The Dead of Summer Read online

  “Hey!” I yelped as he pulled me closer. There was a small crowd gathering in front of the aforementioned Bab’s Beauty Barn, girls I went to school with staring wide-eyed at me and whispering.

  “I don’t want to talk to Lindy. I don’t even like her. She’s fake. I want to talk to you,” Carson replied, his brown eyes twinkling, his mouth dangerously close to mine. I recoiled, my brain not computing what was going on.

  He doesn’t like Lindy? How is that possible? Does he like me? Is he gonna kiss me? Oh dear God not now! Not on the morning I forgot to brush my teeth! I yanked my arm away and tripped over the ginormous tree root that was creeping out of the ground, resulting in an oh-so-dainty face plant into the dirt.

  As I laid on the ground, I wanted the tree to open into a secret compartment and swallow me up, like in The Princess Bride. I screwed my eyes shut, tempted to tap my heels together and think, There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

  When I opened my eyes though, I was still on Main Street, Carson standing over me with an amused look on his face. “You okay?” he asked, stretching out a hand to help me up.

  “I’m fine,” I said indignantly, refusing his help and struggling to my feet on my own. No need to make this more humiliating than it already was, right?

  “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  “It’s okay. I bleed all the time,” I quickly told him as I glanced at my knee, blood dribbling down my shin. What? I bleed all the time? Who says stuff like that? Stop talking, Kennedy! Get up and stop talking for the love of God!

  As I got my bearings, I heard a car honk from the other side of the street.

  “Hey klutz!” Lindy’s voice floated through the air.

  I groaned inwardly. Awesome. Could this day get any worse? Cue the camera crew and the newspaper reporters! I could see the headlines now, “Kennedy Ryan Face Plants in Front of Cutest Boy in Town and Lindy Lincoln! Who Will Be Her Friend Now?” I might as well change schools now.

  But then, Lindy became my savior as she called out, “Get in the car! We’re going for my dress fitting!”

  I glanced at Carson for a split second, brushing the dirt off my bloody knees. “I’ll, uh, see you around, I guess.”

  Without waiting for his response, I darted toward Lindy’s waiting car, nearly getting flattened by Mr. Crumley (the town’s oldest resident) and his moped (which he should not be driving).

  The Lincolns’ driver, David, was in the front seat with an impatient Mrs. Lincoln, who was tapping her freshly manicured nails on the passenger side window. She craned her neck toward the back seat as I climbed into the car. Mrs. Lincoln gasped as she got a look at me. “Kennedy! Your knees are a wreck!”

  For a second, I thought she’d fallen, hit her head, and had discovered she actually had a maternal bone in her body. However, she finished her statement with, “Don’t get any blood on the leather! David just had this detailed. Isn’t that right, David?” She stroked the young, good looking driver’s arm with her blood red nails. He tensed up, his face appearing pained, but didn’t move a muscle. He knew exactly how to keep his well-paying, cushy job.

  “Ewww, Kennedy,” Lindy said, as the car pulled away from the curb with alarming speed. “What are you wearing? And what were you doing with Carson?”

  I peered out the window in time to see Carson shoving his left hand deep into his pocket and sauntering away in the opposite direction, Colt tugging on the leash he held with his other hand.

  “I have no idea,” I replied.

  SIX

  A few days went by and I didn’t see Carson again making me pretty certain I had totally misread his signals. Besides the fact that I had made a complete fool out of myself, tripping all over the sidewalk, I wasn’t sure if he was actually into me or not. Still, I spent several hours a day tucked under Lindy’s hydrangea bush in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him ambling past, whistling while he swung Colt’s leash around. All of those hours were when Lindy was not home; she was in town having a “tasting” for her party and yet another dress fitting.

  After the last horrible trip, I had no desire to traipse through the town, having lunch at a swanky restaurant and calling everyone “dah-ling”. I had felt like an absolute ass in my pajama bottoms with my bloody knees knocking while I shopped with Lindy and her mama that day. The girls in the dress fitting shop had spent the entire time whispering about me and I overheard one tell the other that I was Lindy’s cousin with special needs. I should have just gotten a helmet to top off the look. Or hid in the car to do Sudoku puzzles with David.

