Cover.html (19 page)

“You catch one for me, all right?” I call as we hurry back along the creek.

“All—all right. Well. Okay,” he says.

We jump in the cab. Chelsea’s muttering, “Shit, shit, shit” as the engine coughs to life. But laughter’s rolling out of me, and there’s no way to turn it off.

“
Clint!
” she shouts. “What if he says something—to my folks or something?”

162/262

“He’d never recognize you,” I tell her. “Trust me. It’s getting too dark out. You know what
his
face looks like?”

I can tell, by the way she stops to consider this, that she agrees.

“But it’s not funny,” she insists. “
Stop,
” she yells, making me realize that I’m still laughing.

But my laughter just rolls on. “It doesn’t have to be all serious,” I remind her, picking up her hand and kissing her knuckles. As the truck ambles back toward the resort, I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so light in all my life.

Not even with a girl with two black braids.

Chelsea

turnover

Minnesotaisapoem.Minnesotahasblackhair.Minnesotaisasummer kiss under the stars, scald of a sunburn, ache of a heavy sweet lodged in the crevice of a tooth. Minnesota is a morning on a lake, an afternoon under trees, stolen kisses, the smell of a man’s neck, the rough callus of his hand under my lips. Minnesota is a sky full of stars and the edge of a lake and wading farther and farther away from shore. At least, that’s what it feels like over the next few days. Weird, but around Clint, I don’t think about metal plates and screws. I don’t think about falling. I don’t wish for a pause button that could keep me from ever moving forward, past basketball. I think about tomorrows. I’m excited—God—about cycling. About hiking. For the first time since my accident, I’m starting to wonder how much farther I can ride today than I did the day before. I’m telling Clint to let
me
row. My pillowy gut is firming, reminding me just how quickly I’d always been able to build muscle. I’m no longer the same squishy pile of dough Scratches kneaded, sitting on my lap just before we left home. 164/262

And ever since bowling, Clint seems—freer. He’s not pushing me away. He’s not telling me he can’t. He’s not leaning away from me, against the door of his truck. He doesn’t apologize for brushing my knee when he shifts gears.

But Minnesota is also Brandon, glaring at me as he stands in the doorjamb of the cabin bathroom. Shaking his head while I hum, tying my hair into a ponytail.

“Don’t think I’m stupid, Chelse,” he says. “I know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on?” Dad asks as he trudges down the sunlit hallway and glances into the bathroom, eyes hidden beneath a Lake of the Woods cap.

“Hiking,” I sing.

“Hiking,” Brandon mutters. “Yeah, right.”

Dad’s mouth curls into a frown. “Aren’t you and Clint working out?”

he asks.

“Aren’t they,” Brandon moans. “That’s not the problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dad asks, giving his words an angry growl. Suddenly, every cruel and unfair thing he said to me after the Willie Walleye festival—the night I first kissed Clint—comes roaring back.

“Forget it,” I snap at him. I’m about to scream something at him like,
Why do you act like I mucked up
your
life?
But Mom starts hollering about Clint being at the door, so Dad just disappears, like he always does, every morning.

We
all
disappear, each of us hurrying out of the cabin and heading off in our own direction. Brandon’s guitar case whacks against the porch railing as he passes Clint. “
Hiking,
” he mutters one more time before heading off to the lodge to practice.

But who can care about Brandon or Dad—why let their judgmental crap ruin such a beautiful day? I can’t, not when the Minnesota morning has bloomed like a gorgeous lady slipper. Not when I’m dipping into 165/262

the shade of a cluster of trees, Clint’s black hair brushing my cheeks and his mouth working its way around my neck. “Let’s go to the waterfall,” he murmurs in my ear. “The one behind your cabin. We’ll be completely alone there. Promise.”

But we’re halfway to the trail when my phone, which I’d pocketed that morning just to prove to Brandon that
everything really is fine,
goes off. How is it that it suddenly works? And why
now
?

The text is from Gabe: turn phone 2 read, he’s typed, 8. When I follow his instructions, the “8” becomes “∞.” Eternity. The message instantly gives me an off-kilter swing in my stomach. And I don’t want to ruin my first view of the waterfall by climbing this hill filled with anything but sheer excitement. So I grab Clint’s arm and drag him even deeper into the shade. Push him teasingly, tug him down into the tall grass. We tangle our bodies in the summer wildflowers. When Clint rolls me onto my back, all I can see is the way the sunlight puts a hot, metallic sheen in his black hair. But when I glance past his hair, my eyes land on some familiar small purple blooms dangling just behind him, their yellow tongues hanging out: a vine of bittersweets. The kind that grow by the mill back home.

