by Goode, Ella
Mrs. Montlain aka Sunshine bustles out with the vase full of flowers. “These are so pretty, Booker. I can’t believe your mom has to throw them out every night.”
“Yeah, real shame.”
I catch Carrie rolling her eyes over my white lie. I started bringing flowers to Sunshine about a year ago. At first she wouldn’t accept them so I told her that Mom had to throw the flowers out at the end of the day. Sunshine was satisfied with that and allowed me to bring her a bouquet of roses whenever I stopped in for a treat. One of these days, Carrie’s going to rat me out. I can see it in her face. Hurriedly, I throw my money on the counter and grab the two containers. “Thanks, babe. Looks delicious as always.”
“I’m not done. I haven’t put the whip cream on top.”
“Don’t forget the cherries. The boy likes two of them,” Mr. Montlain bellows.
Carrie sniffs. “Of course he likes two of them. All guys do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Sounds like you’re insulting me.”
“If it sounds like it, maybe you’re guilty of something.”
“Of liking cherries?” I’m confused.
“Yes. Of liking too many cherries. Too many cherries are bad for you. You should be happy with one but instead you have to pile your dessert up with as many cherries as you can. I hope you choke on your cherries.” She slams the register shut.
“Your grandpa is the one that gives me the extra cherries.”
“Because all you men stick together!” Her voice is getting high and thin.
It scares me.
“Okay. No cherries next time.”
“Oh my God. It’s not about the cherries!”
“It’s not?”
“Get out!” She flings her hand toward the door. “Trish is waiting.”
Trish is waiting. The ice cream is melting...and yet, I feel like walking out the door right now is a big mistake.
“Best get going, dear. Ice cream isn’t meant to sit out in the sun too long,” Mrs. Montlain shoos me toward the door.
“We’re inside, though.” I feel like I’m missing something. “Are we still talking about cherries?” I ask.
Mrs. Montlain shakes her head. “When you figure it out, then you’ll know.”
And with that cryptic message, I find myself on the sidewalk with two melting ice cream treats and a big ass headache.
Chapter Four
Carrie
“Are you ready to admit you have a thing for Booker yet?” Grams asks, coming to sit down in the office.
I love my grandpa, but he’s not great at doing the books. He always gives it a go but can never get everything lined out right and counted. I’ve been checking over them since I was thirteen. It’s another way I’ve been able to pitch in around here. They’ve done so much for me and Mom that I try to give back in any way that I can.
“No.” I say, not taking my eyes off the computer screen.
“He’s a sweet boy,” Grams tries. I shake my head.
“He is, but he’s also a slut.” Okay, slut may be a strong word. Trish is actually the first girl I’ve heard about him hanging out with from our school. That’s not saying much, though, because the baseball team has been inviting some of the girls from South View to the parties now, so for all I know he could be dating one of them. Or maybe multiple. Or the strippers his daddy is always getting to celebrate the team's victories. There are a lot of unknowns when it comes to Booker’s love life.
I fight not to roll my eyes. How did Booker’s mom end up with his dad? I’ll never understand it. She’s as sweet as could be. How silly is it that I’m even getting upset about her hanging out with Trish? I’m not so sure even being friends with Booker is going to work for me anymore.
“He is not.”
“Really, Grams? He even flirts with you.” I think it’s adorable that he’s given my grams a nickname. Plus I love to see my grandpa's jealousy pop out every time Booker shows her attention. It’s adorable.
“You’re being ridiculous. He’s only being playful.”
“Maybe he should only be playful with one girl,” I mumble.
“Maybe if he had a girl of his own he would,” she tosses back at me. I ignore her comment.
The only person Booker doesn’t seem to flirt with or tease is me. Not that I want him to. I don’t date. Still it stings a bit that I’m not even in his line of sight for it. How did I end up the girl who got put into the friend-zone? Maybe because you put yourself there. I push that thought aside and concentrate on being mad at Booker instead.
