Breathing (20 page)

I go up behind him and whisper, “You’re awful cute when you’re paintin’.”

He tries to hold back his grin. “Shut up, girl. You best go on home.”

I can’t help myself, though. “You tired of me already?” I ask, as I accidentally on purpose lean up against him for a moment.

He drops his paintbrush right in the dirt. “Savannah!” he whispers, looking embarrassed.

Ol’ DC looks our way and yells, “V! You best get out his way if ’n you want that boy to be done ’fore dark.”

I smile real big at him, but inside I’m rolling my eyes something serious. “I guess I’ll go on and get going then,” I say to Jackson. But I wait to see if he protests.

“I’ll come get you soon as I clean up,” he promises, which sends a thrill right on up my chest.

I make as if I’m leaving, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I find a spot behind some trees and watch him lose himself in the steady motion of color. Them other guys are using spray guns and rollers, but DC trusted all the detail work to Jackson, seeing as he’s a real painter and all.

After a while, Jackson goes over to a bucket of turpentine to clean his brushes, and without any effort to find me, he looks directly at me and winks! I reckon he knew I was here all along. That wink only makes the heat inside me flare up even worse. I best head down to the beach for a swim before I’m accused of arson. I use DC’s phone to call Mama, and she agrees to come give me a ride.

 

 

The day drags. Ain’t nothing fun when I know Jackson is so durn close by and still so dang far. It’s like my body knows he’s near and it just won’t settle down. I try the beach, the hammock, the TV, music. I even go to work at the library for a few hours, even though I’m not scheduled for today.

Back at home, I start cleaning up our room, but Dog’s shoes are so stinky I can’t hardly stand it.

Have you ever noticed how much you can tell about a person by their shoes? Seriously now, it’s quite informative. Mama, she wears low heels—pretty, but practical. Both of the pairs she owns used to be colorful, but now they’re all faded and worn.

Me, I wear flip-flops. I get a new pair from the Family Dollar Store at the beginning of every summer, and come fall they are clean wore through. This year they’re blue with green polka dots. I reckon flip-flops say I go on and let everything out, which I believe is true about me—honest and forthcoming.

Jackson mostly goes barefoot when we head down to the beach, a sure sign that he’s a trustworthy soul—nothing to hide. But when we go out, he wears his work boots all tied up tight, which explains why he has a hard time sharing his feelings.

Then there’s Dog, whose feet are so offensive, seems like any pair of shoes he puts on just curls up and dies. He’s got about fifty-eleven pair of tennis shoes, most of them outgrown—all just as smelly and worn as a cowboy’s old boot. You know what them cowboys are always stepping in. Yep, and Dog is sure full of it.

Forget cleaning this pigsty.

I go out to the kitchen to call Stef, thinking maybe she’d like to meet Jackson later on.

“Hey, what’s up?” I say.

“Nothing.” She sounds gloomy.

“Why so glum?” I ask.

“I miss Jimmy, and I hate him, too.”

“Don’t cry,” I say as she starts in to whimpering. “I’m sorry he blamed you at Miss Caroline’s. And may I just say he’s an idiot for dumping you.”

“You’re lucky Jackson ain’t like that.”

“You want to come out with us this evening? I’m sure he won’t mind. You haven’t even met him yet.”

“That’s okay. I’d just be a third wheel.”

“Come on now. You’re my best friend.”

“Y’all don’t hardly get to spend any time together. He won’t want me hanging around.”

“I want you. You’ve just got to meet him.”

“Some other time, Van. I’ve got big plans to lay on the couch and watch sappy movies and cry all night.”

“That sounds real productive.”

“I’ll talk to you later on,” she says.

After we get off the phone, I find my current romance—
Love, Lace, and Lemon Cakes
—under the coffee table and snuggle up on the couch. ’Fore I know it, I’m all caught up in the story and next thing I realize, it’s time to get ready.

 

 

By five o’clock I’m showered and dressed and waiting by the window. The clock in the kitchen is ticking louder than a rat pack in a pantry. My book was at an exciting part, so I pick it up again. Just when the big brute and the helpless young woman are fixing to, well, consummate things, I hear a truck pulling into the gravel driveway. I drop the book and jump up. But it’s only DC coming to fetch Mama for dinner.

