Authors: Sara Mack,Chris McGregor
Sparrow
Sparrow
By
S
ARA
M
ACK
Sparrow
Copyright
© 2014 Sara Mack
All
Rights Reserved
First
Kindle Edition: 2014
Cover
art by Sara Mack & S.M. Koz
Edited
by Chris McGregor
Without limiting
the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this
book.
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the
trademarked status and trademark owners of various products listed in this work
of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of
these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the
trademark owners.
Dedicated to
CJ and The Peanut
August 2004
“Dude.
Just go talk to her already.”
My
head snaps to the right. “What?”
“I
said go talk to her.” Kevin starts reeling in his fishing line. “I’m only
fourteen, but I know a nice piece of ass when I see one.”
I
slug my younger brother in the shoulder.
“Ow!
What was that for?”
“Watch
your mouth. If Gram hears you, she’ll yell at me.”
Kevin
shifts his pole to his left hand and rubs his shoulder with his right. “Why
would she yell at you? Besides, she’s at the house.”
I
glance behind me and up the hill that leads to our grandparent’s cottage. Gram
is hidden inside, but I know she’d freak if she heard Kevin swear. I turn back
to the fishing pole in my hands and cast my line. “Because she’ll think you
learned that language from me.”
Kevin
snorts. “I did learn it from you.”
I
shoot him a scowl and shake my head. “Just watch it.”
A
shriek and a splash pull my attention to the left again. Two of the three
girls who suddenly appeared this summer are standing on a wooden raft about
thirty feet into the lake, grabbing their sides, and shaking with laughter.
“Looks
like your girl got tossed,” Kevin observes. “Maybe you should go and see if
she’s all right.”
I
want to. Bad. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to speak to her. Every
time I consider it, I imagine the worst. I’ll introduce myself, her friends
will giggle, she’ll blow me off, and I’ll slink away with my ego shattered.
“Kyle,”
my brother says as Mystery Girl’s head pops above the water, “seriously.
Dragging me down here to ‘pretend fish’ for the last four days is getting old.”
“We’re
not pretend fishing,” I grumble.
Kevin
rolls his eyes. “You and I both know we’ll never catch anything with all the
noise they’re making. I’m not stupid.” He starts to reel in his line again.
“It’s not a coincidence they’re out swimming at the exact same time you want to
fish.”
Damn.
I should have come down to the dock by myself. I thought it would look less
conspicuous if I brought Kev with me.
Refusing
to own up to the fishing charade, sarcasm rolls off my tongue. “Nothing is
keeping you here. Maybe you should head up to the house and finish that Monopoly
game you started with Gram. I’m sure that will be
way
more
entertaining.”
Kevin
shrugs. “Hey, I’m not gonna argue. I’d rather stare at tits than Park Place
any day.”
I
slug his shoulder again.
“Geez!”
He leans away from me.
“Your
mouth is going to get you in trouble.”
“Like
you’re not doing the exact same thing!”
I’m
so guilty.
I
sneak a glance to my left as the object of my interest arranges herself on the
raft. Wearing a neon yellow bikini, she lies down between her friends on her
back, knees bent and pointed toward the sky. Her chin follows, tilted toward
the sun.
Every
year for the past six years I’ve spent the summer at Buhl Lake, and every
summer it’s only been my grandmother, Kevin, and me. Never has anyone close to
my age shown up. Now that I’m sixteen, I was dreading our annual trip with
Gram. I expected more of the same: fishing, riding the quad, helping with
chores, and eating dinner at precisely four o’clock each day.
That
changed a week ago.
It
was early Monday the first time I saw her. I crept down to the dock around
five a.m. wearing my ratty gray sweats and an old hoodie. A big bass lives in
the lily pads between Gram’s place and the neighbors, and I decided to try and
catch that fish.
