Wannabe More

by Billie Dale

  I’m well into my first year of pre-med, having already finished a degree in mathematics. Hendrix left last year for Juilliard so it’s only Viv and me at the plantation during the days the tutors don’t visit. He comes home for the summer and breaks. We’ve never broached that night in Asia DeMarco’s closet. With his rock star good looks and amazing talent, Hendrix Carmichael is never without female companionship. I’ve lost count of the number of girls he’s brought home during his stays.

  He’s as much a playboy as Mazric. Neither boy struggles for a date. Preslee and Joey became an item, but they battle more than the Hatfields and McCoys. On and off again so much I’d get whiplash if I tried to keep up.

  Mazric insisted we all get together to celebrate the last summer before their senior year. I thought he meant just the four of us, but when Preslee and I clear the trees at the pond I discover he meant everyone. The entire class is swimming, trampling the grass, dancing to loud music, and drinking from long neck bottles. Carrie Lynn would wring his neck if she saw this madness, but she’s off on a spa retreat we bought her for Mother’s Day.

  Why can’t there be a party without that damn karaoke machine? The generator from the barn is getting a workout between the sound system and the lights strung in the trees.

  “My God, make her stop.” Hendrix announces his arrival with disdain, hugs his sister, covering one ear with his hand to block the caterwauling coming from the speakers as a girl murders Britney Spears Gimme More. I can’t help noticing he’s alone for once.

  “Where’s your harem?” I ask, nudging his shoulder.

  “All by my lonesome. Why? You vying for a spot, Samantha?” He winks. The quiet, reserved Hendrix of old disappeared when he realized his appeal to the opposite sex. Now he’s nothing but a flirt. With his shaggy hair, tall lean body, and hypnotic ocean eyes, he’s gorgeous. Add in the ripped jeans, black boots, calloused fingers, and grunge appearance, he becomes a hottie you have to know. Then he plays. Guitar, piano, bass, cello; it doesn’t matter what it is, he combines it with low raspy sung lyrics and girls’ panties just fall off. I’m not even immune to Hendrix when he performs. It’s a religious experience guaranteed to turn you into a sexually charged puddle of lust. But don’t get clingy or expectant; he’s never in it for the long haul.

  My cheeks burn at his words, forcing me to look away. I should be used to it but it’s been a while since I’ve felt the full Hendrix charm.

  “Hey, man.” Maz wraps an arm around my shoulders, holding out his other in a fist. “Glad you could make it.”

  Hendrix returns his bump, cocking his brow at Mazric’s hold. “Come on, Maz, let’s swim.” Asia DeMarco’s nasal voice demands more than asks, offering us a finger wave before jerking Maz toward the water. He gives a what-are-you-gonna-do shoulder shrug with his hands raised. Laughing he rushes up on her, slapping the ass of her nonexistent bikini bottom while Hendrix eyes the tiny triangles of her non-top. She’s friendlier than she was three years ago—more mature—less wicked. It doesn’t lessen my hate for her or her lack of clothing.

  My hands twist my oversized T-shirt and I curse at myself for not listening to Preslee’s advice to wear something sluttier. I still dress the same. Spending my days with no one to impress lends to a uniform of yoga pants and baggy shirts. My hair is still a mess of springing curls I only straighten when we go somewhere special, which is never. If I’m not studying, I’m in the barn helping Daddy work. We’re close to finishing the Mustang he gave me for my eighth birthday. One more coat of paint and clear coat and she’s ready to purr. Too bad I can’t drive it for another year. He lets me cruise around Pappy’s farm but threatened to sell it if he caught me anywhere else.

  Preslee tugs her yellow tank top over her head, exposing her tankini before shoving her shorts to the ground. “Did you suit up?” she asks, wiping sweat from her forehead. The humid August Kentucky heat is hotter than Hades.

  “No. I’m not swimming,” I answer, but she reads my face like a well-worn novel. Carrie Lynn promised I’d develop and she’s still certain my curves will come. My chest is a speed bump to their mountains. I’m three inches taller than Pres’s five foot four but where she’s curving hips, round butt, and small waist; I’m all leg. Not much else. My backside is pancake flat with no waist to speak of, my shoulders are knobby, and my boobs nonexistent. I’m still built like a boy but I took up jogging with Vivianne in the mornings before I start classes. Between the miles ran and the farm work I have nice muscle definition. Imagine the skeleton in biology class, add flesh color and tiny bumps along the arms and legs, bam, now you know what I look like.