It’s almost like Gabe’s planted them there on purpose—to remind me that Minnesota is not the last word. That I will still have to go home. Stupid Gabe. Stupid bittersweets. I close my eyes; all I feel is Clint. Clint

tactics

Greg!”Ishout,bangingintothediningroomofthelodge.“Youdon’t need the Minnow tonight, do you?” The Minnow, the small skiff that Greg, Todd, and I bought together a couple of summers ago. Putting down his burger, Greg wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What for?”

“Night fishing,” I say.

“Why aren’t you using one of Earl’s launches for that?” Kenzie’s voice calls out. I turn to find her standing in the doorway of the lodge gift shop, eyeing me skeptically.

Greg stops chewing for a while to eyeball me, too.

“Because I have—such a small—
group
—signed up, checking out a launch is ridiculous,” I explain. But my voice is too high, and I’m too fidgety. I’m a crappy liar.

Greg shrugs, like he doesn’t care that I’ve served him up a bunch of bull. “Sure,” he says. “She’s tied to the dock closest to the lodge.” He crams the rest of his burger in his mouth.

167/262

“Haven’t seen you at Pike’s lately,” Kenzie tells me as she comes into the dining room. The gift shop door sighs as it falls shut behind her. Greg stops chewing again, looks up at me from the corner of his eye.

“What?” I say. “It’s not like that
means
something. Greg’s sitting here eating some crummy old cheeseburger instead of letting my mom feed him.”

“Brandon hauls me up to the stage as soon as I walk in the door,”

Greg says around a full mouth of food. “If I don’t eat now, I don’t get
any
dinner.”

“Everybody asks about you when you’re not there,” Kenzie presses.

“At Pike’s, I mean.”

“Well, you know—keeping the paying customers happy’s a fulltime-and-a-half job,” I say stupidly. To prove my intentions, I disappear through one of the staff exits into a supply closet. Burst back into the dining room carrying a couple of poles. I try to make a big show of the poles, jiggling them around before rushing outside. I race right past the Minnow, the early evening sun staining the lake orange, and head straight for cabin number four. I
do
plan to take Chelsea out on it—but fishing’s not the goal. I’m thinking more along the lines of a beautiful woman under the moonlight, and long kisses with no one around to catch us.

Chelsea throws the door open before I have a chance to even knock. Her smile turns kind of plastic and forced as Brandon’s voice bounces against the cabin walls.

“
Night fishing
?” he screams.

“Just a minute,” she tells me as I step inside the cabin. She pushes Brandon into a hallway, out of sight.

Their voices hiss back and forth angrily. I fidget in the front room, wishing the TV were blaring so I wouldn’t have to hear their fight. 168/262

Sweat droplets form under my arms and trickle down my sides as I wonder if her parents are somewhere in the cabin, listening as Brandon challenges Chelsea’s excuse to be alone with me.
Night fishing.
It sounds dumb now, even to me.

“Hope you guys all have fun tonight,” she finally calls out, her voice ringing against the air in a hollow way. She’s a terrible liar. Maybe even worse than I am. When she steps into view, I realize she’s got on a pair of jean shorts that show off her strong legs—all curvy and sexy. I can smell her skin, even from here, and I remember the way her soft body always feels beneath my rough hands.

“Forgot your
tackle box
, didn’t you, sis?” Brandon taunts her, carrying his guitar case into the front room.

“Got her covered, Brand, thanks,” I say, my crappy-liar voice ringing pathetically. “Drop you off at Pike’s?” I offer, trying like hell to save face even though the suggestion is stupid. If Chelsea and I really were going fishing, the last thing I’d want to do is drive all the way to Baudette and back.

“Forget it,” Brandon mumbles. “I already got a ride.”

“Greg’s in the lodge—” I offer stupidly.

“I
know
,” Brandon tells me. “Who do you think my ride is?”

“Tell—tell Todd I said hi,” I try. But Brandon shakes his head.

“You guys don’t fool me,” he says. “You don’t.”

“
Enough
,” Chelsea tells him, as footsteps start a stampede toward the living room.