About
a half hour into my quest, I heard a strange pounding sound. Confused, my eyes
panned the lake and, lo and behold, I saw Mystery Girl making her way to the
water, taking the wooden steps two houses over. At first I thought I was
seeing things; no one has used that place in years. She tiptoed her way to the
end of the rickety dock and threw her arms open wide, inhaling deeply. Her
move took me by surprise. I do the exact same thing every time I come up here
– minus the throwing my arms out part. The smell of northern Michigan is
distinct, especially by the lake. It’s damp, yet clean and woodsy. There’s
nothing else like it, and experiencing that smell always lets me know I’ve
truly arrived.
Briefly
stunned, I took in every inch of her…her long legs, her plain white tee tucked
into tiny denim shorts, her wavy, honey-brown hair that hung to her lower
back. I was too far away to see the color of her eyes, but I couldn’t miss the
curve of her face and her expression, as if she were enthralled to be here. I
swear to God my stomach knotted as I stared at her.
Her
eyes roamed the lake, drinking it in, until they fell on me. She caught me gaping,
but I couldn’t look away. She didn’t appear shocked to see me. Instead, she
curiously tipped her head and gave me half a smile – I think. It was still somewhat
dark, and the sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon. Before I could
offer a wave or a cocky grin, a deep bark shattered the silence and ruined the
moment. At least, I think it was a moment.
Mystery
Girl quickly turned, leaving the dock and shushing the gray and white Husky
that barreled toward the lake. “Samson! Quiet!” She snagged the dog by the
collar and pulled him back toward the house.
And
I haven’t caught her eye since.
I’m
off my game.
Kevin
jabs my ribs. “Man, this isn’t like you. You’re never nervous around girls.”
I
snort and shrug him off, although what he says is true. Back home, I never
have a problem talking to girls or finding a date, not that I mess around with
everything on two legs. I’m selective and too involved with football to worry
about female drama. I usually do the homecoming thing; maybe take someone to a
party now and then. For whatever reason, there’s always a girl or two willing
to go out with me. I see the same pattern being repeated with Kev; he’s a
regular ninth grade lothario. There must be something in the Dayton family genes.
“Like
you’re one to talk,” I tease him. “Why aren’t you over there, Casanova?”
He
gives me a sly smirk. “I wouldn’t want your woman falling for me. Bros before
hos and all that.”
I
shake my head and laugh. “Glad to know you have my back.”
“Always,
dude.”
We
continue to fish, and I sigh. For reasons I don’t understand, I need to man up
and talk to this girl. She could leave at any time. Then, the rest of my
summer would suck. I don’t want to spend the next two weeks beating myself up
over a missed opportunity.
~~~~
The
following afternoon, I skipped the fake fishing because, let’s face it, it’s
not getting me noticed. I decide to take out the quad instead.
Several
dirt trails wind through the empty property surrounding the lake, cutting
through fields and curving between hundred-year-old birch, pine, and maple
trees. I know these trails like the back of my hand; I’ve been riding them
since I was a kid. Years ago, my dad used to take me riding with him, and he’d
let me drive. The memory is bittersweet. That was before my parents divorced
and our family went to hell.
Today,
I take the trails a little faster than I should, kicking up huge clouds of dust
in my wake. We haven’t had a lot of rain, and the fire danger has been set to high
since we arrived. It doesn’t take long before I’m covered with dirt from head
to toe. I stop the quad just long enough to wipe the grime from my helmet
visor before I’m off again. I round a few tight curves and fishtail in the
soft dirt before I spot a figure walking the trail in the distance ahead. I’m
confused; people don’t usually wander this far from the lake on foot. Maybe
their machine broke down. I kick it up a notch and tear up the path, scanning the
side of the trail for an abandoned bike or quad like mine. I don’t spot
anything, and when I look forward again, I’m completely surprised.
Mystery
Girl hears my machine and glances over her shoulder. She stops in her tracks, watching
me skid to a stop as I slam on the brakes. The cloud of dust that followed me
continues forward, covering us both.
She
starts to cough, and I curse under my breath.
Nice first impression, moron.
When
the haze clears, I flip my visor and ask, “You lost?” Not, are you okay, or
can I help you, or my name is Kyle, I think you’re hot. No.