  Lindy had begged me (demanded actually) to come along with her to the tasting, but I had gotten out of it by claiming my mama wouldn’t let me go. Lindy huffed off, making it very clear that I wouldn’t get to light one of her candles at the party unless I was a better best friend. I didn’t really care about the stupid candles. In fact, I thought the whole party was dumb. I couldn’t imagine how demanding Lindy would be if she was ever a bride.

  So instead of spending the days with my best friend, caviar, and other vomit-inducing delicacies, I found myself reading the racy novel I had picked up from the library. I had to admit, it made me blush and actually feel a little tingly in places I was definitely not used to feeling tingly in. I didn’t want to read it anywhere near Mama, afraid she would scold me for such a trashy choice, or worse, want to read it herself. I honestly didn’t realize that people did the things that were described in that book. I was slightly grossed out, yet oddly riveted. The writing flowed like poetry in a way.

  In fact, I was so inspired by the flowery writing that I started doodling poems on the scrap of paper I was using for a bookmark. Really sappy girlie poems. I was practically ashamed of what I was writing, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Carson Tyler

  You’re so fine,

  What must I do

  To make you mine?

  Your gorgeous eyes,

  And chiseled face,

  Makes my breath hitch,

  And my heart race.

  Carson, Carson,

  Please stop my pain,

  Take me in your arms,

  And kiss me in the rain.

  Okay, okay, I didn’t say they were good poems. I just said I was writing them. It was so hot and my brain was mush from reading the, um, sub-par literature.

  As I chewed on my pen, trying to come up with my next brilliant masterpiece, I started pulling up clumps of grass with my left hand, a fact that would get Lindy’s daddy in a surly mood for sure, bitching and moaning about gophers digging up holes in his precious backyard. You wouldn’t think he would know about the grass underneath the bush, but I was certain he would find out. It wasn’t like he actually cut the grass or did any of the landscaping himself. No siree. He had a team of landscapers (Mexicans with ride-on lawn mowers that they dangerously raced through the Lincolns’ two-acre backyard) come several times a week and make it all look pretty. And then at any of the many social events that the Lincolns would host at their house, Mr. Lincoln would always go on and on about his precious garden and lawn.

  The Lincolns were always having parties and getting drunk, sometimes doing really gross things with their friends’ spouses in the corners of the house where they didn’t think Lindy and I could spy on them. I always slept over when Lindy’s parents had a party. They thought that if I was there, it would keep Lindy totally out of their hair. Little did they know, we both stayed up all night, keeping a notebook with all the details of what took place inside the confines of the mansion. When we got older, Lindy started taking pictures and videos with her cell phone. There were at least two school board members, three councilmen, and a former mayor that were gonna be in big trouble if Lindy ever got her wish and became an award-winning photographer like she dreamed of. I closed my eyes, imagining the headlines and Lindy’s name on the photo credit when it happened. Linda Louise Lincoln.

  That was Lindy’s real name, a fact she absolute hated. Both Linda and Louise were her
grandmothers; Lindy despised both of them and rightfully so. Her Grandma Linda was a money-grubbing socialite (Lindy’s words, not mine) who had been married and divorced six times, the latest time to a man who was only ten years older than we were. Lindy absolute refused to call him Grandpa, so Grandma Linda had refused to attend any of Lindy’s birthday parties or give Christmas gifts until Lindy gave in. Thus far, Lindy had not. Her other grandmother was eighty-nine years old and in a nursing home. I had never met her, but according to Lindy, Grandma Louise had spindly, bony fingers that she liked to rake across Lindy’s face and tell her what a good looking young man she was turning out to be and how she thought the mustache Lindy was trying to grow looked lovely. Oh, and she smelled like Vicks and mothballs. Lindy hated visiting her and had faked sick on several occasions when her parents were going to the nursing home.

