Текст книги "The Stillburrow Crush"

Автор книги: Linda Kage

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Chapter Two

Our town, Stillburrow, is surrounded by Kansas wheat fields. With a population of just under seven hundred and decreasing, it's the type of town where anyone living here was born here. People don't move to Stillburrow. They move out.

A throwback to the fifties, it still has a Mom and Pop Store called Getty's General, run by John Getty himself, whose granddad started the place back in 1944. Across the street, his brother Fredrick runs Fred's Diner. Both of these establishments sit on Main Street, which is the only paved street in town and stretches a total of six blocks long. Geographically, Stillburrow is built in a simple layout. It's located in the flattest part of Kansas, thirty miles north of Paulbrook (what we called the city—Paulbrook has a university, a hospital, an amusement park and everything else Stillburrow doesn't). North of Paulbrook on Highway 23, there's a turn off heading east, called Still Road. That's our road.

After three miles as Still Road, its name changes to Main Street—the official "city limits" of Stillburrow begin—and the gravel roadway becomes asphalt. On the main drag, there's the gas station, then Getty's General Store and Fred's. Georgia's Barber Shop, The First State Bank and one of our four churches are all located on the next block. We also have the funeral home, dentist office, post office and City Hall on Main Street. At the other end of town, where the city limit 22

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ends and Still Road starts up again, pavement changes back into gravel. There we have a bar and grill across from the city pool, before wheat fields crop up once more as if nothing had disturbed their space.

All the streets running east and west, except for Main, are named after trees. There's Oak, Pine, Birch, Walnut and Elm. Running north and south, the streets are named after presidents. The president streets are in historical order, starting at the west end of town with Washington and ending at the east with Jackson.

I live on the northeast edge of Stillburrow, right across from the park on the corner of Oak and Jackson. Jackson Street's a weird road because when it crosses Main, it curves around until it intersects with Quincy and becomes Birch. But that works out well for me because the school's on Birch and it makes my walk to class easier.

Almost everything's on Main Street, except for a few biggies. We have three churches not on Main as well as the park (which is deserted ten months of the year), the library, Dean's Auto Shop—that also serves as a used car lot—and the school.

The school's the heart of the town.

Stillburrow focuses its attention on its children. Stillburrow Education Center, also known as SEC, holds classes from kindergarten through twelfth grade. The grade school is on the east end of the building and the high school is on the west. Years ago, the city built a sports complex, with a track, football field, gymnasium, and ball diamond for the school. It's not next to the school building but is located just outside 23

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town on Still Road. Most towns have a sign introducing their city with a population number under it. But not us. We have the SEC Sports Complex with its manicured lawns and impressive, lighted stadium.

Like I said, Stillburrow prides itself on its younger generation.

But we don't start our education at SEC. Mrs. Eggrow, the principal's wife, runs the preschool across the street from SEC

in a yellow two-story house, where many children learn to read and write before they walk. Actually, all the parents in town seemed to be in one big competition to see who'd end up with the brightest kid.

Mrs. Wallace was sure her daughter, Theresa, would become a famous actress. Theresa was a senior when I was in third grade. I can still remember how she glowed on stage. That was the year the drama club had six plays and sold out every seat in the auditorium each production. And Theresa did get pretty far. She made it all the way to Hollywood before she fell in with the wrong group of people and died on an acid trip. I remember how school was let out that day, as well, and everyone in town attended the funeral. Up until this year, she was our big tragedy.

After Theresa's death, the competition over star children died off for a while. Most kids graduated and stuck around Stillburrow, or went off to Paulbrook.

Then a couple of years ago it all started again. It seemed a few kids around town showed special talent in their field of expertise. There was Timmy Newell, the football coach's son, who could play the trumpet like he was a member of the New 24

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York Symphony. His twin sister, Brenda, had a singing voice that could make you cry to hear. Coach Newell was a little put off when his kids turned out to be more musical than athletic but that didn't stop his thick chest from swelling each time someone complimented him for his children's abilities. Rick Getty—who was going steady with Brenda—could paint like Andrew Wyeth. Jill Anderson, the late Theresa Wallace's niece, tried her hand at acting though she wasn't as talented as her aunt had been. And Luke Carter was the best quarterback the town had ever seen. His dad was president of the bank and most town folk had their hopes set high on Luke.