  Carrie reminds me I’m only fifteen and just started my monthly cycle. She urges patience but she’s full of shit. I might look like my mama with nice green eyes and jet-black hair, but my build is all Johnny Gentry.

  Preslee throws her trademark sigh and eye roll my way, knowing I’m not swimming because I don’t want these people to see my lack of body. She tells her brother to keep me company before racing to jump in the water.

  I don’t hear his response because while Pres and I eyeball argue Hendrix sheds his shirt, leaving him in only a pair of shredded jeans that seem held up only by the strength of his brown belt. As delicious as this is, it’s his hip divots fogging my brain. A drop of sweat races down the center of his defined chest; catching on the light smattering of hair down the center of his rippled stomach. I swear I swallow my tongue. He’s not muscle heavy like Mazric, but I can see the slight rise of his abs and my hands itch to feel them.

  “See something you like, Samantha?” he asks, and with extreme effort I drag my stare from his torso to meet his sky-blue eyes, which aren’t any easier to handle. His one brow cocks up to match his lips. He laughs at my inability to form words before grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the beer cooler.

  The misery of Puke Gate after Asia’s party put me off drinking. But the sun is beating down on my head and half-naked Hendrix is sending my nerve endings haywire. I welcome oblivion. I don’t like beer, having tried it a few times with Maz, but I don’t refuse the fruity wine cooler Hendrix places in my hand.

  Three chugged bottles later and my fuzzy numb brain wonders why I stayed away from the one thing that makes it stop stressing. A niggle in my mind warns I’ll remember why come morning, but right now I don’t care.

  Another kid warbles a popular song, shredding Hendrix’s eardrums. He’s seconds away from going all Van Gogh but instead of one, he’ll hack off both his ears. A sure thing about Hendrix Carmichael is where he is his guitar or some instrument is never far behind. I search the shady spots, and sure enough, there sits his beat-up, brown, sticker-coated case wallpapered with great bands of the past, the Deadhead red and blue most prominent. He follows my line of sight swigging from his bottle. When he sees where my mind is going his damp lips pull high, exposing the straight white of his teeth. My stomach flutters, sending a swooning rush to my head.

  Eyes locked on the tug and pull of his torso and push of his arms—I watch him rise—enjoying the view from the back almost as much as the front, wishing his jeans weren’t so damn baggy. The man has a glorious backside: the trim cut of muscles along his shoulders, down to his waist, with two lickable divots above the low sit of his denim. Sex on a stick are the only words flashing in my big brain. Without the haze of imitation wine, I’d chastise myself for allowing him to turn me into dumb-girl-pudding, but right now I’m too aroused. Another bullet point to fret over and try to ferret out is my body’s reaction to all things Hendrix. It’s as if the booze polluted my chemical makeup, turning my chromosomes into typical teenage girl with my hormones Indy car racing to the forefront.

  He returns, standing tall above me with his hand extended. “Shall we?”

  I nod feeling all Jennifer Gray Baby-ish when Johnny takes her on the dance floor for the first time. After Asia’s party and my singing debut a la Spice Girls, Hendrix prodded me for weeks to sing with him when we take breaks from schoolwork. He even wr
ote songs designed for my voice. Aside from singing along with the radio or belting out lyrics while showering, I never gave it much thought. Under his tutelage with a few tweaks from his music teacher, singing with Hendrix became our secret. A half hour break here and there where I didn’t have to think about anything more than the words and matching the music. We haven’t jammed since he left for Juilliard. I didn’t believe I missed it, but seeing him with his guitar reminds me how great it felt.

  He messes with the computer connected to the speakers, slings the instrument over his shoulder, caressing the strings of the classic Gibson like a long-lost friend. The microphone he stuck in my hand trembles and nerves slosh my liquid lunch as it threatens to reappear. With a click on the keyboard, the haunting piano of Evanescence’s Bring Me to Life hums through the air, bouncing off the trees. My face flushes but I can’t fight the smile.