“Honey.” Grams’ voice softens, drawing my eyes away from the computer screen. “There are good ones and bad ones out there. You have to give love a chance. There is nothing greater than falling in love.” She stands, coming around the desk to kiss me on top of my head. “We’re heading out. You coming? I hate leaving you here to close this place down.”
“Yeah, I’m coming.” I shut down the computer. Mom left an hour ago for a date. I hope this one goes better than the last few. I demanded she let me pick the next one for her using her dating app, which I also updated. If she wasn't always getting so heartbroken, it might be funny how often she ends up on these terrible dates.
I grab my bag and pull my keys out, following Grams out the back door. I set the alarm before locking the door behind me. I freeze when I see Booker leaning up against his fancy sports car. I have to admit that my heart does a little flutter at the sight of him.
“See you at home,” Grams calls. I turn to see Grandpa holding her door open. “Take your time.” She winks at me. Mom left the car with me to take home tonight. I watch as they pull out, leaving only Booker and me.
“I thought you had plans?” It’s a fight to keep my tone even. I’d lost it earlier. He must think I’m a crazy person.
“Ditched them.” He shrugs, pushing off his car. “Besides, I wanted to bring you something.” He reaches into his car through the open window and pulls out a bundle of flowers. Oh gosh. I guilted him into getting me flowers. This is a new low for me.
“You didn’t have to do that. I was only teasing,” I say as he makes his way over toward me.
“Peonies always remind me of you.”
“Why?” I lick my suddenly dry lips. Peonies are actually my favorite flower. I don’t think I ever told Booker that before.
“They start off all closed up in these small balls. So unassuming. Almost hiding themselves from the world. But with a little bit of time and care, they blossom. No matter how many times you watch a peony bloom, every time you’re surprised with how they come to life.”
He leaves me speechless. We stare at each other for a long moment. “That’s sweet of you.” I take the flowers from his hand. “I really was only teasing about the flowers before.” I wasn’t, but it’s better if he thinks that.
“Were you teasing me about those cherries too?” My face starts to warm. I hope the setting sun helps to hide the flush of my cheeks.
“It’s really none of my business how many cherries you want.”
He tilts his head to the side, giving me that killer smile of his. Those dang dimples coming out doesn’t help. “Want to go for a drive or something?”
“Why? Do you want to go down to Walkinmill’s Lake and make out or something?” I tease him.
“I wouldn’t say no.” He surprises me when he reaches out and tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. Is he teasing me?
“I think I’ll pass. I’m not going to be one of your many cherries,” I tell him. “Good night, Booker.” I walk past him and toward my car.
“Wait. Cherries are girls!?” I snort a laugh while getting into my car. I put the flowers on my passenger seat before starting up my car.
“See you at school. Maybe Trish will go to the lake with you.” I really don’t know how to keep my mouth shut.
Booker says something, but I’m already pulling out. I don’t go straight home. Instead I go to the lake. I grab m
y sketch pad and hop up on the trunk of the car. My hand moves across the open page as I try to stretch out the last rays of the sun before they disappear into the water.
I don’t have to look at the finished sketch to see what I’ve drawn. I know what’s on there—or rather who.
Chapter Five
Booker
“Mr. Peters, were you aware that Art I and II were prerequisites for this course?” asks our Advanced Art teacher, Mrs. MacIntosh.
“Sure was.” I add another line to the corner of the left eye in the portrait I’m sketching. The two eyes are wildly uneven with one being saucer big and the other looking more like it’s winking. Winking? Maybe that’s the direction I should go. I grab for my eraser but find Mrs. MacIntosh’s hand instead. I look up to see her glaring at me.
“How can you have taken both prerequisites and not be able to sketch a face with any approximation of skill?” She sounds personally offended. Another student might be hurt by her words, but I know I’m terrible.
“It’s a mystery, ma’am.”
