Never Been Texted

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “Adrenaline. A scientific phenomenon,” he says.

  “Can science explain the lottery winner who has a sudden impulse to buy a ticket when he’s never bought one before and that ticket saves his whole family from being evicted and homeless?”

  “Someone has to win, so why not him?”

  “Or this news story I saw about twin brothers who died on the same day, killed along the same road just two hours apart.”

  “Coincidence.”

  I lean back in the swing, and wind whooshes across my face like a sigh. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Being right isn’t easy, but someone’s got to do it.”

  “That sounds like politician talk.”

  Abruptly, he stops the swing with a foot dig in the dirt. “I’m nothing like a politician. Bite your tongue.”

  “I get bit enough by dogs,” I tease. “I am not biting myself.”

  He tosses his head back, laughing. “Bite your tongue is something Nana used to say.” Derrick grips the metal swing chains, his voice softening. “You talk about magic, well, that was my nana. She could make flowers grow just by singing to them, and when I was little and she’d visit, we’d sneak out at night to hunt for faeries in the moonlight.”

  “Did you ever find any?”

  “Faeries?” He snorts. “Not likely. But we had fun looking – until she died.” I can tell by his soft, wistful tone that he loved her very much, like I loved my mom.

  “I lost someone, too. My mom,” I admit, surprising myself since I don’t often talk about her.

  “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

  “Yeah.” My throat tightens. “But I feel like she’s close sometimes, especially when I’m around animals. Mom had a special way with all creatures. Even wild ones. Once a deer came right up to sniff her hair.”

  “Was her hair curly dark-brown like yours?”

  “Darker.” I reach up self-consciously, always embarrassed about having hair wild enough to be a species of animal. “She wore it in a braid so it wasn’t stupid like mine.”

  “Stupid hair? I didn’t know hair ranked on the IQ scale.”

  “Mine does, and it has a sub-par score.” I tug on one of my curls, which springs back into place. “See what I mean?”

  “I like your hair.”

  “Well, thanks.” I’m suddenly warm even though the sun has slipped behind a cloud.

  “You know, usually I don’t talk so much…at least not to girls.” He looks down as he digs a sneaker into the dirt, then glances shyly up at me.

  “But you brought flowers for a girl, so you must talk to her lots,” I point out, careful not to admit I know and hate Beatrice.

  “She does most of the talking, and I hear all about her friends, school, and the historical biographies she likes to read. But with you it’s different.”

  “Because I’m not as well-read on history?” I tease. When I was on the Brain Bowl, history was my worst topic.

  “Nah, because you don’t just talk. You listen like you’re really interested.”

  “I am interested.” My sneakers lightly brush the dirt as I slow to stay in sync with him. “You’re the most interesting guy I’ve ever met.”

  His ears redden brighter than his blushing cheeks, which is totally adorable. Here he is, the most famous kid in Castle Top and he’s shy with girls. He reminds me of Newton, a pup from a few litters ago, who was sired by a grand champion and born with such exceptional markings buyers lined up to buy him, but he shied away from his own litter-mates and stumbled when he chased to catch up with them. I loved him for his faults, not his perfection, and wished I could keep him.

  Derrick is looking at me, smiling with his gap-toothed grin, and I wish I could keep him, too.

  “There you go, getting quiet again,” he says. “It makes me wonder what you’re thinking. You know plenty about me but haven’t said much about yourself. Tell me about you.”

  “Not much to tell.” I hope my ears don’t turn red when I blush. “I’m just a typical high-school girl.”

  “Ha! Nowhere near typical. You take me to the most unusual, amazing places where watching frogs seems more thrilling than front row seats at the Super Bowl. And I like when you laugh like that, not a full laugh but half smile and giggle.”

  “Do not,” I say with a half-smile and giggle.

  “There’s more to you than you’re telling.” He tilts his head, studying me as he sways lightly on his swing. “I have a feeling you’re keeping secrets.”

  “All girls have secrets,” I say. “If I revealed mine to you, the Exalted Superior Guild of Girls would send their top assassin after me.”