Mom tried to talk me up for being the editor of The Central Record. It was only the school's paper, but since the town didn't have a newspaper of its own, everyone subscribed to The Central Record and read it like it was the town paper. Mom thought I'd make it big someday with my writing. And that was my dream too, to be a star investigative reporter in some big city, becoming nationally famous. But I was only the town mechanic's girl and not too widely known. I didn't mind who I was. I was proud of my father. He was honest and owned his own business, which was impressive in my eyes. I didn't care if the mortgage on the house was maxed out or if the bank owned over half his shop. Most people still looked down on my parents because they had married right before my mom graduated from high school, when she found out she was pregnant with Marty. But that's a small town for you. People give out their gossip and their snooty opinions like they're the Word of God. 25

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Once upon a time, I thought such prejudices against people were so old fashioned they no longer existed, but then I grew old enough to hear and understand more. And yes, they're still around. They are in Stillburrow, anyhow. Mom tried to overcome the "scandal" by being the perfect housewife, like she could scrub away her past. So I grew up in a clean home. Well, OK, maybe clean is too mild a word for it. Sterile would fit better. I didn't know what dirt was until I was five and asked my dad what all that brown stuff was in the grass outside. Mom also thought if she attended every PTO meeting, if she had her hair done every week at Georgia Anderson's Hair Salon, or if she volunteered to bring food to every potluck dinner, she'd be accepted. But she claimed people still talked behind her back.

Dad just shrugged her worries off, doing and saying exactly what he would've done anyway. People still gave him their business but when they walked away from his shop, Mom said they would shake their heads and whisper, "It's a shame what he and that pretty little Andrea Burke (that's my mom) did back when she was a senior in high school." Dad was a hard-working man and I helped him sometimes in his shop. I'd only started doing this recently, though. Marty used to be his right-hand man. But since the parents in town had started back into the competitive spirit, Mom had been putting pressure on Marty, and they'd had a falling out a few months before. So after a pretty loud yelling match between my mother and brother, Marty moved out and was currently living in an old rundown shack with his friend, Austin Fitz. 26

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Like I've already mentioned, Marty started working at Getty's General. Dad gave him a hard time for being a grocery store clerk at twenty-three. But I don't think it was Marty's life ambition to become one. It just turned out that way. Both Mom and Dad thought he could be so much more. I, on the other hand, had my doubts.

Since he'd been gone, I'd spent some time standing around the shop while Dad crawled under cars. I handed him screwdrivers and stuff. Piece by piece, I was learning what a carburetor and a head gasket were. And if I felt so inclined, I could even change the oil in a car or switch out a flat tire. Dad started calling me his little mechanic. Mom made me shower every time I stepped foot inside the house after helping him.

I was helping Dad one Saturday afternoon, a little over a week after Football Homecoming and that dreaded interview, when Luke Carter strolled into the car lot next to the shop. Mom was gone uptown to get her hair styled and I was thumbing through one of Dad's magazines, leaning against the workbench and looking at pictures of old cars, when I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye.

I looked up and the paralysis set in. Dad was asking me for a nine-sixteenths wrench. But his voice sounded distant and its meaning didn't set in.

Then Dad noticed Luke too—or noticed me noticing him. And he slid out from under the engine. He dusted off his pants, pulled a cleaning rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. Walking out toward Luke, he called a greeting and I felt compelled to follow. The gravel crunched under our 27

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shoes as we neared Luke, who was slowly circling a black '93

Ford Mustang like some kind of prospective buyer. He looked wonderful. His shoes were leather Dockers. His designer jeans were held snug around his waist by a thin, black leather belt, and he wore his letterman's jacket, bright red with the school emblem of a brave weighted down with medals, over a navy blue collared shirt. He wore a lot of blue, which was good, since I thought he looked best in that color. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and he had the shadow of a beard along his jaw as if he hadn't shaved in a while. It gave him that masculine, rugged appeal and made him look too mature for a mere seventeen.

"Car shopping?" Dad asked, stuffing the rag back in his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. He planted his feet wide. He always stood that way when he got into talking cars with someone. It was like he was in a boat, braced for anyone trying to rock him with the wave of an unsolvable automobile problem.

