He manages to yank the T-shirt—neck all stretched from his crazy flailing—right side around and get both arms through the sleeve holes. “Uh, cool. I’m Doyle Rahn. Pleased to meet ya.” He holds out a hand.
I shake it, and dirt from his fingers muddies my sunscreen. “Doyle? I’ve never met anyone with that name before. I like it. I’m Agnes. Agnes Murphy-Pujols.”
“Pujols?” His wide, white grin contains just the slightest twisted tooth here and there, and it sends an electric pulse through me. Unexpected, but definitely nice. “Like Albert Pujols?”
“I don’t have any Alberts in my family.” I squint up at him, his head haloed in the sun. He has blond hair that’s just this side of being strawberry, and freckles that have almost melted into a tan.
“Too bad. He’s pretty much the best pure hitter of all time.” Doyle squats down next to what I guess is supposed to be one of the many “shade trees” the real-estate woman kept squawking about. I hate when people say one thing when they mean another. Like, if you mean shriveled, leafless sticks, don’t say shade trees.
“Ah. Baseball. My father is a Caribbean studies professor who lives in France, and my brother is hard-core into soccer. Like, he insists on calling it football when he’s in the States even though he knows it’s confusing.” I think on that for a second. “Huh. I wonder if he does that because it’s confusing. Jasper’s a weird guy like that. Anyway, not much baseball watching going down at my place. But my dad’s where the Pujols part of my name is from, and the DR is pretty famous for baseball players, so, who knows? Maybe I should pay more attention to baseball.” Doyle’s examining the dried-out stick so intensely, I swear he’s doing it to avoid examining me.
“You should. Watch baseball, that is. Actually, you should play baseball. We get a killer game goin’ most Friday nights in the far field back there. You could come ’round if you like. Your brother too.” He nods over his shoulder, and, even with my amazing internal compass, I have no clue where “back there” could be. Someone’s backyard? The empty woods that line the neighborhood? The community office lawn?
“Actually, my brother lives in Paris with my dad,” I blab. It’s weird how sweet it is to talk to a normal person about normal things in my life. Like what a jerk my irritating brother, who I miss a ton, can be. “My brother is one of those guys who ties a silk scarf around his neck like Freddie from Scooby-Doo because he thinks it’s fashionable. He enjoys eating animal organs and watching really depressing documentaries—basically he’s more Parisian than most French citizens.”
“Yeah?” Doyle’s gaze settles on me with a laid-back comfort. Like he could look all day.
I flap my hand in front of my face like a makeshift fan. Was there some kind of sudden solar flare?
“Yeah.” I reach back and lift my hair, damp with sweat, off my neck.
“You ain’t wantin’ to move to Paris too?”
I cackle. “Nope. No way.” I should stop while I’m ahead, but this guy is listening to me. Complete attention. Damn that’s highly attractive. The most explosive arguments Lincoln and I got into before we broke up had to do with the way he seemed to look right through me, the way I felt like I had to fight for every scrap of attention he tossed my way. It really hurt because we’d been friends before we dated, so it wasn’t like I was just losing my boyfriend. I was losing one of my best friends. But Doyle is one hundred percent invested in what I’m saying, so I ramble some more. “First of all my French is awful. Second, the French are, how should I say it…? Les Français sont bites.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“I just said, ‘French people are dicks.’”
The laugh catapults out of his throat so fast, he half chokes on it. It’s nerdy to laugh at your own joke, but I do it anyway. There’s been an alarming lack of laughter in my life lately.
“So, what about you? Do you have any siblings who irritate the crap out of you?”
When he chuckles, the skin over my ribs tingles like I’m being tickled. “I sure do. I got an older brother who’s a marine. Proud as hell of him, but it ain’t exactly easy living with a decorated combat vet.” He dips the tips of his fingers into the soil at the tree’s roots and stirs it into a shallow pattern of spiraling furrows that make me think of those Buddhist sand gardens.
“Does he have PTSD?” I’m not sure if I’m being direct or nosy. I hope I’m not overstepping. Ollie and I did a Civics project on PTSD at Newington, so I know the facts but have no real experience with the horrors of it.
“PTSD? Nah.” Doyle scoops up a tiny mound of dirt and sprinkles it back on the roots. “Lee’s one of them guys who was born a natural soldier. He’s a leader, he handles stress real well, he’s always got a plan, thinks on his feet. One time we got lost out hiking in the woods overnight when Lee was only ’bout ten or so. I was jest a little kid. Lee built a lean-to, caught us some fish to eat, made a fire… He near burned down half a nature preserve, but that’s what led the rescue crew to us. I was crying so hard when they found us, but my brother was cool as can be. He got a medal from the sheriff, and, man, it blew his head up so big. He was… What’s the word? A bite?”
I love the way his accent coils softly around the rude French word. “Brothers are annoying as hell, but Lee sounds like a great guy to have around in an emergency. My brother would have known every statistic about how close we were to death and had a panic attack.”
