Wicked Charm Page 3

  “Things like how you break girls for fun.”

  Beau laughs, dragging my stare back to him.

  “Maybe I want to break you like they say,” he replies with a disarming smile.

  “You won’t break me.” He won’t. I mean it.

  He runs a finger along the dip behind my ear. Though it’s hard, I take his hand from my skin and place it back at his side. I need to know if the rumors are actually true.

  “Do you really have a girlfriend?” I blurt.

  His eyes twinkle, wicked-like. “Maybe.”

  “What’s her name?” I’m curious.

  “Samantha,” Beau replies. “But maybe I don’t really like her.”

  “Is that so?” I can’t rightfully judge his words yet, but I think he might be messing with me, telling me what I want to hear while doing the complete opposite.

  “It could be so,” he says.

  “Or you could be a liar.”

  Beau pushes hair away from my face and rubs a thumb against my cheek. It comes away grimy. This swamp is always getting pieces stuck all over me. Mud in places mud should never be. His touch doesn’t linger.

  “I am a liar,” he says. “You’re a liar, too. We all are.”

  I like the way he presents the truth. Beau has a funny way of looking at me that makes me want to lean into him like I lean into a pillow at night.

  “Where’d you get this scar?” I reach up to point at a spot on his forehead.

  “There might have been a day when I was climbing the roof to replace a rotten piece of wood and I fell and split my forehead,” he says. Then, “Or there might have been a day when my sister, Charlotte, threw a cup at me in annoyance.”

  Well, which one is it? I wonder.

  “Or,” he continues. “There might have been a time when I wasn’t nice to a girl and her daddy found out and punched me good in the head to remind me to stay away.”

  I look into his riverbed-brown eyes, wondering about the strange boy who lives next door.

  “Is one of those possibilities true?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Could be.”

  Above us, a bird trills. The swamp, thick like split-pea soup, brushes the shins of the trees, occasionally gurgling and plopping.

  “You’re not nice to girls very often, are you?”

  “Not too often,” he says.

  I think he’s being honest, but it’s hard to tell. “Are you being truthful now?”

  He grins wickedly. “I could be.”

  “Do you often talk in so many damn riddles?” I ask.

  “Do you often curse with such a sweet tongue?” he asks.

  “Sometimes.”

  I pull my hair up into a high bun to get the sticky sweat off my neck. There’s not much of a breeze today, and the swamp feels especially hot, but I can’t think of another place I’d rather be. Beau respects the distance between us, even though I can see in his eyes that he’s curious about me. Well, he’s not the only curious one. My fascination with him is palpable, as thick as the muggy air around us.

  “You’re beautiful, Willow. Where do you come from?”

  I choose to save some things for myself. “Does it really matter?”

  “I want to know about you.”

  Since I’m no good at keeping my mind straight, I tell him. “I’m from Georgia, moved to Florida, then back to Georgia.”

  “Why are you here now?”

  My skin tingles with excitement, happy that he wants to know more. Or maybe it’s the mosquitoes.

  “Nosy, aren’t you?”

  “How will I ever break you if I don’t know more about you?” he says.

  I’m not actually sure if he’s joking.

  “Like I said, there’s not a chance of you breaking me, Beau Cadwell. I have too much Bell blood running through me for that sort of thing.”

  “Old Lady Bell is a strong one, I’ll give her that. And you are her all over again, that’s for sure. But I think you might be nicer.”

  I spot an otter swimming slow-like through the water, marveling at how it seems to float with no effort at all, until it disappears back beneath the surface.

  “I think you might be right,” I agree.

  We watch the swamp, quiet to catch the noises. Mostly, the frogs croak and silence follows. But only for a few seconds before an osprey calls to the sky and mosquitoes buzz and water laps. It’s a peaceful place to be. So we do just that: be.

  Beau and me. The swamp and nothing else.

  Beau seems content with the swamp, too, like this is where he belongs, and so it’s only natural for him to close his eyes and lean on roots like he does. His smile tells me next to nothing about him but makes me want to know everything.