The class laughs, which makes her only angrier. “I looked up your grades, and you are very smart. You have a 4.25 and have tested in the top .05 percent for all the advanced placement exams and standardized tests. You should spend your senior year pursuing things that fit your skill set best,” she tells me.
“I like art.” I reach across the aisle and grab the eraser off of Tommy’s desk and begin to rework the winky eye.
“But you’re not good at it.”
“I feel like my art is a fresh perspective in line with post-expressionism modern art where it’s more about the forms having dialogues with the mediums to speak to new generations about how institutionalized ideals can stifle creativity and uphold late-stage capitalism that suppresses free speech and freedom of ideas.” I toss the eraser back to Tommy, who is covering his smirk with the brim of his ball cap. In front of me, I can see Carrie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. I’m the son of a lawyer. I can bullshit with anyone.
Mrs. MacIntosh rubs her lips together in frustration before moving on to Carrie. “Very nice work, Ms. Montlain. Some people could learn from you.”
“I like Booker’s art,” Carrie says. “It’s like he says. Free form and interesting. I wish I were more like him.”
“Your work is exemplary. No need to follow anyone else’s lead.” Mrs. MacIntosh sounds worried now, like I’m going to infect her prized pupil with my bad drawing disease.
“Booker’s art is my fave, too, with all the post-functional freely interesting communistic cultural anti-forms,” inserts Tommy with his own word salad.
Soon the entire class is proclaiming that I’m a next generation Pablo Picasso. Mrs. MacIntosh is savvy enough to realize she’s lost this battle and retreats behind her desk.
I kick Carrie’s shoe in thanks. A second later I get a text.
Carrie: Forms having dialogues with mediums????? Late stage capitalism? Since when are u an ani-capitalist
Me: Looks like three min ago
She sends me a crying face emoji.
Carrie: Why do u keep taking art
Me: Bc youre here and it’s the only class we have together bestie
That earns me the rolling eye emoji
Me: How are the peonies doing
Carrie: good
Me: Where did you put them and if you don’t say right beside your bed im breaking in and taking them away
Carrie: they’re on my desk why do they have to be on the nightstand
Me: so they’re the first thing you see when you wake up duh
Carrie: I sleep on my side and face the desk
Me: You should sleep on your back
Carrie: Thank you for your advice Dr. Peters
Me: i’m going to be a sports agent not a sports med doc
Carrie: why not both?
Me: ???
Carrie: ???
Me: ???
Carrie: ?—
“Ms. Montlain! Are you texting in class?”
Carrie jumps, and her phone clatters to the floor. I stretch out my leg and cover the pink glitter case with my size thirteen. “No, Mrs. MacIntosh. I was looking up a shading technique.”
By the purse of Mrs. MacIntosh’s lips, we all know she’s not buying Carrie’s explanation, but class is almost over, so she mumbles something about how we’re wasting everyone’s precious time. I kick the phone toward my backpack and scoop it up, sliding it into the side pocket.
After class, I scoot out quickly. Carrie runs behind me, calling my name. “Booker, give me my phone back.”
“You can have it after school. Meet me at my car.”
“No. I can’t live without my phone!” she yells.
I wave to her and then disappear down the hall. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. Three classes later, I find her sitting on the hood of my navy blue Porsche, a birthday gift from my parents when I turned eighteen.
“Hand it over.” She jerks her palm out.
“Get in the car.”
“No. I have homework and then I’m going to The Sugar Factory.”
“Let’s go to the Factory now. I’ll do your homework and you can make me some dinner.”
“You don’t even know what homework it is.”
I shrug. “What does it matter? We both know that as long as it’s not art, I can do it.”
“Don’t you think I should do my own homework?”
“Definitely not. You’re a senior. You’re already set on going to community college and then taking over The Sugar Factory. What’s the point of doing your calculus?” I lift her off the hood of my car with ease and carry her to the passenger side.