  “Brutal.” He grins.

  “You have no idea. I can’t reveal any more for security reasons,” I say in mock seriousness, glad for an excuse – even a crazy one – to avoid admitting I’m his girlfriend’s worst enemy. As we stare at each other (is this flirting?) I’m fascinated by how much can be said without words—a lift of a brow, curve of full lips, and the soundless connections of souls.

  He’s laughing again, a sound that’s music to me. I long to bottle his laughter so I can hear it after he returns to Beatrice and I’m back to my real life. I allow myself to look, really look, at him the way a dieter drools over a hot fudge sundae. What I wouldn’t give for a taste.

  “Hungry?” I ask, abruptly jumping off the swing as if distance between us can save me from my dangerous thoughts. I hope he doesn’t notice my burning face. “There’s a great place I know nearby.”

  “I don’t see any restaurants.’” He gestures around the neighborhood of modest homes with shady trees, porches with toys and potted plants, and secondhand cars in the driveway.

  “We’re not going to a restaurant.”

  “No sign of a food truck either,” he says, peering up and down the street. “And I know there isn’t a mall with a food court in Castle Top.”

  “Malls are for big cities. We do it better here. The food is amazing.”

  “So amaze me.” He bounds up from the swing and turns to me with a twinkle in his dark chocolate eyes.

  “Anything you say, Pr – “I slap my hand over my mouth horrified at what I started to say.

  I almost called him Prince.

  A fine meal was served up, but the young prince ate not a morsel, so intently was he busied in gazing on her. (Perraul

  Derrick arches his brows. “What did you say?”

  “Um, priceless and unique food. You’ll be impressed,” I say, sure I sound like an idiot.

  “What will you do with her while we eat?” He points to Toffee. “Food places don’t allow dogs.”

  “This one is super dog friendly. Not only dogs but other animals, too. Look at Toffee tugging on her leash. She knows where we’re going and will race all the way if I don’t slow her down.”

  “Now I’m more curious than hungry.” Derrick falls into step beside me. “Lead on, tour guide.”

  We leave the residential neighborhood for empty fields and twisted remains of trees on Desolation Road, a lowlying area of the valley where an entire housing development was washed away by the flood. Only brick-bones of devastation remain. Glancing beside me, Derrick’s expression grows somber as he looks around. We turn a corner, and suddenly there are cars jammed along the street, bikes chained to trees, and a din of voices. On cracked cement ruins of what used to be a grocery store, crowds swarm around tents, tables, and booths.

  “What is this place?” Derrick asks with a furrowed brow.

  “Swap Market,” I say with some pride. “First stop is the Pet Corral for swap-its. Then we’ll grab something to eat.”

  “Pet Corral? Swap-its? Why haven’t I ever heard of this before?”

  “It’s kind of a neighborhood thing.” I tug on his arm, and we join the crowd. “You’ll see.”

  Derrick sniffs the air. “Something smells good and spicy.”

  “Tastes even better,” I say.

  I push past a group of people waiting for kabobs
made from eggplants grown by the Dermott Family, who live on Cascade Street. We circle around a fiery pit where Mrs. Baker, who runs Castle Laundromat, bakes foil-wrapped corn grown in her garden. We stop at a wire-fenced area full of people and animals.

  “The Pet Corral,” I tell Derrick as we step in through the gate and metal rattles shut behind us.

  “Oh,” he says, nodding as if relieved something finally makes sense. “When we travel out of the country we leave Pete in dog daycare.”

  “It’s not like that.” I shake my head. “Sit on that bench, and watch.”

  Toffee isn’t the only Queen Bee among the many dogs in the Corral. I count Q-Bees. One is on a leash and the other is curled in its owner’s arms. I know their names since my stepdad is the only Q-Bee breeder in our state. There are other pets, too: three cats, a pot-bellied pig, goats, a monkey, and a pony. Some are pampered pets, but most are here to work. The pony gives rides to little kids, and the four goats pull Granny Dermott’s cart. The pig paws the ground, creating mud art. The monkey gives back rubs. Only the cats don’t do anything, except preen in the sunlight, because, well, they’re cats.