  While Lindy was certain of her future, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. It certainly wasn’t a poet judging on my recent work. I would love to be a writer, though. I had always liked to read and got okay grades on my writing assignments in school. Occasionally, if we were writing creative pieces and not boring essays on comparing and contrasting color symbolism in Dickens’s work or some other crap like that, I would get compliments on my writing from teachers. Someday, I would love to write a book. Or something that changed people or really mattered to someone. Maybe I could write the article that Lindy’s photo was attached to. Most likely not, though. I’m sure Lindy wouldn’t want to share her dream job with anyone, even me. I would have to be content to live vicariously through her, saying I “knew her when…”

  So there I was, dreaming about Lindy’s future, when I must have drifted off to sleep from the heat. I woke up to the bush being shaken above me.

  “Hello!” called a voice. It sounded like the voice of God, coming from the air.

  Still in my dreamlike state, I wondered if I was dead from the heat. Damn it, Mama was right! I needed to drink more water. I hate when Mama is right.

  “Up here,” the voice called. And suddenly, I recognized the owner of this particular voice. Carson.

  I sat up, feverishly rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I attempted to tuck my hair behind my ears and make myself presentable, and then I stuck my head out from the bottom of the bush.

  “Oh, um, hi,” I mumbled, pulling a stray hair out of my mouth. In doing that, I discovered a wet spot on the side of my face that my hair was stuck to. Oh crap! I’ve been drooling!

  I stared up at Carson, who was smiling down at me. Oh please, dear Lord, don’t let him have seen that.

  “Hi, Kennedy,” he said with a smile. Oh, that smile.

  “Hi, Carson,” I replied, much more perkily than I intended. I was practically oozing sugar out of my pores. I attempted to rise like a graceful Southern belle, but I ended up popping onto my feet like a damn Jack in the box.

  Calm the hell down, Kennedy! You’re acting like a hysterical female!

  “How’s it going?” I asked. Please tell me you’ve had a lobotomy since the last time I saw you and you have no recollection of my ridiculous behavior.

  “Good,” Carson replied, tilting his head to the side. He bit his lip as if he was trying to stifle a smile. Swiping at the side of his cheek, he raised his eyebrows at me. “You, um, have something…” His voice trailed off as he swiped at his cheek, causing me to stare at him blankly.

  I cocked my own head to the side. “I have…” I wasn’t sure what he was trying to say exactly.

  Carson reached out to touch my cheek. My body froze and tingled at the same time. He’s touching me, he’s touching me, oh my God…he’s touching me!

  “You have dirt all over your face.”

  Oh my God, I’m mortified.

  “Thanks,” I managed to mumble, fighting off the inclination to crawl back under the bush. Or fling myself off a cliff. Either one.

  “Digging for earthworms?” Carson asked casually, jerking his head toward the hydrangea bush.

  “Um, no, I was…” I quickly clamped my mouth shut. What were you doing Kennedy? You gonna tell Carson you were reading dirty books and writing about his soft, fluffy hair? His rippling biceps? How you want to kiss him and bite his lip?

  “What’s that? A book?” Carson asked, pointing to the ground with one hand and shoving a piece of gum into his mouth with the other. “Gum?”

  “Um, no,” I yelped. “I mean gum, yes. Book, no.” Crap.

  Carson handed me a piece of gum which I quickly unwrapped and popped into my mouth. Partly because I knew I needed to shut myself up and partly because I could tell my breath had become rather sour. I needed to be prepared. You know, in case Carson wanted to kiss me, er, rain or no rain, as doubtful as that was.

  Carson scratched his head and leaned toward the bush. “Well then, what is it?” he asked as he parted the branches, shaking the tiny flowers off of the hydrangea bush.

  I swallowed my gum in my efforts to jump in front of Carson to shield the book. “No!” I nearly knocked him to the ground, bumping his lip with my elbow.

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise and he stumbled backward, throwing his hands up in the air. “Hey, I’ll stay out of your way.”

  “Oh my God!” I cried out, pointing at his face, momentarily forgetting about the book. The corner of his lip was quickly swelling up and bleeding. Holy Moses! I broke him! “You’re bleeding!” Crap, Kennedy! Can’t you do anything right?

