Joyride

by Anna Banks

“So you’re going after her, huh? Even after what she did to you today?”

  Arden is torn. He doesn’t want to give the wrong impression about his intentions toward Carly, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to have to deal with these kinds of issues either. Now that he’s shown her some attention, others will too, he’s sure. And if she’s constantly getting distracted by potential love interests, how will he train her to be the ultimate sidekick? He doesn’t have much of a choice here. “Yeah, I’m going to try again. She’ll warm up to me after a while.”

  “Those grabber green eyes not working for you anymore?”

  Arden shrugs.

  “But you’re officially asking me to step down.”

  “Yep.” Only, he’s not asking. And he doesn’t have time for this back-and-forth with Chad. Carly is about to walk out the double doors at the end of the hall and he needs to get to his truck before she disappears altogether.

  “Afraid of a little competition?”

  Arden purses his lips. “You owe me, Brisbane.” After Arden had quit the football team, he’d talked Coach Nelson into letting Chad replace him as starting quarterback—and that was after the coach had promised the position to someone else. But Chad’s future rides on getting a football scholarship. He needed that kind of attention from the college scouts. And without Arden’s help, he’d still be a second-string running back, nothing too impressive.

  Chad grimaces. “Whatever. Alright, little buddy. I’ll stay away from the missus.”

  “You’re a tramp, you know that?” Arden calls over his shoulder as he breaks into a run to get to the parking lot. Squinting in the sun, he sees Carly walking out the front entrance of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk in front of the school. Thankfully she’s heading west, away from downtown and into the less busy part of Roaring Brooke.

  He hops in his truck and pulls out of the parking lot in time to see Carly turn down a dirt road in the distance. Even better. It’s a shortcut through the woods between the main road that runs through Roaring Brooke and the county road that leads to the interstate. The only downfall to this route is that now he’ll appear even more creepy, stalking her down a deserted trail and all.

  But he’s got no choice. Why, with Carly Vega, am I always down to no choice?

  By the time he reaches the cutoff, she’s already made it halfway down the road. He slows down, letting the truck idle beside her. She whips her head in his direction, startled. Until now, Arden would be hard pressed to imagine anything could startle this girl.

  Just as he’d suspected though, her surprise morphs into something that looks a lot like rage. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, stopping abruptly.

  “I have your bike,” he blurts. Putting the truck into park, he hops out and shuts the door behind him. “It’s in the back.” He shoves his hands in his pockets because fidgeting in front of Carly is out of the question.

  “Great. Get it out.”

  “Not until you talk to me.”

  She takes a step forward. Arden thinks she just might have the longest eyelashes in the county. “You’re a jackass, you know that?”

  “I’m not really. Just let me explain.” It’s a weird feeling, to plead with a girl. She takes another step toward him. He’s disturbed that he notices she smells like honeysuckle on a humid day.

  “There’s not an explanation on the planet that will excuse what you did last night.”

  God, but she’s amazing when she’s angry. “What if I told you Cletus—Mr. Shackleford—is my uncle? That I was just trying to scare him out of driving home drunk?”

  Carly’s mouth drops open. And he knows he’s got her.

  Seven

  I step away from him, shaking my head. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. He’s my great uncle. His name is Cletus Shackleford and he’s my mom’s father’s brother.” Arden fills the space I’d created between us. His wide back blocks the sun, saving me from the inconvenience of squinting up at him. “He lives at Eighty-Six Weston Road, but only uses up two rooms in that whole big house of his. His wife was my aunt Dorothy. She died when I was a kid, but I remember she used to make the best biscuits and gravy every Sunday.”

  I blink. Mr. Shackleford had a wife and her name was Dorothy. He lives in a big house. He used to have someone to fix him breakfast on Sundays. These added dimensions of him make what Arden did that much worse. I choke down an emotion I can’t name. “Why would you do that to him?” I whisper. “He was so scared.”

  Arden sighs. “How well do you know my uncle?”