  On cue I sing the first verse, slow and low, adding my own raspy sound. The song begins light and seductive, but within seconds, Hendrix rips across the strings taking it into the rock verse. His finger flicks thrum through my body as the song ebbs and flows. Soft to hard with the pulse of perfection we perform as a crowd gathers, mouths open in shock. My lips beg for release from the darkness and to open the door of my heart. Hendrix knows this was my song for Mazric. Eyes closed, I plead for life reeling with emotion, when my heavy lids open; I find his honey astonished stare. My eyes flick to Asia clinging to his side. His arm moves to dislodge her hold and he edges closer. The song becomes a prayer for him to save my drowning soul. The last words whisper a final nudge to breathe life into my existence. My peers cheer with hoots and whistles. Hendrix locks away his guitar, shouldering it before clasping my hand and offering a reassuring squeeze.

  Maz blocks me; toe to toe and nose to nose. A ferocious heat in his eyes I’ve never seen directed at me turns to fury when he sees Hendrix’s hand in mine. His fingers trail a path down my shoulders sending bolts of electricity everywhere they touch until he reaches my palm. He wiggles his digits forcing Hendrix to let go before pulling me away. The sounds around us fade and it’s just him and me alone at our pond. I’m dragged closer, pressed chest to chest. One large hand cradles my cheek, slipping up to feed his fingers in my hair, while the other flattens my palm against the hot bare skin of his chest where his heart pounds against my palm.

  A blonde blob appears at his shoulder, jerking him a step away and prying his grip from mine. “That was intense.” Asia’s syrupy chide freezes my heart. “You and Hendrix make a wonderful couple.”

  Mazric shakes his head as if to clear a fog. He sinks back into her embrace and I want to scream ‘no’ but it’s stuck in my throat. “Yeah, yeah, Sammy, that was...wow.” His best friend mask falls back in place, leaving me no choice but to swallow my disappointment. “Who wants another beer?” he asks but I hear the tension in his words.

  Hendrix slips another cooler in my hand, his arm on my waist tucks me to his side. I fight the rush of tears, refusing to allow one to fall. When we return to our blanket, Preslee is there with three others and they’re passing around a joint. The musty garbage scent makes me gag. Hendrix grabs it, taking a drag before offering it to me. “Nope. I want to keep my IQ right where it is. That shit will lower it six points. Statistically teens who use are likely to continue into adulthood and the dependency will drag them down.”

  “There’s my smart girl.” Preslee offers me a dopey grin, her pupils blown wide and eyes heavy-lidded. She urges her fellow stoners away, claiming she’s the savior of my brain cells and gushes about my and her brother’s performance.

  Seventeen

  SAMANTHA

  AN HOUR AND TWO DRINKS later, I sit on a blanket with sweat dripping from the hair at the nape of my neck, down under my shirt soaking into my already drenched bra. I’m suffering from the worst case of humidititties and swamp ass drenches my butt. Hendrix sprawls next to me with his impressive long legs stretched in front of him and perspiration glistening on his chest. I’m doing a good impression of a soggy rat, and he’s sin personified.

  The refreshing coolness beyond the shore tempts me. Mazric splashes and dunks the many girls treading around him. His tanned pecs bob in and out offering peeks at the ripped muscles of his stomach. The strands of his hair hang in his eyes when he surfaces. He laughs showing his dimples and revealing a tight bicep as he swoops it back.

  Everywhere I turn, my eyes spy man candy. I suspect I’m drunk when even Jackson Mills looks tasty. He’s quite the Ken doll with his stiff blond hair and skin painted fake tan orange. As he exits the pond his shorts plaster to his crotch and indeed, he’s as anatomically correct as poor Ken too.

  A snorting chortle pushes from my nose at my thoughts. “What’s so funny, Samantha Lee?” Hendrix asks. Maybe it’s the heat or my low tolerance for anything containing alcohol, but I swear he’s glowing and his skin has a diamond sparkle.

  “Oh my gawd!” I crawl closer to him. “You’re a vampire! Aren’t you afraid people will see your glittery skin and know? Is that why you stay away all the time, because it’s too hard to fight your craving for human blood? Do you want to eat me? Is Preslee one too? Can you hear thoughts or run real fast? How did I miss this, the signs were all there? Your beauty and talent, the dislike for people and random disappearing acts. So cool.”

