The Dead of Summer (8 page)

Carson Tyler

You’re so fine,

What must I do

To make you mine?

Your gorgeous eyes,

And chiseled face,

Makes my breath hitch,

And my heart race.

Carson, Carson,

Please stop my pain,

Take me in your arms,

And kiss me in the rain.

Okay, okay, I didn’t say they were
good
poems. I just said I was writing them. It was so hot and my brain was mush from reading the, um, sub-par literature.

As I chewed on my pen, trying to come up with my next brilliant masterpiece, I started pulling up clumps of grass with my left hand, a fact that would get Lindy’s daddy in a surly mood for sure, bitching and moaning about gophers digging up holes in his precious backyard. You wouldn’t think he would know about the grass underneath the bush, but I was certain he would find out. It wasn’t like he actually cut the grass or did any of the landscaping himself. No siree. He had a team of landscapers (Mexicans with ride-on lawn mowers that they dangerously raced through the Lincolns’ two-acre backyard) come several times a week and make it all look pretty. And then at any of the many social events that the Lincolns would host at their house, Mr. Lincoln would always go on and on about his precious garden and lawn.

The Lincolns were always having parties and getting drunk, sometimes doing really gross things with their friends’ spouses in the corners of the house where they didn’t think Lindy and I could spy on them. I always slept over when Lindy’s parents had a party. They thought that if I was there, it would keep Lindy totally out of their hair. Little did they know, we
both
stayed up all night, keeping a notebook with all the details of what took place inside the confines of the mansion. When we got older, Lindy started taking pictures and videos with her cell phone. There were at least two school board members, three councilmen, and a former mayor that were gonna be in big trouble if Lindy ever got her wish and became an award-winning photographer like she dreamed of. I closed my eyes, imagining the headlines and Lindy’s name on the photo credit when it happened.
Linda Louise Lincoln.

That was Lindy’s real name, a fact she absolute hated. Both Linda and Louise were her grandmothers; Lindy despised both of them and rightfully so. Her Grandma Linda was a money-grubbing socialite (Lindy’s words, not mine) who had been married and divorced six times, the latest time to a man who was only ten years older than we were. Lindy absolute refused to call him Grandpa, so Grandma Linda had refused to attend any of Lindy’s birthday parties or give Christmas gifts until Lindy gave in. Thus far, Lindy had not. Her other grandmother was eighty-nine years old and in a nursing home. I had never met her, but according to Lindy, Grandma Louise had spindly, bony fingers that she liked to rake across Lindy’s face and tell her what a good looking young man she was turning out to be and how she thought the mustache Lindy was trying to grow looked lovely. Oh, and she smelled like Vicks and mothballs. Lindy hated visiting her and had faked sick on several occasions when her parents were going to the nursing home.

While Lindy was certain of her future, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. It certainly wasn’t a poet judging on my recent work. I would love to be a writer, though. I had always liked to read and got okay grades on my writing assignments in school. Occasionally, if we were writing creative pieces and not boring essays on comparing and contrasting color symbolism in Dickens’s work or some other crap like that, I would get compliments on my writing from teachers. Someday, I would love to write a book. Or something that changed people or really mattered to someone. Maybe I could write the article that Lindy’s photo was attached to. Most likely not, though. I’m sure Lindy wouldn’t want to share her dream job with anyone, even me. I would have to be content to live vicariously through her, saying I “knew her when…”

So there I was, dreaming about Lindy’s future, when I must have drifted off to sleep from the heat. I woke up to the bush being shaken above me.

“Hello!” called a voice. It sounded like the voice of God, coming from the air.

Still in my dreamlike state, I wondered if I was dead from the heat.
Damn it, Mama was right! I needed to drink more water. I hate when Mama is right.

“Up here,” the voice called. And suddenly, I recognized the owner of this particular voice.
Carson
.

I sat up, feverishly rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I attempted to tuck my hair behind my ears and make myself presentable, and then I stuck my head out from the bottom of the bush.

“Oh, um, hi,” I mumbled, pulling a stray hair out of my mouth. In doing that, I discovered a wet spot on the side of my face that my hair was stuck to.
Oh crap! I’ve been drooling!

