, just to make it clear. “I’m not six.”
He doesn’t even look my way again. Instead, he trades cryptic glances with Momma.
“Well, do they look normal, at least?” I ask, ignoring their secret conversation.
Another cryptic glance shoots between the two of them. Why are they being so weird?
I chew on a piece of pork chop, as my question falls to the empty mashed potato bowl, unanswered.
Ugh. They’re so weird. I probably have the weirdest parents on the planet. They’re, like, from 1952 or something. We eat supper at exactly seven every night, except during harvest time, when Daddy’s in the field until nine. And it’s always either beef or pork. If it’s not a part from a cow or a hog ... or a potato—potatoes are okay—we don’t eat it. We’ve never ordered a pizza. I don’t exactly know where we would order it from, but still. Lillian’s family, who lives on the other side of the county, has pizza night once a month. And Austin gets to have tacos and sushi. My momma has never made tacos—ever. And I don’t even know what sushi is.
And I can even overlook my lack of culinary choices, but there are other things, too. Like, we’ve never owned a car. Instead, we have two one-ton pickup trucks, three tractors and one combine. And before you go thinking that’s not so bad, picture my daddy driving, me in the middle and my momma by the window, our heads bobbing up and down in unison to the holes in the road. And if that’s not enough, it’s really hard to look cool when you pull up to the cute, high school bank teller, and you’re just stuck there—in between your momma and daddy, like you’re five or something. And don’t even get me started about the time Daddy took me to the snow route bus pickup across town in the tractor.
Sometimes, I just wish we had a normal car, like a van or something—like Kyle and Melissa. And more than that, I wish we went on vacations like they do. While all the kids in my class come back from summer break with stories about how the salt water fried their perms or how sticky Florida got at night, I’m just sitting there wondering if finding a new route to the abandoned house in the bottoms was really the coolest thing I did all summer. I barely made it outside of Missouri once, much less to Florida. One time, about three years ago, we got lost in St. Louis and accidently crossed over to Illinois. Daddy was frustrated and mad, but I was happy. Though, I have to say, Illinois didn’t really look that much different from Missouri. If the river hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t even have noticed I had been in another state at all.
But anyway, Florida and the ocean seem more like dreams to me. Since cows can’t feed themselves and crops can’t just jump out of the field and into a grain bin, I’m stuck within this forty-mile radius—at least until I’m eighteen.
So, yeah, this is my weird life.
“Can I be excused?” I ask, balling up my napkin and tossing it onto
the bone of my eaten pork chop.
Momma looks at my plate and then nods. “Yes, you may be excused.”
I push my chair back and take my dishes to the sink. I’m trying to do everything as I would normally do it, so they don’t catch on that I’m on a mission. I’ve got to find out more about these new people.
“Do you have homework?” I hear Momma’s words right as my foot hits the first stair.
“Yeah, on my way to do it,” I call back, without stopping.
That’s all I hear from either of them before I get to my bedroom and shut the door. My window looks right at the house across the street that Angel used to live in. There’s a moving truck in the driveway. I got right off the bus earlier this afternoon and didn’t even think to look in that direction.
Angel’s house has been vacant for months now. I was beginning to think that was just the way it was always going to be.
There’s a light on in the kitchen. I picture the inside of the house looking just like it did when Angel lived there. I’m imaging the old, oak table in the dining room that my momma helped Angel’s momma find at an estate sale. I imagine the dog’s food and water dish by the door and that silly, old decorative bird cage that hung in the hallway. It was booty from my momma and Angel’s momma’s first antique extravaganza. The bird cage was ugly, and it wasn’t even meant to hold a real bird, so I never understood the point of it.
Suddenly, a light turns on in the bedroom across the street. I freeze, and without even thinking, I drop to the floor, as if I’m in some kind of spy movie.
The room used to be Angel’s. We would sometimes make funny faces at each other using flashlights after our parents had sent us to bed.
I breathe several breaths into the old wood floor before I count to three and then slowly lift myself up again.
When I can just barely see out the window, I peek over the sill. The pale blue curtains that used to cover the window of Angel’s room are gone now, so it’s easier to see right into the room.
A shadow crosses in front of the window, and I quickly hide behind the wall this time. I probably should feel guilty for spying, but I don’t feel anything but this crazy, new energy shooting through my muscles.