  I shake my head. On top of what Arden just told me, all I know is that he comes into the Breeze Mart every night for a new bottle of vodka. That we have philosophical debates. Everything else I imagined, made it all up in my head as if Mr. Shackleford were a character instead of a real person. I didn’t even know Arden was his nephew. Maybe Mr. Shackleford drinks because he lost Dorothy.

  Then I remember what Arden said. I was just trying to scare him out of driving home drunk. “He drives himself back and forth from the Breeze Mart,” I say. “Nothing’s ever happened to him.” Still, I feel the anger dissipating as a bigger picture of the situation comes into view. And I want to find fault in the bigger picture. But I can’t.

  Arden says what we’re both thinking now. “It’s only a matter of time.” Which could be true. I have no idea where 86 Weston Road is—I’d always hoped Mr. Shackleford lived close. But I never in a million years would have called him out on driving drunk.

  Because I’m a coward.

  “And my uncle is stubborn,” Arden is saying. “It takes drastic measures to get through to him sometimes.”

  “You scared him. He … He messed himself. He was embarrassed.” I try to sound more informative than accusatory, but it still makes me mad.

  Arden scratches the back of his neck. “I know. I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t think he would … I swear, Carly, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  And I believe him. His eyes are big. Sad. I swallow. “Have you checked on him?”

  “My mom went over there last night. Helped him get cleaned up. Said when she left, he was sleeping like a baby.”

  I nod, feeling relieved that Mr. Shackleford had somebody to check on him. Feeling guilty that I’ve been so nasty to Arden. Feeling speechless because of all of the above.

  Arden keeps his eyes fixed downward. He kicks at a rock embedded into the dirt road in front of him. “Look, I’m sorry I scared you in the process too. I didn’t expect for you to … do what you did.”

  Me neither, is what I want to say. But Arden’s not finished. He looks up then, meets my gaze. “And I wanted to say that what you did was brave. And…” He runs his hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t realize until just now that I suck at having a serious conversation.”

  It’s true, he does kind of suck at it. All broken sentences and half explanations. In fact, he says more with his eyes than he does with his mouth. And if he was trying to say these things to me at lunch earlier, he totally blew it. All I heard was “I’m a jerk.” But now I’m hearing something different. Now he’s struggling—more than that, he’s trying. And I want to come to his rescue. “So stop being so serious.”

  He lets out a breath that could resemble a laugh if it matched his expression. “I will. As soon as I say what I need to say.” He pauses again and I think I’m going to go mad with anticipation. At the same time, I’m a little flattered that Arden Moss has something important enough to say to me that his tongue is tangled in knots. “Thank you,” he blurts. “Thank you for trying to help my uncle. For protecting him. It meant a lot to me. It means a lot to me. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do care about him.”

  I’m about to tell him he’s welcome—because what else should I say?—but he continues. “And at lunch today, I completely screwed that up. What I was trying to say was that … Actually, I think I’ve said enough for now.” The corners of his mouth lift up into a cheeky smile, not t
he kind of counterfeit, purposeful grin I’ve seen him use on girls. This one makes him look like a boy who’s just been given a slingshot and something to aim at. “Well, now that I’ve made this way awkward for both of us, can I give you a ride home?”

  Ah. And here is my opening to end whatever thing Arden and I had between us for this past forty-eight hours. Arden doesn’t do serious conversation. I don’t do complicated. “Oh no, that’s okay. I don’t live far from here. Like, two minutes on my bike, max.” Hint hint.

  His smile falters. “It’s not a big deal at all. It’s the least I could do.”

  This is true. But it’s not happening. Julio would pass away directly if a boy brought me home. I can hear him now. You’re going to get distracted, get pregnant, and then we’ll never get Mama and Papi back here. “No thanks,” I say, to both scenarios.

  This perplexes Arden, I can tell. “Are you still mad at me? Honest to God, I didn’t mean to insult you or scare you or—”

  “Can I please have my bike back?” I know it’s rude and abrupt, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to drag this out any longer. Like he said, it’s already way awkward for us both. Why continue bumbling? It’s time to part ways.

