Wicked Charm Page 4

  Since Grant’s parents are a bit better off, he wastes no time going to the wall rack of cases and eyeing each one.

  “What do you think of this?” he asks, taking one down.

  Pax tries not to laugh. “Is that pink?”

  His Southern accent is so thick that most people don’t understand him unless they’re from around here or unless he speaks slowly and enunciates. Even then, it’s still questionable.

  “It’s salmon colored,” Grant says.

  “So, pink?” Pax teases.

  Grant places the pink case back on the rack.

  “What about this one?” he asks.

  It doesn’t look much better. It has tiny foxes stamped into it.

  “Man, you have money to buy a new case and these are the options you pick?”

  Pax’s voice is lighthearted, but his look tells me he’s envious.

  “Fine, what do you think about these tablets?” Grant asks, changing course.

  I pull up one of the screens and begin playing a game while we wait. Grant and Pax go back and forth about which company makes the best product.

  A girl walks by with hair as black as space. For a moment, I think it’s Willow, but then she turns and I see that I’m mistaken. She smiles at me, and Grant takes advantage of the situation by trying to talk to her himself.

  “You mind?” he asks me.

  “Not at all.” I lean against the wall and watch as he approaches the girl.

  She looks uncomfortable. He looks ecstatic.

  “You think she’ll turn him down?” Pax asks, laughter in his tone.

  “Definitely. He has thirty seconds, tops, before she does.”

  I’m wrong. It takes less time than that. Grant joins us once again with a scowl.

  “Shut up,” he says to my amused expression.

  The girl disappears into the crowd, and I think of Willow. I find myself looking forward to tomorrow, to driving her to school, to getting her alone again. I want to know her better.

  “Some of us don’t have it as easy as you,” Grant says.

  Willow’s been different, a challenge. That, and Grant knows nothing of my past.

  So I reply, “I don’t always have it as easy as you think.”

  7

  Willow

  “Willow,” says a voice that flips me upside down, topsy-turvy like a carnival ride I don’t want to get off. My breaths quicken, fluttering with a false promise of flight.

  “Beau Cadwell,” I reply as I step up to his house on Monday morning, wearing a blush of rose on my face.

  He’s standing out front, hip cocked against the doorframe, hands in his pockets.

  Beau watches me.

  “What are you staring at?” I ask playfully.

  “A beautiful girl,” he says. “Who lives next door but makes me feel like she’s a thousand miles away. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  He takes his hands out of his pockets. Touches my arm softly. He’s so gentle, so careful, in complete contrast to what I’ve heard of his wicked ways, that I am momentarily stunned. Heat lands on my cheeks and tumbles down. His fingertips, only the smallest portion of Beau, the faintest points of pressure, deliver shocks, and I finally understand what it means to be out of control in my own body. This is the thought that finally snaps me out of it.

  “Do you think Samantha would mind you touching me like this?” I ask.

  Is she real? Does he not like her like he claims? Is he lying again? I can’t tell if he’s a harmless flirt, or if he really does mean something by it.

  “Maybe I don’t care if she does,” he says.

  “Maybe I do,” I say.

  Which is, of course, a mistake. I notice a second too late. Beau laughs, and I like the sound, though I’m not sure if I want to. But I am sure that he now knows that I’m drawn to him, and that I care if he has a girlfriend who he plans to hurt.

  I turn away, go to his old four-wheel-drive truck, and hop inside. I know it’s his truck because I’ve seen him leave in it before. Not that I watch him. Okay, maybe I sometimes do. It’s how I also know that the old man drives a Volkswagen. I caught a brief glimpse of him getting into it the other day. And I assume the small red hatchback parked under the tree belongs to Beau’s sister.

  The orange exterior of the truck matches the rust that eats away at the interior bottom of the door. The seats are worn to threads in parts and showing their inside cushion in others. Beau hops in the driver’s side and reaches into the small backseat.

  “Can you hop out for a second?” he asks.

  I’m not sure what he’s planning, but I oblige. He places a soft blanket over the spot where I was sitting to cover the holes.

  “Better?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I sit back down.

  He starts the engine. It coughs and sputters like it has something stuck in its throat before roaring to life. Without a word, he begins driving the thirty minutes it takes to get to school. The sky leads a blue, blue path out of the bog, and my thoughts trail behind.

  It’s not until we’re moments from the school that he finally speaks. “I’ll break up with her today. Would you like that?”

  “No,” I say. “You shouldn’t end a relationship because someone new comes along.”

  “A relationship?” He laughs.

  “Or whatever you want to call it. Either way, it should be ended because you want it to be, flat out,” I reply.

  “I do want it over.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Or because of how annoying it is that she wants to hang out every single day,” he says.

  “Maybe she likes you a lot.”

  “Or maybe it’s because she always steals my food when we go out to eat. She can order anything. Doesn’t need to eat mine,” he says.

  I see where he’s going with this. “Are even one of those possibilities the truth?”

  “No,” he says.

  I look into his eyes. Hold his stare. “Is that the truth?”

  “No.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me the truth?”

  “No,” he answers, pulling up to the school.

  “Did you just tell the truth now?”