  Everything is about swapping here, and I’m no exception.

  I walk up to a raised concrete foundation and address the crowd. “Gather around for my amazing dancing dog!”

  Kids come running, adults hurrying after them, and I have an eager audience. I can’t sing or play an instrument, but my humming works for background music for Toffee as she jumps up on her tiny back legs and dances. She spins, somersaults, and wags her tail. I spent weeks teaching her this dance routine, and the audience adores her. For a finale, I announce she’s going to do her final trick. I call for an assistant from the audience, and Jemmilly, a chubby little girl with freckles, runs forward. She’s volunteered before and knows to stand perfectly still with her arms reaching up over her head to form a circle. I give a hand signal to Toffee and she takes a running leap, jumping high as if she had wings and soaring through Jemmilly’s arms.

  Thunderous applause, but even better, people line up to offer me swap-its. I thank everyone and let the little kids pet Toffee, a bounty of paper tickets piling in my hand. When the crowd disperses for other activities, there’s only Derrick, Toffee, and me. Proudly, I hold out my bounty of tickets to Derrick.

  “Nine swap-its! That’s two more than last time.” I wave the paper slips near his face. “Look. I scored four from Mr. Baker!”

  Derrick stares at me blankly. “And this is good because…?”

  “A swap-it is like gold here! It means we can have fire-pit baked corn, sugar scones, kabobs, and lots more.”

  “I have money.” Derrick pats his pocket. “I’ll buy anything you want.”

  “Not at Swap Market.” I bend over to clip Toffee back on her leash or else she might be tempted to chase after the goat cart. Again. “Everything is about swapping here. No money allowed.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “It’s the economy.” I lower my voice. “Swap Market started because money was tight so people met to trade what they had to offer. Most people have some kind of skill or craft or homegrown food to share. Luckily, I have Toffee.”

  “I don’t understand. Why is money tight? Everyone in Castle Top got rich through hydrofracking.”

  “Only property owners. Renters got nothing. And former home-owners who lost their homes in the flood are renters now after selling their property before they knew about the possible gas money.” I don’t add that there were rumors Mayor King knew the land was valuable but only shared this knowledge with his friends who swooped in after the flood to buy the land cheap.

  Derrick frowns, and I wonder if he’s heard the rumors, too. We walk in silence, his expression thoughtful until we near an area where smoke rises from a fire pit. “Hmmm, something smells excellent,” he says, sniffing the air.

  I lead him over to Mrs. Baker and offer two swap-its for her fire-pit-cooked corn. She pets Toffee and tucks the swap-its in a tin can.

  “Mmmmm,” Derrick says through chews as we sit in the shade on a bench (a board over two crates). “This is so good.” He licks butter from his lips.

  “The best ever.” I pat Toffee on the head. “I’m glad Mr. Baker appreciates Toffee’s dancing.”

  We finish and toss our napkins in a bucket used for a garbage can. I take him to Mr. Carter’s for delicious foaming root beer, then to the Kabkee family table for honey barbequed chicken fingers.

  After eating, I have a few swap-its left, so I lead Derrick up and down rows of tables offering hand-stitched quilts, woven baskets, floral arrangements, and a plethora of knitted and crocheted crafts.

  Derrick stops at a table with handmade pet wear and picks up a black cloth pirate hat sewn for a dog. “Think Pete would look good as a pirate? Yo ho ho and a bowl of dog food.”

  “Too cute.” I chuckle. “You should get it.”

  “I would but I only have money.”

  “Lucky for Pete, I have a swap-it.” Chuckling, I offer the paper in trade for the swashbuckling hat. Derrick tries to object, but I insist and can tell by his grin he’s pleased with the doggie hat.

  I use my last swap-it for a puppy vest perfect for my dancing dog-erina. Toffee sniffs the velvety emerald green cloth, unimpressed. But I assure her she’ll look adorable in it.

  “Best tour ever,” Derrick says, “but I have to get back.”