"Maybe," Luke said. "Since I'm going to college next year, I'll need a car. And Dad's making me buy my own. He thinks it'll teach me to watch my finances. So..." He rubbed the back of his neck and sent a quick glance my way, making my stomach churn with nervous jitters.

He turned his attention back to Dad and I lifted my hand to my mouth to chew on the nail of my index finger.

"I was just checking out my options," Luke said with a shrug.

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Dad stood by him and stared at the Mustang. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then glanced at Luke. "You going to Paulbrook University, then?"

"Yes, sir." Luke darted another look at me.

"Are you going to be staying at home when you go to college, or will you find some place in the city?" I wanted to tell my dad to quit interrogating him. Instead, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other and crossed my arms over my chest. I stared at the gravel between my feet and soaked in every word Luke said.

"I was planning on staying home. At least through my first year."

"Well," Dad drawled the word slowly. "Commuting to the city everyday's going to be a long drive." He glanced toward the Mustang. "And this thing here is quite the gas guzzler." Luke made a noise of understanding. "I guess it wouldn't be very practical then."

Dad nodded. "Now if you want something that's got good mileage..." He turned from the sporty coupe. "This Toyota will run forever on a single tank."

Three pair of eyes moved to the blue compact car. I almost slapped my hand to my forehead and groaned. The car was so un-Luke-Carter-like, I felt embarrassed for...well, for all three of us. Luke for meeting someone who actually assumed he'd ever drive this heap, my dad for misreading his customer so badly, and me for witnessing the mortifying exchange.

Besides the dent in the back door on the driver's side, the Toyota's previous owner had been Loma Myers. And the only 29

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reason her daughter had confiscated the keys and sold it was because Loma was being put into a nursing home and was too senile to drive anymore. I couldn't believe my dad even considered selling the old hunk of scrap metal to Luke. Dad must've realized his mistake or he read the look of complete horror on Luke's face because he went on, scratching his chin again. "We don't have a lot of options here." We only had about seven or eight cars on the lot. "But if you think up any questions or see anything you're interested in, I'll be in the shop there."

"OK," Luke said. "Sure thing." Dad nodded and started back toward the garage. His mind, I knew, had already returned to his work. I pivoted to follow him when Luke spoke.

"Hi, Carrie."

I stopped and pressed a hand against the constriction in my chest before I could face him. Then I dropped my fingers to my sides and turned back. "Hi."

"I read your article about the game." He left the Mustang and neared me. "Good piece."

"Thank you." The words came out a hoarse, garbled mess because my throat had dried up, and I had to clear it.

"Thanks," I repeated.

"The only thing is..." He slowly began to circle me as he had the Mustang. "I don't ever go by the name Lucas." He looked up and stopped. I fell into a trance staring back at those hypnotic blues, and I couldn't glance away. 30

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I swallowed. He'd caught my barb. Everyone knew how much Luke detested his Christian name. And that's exactly why I'd called him Lucas Carter in the article. He started walking again, kicking a little at the gravel. "I figure there's really only four times in my life I have to suffer through it. The day I was born since it's on my birth certificate, the day I graduate, the day I get married, and the day of my funeral. So unless you're planning on killing me off or marrying me, I'd really appreciate it if you'd just call me Luke." He looked up again for my response. I could only nod.

He lifted one of his eyebrows. "You already knew that though, didn't you? That I hate my name?" My voice sounded small when I answered. "Yes."

"Then why'd you do it?"

I shrugged. "I don't know." Maybe because I don't want anyone to know I like you.

He gave a small laugh and looked off across the street toward the park. It was empty except for a few squirrels chasing each other. No one bothered with the metal playground equipment when the weather turned cold.

"You know," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck again. I bit down on my fingernail. "You're not like any girl I've ever met before."

I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a complaint so I decided not to answer.

"Do you..." He stopped rubbing his neck. I guess he realized he'd been revealing a nervous habit because he stuffed his hands in his pockets. My mind whirled. Luke Carter 31

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was acting nervous? Around me?! I was beginning to get the feeling he hadn't stopped by just to look at cars. Stop trying to give yourself an ego boost, Carrie. What would Luke Carter want with a skinny, stick girl like you? I mean, look at you. Stained jeans, an old bulky sweater you stole from your brother's closet, the picture of the brave half worn off the front. And that hair, slopped up in a quick ponytail. Not to mention everyone in school thinks you're the oddest, most reclusive person to walk the halls. I let out a deflated breath.