The clock says 6:15. Maybe DC will at least be able to tell me what’s going on. “Are y’all just finishing?” I demand soon as he steps foot in the door.

“Hello to you, too,” he says.

“Hey. But seriously, now, where is he at? Why’d y’all have to work so late?”

He gives me a long, hard look, then busts out laughing. “Lordy, V, you got it bad, huh girl?” He shakes his head. “Don’t you worry your purty little head none. They’s predictin’ some weather tonight, so’s we had to get things covered up. Your boy cut out ’bout thirty minutes back. I reckon he’ll be here ’fore long.”

And no sooner does he finish yapping than another truck pulls up—a blue one, the only one that matters. “Bye!” I call, heading for the door.

Mama comes rushing out of her room. “Y’all behave yourselves! And be back by curfew!”

I hear DC whispering something at her and she adds, “Oh, all right, you can stay out till eleven thirty, but no messing around, y’hear?”

“Yes, ma’am!” I call.
Thank you,
I mouth to DC. He winks at me.

Then I run out the door before she can change her mind.

Jackson’s standing there all sparkly clean, his hair still wet from the shower. He licks his lips, looking nervous as all hell.

“Hey,” I giggle. Guess I’m sort of nervous, too.

“You look right beautiful.” He smiles, reaching for my hand.

I glance down at his shoes real quick—yep, work boots. I’m going to have to do something about that.

I want to kiss him real bad, but I look back and, sure enough, there’s Mama staring out at us from the window. So I grab his hand and we get up into the truck.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Not really,” I say. Food seems so inconsequential.

“Me either. Mind going for a ride?” he asks.

Imagine that—a boy that ain’t hungry. I scoot closer to him. He cuts on the radio. It all feels too perfect, except for he hasn’t said much, and I sure wish he would. I don’t know what to ask to get him started talking.

“How was your day?” I finally begin, thinking that sounds like a naggy old housewife.

“A’ight.” He shrugs.

“How was paintin’?” I prod.

He nods, then looks at me and smiles. “Good.”

Lord, how do I get this boy to speak in more than one-word sentences? “I liked watching you,” I say. “You looked . . . real focused, you know? Like I could tell you was really into it and all.”

He don’t say nothing.

“Why so quiet?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s just too good, too right.” We sit quiet awhile. “I liked the work today. I mean, it ain’t exactly the same as paintin’ pitures. But you cain’t make no money doin’ that. It’s closer to it, though, and a whole helluva lot better than that old machine shop. Left me feeling quiet is all.”

He pulls into a parking area looking out over a deserted stretch of beach I’ve never been to before. It ain’t dark yet, plus if Mama’s easing up on curfew, maybe we can bend the other rules a bit as well. She didn’t actually say anything about them still being in effect. He grabs a blanket out of the back of the truck and we walk down to the sand.

Not one second after we lay down, we start making out. I can’t hardly help myself and neither can he. And it feels so good to have his hot mouth on mine, to feel his tongue, so gentle and warm. . . . Not like this one guy I kissed last year—Cory Hallman—who stuck his tongue practically down my throat.

As much as I’m loving every minute of this, I can’t help but wonder, with nobody around, no threat of somebody telling Mama, what’s to stop us from going all the way? And am I ready for that? And what about protection? Whoo, I done scared myself silly. I pull away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, looking worried.

“Nothing,” I say, only that ain’t the entire truth, but then, I ain’t at all sure what is.

“S’okay,” he says, all tender, “we can slow down.” And he pulls me real close and just stares into my eyes like he’s seeing God.

“You ever gone all the way?” I ask him. He don’t say nothing.

“Yeah, you have. I can tell.” I wonder if it was with Mary Elizabeth, but I don’t ask.

“You haven’t,” he says, like it’s all right.

I shake my head.

He shrugs. “It don’t matter none. We won’t do nothing you ain’t ready for, okay?”

I feel so happy inside—not just ’cause he doesn’t mind waiting, but ’cause I know in my gut I’ve got me one of the good ones.