  Back to Beatrice, I think sadly. If I could wave a magic wand, I’d stop time and stay here with Derrick forever. We’d talk and tease and laugh and never grow bored. I slow my steps, not in a hurry to reach Stone Face Fountain, where the tour and the best day of my life ends.

  We’ve left the happy sounds from Swap Market, turning a corner so there’s only the clip-clap of our shoes on pavement. A few more blocks and we’re back at the fountain.

  “Can we do this again?” Derrick’s gaze on me is sweeter than sugar scones. “How about next Saturday?”

  When he reaches for my hand, I want so much to hold tight. Instead, I pull away with a regretful headshake. “I’d like to but – “

  “But what?” He frowns. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. You’ve been great.”

  “Don’t you want to hang out again?”

  “I do…too much,” I admit with honesty that squeezes my heart.

  He rubs his chin. “I don’t get it. Is this some sort of girl code that guys never understand? I don’t have much practice talking to girls, and I’m out of touch with things since I don’t go to public school. If you want to hang out again, why is that a problem? It’ll be cool to explore more streets. But lunch is on me next time, even if I have to sing for a swap-it. You’re a great tour guide and you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “You want me to be your tour guide?” I ask carefully. “That’s all?”

  “Not all. I mean…” His face reddens. “You’re smart, funny, and say unexpected things. I like being with you.”

  “I like being with you, too,” I admit then shake my head to banish images of Derrick touching my skin, caressing my hair, kissing…

  “So what’s the problem?” he asks.

  “If we spend more time together I might…um…” I’m blushing so much if a match were to strike my face it would burst into flames. How do I say this without sounding like an idiot? I take a deep breath then speak quickly. “The problem is I might like you too much.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  I press my lips together so they won’t tremble, and nod.

  “Because I’m such a horrible guy with no swap-its?” he jokes.

  “No.” I meet his gaze so he knows I’m dead serious. “Because you have a girlfriend.”

  “That’s what this is about.” His brown eyes darken like a fierce storm brewing. “Of course everyone knows everything about the mayor’s son and you’ve heard all about my girlfriend.”

  “She goes to my school.”

  He flinches. “You know Beatrice?”


  “Know Beatrice and hate her guts.” I take a deep breath so I don’t say anything worse. “I know she’s your girlfriend and all, but that’s how I feel.”

  “Beatrice can be blunt, but when you get to know her she’s not that bad.”

  “Only if your definition of ‘not that bad’ includes black widow spiders, blood-sucking vampires, and mass murderers.’”

  “Whoa!” He whistles low, which causes Toffee’s ears to perk up. “That’s some serious dislike. What’d she ever do to you?”

  Turned my name into a bad joke at school, I almost say, but don’t because he might feel sorry for me – or worse, take Beatrice’s side.

  “The point is,” I say with a sigh. “You have a girlfriend.”

  He glances down at his sneakers, kicking a rock into the street. “She’s not my girlfriend anymore. She’s angry about something she wants me to help her with, and she won’t talk to me.”

  I know. Oh, how I know. This would be a good moment to admit I’ve been getting his texts. All I have to do is power up my phone to show him the truth. I reach for my phone, fingers clasping the smooth plastic case.

  “Beatrice and I have been close since we were babies and were even cared for by the same nanny when our parents traveled, but you probably heard that, too,” he adds, scowling.

  My finger hovers over the power button as I nod.

  With a snort he turns from me to stare into the shallow fountain water. “Then you know my parents planned our future. Her father and mine drew up a contract for our marriage when we were only in diapers.”

  “Don’t they know it’s the twenty-first century?” I clutch my phone a little tighter. “You can’t let them force you into a marriage.”

  “I don’t plan to, and Mom knows not to push me, but Dad just assumes I’ll follow his orders.” Derrick flicks his finger into his watery reflection, distorting his face. “Doesn’t matter now anyway. Beatrice will probably never speak to me again. She’s really hurt by…uh, something I said. I never know how to say the right thing. I should have tried harder to understand her.”