  “Yes.”

  I think maybe, for once, Beau did tell me a truth. And actually, his truth might be scarier than his lies.

  “Will you ride with me every day, Willow?”

  “Why should I do that?” My insides jump at the thought of spending a half hour every school day so near to Beau, smelling the scent that is deliciously him. Like bonfires and mud.

  “Because I want you to,” he says. Problem solved.

  “Maybe I want to think about it.” I open my door to a parking lot of students shuffling toward classes. Some stop to stare. Soon, others do, too.

  “Will it help if I tell you that I’m definitely not gonna be with Samantha anymore? The real reason is because I didn’t want to be with her anyway. Now you come along, and I think maybe we can be friends. Or more than friends. If you’ll let me, I’ll see you after school. I’ll meet you on the swamp path, and we’ll go on all the boat rides and walks and whatever it is you like. And you’ll tell me the things you want. And I’ll hope that I’m one of them.”

  I don’t have time to react because a girl comes into focus, angry face, tears welling.

  “What are you doing, Beau?” she asks.

  Her hands shake. She is beautiful. Long golden locks that fall to her waist. A slender face and frame. Cheeks and nose rosy like she’s trying her damnedest not to cry.

  It hits me who she must be.

  Beau stills. “Why, hello, Samantha.”

  8

  Beau

  I wait, a long pause like a person taking his last breath, trying to decide what to do. Willow looks like she’s attempting to figure me out. It also appears as though she feels bad for Samantha.

  Samantha is on the verge of tears. Her lip trembles. She bites it to keep her composure. Then repeats herself.

  “What a
re you doing?”

  Her voice is barely a whisper now.

  “Samantha, this is my new neighbor, Willow,” I say. It would have been easier if she hadn’t seen us arrive together. There’s nothing to Willow and me—we are only friends—but I can see how Samantha might think something else. “Willow, this is Samantha.”

  I hate that the entire school is watching. This would be so much easier without a crowd. Samantha doesn’t deserve a public breakup.

  “Samantha,” Willow says, voice strong. “So you are real.”

  Willow thought my riddles might not be true. That maybe I wasn’t involved.

  “Real?” Samantha asks, confused.

  Willow sends me a hardened glance. She doesn’t seem to care for the way the situation is unfolding, either. She offers Samantha a look of sympathy. It’s unnerving, how none of my schoolmates seems to care that the bell will ring soon. No one moves or offers privacy.

  I spot Grant trying to peer over the crowd. He’s standing next to Pax, who has no problem seeing the situation unfold.

  “Willow, would you mind if I meet up with you later?” I hate to see her go, but I have something to take care of first.

  Willow nods and disappears into the crowd.

  “Beau?” Samantha says my name, trying to pull my attention back. She’s looking at me, hopeful.

  “Want to take a walk?” It’s the only way to get her away from the crowd.

  “Okay,” she replies.

  Her anxiety shows in the fidgeting of her fingers, the slight tremor that she can’t quite hide. I wonder if she, too, feels that it hasn’t been working, this thing between us.

  “We’ve been together almost a month now,” she says as we escape the onlookers.

  I suspect she knows what I mean to say to her, that our time is over.

  “We were never really together,” I reply. “Not officially.” My voice is soft, meant to lessen the blow.

  “What about the times we shared at my house?”

  “I remember.”

  We make our way around the rear of the school, where only a few stragglers ever venture, leaving the crowd behind. I keep quiet as we pass two smokers leaning against a wall. They pay us no mind, more concerned with putting out their cigarettes and hurrying through the back entrance before the bell rings.

  “Go ahead, Beau,” she says when we pass them. “It seems you want to say something, so do it.”

  “I’m sorry.” I really am. I don’t mean to hurt her, it’s just that I don’t get close to people, which she’s known from the beginning. We were never meant to be anything more than casual, though it seems to have developed into more for her. “I don’t think it’s working out.”

  She hides her face behind a blond blanket of hair. I almost reach for her. Not because I want her but because it would be nice, for once, to not be so unyielding.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Her tone is sad, but there is a look of understanding when she meets my eyes.

  “Yes.”

  She sighs and blinks several times quickly. “I kind of thought we were good together.”

  Shows how much I know about girls. I figured she understood that we are two worlds apart.

  “Do you honestly think it’s working, Samantha?” I ask. “We haven’t spoken as much lately. We lead different lives. We don’t have any of the same friends. You live on the other side of town, and school is the only real time we spend together, unless I make the trip to your place.”

  “I think it could work.” She reaches for the door, opening it and glancing inside to make sure we’re still alone.

  A blast of cool air-conditioning hits both of us, ruffling our clothes and hair. We have a ways to walk to get to class, and we will likely be late, but it’s better than the entire school witnessing our breakup.

  “Maybe, occasionally, I should head to your place.”

  But even as she says it, she cringes. I don’t hold it against her. The swamp isn’t for everyone. It takes a certain person to be happy in such a quiet, eerie place.

  “We both know you don’t mean that,” I say with a small grin.

  I nod toward Samantha’s outfit, a beautiful flowery dress and heels. Her hair and makeup are perfect. I can’t help thinking about how quickly it would melt off in the swamp heat. Her clothes would be dirty in an instant, and her heels would never work.