The air is damp and warm tonight, my breathing just as clear as day. I ain’t never felt better.

“Okay if we kiss some more?” he asks.

I don’t need words to answer that one.

It starts to drizzle on us. We just laugh and snuggle up closer. But the sky has a strange greenish look to it, and then the wind picks up and the sand starts to blowing all around. We haul ourselves up and back into the truck.

“Look like a storm coming,” Jackson says, watching the clouds.

And then, real sudden-like, the sky seems to open right on up and big, fat drops are smacking against the windshield. It’s coming down so hard we can’t see nothing but rain. The wind is crazy loud, and I admit I’m getting scared.

Jackson cuts on the radio and searches for a news station. The man says there’s a tornado hitting the northeast side of Morehead, which, of course, is just exactly where we’re at. Scared as I am, I can’t help being grateful that the tornado I was named after wasn’t heading in this direction fifteen years ago. What kind of life would I have had with a name like Morehead?

There ain’t no way to drive in this mess. So we just cuddle up close to each other and wrap ourselves in the damp blanket.

Lightning crackles across the sky—just two seconds till the thunder hits—meaning it ain’t but two miles off! Hail starts smacking the windows and bouncing up. It’s getting awful creepy.

And then, Lord have mercy! In the next bolt of lightning, Jackson points just a hair northward and we can actually see the twister! And the wind is blowing something fierce. The man on the radio is warning everybody to take cover, to get out of mobile homes and cars. But where else are we going to go?

Jackson takes my hand. “Savannah, you trust me?” I nod. “We gonn’ have to get out the truck.”

“Are you crazy?” I ask, looking out at the wildness of the storm.

“It ain’t safe here. That twister could head our way any second.

It’ll pick this truck up like it’s a Tonka.”

“It’ll pick
us
up just as easy!” I shout over the din of the wind.

“Not if we stay low. Come on.”

And then we see in the flash of lightning, that cyclone is heading towards us.

Jackson grabs my hand and pulls me out into the maelstrom. We run against the lashing rain till we find a ditch, then lay down in it. He covers my body with his own.

“I’m scared,” I call out, my body shivering despite his heat.

“Shh,” he says. “It’ll pass. We’ll be fine.” And then he starts talking, yelling over the noise, I imagine to calm me down. “My daddy used to call twisters the devil’s tail. We’d wait ’em out in the cellar when they’d come through, and he’d tell us stories about storms he’d seen when he was comin’ up.”

“I was named after a tornada that was heading for Savannah, Georgia!” I shout, laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation.

Lightning cracks open the sky, with thunder right on its heels. I grab on to Jackson real tight. Just then, we hear a crash, but the devil’s tail swirls on out to the ocean, taking the wind and driving rain along with it.

We wait awhile, laying side by side in the ditch. I’m real glad for his warmth and calm beside me.

He wipes the wet hair out of my face and smiles. “Named after a tornada, huh? Life with you sure ain’t dull.”

We laugh and look into each other’s eyes.

“Savannah,” he says, sounding all serious.

I touch his lips with my fingers, almost wanting to shush him, afraid of what might come out.

“I love you,” he says with this look in his eye like he almost can’t bear it.

“Hallelujah!” I cry, making him laugh again. “I love you, too.” And he kisses me real good.

As the rain lightens to a drizzle and the wind chases the twister out to sea, we head back to the truck. It’s just where we left it; the cyclone didn’t get it. But the windows are all smashed. We climb in, soaking wet, and clear the glass off the seat with the blanket.

Suddenly I realize I am starved. I wish we could go out to dinner like we had planned on. But I know we got no choice but to head home—what with the truck a mess and us soaking wet and all.

Mama’s going to be fit to be tied.

M
ama and DC are already home when we get there. Apparently, they gave up on eating out, concerned about where we were all at during the storm. Mama nearly flips when she sees us, wet and bedraggled.

“Come in the house this minute!” she yells. “Good Lord, Savannah, y’all could have been killed.”

“We’re okay,” I tell her. “Jackson knew what to do.”

She glares at him and scolds, “Y’all should have come straight home once you heard about the storm.”

“Sorry, ma’am, but by the time we heard about it, we needed to head for cover.”