She wriggles in my grip. “Put me down, Booker.”
I set her feet on the ground and place my palms on the roof of the sports car, caging her between my body and the car door. “You never used to care that I lifted you up and carried you around. I spent an entire year giving you piggyback rides from middle school to The Sugar Factory.”
“We were twelve, and it was five blocks, and you needed the exercise. You said it was for baseball training. We’re not twelve anymore.” She tries to slide down and escape, but I just lower my arm and block her.
“Right, but we’re still friends. Friends can carry each other.”
“Like you carry Trish?”
“Why would I carry Trish?”
“Because you’re friends!”
It’s the loud voice and her anxious face that make me back away. “What’s wrong, Carrie? Is something bad happening at home?”
This isn’t like her. Not at all. Something’s changing between us, and I don’t know what, but it’s not making me feel good or right inside.
Chapter Six
Carrie
He’s too close. Even with him having backed off a little. My body went haywire when he caged me against his fancy sports car. I sat on his hood on purpose to annoy him. Any other guy would have lost their minds if you dropped down on the hood of their very fancy sports car. All Booker did when he saw me was smile.
“It’s not right. You can't be picking me up and stuff when you’re dating Trish,” I blurt out.
“What? I’m not dating Trish. I’ve never dated anyone.”
I roll my eyes, pushing past him. His response doesn't help matters. I should have known better than to think he would commit to only one girl. That thought really sours my mood. His arm loops around my waist, pulling me so that my back hits his chest.
“Stop. You’re driving me nuts here.” I find myself relaxing into him even though I’m upset with him.
“Fine. Not dating. Hooking up or whatever.”
“I’m not hooking up with her or anyone, for that matter.” He turns me in his arms. I have to drop my head all the way back to look up at him.
“Oh, but you said…” I trail off.
“She’s been hanging with my mom. I mean, my mom is pretty cool. Can you blame her? Trish’s mom forgets she’s a mom most
of the time. At least that’s what my mom told me. She’s not even my type.”
“You have a type? Is it anything with a vagina?” I needle at him. Gosh, I sound like a bratty bitch. Why does he even want to be friends with me at this point? I keep lobbing blows at him. He bats them away so easily.
“Are you implying I’m a manslut?” He pretends to be offended.
“You do have a thing for strippers.”
He actually cringes. “You've heard about that?” His cheeks turn red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him blush before. I didn’t know he could get embarrassed.
“Half the baseball team brags about it.”
He releases his hold on me, running his hand down his face. “It’s all my dad’s doing. It’s embarrassing, but when he wants to do something, there is no stopping him. Hell, even if someone doesn’t want any of it, there still is no stopping him.” I can tell that his father doing things like that bothers him. “I stopped trying long ago. Now I roll with the punches, but that doesn’t mean I partake in any of it.”
“Booker.” I say his name softly, guilt hitting me at my jealous assumptions.
I’d never thought about him not wanting his dad to hire those strippers. It actually makes sense. I’ve never seen Booker be anything but a gentleman to girls. I know his dad is hard on him when it comes to baseball. He’s the father that stands on the sidelines screaming most of the game. He’s always been a bit much. I’m not even sure Booker loves playing the sport anymore. He nowhere near enjoys it as much as his father. That I know for sure.
“Will you let me drive you now?”
“I need to go by my house to change.”
He smiles, his easygoing demeanor coming back immediately at my acceptance.
“I’ll take you anywhere you need to go, Care-bear.”
“Hey!” I growl at him. “I won that stupid rock-paper-scissor game you made me play. You don’t get to call me that anymore.” I used to hate the nickname thinking it made me sound young and childish. We played an intense game of rock-paper-scissors to get him to stop calling me that. The agreement had been if I won, he’d stop using the nickname. And if he won he’d have to work a weekend at The Sugar Factory. Honestly, I’m not sure either one of those situations were bad for me. Even in an apron, he was hot.
