"Didn't your mom teach you it's impolite to curse?" I tease.
"Didn't your mom teach you to read a Bible?" she fires back. "From what I hear, you need that and more with your black soul."
I can't help it. I laugh.
"Is that what Old Lady Bell is saying these days?" The woman never has liked my family much. Hasn't had any reason to.
"What's your name?" Willow asks.
People are staring, but I don't care.
"Beau Cadwell. Grandson of Parker Cadwell next door. The evilest family in all the swamp."
Or so people say.
Willow bites down on her pencil eraser, and I find my eyes drawn to her lips.
"Well, Beau," she says in a sweet tone. "I don't think we're supposed to be friends."
"I suppose not."
Her eyes are darker than anything I've ever seen. They're the type of dark that takes over the swamp after the sun falls from the sky.
"You might be trouble for me," I say, joking. "And I am not nice," I add, not joking.
"Everyone is part good, part bad," she replies.
I don't think she realizes just how offset those parts of me are.
"Even so, you should probably not associate with me," she says. "My gran would hate it."
"Would you hate it?" I ask.
Willow twists the metal-clothed eraser between her teeth for a moment before speaking. She holds my stare like she holds her breath. "I'm still trying to decide, Beau Cadwell."
I like my name on her lips. I like her tongue on her lips. I'd probably like my tongue on her lips, too.
"You are trouble, after all, I hear." But she doesn't say it like she's scared of trouble.
"Then we definitely shouldn't be friends." I don't mean a word of it.
"Okay." Her eyes leave mine. She looks around the dingy classroom, like she's just now taking it in, walls buried behind history posters and a chalkboard covered in something that is supposed to pass as legible handwriting.
Half the class is staring at her. Some of the guys look like they want to order her up for dinner. Some of the girls look like they want to burn her alive for talking to me. Just because things ended badly between most of the girls and me doesn't mean they need to hold a grudge. What does it take to get girls to move on around here?
"Do you want to be friends anyway?" I ask.
She lets her eyes find their way back to me. "Okay."
And just like that I have an in with the new girl, Willow Bell.
Grant fist-bumps me when Willow isn't looking.
From across the room, near the front of the class, my twin sister is watching. She sends a razor-sharp smile my way, knowing that I'll probably do to Willow what I do to all the girls here, which is break her perfect little heart into so many pieces that nothing can fix it.
3
Willow
"Hi, I'm Jorie," says the girl who plops down next to me on the concrete bench.
Around us, people talk, most rehashing the details of the day as they wait for the bus home. I catch bits and pieces of conversations-a football pep rally, a bake sale, an opening on the school debate team.
"I'm Willow," I say. "How do you get your hair to do that?"
Jorie's hair is like a zebra, black with white stripes, or maybe it's the other way around. I never could tell that about zebras-black and white or white and black? And her hair is the same.
"It's a weave. My momma's a stylist." She pops her gum loud-like. "She does all kinds of hair but specializes in African American techniques, learned from her momma. They're as black as the night sky all the way back as far as time goes until me. I got a bit of my daddy in me. His skin is light like yours."
I like her skin. It's not quite light or dark. I like her accent, too, though I can't place it.
"Where are you from, Jorie?" I ask.
"The bayous of Louisiana originally, but I don't remember it. Was just a baby when we moved here. You?"
"I'm from Georgia originally, a county two hours north of here. Moved to Florida for a bit before coming back. My parents study birds, and that's a good place to do it." It's a lame thing to say, but it's the truth.
"Wanna sit with me on the bus?" Jorie offers. "Then you won't have to worry about people bugging you about Beau."
"Why would they do that?" I have no idea how she knows that I've met him.
"Because he's Beau," she says.
Like that explains it.