Luke had been looking off across the street at the park, but suddenly he turned back. "Do you want to walk in the park?"

A walk? Beside Luke Carter? I darted a look around me. He couldn't be talking to me. But Dad was busy, whistling in the shop. And Mom wasn't due home for a while, not with the town's gossip, Georgia Anderson, styling her hair. The rest of the houses around looked bored and lifeless. I glanced back up at him and almost jumped. He was staring directly at me. He definitely wasn't talking to anyone else. I was about to decline, say I should be helping Dad, when Luke took my hand and grabbed the opportunity away from me. I could've pulled away. But with my palm sheathed in his warm, protective fingers, I would've followed him anywhere just then.

"So you like to write, huh?" he asked as we crossed the street. Stillburrow Park wasn't large, and since the swing set and the jungle gym were the only pieces of equipment in the 32

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recreation area, we were pretty much forced to head toward them. They stood under a couple of large sycamore trees.

"I guess," I said. And then, being a little nervous—OK, being very nervous—I started rambling. Out came details of my dream to be an investigative reporter. Out came my plans to apply for a scholarship the next year and then eventually work my way through college. Yes, I blabbed it all to him. And he listened. I could tell he really listened too, because he kept interrupting and asking questions. He asked what kind of things I wrote and how often. It was so disconcerting to think he would even care. But he talked to me in a way that eased my whacked out nerves, and I began to grow comfortable being there with him. I mean, well, I got as comfortable as I could with my heart rate going overtime and my hands turning into quivering balls of nerves. It was like the happy medium between utter euphoria and a complete panic attack.

At the swings, he sat me down. It was the oddest thing. But it felt so natural. My fingers wrapped around the cold metal chains and he pushed me slowly back and forth. I lifted my face into the biting wind and smiled. This couldn't be real. Luke Carter was pushing me on the swings.

I stared up at the tree limbs above me.

"There's still one green leaf left on the tree," I said, thinking that it was somehow significant, like some kind of sign for hope.

"Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave / Thysong, nor ever can those trees be bare," Luke said. 33

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His voice didn't echo but the words seemed to dangle in the air over us, leaving a presence that filled my chest with a heavy yearning. The single leaf above me rippled in the breeze and I shivered. I thought I could gladly be frozen there for eternity, stuck like that, listening to the twitter of birds and the squeak of the swing's rusty hinges. I could inhale the brisk fragrance of autumn and absorb the sweet embrace of romance forever.

"John Keats wrote that."

I glanced up at Luke and caught the distinct outline of his face in profile. Maybe I'd never seen his side view before, or only looked at him from the front, but he didn't look at all like the suave Luke Carter he usually was. His eyelashes were lowered as he squinted up at the sun. And his overbite was so pronounced it was the only thing I could focus on. He'd probably been a thumb sucker when he was a baby and it'd made his teeth jut out like that.

It caught me completely off guard. I'd never seen him from this angle and it made him appear somewhat insecure and lost. He stared up at the sky like it was a map that might tell him where he was and where he should go next. But then he glanced down at me, and he was once again Luke Carter, football star and Stillburrow's poster child. I had this urge to tell him to turn back like he'd been a moment before because, for some reason, I liked him better with the malformed teeth and helpless expression.

"What?" he said, frowning at the odd look I was giving him.

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I cleared my throat and glanced away. "The poem," I said.

"It's pretty,"

"It's sad. Keats was only twenty-four years old and he knew he was dying when he wrote it."

I thought about that. Twenty-four felt so far away. But for dying, it was way too close.

"A finished body full of unfinished thoughts," Luke murmured. He pushed the swing again. I rocked forward. "I came up with that on my own."

I smiled and closed my eyes when his hands touched my back again to push. "A finished body full of unfinished thoughts," I repeated on a murmur. "I like that. You should write it down."

"Yeah. Maybe." The sound of his voice caused me to open my eyes. He sounded...I don't know. Wistful, I guess. I was going to ask him about it but the moment was taken away from us. A car passed by on the street. I glanced over and saw the cheerleaders.

Liz Curry and Jill Anderson were creeping by, staring at us through the windshield of Liz's car. I stood up. And that's when Luke moved in front of me, completely blocking me from their view. He did it so subtly that if I hadn't been tuned into every movement he made, I wouldn't have noticed. The girls hollered a hello out their windows to him and he waved back, calling his own greeting.