I stared up at Carson, who was smiling down at me.
Oh please, dear Lord, don’t let him have seen that.

“Hi, Kennedy,” he said with a smile.
Oh, that smile.

“Hi, Carson,” I replied, much more perkily than I intended. I was practically oozing sugar out of my pores. I attempted to rise like a graceful Southern belle, but I ended up popping onto my feet like a damn Jack in the box.

Calm the hell down, Kennedy! You’re acting like a hysterical female!

“How’s it going?” I asked.
Please tell me you’ve had a lobotomy since the last time I saw you and you have no recollection of my ridiculous behavior.

“Good,” Carson replied, tilting his head to the side. He bit his lip as if he was trying to stifle a smile. Swiping at the side of his cheek, he raised his eyebrows at me. “You, um, have something…” His voice trailed off as he swiped at his cheek, causing me to stare at him blankly.

I cocked my own head to the side. “I have…” I wasn’t sure what he was trying to say exactly.

Carson reached out to touch my cheek. My body froze and tingled at the same time.
He’s touching me, he’s touching me, oh my God…he’s touching me!

“You have dirt all over your face.”

Oh my God, I’m mortified.

“Thanks,” I managed to mumble, fighting off the inclination to crawl back under the bush. Or fling myself off a cliff. Either one.

“Digging for earthworms?” Carson asked casually, jerking his head toward the hydrangea bush.

“Um, no, I was…” I quickly clamped my mouth shut.
What
were
you doing Kennedy? You gonna tell Carson you were reading dirty books and writing about his soft, fluffy hair? His rippling biceps? How you want to kiss him and bite his lip?

“What’s that? A book?” Carson asked, pointing to the ground with one hand and shoving a piece of gum into his mouth with the other. “Gum?”

“Um, no,” I yelped. “I mean gum, yes. Book, no.”
Crap
.

Carson handed me a piece of gum which I quickly unwrapped and popped into my mouth. Partly because I knew I needed to shut myself up and partly because I could tell my breath had become rather sour. I needed to be prepared. You know, in case Carson wanted to kiss me, er, rain or no rain, as doubtful as that was.

Carson scratched his head and leaned toward the bush. “Well then, what is it?” he asked as he parted the branches, shaking the tiny flowers off of the hydrangea bush.

I swallowed my gum in my efforts to jump in front of Carson to shield the book. “No!” I nearly knocked him to the ground, bumping his lip with my elbow.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise and he stumbled backward, throwing his hands up in the air. “Hey, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Oh my God!” I cried out, pointing at his face, momentarily forgetting about the book. The corner of his lip was quickly swelling up and bleeding.
Holy Moses! I broke him!
“You’re bleeding!”
Crap, Kennedy! Can’t you do anything right?

“What?” Carson touched his now inflamed lip with his finger. He pulled his finger away from his mouth and stared at the tip. “Hey, what do you know? You gave me a bloody lip.”

“I am
so
sorry,” I practically cried. I reached out to touch his lip and he recoiled from me.

“It’s fine,” he stammered as he backed away, holding up his hands. “I surrender! Just don’t touch me!” He wiped his lip with the back of his hand. “Can’t have you giving me a black eye now.”

I was stunned, speechless. But then I saw Carson’s lip curl over his teeth in an attempt to stifle a laugh. He was teasing me and I was too dumb to see it.

“It’s okay. I bleed
all the time
,” he added with a smirk, mocking my words from a few days before.

My mouth dropped open and I stared at him for a second in disbelief. Then, before I could stop myself, I leaned forward and shoved him playfully. He curled his arms around his torso, lifting and bending his left leg close to his body, like a pitcher winding up. He was laughing hysterically while I pretended to pummel him with my angry fists.

“Please, please, please don’t hurt me, you beast,” he laughed.

“You’re a jerk,” I sputtered, unable to hide my own nervous laughter. It felt natural, but I was uncertain.
Was this okay? Is this what boys and girls who liked each other did? I never saw Lindy fooling around like this with a boy.

“Harsh words for a little girl,” Carson said with a raised eyebrow.

