"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 that "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."
Jorie lies on my bed with the elegance of a person who is completely at ease. Like she's been here a thousand and one times-throwing her shoes in the corner, sprawled out on her back, watching me pace the small area that houses a twin bed, an aged wooden dresser painted pink, and a desk made from recycled shutters. I circle the distressed hardwood floor, my feet padding across a plum rug before connecting with warm wood again.
"It's more that I wish he didn't have a girlfriend to begin with. I don't like the idea of him hurting Samantha's feelings. They were together for however long."
"Probably no more than a couple of weeks," Jorie interjects. "That's the longest he'll hold onto a girl."
I consider her words, but I don't know what to make of them. I think of the night he saved the fallen squirrel, showing a soft part of himself that I doubt many see. I want to give Beau a chance, to get to know him better. Reason warns me to be careful. Would he only want me for a couple of weeks?
But then the reminder of his soft touch on my skin severs all tension in my limbs. Warmth seeps into my cheeks and neck. I'm surprised by the want that worms into my bones. I can't erase the hope that he touches me again, that he shows me the softer side of himself, and that he locks his meanness away.
I stop pacing and sink into the mattress next to Jorie to think about how lucky I am to have made a friend quickly. How equally lucky I am that she doesn't mind my riding with Beau in the mornings and leaving her alone on the bus. How she doesn't seem to mind my talking things out with her.
"What do you think he wants from me?" I ask.
Jorie laughs wildly. When she does, I can't help but stop to stare at how her mouth stretches wide. It's contagious. Only I don't feel like laughing right now.
"Do you really want me to answer that?" she asks.
"Of course."
"He wants you to fall for his wicked ways and, consequently, him. He's no good for you, but I understand if you decide to give him a try. I know it's hard to fight the pull."
He does have a pull. What's with that?
"Maybe it's not as straightforward as that. There's a possibility that he genuinely wants to know me. But it's hard to tell because he almost never gives me direct answers. I try to learn about him, and he runs circles around me. The truth is that the more I get to know him, the less I know him."
"You will never win with him, Willow."
"I don't want to win. I want to know why he's so difficult to figure out. It's hard not to think about him."
"Think about who?" Gran says, surprising us in the doorway.
"No one," I blurt. Which is the wrong thing to say because it only makes Gran suspicious.
"Not again." Gran holds tightly to her cane. "I know you are not talking about the boy next door."
I sigh. "He's not that bad."
"He is that bad. Now you and your friend come downstairs for cookies and milk and don't even think about inviting him to join you."
I laugh and try to picture it. Beau at our kitchen table, reaching for a cookie while Gran throws a Bible at him, yelling curses at his sinful heart.
"Got it." I almost invite him over just to enjoy the show.
"By the way, Gran, this is my friend Jorie. Jorie, this is my gran," I say, making introductions.
"Pleasure to meet you, Jorie," she says kindly. Then proceeds to go right back to speaking about Beau.
She gives me one of her warning stares.
"You shouldn't be meeting him out there, either, Willow Mae." She points to the window, toward the dividing path.
"Mom and Dad said it's fine for me to hang out with him," I say.
"What do they know?" Gran huffs, leaning heavily on the doorframe. "They're too busy studying vultures."
Gran doesn't let up with her penetrating stare. She may be mostly rounded, but her eyes are sharp as tacks.
"Herons," I correct.
"Who cares?" Gran says. "They think it wouldn't hurt for you to have a little fun, but they're wrong."
I look at Jorie apologetically. I love Gran. I'm proud to be hers. But sometimes she goes off on fits, and who knows when this one will end. But Jorie doesn't look freaked out or bored. She looks interested.
"Just listen to me and keep a wide mile between you, you hear?"
"Okay," I answer.
I don't mean it.
She knows I don't mean it.
We're at odds.
"Did you hear that?" I ask.