1
Madelyn
He’s still there.
Hunkered down on the cinder block we use as a step. A tree branch, light tan in color and free of bark, set on his thigh. A few twirling inches of it sticking out, visible to the curious eye as he rolls it back and forth, back and forth.
His blond head turns. Like he knows I’m on the other side of the door, returning to take another peek around the sheer French drapes I’ve hung in the small front-door window.
The stranger’s been out there for a good hour, like a guard dog staking his claim on my stoop. His body angled slightly to the right so I can clearly see the thin lines whittled into the wood. Ladder marks, six in total.
The air is warm even inside the trailer, the humidity overtaking the comfortably mild run of temperature that’s graced Shelby in recent days. Signs that trouble’s likely brewing; atmospheric conditions are definitely ripe for tornados, especially if the temperature higher up in the atmosphere has grown colder. Two years ago, a tornado leveled the northern outskirts of Shelby, destroying everything in its path. As much as I’d like to wish it isn’t so, storms in Oklahoma are not to be overlooked. Period.
Is that what he’s doing? Biding his time and waiting to see what the weather will do? I wonder if the sexy stranger is one of my faceless neighbors, and try to think back on my brief stay in our new home. Surely, I would have remembered someone like him.
I stare at the gray hooded sweatshirt pulled tightly across his broad back. His thick biceps look like mounds of cut steel, flexing slightly as the branch rolls. Back and forth. Back and forth. Danger, wrapped up in shades of grayness.
With a sigh, I temper my curiosity and move away from the door, heading into the small living room to the right and over to the coffee table. Picking up my cell phone, I dial Kylie’s number.
It’s not like I’m afraid of the possibility of storms. I’m used to spending time alone at this temporary home of ours or in my home away from home, the biology lab at Shelby Community. I’m resourceful. Self-sufficient and self-motivated. Career-oriented, with a single-minded goal of making it out of Shelby so I can pursue my ambition at becoming a marine biologist at a college in a state that’s not landlocked. A dream I shared with my mama too many times to count, even right up until the hours before she died. We’d giggled and talked, laughed and cried. Comforted and encouraged each other. The Smiths are of hearty stock, both in life’s challenges and in death. And when cancer claimed her beautifully vivacious soul, I like to believe my reassurances of how Kylie and I are strong, that we’ll carry on, that we’ll lead full, productive, happy lives gave her peace of mind in the end. I like to think Mama’s love of life also is deep within me. A lightness always illuminated within my heart that drives away the darkest pains, the darkest sorrows. Still, my acceptance as a transfer student into San Diego State’s marine-biology program is bittersweet. But as promised, I’m moving on in life.
And so is Kylie, though I never quite know what she’s up to.
We’re alike in that way, our being independent to a fault. Unlike me, she’s always on the move and not one to spend inordinate amounts of time in a lab or with her nose buried in a book. She used to be. Before Pop was killed and Mama got sick. Then everything changed.
Shelby has changed. A darkness has been slowly creeping in like moss after a wet season. And no amount of lightness can shake the feeling that trouble’s coming.
I sigh as her cell phone kicks over to voice mail. “Wherever you are, pay attention to the weather.” I bite my lip, thinking about the bowl of cupcake batter I placed in the refrigerator, then offer her a subtle reminder of what day it is. “Come home when you can, okay?” I pause, wondering if I should mention the stranger. But I decide against it. No sense rattling her overprotective streak when I know she worries about me and my lack of “real-world experience.”
We might have been born out of the same womb and bear a lot in common, with our blond hair, blue eyes, long legs, and scientific predispositions—her passion is chemistry, mine biology—but our personalities couldn’t be more different.
Yep. My glass-half-full outlook on life drives her nuts. As does my compassionate streak, which she believes opens me up to being far too vulnerable for her liking.
Kindness isn’t a sign of weakness, I remind myself as I place my cell phone back on the coffee table and, resisting the urge to steal another peek outside, make my way past the front door and into the tiny kitchenette. In my book, it takes strength to be kind in a world full of lost souls whose only ambition in life is to make money. People who’ve lost sight of what’s important in life. Honesty. Compassion. Empathy.
Mind you, I’m no Dalai Lama. I’m not working at a food bank or lighting extra candles at mass. Like Kylie, I’ve a bit of a temper. I’m often focused to the point of being a little self-absorbed in pursuing my dreams, and I’m a bit of a perfectionist.
She says I’m setting myself up to be crushed, that the rose-colored glasses I wear will only last so long before they crack. Of course, when we do manage to steal a few moments together, it feels like she’s the one staring at me through crooked glasses.
A grin spreads across my face at my mental image of Kylie, with her head cocked, lips drawn in that familiar, protective-older-sister-way, and murky-brown, pessimist-prescribed glasses perched on her nose. I hope she checks her messages, that it occurs to her what day it is and she hurries home to celebrate with me.
Reaching out, I straighten the letter from San Diego State University. For once in my nineteen years—strike that, twenty years as of today—I’ve been accepted. On full scholarship, too. The perfect birthday present.
I open the refrigerator door and take out the bowl of batter. A Smith family recipe. Cupcakes our infallible tradition for cheering in a birthday.
Alone, or otherwise.
Except you’re not exactly alone . . .
Is he a neighbor? A friend of Kylie’s?
I’ve been cautious ever since my father died, ever since Mama got sick, ever since Kylie pulled into herself and became secretive and hard. With a glance at my acceptance letter on the fridge as a reminder of who I want to be, I can’t help but think maybe it’s time I stopped running scared. It’s my birthday, why not invite the hot stranger inside for a treat and flirt a little? Wasn’t that what young, naive college girls did?
I shake off the idea. Kylie might accuse me of being defiantly optimistic—her words, not mine—but I’m no fool. I shift my focus onto measuring the exact amounts of batter into the tin cupcake wells so each sweet confection will bake to perfection. Mission accomplished, I pop the tray into the preheated oven then clean up my mess. Sixteen is always the celebrated birthday. Yet twenty seems much more significant. Much more monumental and a better reason to celebrate. Twenty is the age you shake off your teenage years and join adulthood. The age you’re taken more seriously. A time when dreams become reality.
I’m roaring into twenty-dom with high hopes.
I’m turning twenty yet have never been kissed.
Yep, sad but true. The majority of boys in my life are friends from my classes. More interested in organisms than orgasms; which biologically speaking, the latter is highly unlikely to happen from simply kissing, though I’m curious to test out this theory and, if luck will have it, prove it wrong. Something I intend on pursuing once I’m settled down beneath the warm Californian sunshine. Pursue my degree yet not be such a lab whore. Hit the beaches, conduct research outdoors and in the San Diego waters. Take a chance. Live a little. Kiss. Have orgasms. I’m looking forward to the possibilities my roaring twenties will bring.