I
am an idiot.
She
clears her throat, then crosses her arms and sticks out her hip, drawing my
attention to her little black running shorts. She’s all legs.
“Eyes
up here, buddy.”
My
focus snaps to her face, and she’s pointing two fingers at her soft brown
eyes. She smirks. “That’s better.”
Feeling
awkward, I shift my weight, suddenly uncomfortable in my seat. “So, are you
lost?”
“Yes,”
she says and sighs. “Sam ran off, I can’t find him, and now I’m all turned
around.”
“Sam?
Your dog?”
She
shoots me a curious look, but doesn’t ask how I know her pet’s name. “Yes,”
she says again. “He disappeared while we were packing to leave.”
My
frown is instantaneous. Did she just say leave? I knew I was too late.
“Hello?”
She waves her hand in front of my face, and I realize she’s stepped closer.
“Can you help me? I can cover more ground on wheels.”
Hell
yes, I can help you.
“Sure.” I hop off the quad so she can climb on, then unfasten my helmet and
hand it to her. “Put this on.”
She
gives me a questioning look. “Why?”
“Safety
first. What if you fall off?”
She
scrunches her face in the cutest goddamned way. “How about you don’t drive
like a maniac so I won’t fall off?”
Feeling
more confident, I flash her a grin and step up on the quad, swinging my leg
over and forcing her to scoot back on the seat. “I make no promises. You’ll
have to wear the helmet
and
hang on tight.” Mentally, I congratulate
myself on my smooth line.
“You’re
an ass,” she says as I hear the chin strap click into place.
Okay,
maybe that line wasn’t so smooth.
She
slides forward, her legs hugging the outside of mine. She wraps her arms
around my waist, and her touch forces me to swallow. My heart starts to beat
double time. This day just got a shit ton better.
Before
I start the quad, I try to think of the most likely places Sam would go. He’s
probably digging holes around the lake, or maybe he saw a squirrel and decided
to chase it. Wait. I look over my shoulder. “Sam’s a Husky, right?”
“No,
he’s an Alaskan Malamute.”
That
settles it. “I know exactly where he is.”
“You
do?”
I
nod decisively and start the quad.
Across
the lake from our place lives old Mr. Grant. He keeps chickens, and I’d bet
any amount of money that Sam figured that out while exploring. I can’t
remember how many times Mr. Grant has been over to our cottage complaining to
Gram about losing another chicken to a coyote. If any dog has a wild tendency
like a coyote, it’s Sam.
It
takes us about twenty minutes to get from where we are to the other side of the
lake. I decide to take the longest route possible and maintain a steady speed because,
hey, I’ve got a cute girl wrapped around my body and I don’t want to scare
her. But, then again, I kind of do. The thought of her holding me tighter
sends inappropriate feelings to certain parts of my anatomy.
When
we pull up into Mr. Grant’s driveway, I see I was right. Sam is here. He’s
sitting like a perfect little puppy, next to who I assume is Mystery Girl’s
father. The man tries to apologize over Mr. Grant’s escalating voice and
flailing arms. Over to my right, I notice the yard is littered with brown
feathers. It looks like a pillow exploded.
“Shit,”
Mystery Girl whispers after I cut the ignition. She rips the helmet from her
head and jumps off the quad, the warm feeling of her body gone and immediately missed.
Mystery
Girl’s father notices his daughter and hands Sam’s leash to her. “Get him out
of here,” he says with a defeated sigh as he reaches for his wallet. “How much
do I owe you for the chickens?” he asks crotchety old Grant.
Uh
oh. Chickens plural? Gram will be hearing about this for weeks.
Mystery
Girl – I really need to get her name – walks up to me with Sam trotting happily
ahead of her on his lead. She hands me my helmet. “Thanks for your help,” she
says. “I need to get him out of here before he causes more trouble.”
She
gives me a small smile and walks away.
She
walks away.
My
mind races. I can’t let her go. What if I never see her again?