  “What?” Carson touched his now inflamed lip with his finger. He pulled his finger away from his mouth and stared at the tip. “Hey, what do you know? You gave me a bloody lip.”

  “I am so sorry,” I practically cried. I reached out to touch his lip and he recoiled from me.

  “It’s fine,” he stammered as he backed away, holding up his hands. “I surrender! Just don’t touch me!” He wiped his lip with the back of his hand. “Can’t have you giving me a black eye now.”

  I was stunned, speechless. But then I saw Carson’s lip curl over his teeth in an attempt to stifle a laugh. He was teasing me and I was too dumb to see it.

  “It’s okay. I bleed all the time,” he added with a smirk, mocking my words from a few days before.

  My mouth dropped open and I stared at him for a second in disbelief. Then, before I could stop myself, I leaned forward and shoved him playfully. He curled his arms around his torso, lifting and bending his left leg close to his body, like a pitcher winding up. He was laughing hysterically while I pretended to pummel him with my angry fists.

  “Please, please, please don’t hurt me, you beast,” he laughed.

  “You’re a jerk,” I sputtered, unable to hide my own nervous laughter. It felt natural, but I was uncertain. Was this okay? Is this what boys and girls who liked each other did? I never saw Lindy fooling around like this with a boy.

  “Harsh words for a little girl,” Carson said with a raised eyebrow.

  I puffed out my chest unintentionally, a visceral reaction to Carson’s accusation. “I’m not a little girl, I’ll have you know,” I said. And I instantly blushed when I realized how sexual that might sound. I tried to somehow deflate my chest…all thirty-eight inches of it.

  Carson’s eyes grew wide as they grazed over my chest. Then, he quickly looked away, his own face flushing. “No, no, I guess you’re not.”

  I stared down at the ground, cheeks getting hotter, eager to change the subject. “Where’s Colt? Don’t tell me you’ve lost him again,” I said in what I hoped sounded like a teasing tone.

  “Oh, Colt is home. I thought it might be a little too hot out for him. I figured I would just go for a walk by myself today.” Then that darn infectious grin spread on his lips. “Besides, I just use Colt to pick up cute girls. Now that I’ve met a cute girl, I don’t need him anymore.”

  My heart literally skipped a beat. Or maybe even two. Did he just call me a cute girl? Nobody has called me cute before. He likes me! He likes me? How is that possible? A boy actually feels the same chemistry that I feel fo
r him?

  He stepped closer. “Cute, and smart, and funny…”

  Who is he describing? He can’t be talking about me. He left out short and chubby…with crooked teeth. I glanced up at him shyly. He seemed really sincere. Either he was a great actor or he didn’t see all those crappy features. How did he not see me the way every other boy did? Was he blind?

  “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I said. But please don’t have me confused with someone else. Nervous giggling once again escaped from my own lips as I lowered my gaze, digging a hole in Lindy’s daddy’s grass with my toe. He was going to be mighty ticked off when he saw this one. The end of my tennis shoe was a mixture of crumbly wet dirt and chunks of grass. As much as I had wanted to see Carson and be alone with him, now that he had acknowledged the chemistry between us, I didn’t know what to say. Everything I thought of sounded lame and cheesy in my head. I almost wished Lindy would come home and tell me exactly what to say.

  She wouldn’t tell you what to say, Kennedy, I reminded myself. What she would do is jump on Carson and flirt with him herself and leave you standing there holding her dripping wet umbrella or something even though she has zero interest in him.

  I was remembering the incident at the spring dance where two of our classmates approached us to dance and Lindy ended up waltzing away (literally) with both of them as I stood there, mouth agape, her umbrella crocked over my arm, water droplets plopping all over my brand new pumps.

  “Um, er,” I stammered, my mouth apparently not attached to my brain. Say something, Kennedy!

  But I couldn’t because Carson was reaching out, Carson was taking my hand (oh damn, is my hand sweaty?), Carson was holding my hand. Not Lindy’s. Mine.

  We were in Lindy’s backyard however. . .