I puffed out my chest unintentionally, a visceral reaction to Carson’s accusation. “I’m not a
little
girl, I’ll have you know,” I said. And I instantly blushed when I realized how sexual that might sound. I tried to somehow deflate my chest…all thirty-eight inches of it.

Carson’s eyes grew wide as they grazed over my chest. Then, he quickly looked away, his own face flushing. “No, no, I guess you’re not.”

I stared down at the ground, cheeks getting hotter, eager to change the subject. “Where’s Colt? Don’t tell me you’ve lost him again,” I said in what I hoped sounded like a teasing tone.

“Oh, Colt is home. I thought it might be a little too hot out for him. I figured I would just go for a walk by myself today.” Then that darn infectious grin spread on his lips. “Besides, I just use Colt to pick up cute girls. Now that I’ve met a cute girl, I don’t need him anymore.”

My heart literally skipped a beat. Or maybe even two.
Did he just call me a cute girl? Nobody has called me cute before. He likes me! He likes me? How is that possible? A boy actually feels the same chemistry that I feel for him?

He stepped closer. “Cute, and smart, and funny…”

Who is he describing? He can’t be talking about me. He left out short and chubby…with crooked teeth.
I glanced up at him shyly. He seemed really sincere. Either he was a great actor or he didn’t see all those crappy features.
How did he not see me the way every other boy did? Was he blind?

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” I said.
But please
don’t
have me confused with someone else.
Nervous giggling once again escaped from my own lips as I lowered my gaze, digging a hole in Lindy’s daddy’s grass with my toe. He was going to be mighty ticked off when he saw this one. The end of my tennis shoe was a mixture of crumbly wet dirt and chunks of grass. As much as I had wanted to see Carson and be alone with him, now that he had acknowledged the chemistry between us, I didn’t know what to say. Everything I thought of sounded lame and cheesy in my head. I almost wished Lindy would come home and tell me exactly what to say.

She wouldn’t tell you what to say, Kennedy,
I reminded myself.
What she would do is jump on Carson and flirt with him herself and leave you standing there holding her dripping wet umbrella or something even though she has
zero
interest in him.

I was remembering the incident at the spring dance where two of our classmates approached us to dance and Lindy ended up waltzing away (literally) with both of them as I stood there, mouth agape, her umbrella crocked over my arm, water droplets plopping all over my brand new pumps.

“Um, er,” I stammered, my mouth apparently not attached to my brain.
Say something, Kennedy!

But I couldn’t because Carson was reaching out, Carson was taking my hand (
oh damn, is my hand sweaty?)
, Carson was holding my hand. Not Lindy’s. Mine
.

We
were
in Lindy’s backyard however. . .

Stop thinking about Lindy, Kennedy! You can do this without her!

My body began shaking uncontrollably, I emitted a nervous titter to cover up my unease. I didn’t want to look at Carson, I didn’t want him to see me shake and have him to realize I had never held a boy’s hand before and I had no idea what to do with it. And what if he tried to kiss me? He would know for sure that I had never been kissed.

Carson’s hand was warm in mine; he was tugging me closer.

“Kennedy?” he said, his voice suddenly cracking.
Look at him, Kennedy! You have to look at him!

I didn’t want to. Well, that’s not entirely true. I
needed
him to kiss me, I
dreamed
of him kissing me, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to actually happen. What if it wasn’t everything I had imagined it to be? What if I, despite Lindy’s tutorials with the back of my hand, was the world’s worst kisser? What if he wanted nothing to do with me after he kissed me?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, I didn’t have to find out. Because just then, we heard the unmistakable sound of a car pulling into the Lincolns’ driveway. Now you may wonder how, three bazillion feet away in the backyard, we could hear the sound of a car pull into the circular driveway in the front yard of a mansion. Well it was mainly because Lindy had gotten her learner’s permit and begged to drive at every opportunity. Mrs. Lincoln’s little sports coupe (so not the car that a normal mother would own) was a stick shift. Lindy was having an incredibly difficult time with the manual transmission and would pretty much stall out the car every time she had to shift gears. For example, pulling into her driveway. She also managed to hit every curb and the garbage cans.