  He sighs in resignation. “Alright.” Walking to the truck bed, he reaches in and gingerly lifts out my bike as if it were made of porcelain—and as if it weighed as much as a pillow. I try not to notice his triceps flexing. “Here you go.”

  It’s only been a day, but I’ve missed my bike. We’ve been through a lot together. Riding in the rain, two flat tires, pedaling away from a rabid fox. My bike and I? We are friends. “Thanks,” I tell him. “See you in social studies.” I loop both arms through my backpack and center the weight of it on my back.

  I’m about to hop on the seat of the bike when Arden says, “Does that mean we’ll actually get to talk in social studies?”

  Seriously? “Um, I don’t know about you, but I have to pay attention in class or I’ll be totally lost.” So I’m good at directness and evasion.

  “You don’t like me.” Okay, so Arden’s good at being direct too. Crap.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to. When you get on that bike and leave, you have no intention of ever speaking to me again.”

  I nudge the kickstand in place and cross my arms at him. The weight of my backpack makes my shoulders feel more squared, which I appreciate. “We’re not friends, Arden. We’re only talking right now because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time last night. If that hadn’t happened, the rest of the school year would have gone by without you even looking in my direction.”

  Guilt flashes across his face but is immediately replaced by determination. “That might be true. But last night did happen. We did, er … meet. And I like you, Carly.”

  Oh, heck no. Not distracted and pregnant. Not this girl. I actually feel my nostrils flare. “Did you already make your way through the entire cheerleading squad then?”

  “What? No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t like you like that.”

  I go from one side of the spectrum of offense to the other. I feel like one of those revolving doors you see at fancy hotels. “Oh, I know. You’re way out of my league, right? I’m not good enough to like in that way.”

  “Jesus,” Arden says, stacking his hands on the top of his head. “I can’t win.”

  Oh, now that’s rich. “You can’t win? You? Arden Moss? You’ve already won, idiot. You have everything you’ve ever wanted in life, all handed to you on a silver platter.” It’s not fair what I’m saying. It’s not fair, and it has nothing to do with getting distracted or pregnant or cheerleaders. I’m lashing out and I know it. I want this to be difficult for him.

  I want something to be difficult for him.

  “Don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Don’t play the rich-kid card on me. I deserve a lot of things, but not that.”

  Ugh. Why does he have to be so human right now? Why can’t he just let me vent?

  But then I remember that Arden is not good at serious conversation. What he says next proves it. “And if I recall correctly, I don’t have everything handed to me on a silver platter. Today it was handed to me on a plastic lunch tray, remember?”

  Oh, I remember. The image flashes through my mind before I can stop it. Arden, battered in cream corn and smothered in a delicate 2% milk sauce. And I giggle. “That was reflex,” I explain without remorse.

  He grins. “I’ll bet.” He purses his lips then. “We can be friends, Carly. We’re not as different as you think.”

  Yes, we are. But he obviously can’t be convinced otherwise, at least not right now. I nod. Pretending to agree seems like the only way he’ll let me leave on my bike. And I’ve got to start dinner before Julio gets home. “Friends,” I say, as if the word is foreign to me.

  “Friends.” He grabs the door handle of his truck. “See you in social studies.”

  “Okay then.” I turn around and start pedaling, trying to stir up a symbolic dust cloud in my wake.

  Eight

  Arden pulls into the long dirt driveway at 86 Weston Road. Long rows of straggly azalea bushes stand guard on either side of the drive. When in full bloom, this driveway is a sight fit for any Southern gardening magazine. That is, if trimmed properly. From the ruts and holes in the red clay, it doesn’t look like Uncle Cletus has even had his driveway smoothed over in some time, let alone paid anyone to clean up the bushes.

  And why should he have to pay someone? Arden thinks to himself. When he has a perfectly capable nephew with an abundance of time on his hands?