Jorie's all elbows and knees and sharp angles. I wonder how she stays in shape. I'm curvy and always carrying around what Gran calls biscuit weight. Not that I'm overweight-I'm not-I'm just soft. I once asked Gran over the phone what I could do to lose ten pounds after I saw this quiz in a magazine that said I could look my best with a little weight shed. She said I'd have to quit eating biscuits. But that's crazy talk. Who has ever heard of giving up biscuits? No, thanks.
The bus pulls up, and we pile on. It's not completely full, so I don't think I need to sit with Jorie to avoid sitting by someone else, after all. But I'm happy to, all the same.
"What did you mean about Beau?" I ask, once we're settled in, bags down between our legs to make room. The bus jerks away from the curb.
Jorie pops her gum three times before she answers. Her kohl-rimmed eyes remind me of almonds dipped in chocolate.
"You really don't know, do you?" she asks.
"'Course not," I reply. "Just moved here a week ago, and today's the first time I met him. He seems nice."
Jorie laughs. It's a boisterous sound that turns heads. She smacks a hand on her thigh and says, "Girl, stop playing. Beau is not nice. Never is that boy nice unless he needs something. Hot? Yes. Taken? Yes. Smooth as a pearl shined? Yes. But nice? Never. Not once."
I hear all of Jorie's words. Each one after the other, but the only one that sticks is this: taken.
"He has a girlfriend?" I ask.
"I knew it." Her eyes slide my way. "You like him. Every girl who likes boys does. It's not just you. But you have to learn to fight it, or he'll devour you."
I'm not so sure I consider that a bad thing.
"And yes, he's taken. Every day of the week. The girls don't last more than a couple of weeks, but they are always there. One after the other," she says.
The thought irks me. Don't ask me why, because I don't know.
"Well, he and I aren't anything to each other, so I'm sure there's nothing for me to worry about," I say. "I don't even think he's hot."
Yes I do.
"Atta girl," Jorie says. "Keep lying to yourself and eventually you might actually believe it. It's a start."
"I'm not lying," I say.
"You're lying now," she says.
"Maybe," I admit.
"Like I said," Jorie continues. "Almost all girls fall for him. But be careful. He's an inch shy of as wicked as they get."
Maybe I like wicked. Maybe I top my pies with wicked, and maybe I order wicked every day; she doesn't know. I can handle it, I tell myself. But that might be the lying liar in me.
"Him and that sister of his, both," Jorie says. "You'll mostly find him with those two goons, Grant and Pax. I'm sure you've seen them. One looks like a bird and the other like a gorilla. You might get a chance to see him alone more than most people, though, because he's your neighbor, right?"
"Hard to tell," I say. "I've never seen him before, and I used to visit often."
A memory hits me. A stringy young boy-same age as me at the time, eight-running around the yard, chasing squirrels as though he means to catch one.
"If you're looking to eat it, you have to set a trap, you know," I say. "And try being quiet when you approach them-it helps. Plus, who are you and why are you on my gran's property?"
"I'm not. I'm on my grandpa's side. See?" he replies. "That's the dividing line back behind you."
He was right. He was technically on his side.
"Unless he was the boy I once met years ago," I say to Jorie. "I'd always thought he was visiting before. I never saw him afterward."
"Well, you're Old Lady Bell's family, right?"
"Yes," I confirm. I'm proud of Gran. Don't care what anybody says. And I've heard it around town, how my gran's the crazy lady who lives in the deep swamp, who's taken to feeding the gators and yellin' at anyone who tries to trespass her land. Doesn't mean she's bad. Just means she likes privacy and animals. She can't help it if most of the animals in the swamp are of the reptilian kind.
"Then he's been your grandma's neighbor since he was ten," she says. "I knew your grandpa, by the way. He was a good man. My grandpa used to frog hunt with him. He'd stay for dinner from time to time."
"Sounds like Grandpa," I confirm. "May he rest in peace, amen."
I was taught to give respect to the dead and attach amens to the ends of sentences like periods.
"When was the last time you visited here, before actually moving, I mean?"