  “I have some shorts and T-shirts,” she replies, a small smile in her voice. “That would be okay for the swamp, right?”

  “Sure. But it’s not just the clothes. You don’t like the swamp. It scares you. You told me that from the start. And I don’t want you to pretend to like it for me. You should never have to pretend for someone else.”

  We take the hall to the front of the school, where classroom doors are shutting, the final bell ringing.

  “Maybe you’re right. But I could still make more of an effort.”

  “It’s probably best to let it go,” I reply.

  She’ll find a guy more suited for her, I’m certain of it.

  Samantha doesn’t protest. She simply bites her lip and offers one more look.

  “Goodbye, Beau.”

  …

  “Man, did you hear?” Pax asks as he meets me for lunch in the library lounge. “Samantha left early today. Did that have anything to do with you?”

  It’s odd to hear of her early departure, considering that she seemed fine when I last saw her. Maybe a little disappointed overall about our breakup but not too upset. I frown, thinking back over it. I can’t find any reason she’d need to leave school because of me. Unless it upset her more than she let on.

  “Maybe. We broke up.”

  “Sorry to hear that. How’d it go?”

  “Not too bad. She was nice about it.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Maybe she’s sick.” I think over possibilities for her early release. “Who knows?”

  Pax studies my unsure expression. “The thing is, I overheard one of her friends saying that Samantha was upset about a guy.”

  I sigh, knowing it’s too big a coincidence to be anyone other than me. “Maybe she didn’t take the breakup as well as I thought.”

  I feel a big hand settle on my shoulder. Pax grins goofily.

  “Don’t worry about it. She’ll move on. They always do.” He pats my back roughly before stretching both arms out and leaning back in his chair. “Good spot here, by the way.”

  Our school thought by adding several areas with comfortable chairs, and even more spaces between shelves with beanbags set right on the ground for people to sink into, that they would entice students to read more. What they’ve really done is made the library less of a quiet area and more of a designated separate cafeteria, since most people try to snag a room to eat in. The students not eating are either listening to music, earbuds in, or on the computers, surfing social media. A few do choose to read.

  Pax brushes his mop of hair from his eyes and fills out the seat, making it look small under him. A second later, Grant arrives.

  “Thanks for getting a spot,” he says. “I heard about you and Samantha.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, not wanting to go into the details.

  Grant empties a sack on the table. Out falls a chocolate bar, bag of chips, pretzel, can of soda, greasy hamburger wrapped in yellow foil, and a pickle—the only healthy thing in there—which he promptly hands to Pax because it’s his favorite, and because we know he sometimes doesn’t have money for lunch, since his mom was laid off earlier this year.

  I toss a turkey-bacon sandwich Pax’s way and play it off like I hadn’t planned on eating much.

  “Not too hungry,” I say.

  I fool no one, but Pax takes the sandwich and eats.

  “Thanks, man,” he says between bites.

  “So what’s up with the new girl?” Grant asks. “She’s your neighbor, I hear.”

  “She is, but I don’t know much about her yet,” I say.

  I’m counting on t
hat “yet,” even though a small warning flares in the back of my mind, cautioning Willow may be different than the others, evidenced by how she doesn’t demand my time—or much of anything from me, really—yet still I can’t seem to get enough of her. By now, with other girls, a date is usually expected. Not with Willow. What she expects is for me to know that she carries a knife in the bog, smiles at gators, and hails from Southern blood that goes back as far and deep as the swamp itself.

  Sandwich now gone, Pax eyes my orange. I toss it to him. I’ll eat extra when I get home.

  “You lucky son of a bitch,” Grant says. “What I would give to have a neighbor like her. All I have is the old man who calls me ‘damn kid’ and the lady who always forgets to lock her chickens up, so I’m constantly tripping over them in our yard.”

  I laugh. He’s not kidding about the chickens. From the few times I’ve been to his place, I can attest that they’re everywhere.

  “Now that you’re free, you gonna ask her out?” Grant asks.

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Good luck with that,” Grant replies.

  “She have any friends?” Pax asks.

  “Maybe. Why don’t you ask her?”

  Pax actually has had a couple of girlfriends, mostly ones who have approached him, though he’s not with anyone at the moment.

  I eat hush puppies dipped in buttery mashed potatoes and wash them down with a can of soda.

  “I wish I had your life,” Grant says.

  He doesn’t realize—because I hardly talk about more than school, girls, and mindless things with my friends—that the truth is, he wouldn’t want my life.

  Not if he saw the dark parts of it.

  9

  Willow

  “I heard he broke up with that girl, Jorie,” I say.

  I haven’t spoken to him since. It’s been four days. I needed time to process what it meant that Beau really did have a girlfriend when he was looking at me like maybe he wanted to be more than friends. He was involved with someone else, and I’m not sure that I like the fact that he was interested in me at the same time.

  “He did, and I have a feeling that you might not be too upset about it,” Jorie replies, being her truthful self. That’s part of why I like her. “He’s free now. And deny it all you want, you’re happy he’s free.”