  Hating himself more and more, Arden takes the last curve and pulls under the vaulted, monumental carport in front. The grand stone steps that lead to Uncle Cletus’s double front doors are covered with last season’s leaves and this season’s moss; Aunt Dorothy used to keep flowers in the concrete vases at the bottom of the stairs. Now the vases stand purposeless and forlorn and pathetic looking. Up top, two giant lion statues on either side of the front door show their teeth as Arden rings the bell. The elegant noise echoes through the house in an uninviting way, as if to say, “Why bother?”

  Not surprisingly, no one comes to the door. Uncle Cletus used to keep a maid, Mrs. Beeman, who came a few days a week to tidy up and prepare meals. She would even play the role of butler and answer the door. It’s been a long time since Arden has seen Mrs. Beeman. It’s been a long time since the front steps have seen Mrs. Beeman.

  Arden retrieves his check card from his wallet and finagles the lock by the doorknob, hoping that the deadbolt isn’t set. One minute and a bent check card later, Arden strolls into the enormous foyer. The house smells like a decade-old dust ball mixed with cheese. Dust lies on everything like a second skin. Aunt Dorothy and Mrs. Beeman used to keep the house meticulous. Now it looks like it could be undergoing a remodel, with books and magazines and papers strewn about, along with clothes and shoes and paint cans and pieces of art that fell and were never re-hung.

  To Arden’s left is the “fancy” room where he and Amber were not allowed to play. That’s where the expensive stuff is kept. Vases and tea sets and a grand piano and a china cabinet full of porcelain collectibles and a pink antique couch that had probably accommodated the butts of some very important guests in its day. Now a pile of decaying wood sits by the fireplace in a delicate brass basket.

  Arden knows there’s no use checking the dining room or the kitchen or the library or any of the bedrooms upstairs. Uncle Cletus prefers to drink himself to death in the ballroom. There he has the perfect setup. The ballroom is empty except for the one corner of it haunted by Cletus Shackleford. Him, his polyester couch, and his old television. It’s the only place in the house he claims has enough room for all his “lofty thoughts.”

  Arden pushes his shoulder into the ballroom door, which creaks open. This room seems to get smaller and smaller each time he visits. As a child, he always thought it was as big as town, dignified and luxurious but decidedly boring. A
ll shiny baseboards and brass mirrors and chandeliers that cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the floors in the summertime. To Arden, the only thing the ballroom was good for was inside rollerblade hockey. He and Amber didn’t need to be worried about oncoming traffic of the street or weather conditions like they did at their own house. And the bonus was that if you wiped out, you just got marble-floor burn instead of asphalt embedded into your bloody knees. Now that Arden thinks about it, it was pansy hockey. Not manly at all.

  His steps reverberate through the room that was designed to deliver music to every corner. There’s no way his uncle doesn’t know he’s here. He walks toward the couch facing the far wall, with the TV tucked into it. Two booted feet hang off the end of the sofa, and the channel is turned to some sort of hunting show. Arden hears the swish of a bottle being upturned. He wonders how productive this conversation with Uncle Cletus will be.

  “Hey, old man,” Arden calls. The boots don’t move. Arden rests his elbows on the back of the couch, looking down at Cletus. His uncle’s hair is disheveled, his flannel shirt exposing a stained wife beater, and he’s actually wearing an honest-to-God polka-dot bow tie around his neck. Arden nods toward it. “What’s the occasion?”

  Cletus reluctantly draws his attention away from the TV and fixes his gaze on Arden. “I was wondering the same thing about you.”

  Arden almost cringes. “If you wanted people to visit, you should come to the door when they ring the bell.”

  “Back door’s always open. You know that.”

  “After what happened to you the other night, I figured you’d be smart enough to lock all the doors.”

  “What do you know about what happened?” Uncle Cletus sits up on his elbows, almost spilling the contents of the bottle, which smells like whiskey.

  “Mom told me.” As soon as he says it, Arden regrets it. Now Cletus knows that Arden knows he messed himself. He’d wanted to save his uncle from that indignity.

  “Did she.”

  “Said some moron held you up for your truck keys, then took off on a bike instead.”