  I study his face. Short lashes and thick lips. Soft freckles on his cheeks and a slightly wide nose if you look at it just right. His olive skin and features make me wonder where his family relocated from before settling here. His jaw is strong, and his eyes are sure when they pop open to find me staring.

  “I heard you moved here when you were ten,” I say. “Where’d you come from?”

  “I was born in Atlanta. My dad, too. But my mom is from the Philippines.”

  I see it in his features. “Have you been to the islands? I’ve never traveled outside of the US.”

  “A couple of times when I was younger.” Beau smiles like the memory is something special to him. “Mostly, the island is with me in stories told by my mother.”

  I want to ask about his parents. I haven’t seen them once since moving across the way. But Beau edging closer interrupts my inquisition. I look away quickly.

  “Willow,” he says, less than an inch from my ear.

  Something tells me that if I turn back to him, he’ll kiss me. Or maybe I’ll kiss him. But I’m not ready to kiss Beau, thank you very much. Yet, that is. I need to know a boy first. And I still can’t tell if he’s messing with me about having a girlfriend. I think I now understand Jorie’s statement: he has half the girls at our school in love with him. Mysteriousness does work well for him. Makes a person want to know more.

  “Better get back,” I say, ignoring the fact that he just said my name. For now, I like the idea of us being friends. “Gran will be up.”

  It’s true. She’ll know that I’m gone, and the boat, too.

  I stand up and work my way back through the mud to the boat. Beau follows. Until I can resist him, I avoid looking at his face. Being instantly attracted to someone I hardly know makes me uneasy and isn’t something I have experience with—the rope tethered to my navel, dragging me toward his look, his touch, his crooked grin.

  I pick up the oars and begin rowing home. Only boys I ever kissed had been friends of mine first. And while that was nice, the whirlwind in my gut tells me that this might be something nicer. More enticing. More exciting. I always did have to be drawn to mystery, didn’t I? And Beau is that, a complete and total mystery.

  “Willow.” His voice is deep, and I finally turn his way. “You want to ride with me to school on Monday?”

  I think of Jorie. I’d like to see her again. I’d also like to ride with Beau.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I’m meeting a friend on the bus.”

  We pull up to the bank and drag the boat back to the spot where it lives under a thicket of leaves. It’s harder to do with the metal coated in mud and slime, but Beau makes it look easy.

  “Thanks for the help,” I say.

  He ties the boat to a tree and makes sure the knot is good. When it rains, waters rise like a dam bursting, swallowing land. A boat will float away without a good knot.

  “You’re welcome,” he says.

  We walk the path back to the dividing line, over a carpet of leaves pressed flat into the ground by rains.

  Beau pauses. “How about this? You ride with me to school and ride the bus home after school. Then you’ll see me and your friend.”

  It’s a good solution.

  “Can I have your number? I’ll text you when I’
m getting ready to leave, and you can meet me out front, if you want.” He watches me. “Do you want to, Willow?”

  I pull my cell out of my pocket. “How about you give me your number?”

  He rattles it off, and I send a one-word message.

  Yes.

  His phone chimes in his pocket, and an instant later, he pulls it out and reads the text. His look, heated and gleaming, makes me take two steps toward him.

  “I don’t trust your eyes,” I say.

  He grins. “You’re smart not to, Willow Bell. Come to my house in the morning. I’ll give you a ride, and maybe you’ll consider telling me just a little bit more about yourself.”

  “You’ll never get my soul,” I warn, thinking of Gran’s words. I smile because I know what she means. A girl could fall deep into a look like his, maybe lose parts of herself while there.

  “I don’t want your soul, Willow.”

  The sound of the front door slamming tells me that Gran is now outside, most likely watching us.

  “All I really want,” Beau says, taking a few steps backward on his way to his place, “is you.”