  His brows wrinkle to a solid blond line. “Right, no, that’s a book.” I laugh, waving a hand as if I didn’t just go all Twilight on him. “Though Maz would be a perfect Jacob to your Edward,” I mumble, disappointed to burst my own fictional bubble. “Is it too hot? I’m hot.” A nervous giggle turns into stomach cramping laughter.

  Hendrix doesn’t join in my embarrassed hilarity. He grabs my face, sobering me more than I thought possible with his Caribbean eyes. “I might not be a Stephenie Meyer creation, but the thought of eating you is promising.” His teeth sink into the plush pad of his bottom lip and I swear someone turns up the temperature of the sun. My blood boils with want, and despite the heat my skin erupts in goosebumps.

  He’s too serious for my addled brain to deal with. My synapses are burning faster than an egg in a frying pan. Abort, abort, hot, too hot my brain sirens. Without thought or care, I kick off my flip-flops while ripping my shirt over my head. Before Hendrix can mutter a syllable, my shorts hit the ground and I’m racing to the shore in my bra and underwear. Coolness splashes my calves, hitting my thighs as I run. Once deep enough I dive under, almost drowning from trying to sigh underwater. I break the surface coughing and sputtering. After wiping the wash from my face, I notice everyone swimming has stopped to stare.

  “What?” I ask.

  Mazric floats toward me with all kinds of pissed off in his eyes. “Get out and put your damn clothes on,” he seethes, clenching his teeth.

  “My knickers constitute more fabric than Asia’s bikini. Stop being such a poo and play with me.” I splash him in the face.

  His jaw ticks but he agrees, dragging me to a more secluded part of the pond behind the rocks. Once we’re hidden, he grabs my head and dunks me. I sober with the help of the cold liquid, but the longer my body floats the lighter my head feels.

  “So, Sammy Lee, what’s the stats on drunks and swimming?” Mazric asks, circling me like a shark.

  “Ten to thirty percent of people who swim, while inebriated, drown. Alcohol lowers the body temperature so if the water is too cold it can cause hypothermia, and the effects of drinking can distort and confuse,” I ramble, without realizing he’s proving a point until I see his smug dimpled smile.

  “Damn it, Maz. I’m the logical one,” I pout, knowing I need to get out of the water before the wicked fate monster eats my brain.

  Paranoid drunk, table for one, please.

  I’m planning how to exit the water more poised than I entered when Asia’s head appears around the ridge of the rocks. “There you are. I’ve been searching everywhere.” She smiles, surveying the area before reaching for the ties at her nape. I clear my throat since I know she di
dn’t see me and I will puke if she lowers her top.

  Her hands stop as her eyes dart to where I tread. “I should’ve known you’d be here too. Scamper along, Sam, so us grown-ups can have adult time.” And there you have it, ladies and gents, the real Asia DeMarco.

  “Asia,” Mazric growls.

  “Ah for fuck’s sake, Mazric. Must you forever be babysitting? Every time we have a minute alone, she’s there.” Her venomous glare twists to me and pure hate plays in the shadows on her face. “Don’t you tire of playing weirdo in distress? Must he always coddle and protect you?”

  “That’s enough,” Mazric snaps, grabbing Asia’s hand.

  “No, wait. Seems she’s been holding this in for a while. Go ahead, Asia.”

  He drops her as if her skin is a hot coal. Standing in the shallow water he glares, waiting.

  “Look, I get it. You’re young and smart. I admit I wasn’t the nicest person but damn, when is enough enough? Do you know how much lighter he is when you’re not around? Free and unrestrained. Preslee too. You’re like an anchor too heavy for the ship, causing it to sink.”

  A catch in the back of my throat blocks my ability to retort. Each harsh and bitchy statement stabs a knife through my heart. She’s playing on my inner fears and digging a hole in my soul. My blood alcohol content makes me insecure, but thanks to her poison, I’ve sobered enough to call bullshit. Mazric and I have always been honest with each other. If he had issues, he’d tell me. “And you hovering, demanding, and spreading your legs is better than me being his friend? Dealing with your bitchy days and ‘oh woe is me’ outfit choices is more pertinent than intelligent conversation and lifelong loyalty?”

  My barb hits its mark right in the core of her shallowness. For a moment, she glances at Mazric in hopes of rebuttal; seeking the very protection she accused me of abusing. She bristles at the triumphant shine he’s aiming at me, further pissing her off.