I could already see the chain of gossip burning like a fuse to dynamite right through the town. Jill Anderson would tell her mother, who was fixing my mom's hair even as we stood there. I would hear about it at supper. Mom would play 35

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twenty questions with me. What were you doing with that nice Carter boy? Does he have a date for the prom yet? Did he ask you out?

Except there would be no gossip because the girls hadn't seen me. Luke had made sure of it.

"What's wrong?" Luke said.

I looked up and swallowed. "Nothing." His return look implied he didn't believe me, but he let it go. "OK," he answered. "Well anyway. I was wondering..." We were a few feet apart now and the intimacy from a moment ago had totally vanished. He went back to rubbing his neck.

"Did you just step in front of me so they couldn't see who you were with?" I blurted out.

His head snapped up. His eyes were wide and bright.

"What?"

For the briefest of moments, I had been on top of the world. I'd actually thought he was going to ask me out, maybe even invite me to go to the lake party with him. The lake party was a student-organized event and reportedly very wild. It happened every year, contrary to what parents believed. And I'd truly thought I, Carrie Paxton, daughter to the town grease monkey, would show up at the school's biggest bash of the year on the arm of none other than Luke Carter himself. I'd even imagined how everyone would pause and say hi to us. How when it turned cold, he'd slide his letterman's jacket over my shoulders. And when it grew dark, we'd slip from the group and walk alone through the woods or along the edge of the lake.

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I could almost hear the gossip that would follow us. Who does she think she is, trying to cuddle up to him? There's only one thing he'd want from her.

I frowned. He could have any girl in school. Heck, two of them had driven by moments before, waving and yelling. I don't know what I'd been thinking, but he'd certainly set me straight with that blocking move. It didn't lessen the sting, though.

"Why'd you do that?" I asked, setting my hands on my hips and giving him a glare I usually reserved for Marty.

"What're you talking about?" Suddenly, he was all innocence and confusion.

"You didn't want Liz and Jill to see me here with you," I said. "You stepped in front of me so they couldn't." He laughed then, a nervous sound. "I did not."

"Why?" I said again, this time through gritted teeth. I wasn't about to let him get away with hurting me. I didn't care how big my crush for him was.

He blushed then, and kicked at a clump of dead leaves on the ground. "I don't know why you think I tried to block...Oh, never mind."

He said this to the leaves and jammed his hands into his pockets. When he looked up, he had to squint because the sun flickered through the tree branches, momentarily blinding him. A sliver of light briefly glowed golden over him, giving him unattainable, angelic appeal.

"No need to explain," I said. "I already know why, anyway."

He stared at me hard. "You do?"

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"You're embarrassed to be seen with me because you're so much better than I am." At his startled, appalled expression, I began to feel bolder. "You're the bank president's son and I'm just a mechanic's daughter. Isn't that why?" His mouth fell open. "But that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"It's not to me." I stomped my foot and scared a squirrel into darting up a tree. I wanted to cry. "You're a real snob, you know that?"

"Snob?!" For a second he didn't move. I saw the brief flash of pain in the clenching of his jaw before his brooding eyebrows huddled down protectively low over his eyes. Then he snorted out a disbelieving laugh. Sucking his mouth around his overbite, he buried his hands in his hair and clutched his head. "I can't believe I'm hearing this." For a moment he was quiet, and then he laughed out another snort. But this time it was a harsher, more cynical sound. "This is crazy, Carrie. You don't make any sense. Why would I invite you to walk in the park and then not want to be seen with you?"

"I don't know," I whispered. "Why did you?" My teeth dug into my bottom lip and I could feel moisture gathering at the corners of my eyes. My chin trembled.

He opened his mouth but closed it again. "I'm sorry," he finally said, furiously rubbing that spot on the back of his neck. "I just had an idea. A bad idea, I guess." And he walked away, calling over his shoulder, "I've got to go." 38

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My breath caught in my throat as I watched him retreat. A voice inside me shrieked, "Go after him, Carrie. Call out,

'Luke! What's your idea?'"

But I did nothing. Numbed and a little shell-shocked, I watched him walk away until he disappeared around a house at the end of the block.

Then I ran home, locked myself in my room and didn't come out until supper.

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