  …

  Later that night, under a star-speckled sky, I sit on my porch. There’s no breeze to be felt, so my tank top sticks to me like gum. Even with my hair braided to one side and the sun having fallen beneath the horizon, I feel the lingering heat from the day. A nature song plays in the background, composed of frogs croaking, insects humming, and cicadas buzzing like a live electrical wire.

  Each light in the house is off, due to everyone but me being in bed, fast asleep. I can’t help that the swamp makes a night owl out of me. I like the calm of it all. I look forward to evenings alone, the moon my only friend. But I know a moment later that I’m not alone. In the distance, murmurs sound.

  “I’m telling you, I saw it here.”

  I perk up at the sound of a female voice coming from the house next door. I wonder if it’s Beau’s sister.

  “You’re sure?”

  I recognize the person responding, though I’ve only heard his timbre a handful of times.

  “Beau, I saw it. It’s over there.”

  From a window to the side of the house, a light turns on, voices drifting out. I catch sight of Beau exiting the front door and making his way outside.

  “Did you find it?” the girl asks.

  I still can’t see her. What I do see clearly is Beau. He bends to the ground and retrieves a small creature.

  “A squirrel.” He holds the tiny thing up to the light.

  “Do you think it fell from a nest?” she asks.

  Beau looks skyward, to the tree that hangs overhead.

  “Probably. I need a flashlight.”

  I wait in silence, watching from my spot on the porch swing. A hand extends from the window, a flashlight gripped in pink-tipped fingers. Beau turns it on. Never does he shine it my way.

  “There.” He finds the nest, lit up by the flashlight beam. “I need you to hold the squirrel while I climb up on the roof.”

  “Not a chance.” The girl remains in the room.

  “Come on, Charlotte.” I sense the frustration in his voice, but he remains calm. “I have to climb, and I can’t do it one-handed. Once I’m on the roof, I’ll take it from you and replace it in the nest. That easy. Help me out here. You don’t want it to die, do you?”

  My suspicion is right. The girl is his sister.

  “You know I don’t mind creatures. It’s just that it’s so small. What if I hurt it?”

  This time, Beau’s tone is kind. “You won’t.”

  After a moment, an arm reaches back through the window to hold the squirrel. Beau hands it over and quickly begins climbing the side of the house until he’s on the roof, stretching back down. He’s gentle when taking the creature, careful to hold it close to his chest.

  Who is this boy who rescues fallen animals?

  He balances the flashlight between the crook of his arm and his ribs.

  I don’t dare swing. I don’t want to call attention to myself. I want to watch from the shadows while a curious boy who claims to be wicked so gently rescues a tiny animal.

  He places the squirrel in the nest and smiles down at the window.

  “There. All finished.”

  When he makes his way back to the front door, he pauses and swivels toward my house. I inhale sharply. Don’t dare to exhale. Under the porch light, Beau looks more like a painting than something real. I can’t be sure, but I almost swear I see him grin. And then he’s gone. Back inside his cabin. The window closes, and the voices are silenced.

  Beau saved a baby swamp squirrel. His sister asked him to do it. They are nothing like the people Jorie spoke of. Still, Beau’s reputation precedes him. I can’t help but wonder why.

  6

  Beau

  Grandpa Cadwell is an old man with a young soul. He thinks he can do all the things he used to do, and to some extent, that’s true. But like the rest of us, he’ll eventually die. If he keeps drinking whiskey the way he is now, he might die sooner rather than later.

  “Grandpa,” I say, joining him in the living room, “you can’t drink whiskey straight at eleven a.m.”

  “Boy, I’m eighty years old. I can do whatever I want.”

  He takes another sip. Wrinkles crease his thin-as-paper skin. His hair is silver, and his wit is sharp. He coughs roughly and swallows it down with a gulp of whiskey.

  I bring the paper to him and unfold it across the table. It’s from last Sunday. That’s how it works with us. We’re a wide sky’s throw away from town, and so no one will deliver this far. Each week, while picking up our mail from the post office box, I buy the paper, save it until the next Sunday, and give it to him bright and early with his morning coffee. Or in this case, whiskey. We pretend it’s the paper from today and not last week. It’s the ritual that he likes more than anything.