“Sure you two don’t want to come?” her mother calls.

“Everyone’s leaving—going to Pike’s to hear Brand play,” Chelsea informs me as her dad steps into view. She shrinks a little when he shows up.

It’s uncomfortable, being around the friction between the two of them. The kind of uncomfortable that makes me want to fix it, 169/262

somehow. So I blurt, “Chelsea’s been at me to take her night fishing for a while now.” I hold up the poles to prove it’s true.

“Night fishing,” her dad repeats, his stare turning into an
I wonder
what’s really going on with you two
glare.
Good idea, Clint,
I congratulate myself.
Way to amp the tension
right up
.

Chelsea

contact sport

It’sacharade—andmaybeDadknowsasmuch.Maybehe’sassureof what’s happening between Clint and me as Brandon is. Maybe he thinks even less of me now than he did before we went on vacation.
Is
that humanly possible?

I shift from one foot to the other, my nerves crackling inside of me. I wish they’d all just leave, already. Or maybe they’re waiting for me to leave. Wait—how far, exactly, do Clint and I have to take this charade of night fishing? Do we actually have to take a boat out into the middle of the lake? Isn’t the goal just to be
alone
? My mind starts turning over the possibilities of what Clint and I could actually
do
, wrapped in the seclusion the water …

Clint grins at me, his smile tearing at the tension in the room the same way two forks pull apart a dense angel food cake. “Hey, Chelse. Think I can trouble you for something to drink before we head out? I had two fishing runs this afternoon, and that sun blazed two-hundred degrees on that boat today.”

171/262

“Sure,” I say, jumping into action. “Sweet tea okay?”

“Long as it has plenty of ice,” Clint answers.

As we both head into the kitchen, Mom calls out a final “Good night” and three pairs of feet clomp out the door. I pour him a glass of Mom’s sun tea, the ice cubes growing fuzzy corners as I think about the rough glare that Dad just tossed at me.

“He wants to talk to you, Chelse,” Clint says. “He doesn’t know how.”

“It’s not my fault,” I growl as I put the pitcher on the counter.

“What happened on the court happened to
me.
It was my accident, not his. I’m the one who had something to get over, not him. And besides—he doesn’t
know
how to talk to me? I’m the same person I always was—”

“No, you’re not,” Clint says, coming up behind me. Talk about blazing—he practically feels like a space heater.

“Thanks,” I grumble. “Comforting.”

“You’re not any less special, Chelse. But you’re not the same person he knew. You
can’t
be. You had a life-changing experience, didn’t you?

Maybe you just need to reintroduce yourself.”

“Maybe if he cared about someone who couldn’t be an athlete, I wouldn’t have to.”

“I don’t think he cares about Brandon less because he doesn’t play ball.”

“He plays
something
,” I say.

“This isn’t a contest, Chelse. It’s a conversation. Remember those?”

When he puts his hands on my arms I don’t feel skin at all, but the sun’s rays. “You don’t necessarily have to win conversations. Even though I do kind of like this combative you,” he teases. I turn, put my palm against his chest. His skin radiates so much of the day’s heat that touching him feels like wading into the lake, opening 172/262

my hand, and catching one of the white shimmers of blistering afternoon sunlight bouncing across the water.

“It
was
hot out there today,” I say. When I look up at him, our faces are so close that our eyelashes almost tangle.

He kisses me—gently. The kind of kiss that asks for nothing in return. And because it’s not demanding a thing from me, it feels like freedom. I swear, over these past few days with Clint, fear has become a shackle with a rusted hinge, weakened and brittle. Ready to crumble apart. And as our kiss lengthens, the shackle of fear gives way, falls off completely. I want to give everything I am to that kiss. To Clint.

“You’re
frying
,” I insist when our mouths finally part.

“I’m okay,” he tells me. He runs a hand down my back, sending a streak of heat through my T-shirt.

“How ’bout we get you cooled off?” I ask.

“Like a swim?”

“Like a shower.”

Clint nods. “Okay. I could use a hose-off. Just show me—”

I lead him down the hallway, toward the bathroom we’ve all been sharing, hoping the place doesn’t look like an absolute swamp. When I flick the light on, I find Brandon’s hair gel and zit creams strewn across the counter, but at least Mom’s hung the towels up. I shut the door, showing Clint that I’m not going anywhere.