"There's a place just past here, 'round a bend of water lilies, where we can sit. Would you like to do that, Beau?"
"I would," I say.
Willow approaches a tiny, dingy, metal boat with rust eating at the sides, stained where the water has touched the bottom. She pushes it toward the marsh, her feet squelching in mud. She's wearing the right kind of shoes-snake-proof, water-resistant boots-I'll give her credit for that. Her shorts are short and her hair is long and her look is deep, just the way I like it.
"Fair warning." She pulls back her shirt just slightly to reveal a sheaved knife tucked into her shorts. "I'm not afraid to use this if I need to."
I like her already. "Why would you say something like that?"
"Like I said, I hear things," she replies. "And I don't know you well. But I suppose I oughta give you a chance and judge for myself, right? If I listened to all the gossip 'round this town, I'd never have any friends."
She has a point.
Willow hops in when the boat begins to float, and I join her. Our boots leaky-faucet drip onto the inside metal as we grab oars to row. The water is as murky as triple-steeped tea, teeming with gators, vipers, and fish. Frogs bask on cypress roots that grow out of the water like fingers, protecting the creatures that live underneath. Dragonflies whir past us, and mosquitoes swarm.
"You just moved here," I say, offering up a conversation.
"And you moved here almost eight years ago, I hear," she replies.
"You seem to hear a lot of things."
She surprises me with a smile. "You don't know the half of it."
"Tell me some of it?"
I row steadily through the marsh. Eyes open and ready. Never can be too careful. Once had a coral snake drop out of a tree and into my canoe.
"Okay, for starters, do you really think you should be in this boat with me?"
"Why shouldn't I be?"
Willow doesn't lose her grin or her sharp wit. She says exactly what she wants, and I happen to like that in a place where people will bless your heart at the same time that they're muttering curses under their breath.
"Would your girlfriend like it if you were here?" she asks.
I didn't realize she knew yet. Guess word does spread fast. The funny thing is: she waited to ask until I was already in the boat, so what does that say?
"Are you hitting on me? Because otherwise, why would it matter if I have a girlfriend? I thought we were just beginning to become friends."
She blushes swamp-berry red.
"I thought maybe we were going for a boat ride as friends, and you could tell me all about why you're here in this swamp." I make sure to catch her eye.
"Okay, then," Willow says, turning back to the water.
The bend of lilies takes only a minute to get to, and soon we're docking the boat and climbing out into gurgling mud, grabbing onto tree branches to not sink into the quicksand that lines the shore.
I watch the way Willow knows just what to do. How to relax and to not fight the mud. How to slowly get herself out. How to climb the cypress tree roots and take a seat atop so that she's safe from the water. She begins scooping mud off her boots and flinging it back into the depths. Her hands are dirty, and she smears muck across her cheek by accident.
"You look as though you've done this a hundred times."
"I might have."
"Tell me how that's possible?"
I haven't seen her in the swamp before. She must have been here, though, I reason as I climb the tree roots. They're not wide, so I cozy up next to her. Thankfully, she doesn't send me toppling into the water.
"You tell me something first," she says.
I find myself wanting to tell her anything.
5
Willow
I think back to the conversation I had with Gran yesterday.
"It's just an apple pie, Gran," I say. "Don't you think it's nice that I baked him one? You always tell me to be kind. I thought I could take it to him and introduce myself. Maybe make a friend."
"He doesn't deserve kindness," Gran replies. "Don't you have anything else to do instead of spending an hour in the kitchen making that good-for-nothin' boy a treat? He'll steal your soul, that's what he'll do."
I laugh. "Gran, that's a little far-fetched. I thought you said the devil's the only one powerful enough to do that."
"Who says he's any different?"
"It's just a pie."
Gran walks up to me slowly, relying heavily on her cane.
I don't see the fork in her hand until it's too late. She scoops a bite and chews. I don't know how she expects me to give it to him now that she's taken a chunk out of it.
"Delicious, that's what this is. Sweet, so sweet."
She sets the fork in the sink. Then she picks up the pie quicker than I would have expected her to and throws it in the trash. It melts and crumbles against the plastic bag.
"Let me tell you something about boys like him, Willow Mae." I stare at her, slack-jawed. "They're attracted to sweet more than anything. The sweeter, the better. That boy will make you feel crazy-wonderful, all right. Yep, sure will. And then he'll break you."
Gran hobbles to her room and slams the door.
"What is it you want to know?" Beau asks.
I probably shouldn't trust the way he makes my insides quiver. I place a hand against my stomach to try to steady myself.
"Maybe the things I heard today are true." I think back to what Jorie told me, hoping he doesn't plan to chew me up and spit me out like the others.
"And what kinds of things are those?"
His look twists me up, and so I glance into the trees, instead of his eyes, distracting myself with the moss that hangs like tinsel.
"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.