  “It’s been years since your parents passed,” Grandpa says. “And still the town whispers about it when they think I’m not listening, wondering what exactly happened to them.”

  I don’t like to be reminded that they’re gone.

  “Any trouble for you or Charlotte at school lately? People ask questions about your parents?” He inquires every few months, just to be sure nothing has changed.

  “No,” I answer.

  Grandpa has legal custody of us. I never knew my grandma. She died in childbirth. Grandpa never did remarry.

  Charlotte enters the room. “Morning.”

  “Charlotte,” Grandpa says, nodding to her.

  She takes a whiff of the air and smiles his way. “Whiskey, eh? I think I’ll have a glass, too.”

  “Charlotte,” I say. “You can’t drink whiskey.”

  What I really mean is that she shouldn’t. She smiles like she’s going to anyway, but then she saunters past, into the kitchen. She begins making what she makes every Sunday morning: french toast and eggs. I peer out the window while she cooks, my insides eager at the prospect of Willow being there. I haven’t seen her since Friday, two days ago.

  “Are you looking for your dreadful little obsession?” Charlotte asks, smiling roguishly.

  “Ah,” Grandpa says. “I saw you with her. Virginia Bell’s granddaughter, right?”

  “Right,” I confirm.

  “She’ll be a stubborn one,” he warns. “Her grandmother is, too.”

  Grandpa doesn’t often talk about the specific girls he dated in his time. Stories, sure. Names, no. Except Old Lady Bell. She gave him hell. He loved every minute of it until she sent him packing. So he bought the land across from the parcel she’d inherited from her parents. Which wasn’t supposed to be for sale, but that mattered none because Grandpa always gets what he wants. Except for Old Lady Bell. He never could get her back. Won’t tell me how he lost her in the first place. Still, he reminds her every day that he exists. Even though she mostly refuses to acknowledge him.

  I sit next to him on the couch. The air smells of cinnamon and sugar. />
  “Maybe that Bell girl will turn Beau down,” Charlotte says.

  I hope she doesn’t.

  My phone chimes in my pocket. I look down to see a message from Grant asking me to join him and Pax in town.

  give me two hours, I reply.

  Charlotte sets plates on the counter and shuffles eggs onto them. She makes quick work of the french toast, sprinkling cinnamon over a dusting of powdered sugar. I walk to the kitchen and take the canister to add more sugar to mine, like always.

  “Do you think Willow’s aware of the target on her back?” Charlotte asks.

  So she does, in fact, know her name.

  “Who said she has a target?”

  “Your eyes say so, boy. And you know it.”

  I take the first bite of breakfast. It’s sickly sweet. Just the way I like it.

  “Let’s say you’re right,” I reply. “So what?”

  “So I just wonder if she knows, that’s all.”

  “That I’m interested in her?” I ask. “Sure hope so.”

  “You always have known how to be just cunning enough to get what you want, haven’t you?”

  I take her compliment and swallow it down with the rest of my breakfast.

  …

  The mall is more than an hour away, but Grant insists on getting a new phone, and on Pax and me joining him.

  “Took you long enough,” Grant says with a smile when I arrive.

  Pax waits next to him, but the two couldn’t look more opposite. Grant is stringy with curly red hair and a smattering of freckles, while Pax is linebacker built with brown hair like carpet falling down over most of his face.

  “Was having breakfast with my sister and grandpa,” I say.

  “And how is that sister of yours?” Grant asks slyly.

  “Still not interested in you.”

  Pax grins and leads the way toward the huge looming sign for the electronics store. Inside, it’s lit like a beacon. Displays advertise sales. A squeaky guy welcomes us and takes down Grant’s name to put him on the wait list for assistance. Looks like we have time to kill.

  I watch the way Pax stares longingly at new phones he can’t afford, even though his is always having problems. I wish I could help him, but we budget the little bit we have as it is.