Doyle’s eyebrows, lips, and dimples all lift up when he smiles. I’ve never seen a smile change a whole face that way. “Problem is, Lee got used to being the boss, and he forgets I’m his brother and a civilian, not some jarhead in his platoon. But my grandparents won’t hear it when it comes to him. They tell me to grab Lee’s laundry, and if I decline, my granddad says, ‘Your brother puts his life on the line for this great nation. You show some respect and pick up his dirty socks.’ I don’t sass my granddad anyway, but that’s some hard logic to argue.”
“So you live with your grandparents?” My guard must be way, way down because I swear I planned to keep that thought in my head, but there it is, sprung from the trap that is my flapping mouth. Maybe I’m relaxing after so many months of watching what I said around Lincoln. “I’m just asking because I considered going to live with my abuela in New York.”
“Huh. Yeah, I’ve lived with them since I was in elementary school.” He leaves it at that, and some instinct tells me not to push. “How ’bout you? Were you just so ready to come down here and soak up all this sunshine?” He holds his hands out at his sides like he personally ordered the blazing heat that surrounds us.
“Ha! No. The snow and ice of the north match my cold heart.” I bat my lashes and am pleasantly shocked when his grin widens even more. “Her place was a super long commute from my school.” I hesitate before I say more, but there’s something about his face that I trust. For once I don’t shut down and pull back. “She’s also scary strict. Like, super Catholic, gets up at dawn to hit the rosary, full rotation, every morning, Bible class at her place every week, having Father Domingo over for dinner every Sunday night… Just not the end of senior year I was looking for.”
“So you didn’t want to sign up for the convent experience?” The laugh that starts from his mouth doubles back on itself. “I meant… ’Cause your grandmother is a Catholic… Not the whole vow of chastity thing,” he says in a garbled rush.
I get the feeling Doyle’s as uncomfortable tripping over his words as I am opening up.
“No worries, I get it. And, yeah, the cloistered life isn’t for me. At all.” The deep pink blush that’s building under his stubble is adorable. “So it’s just you and Lee and your grandparents?”
I’m employing polite conversation diversion to steer us into less embarrassing territory, but something in the question makes Doyle’s features harden.
“And my little brother, Malachi. He’s at Ebenezer too, but you prolly won’t see him around. He stays back in the computer lab with his friends all day every day. Think he
might be allergic to sunshine and fresh air.” The best way to describe Doyle’s expression is perplexed. It’s probably the same way my face looks when Jasper tells me he’d rather watch a documentary on spelling bees than the latest Marvel movie.
“So three guys in one house—wait, no, four if you count your grandpa—”
“Actually, it’s five.” When I greet that number with shocked silence, he explains, “Brookes, my cousin—his mama got remarried and he and his stepfather don’t see eye to eye. And his stepfather gets mean when people don’t see things his way. I guess my grandparents’ place is kinda a home for wayward Rahn children. We all figured, what was one more bunk bed, plus Lee’s only around when he’s on leave, so it’s a lotta…”
He waves his hands around like he’s looking for the words to fill in the blank.
“Dirty boxers? Farts? Package adjusting?” I rapid-fire guess.
For a second Doyle stares at me, eyes and mouth wide-open. Then he starts to laugh, hard, and I join him. We both laugh until we’re buckled over.
“Geez, I was gonna say, ‘it’s a lotta testosterone,’ but I guess you got the point across your way jest fine.” He balances easily on the balls of his feet despite his clunky boots. “People ’round here hardly ever come out and say the first thing that pops in their heads.”
I wince. One of the last fights we had, Lincoln told me, You know you don’t have to say every thought that goes through your head out loud, Nes. You need a way bigger filter between your brain and your mouth. I guess that’s the consensus, then.
“Yep, I’ve heard that before.” He tenses up at my tone like he felt a chill in the air. “My big mouth gets me in a lot of trouble. Probably best if you steer clear.”
“I never did have patience for people who play it safe.”
The ice wall I was rapidly constructing around myself thaws.
“Fair enough. But now you can never say I didn’t warn you.”
“Most’ve my favorite things come with a warning.” He clears his throat. “So, we’re short a second baseman since Marnie Jepson moved, and we need someone like yourself. Someone who can call a whole country dicks in their own tongue. Whatta you say? You got a mitt?”
“Nope.” And I plan to leave the discussion right there. Because, seriously? Baseball? It’s very sporty middle school, and so not my thing. But I like the sloppy-slow way Doyle talks—I wonder if he plays ball the same way he speaks. And once I start wondering about something, I have to go with it until I know for sure. Damn my curiosity. If I were a cat, I’d be dead nine times over. “You have an extra mitt?”
He nods and smiles down at a jug of blue stuff he’s now pouring on the roots of the “tree.”
“I do. Wouldya like me to bring it over Friday night?”
For one cold thump of my heart, I think I shouldn’t take this guy up on what might be a date. The last guy I dated messed with my head so badly, I wound up fleeing the state. Then I get annoyed with myself. Sure, Doyle is super attractive, but I’m a girl who’s learned the hard way how to be careful with my heart. This is one single game of baseball, not a promise ring. And I’d like to have some fun with a guy—no, a person—who clearly likes me for myself, not some censored version of me.
I need a friend, and Doyle seems like he might be a really good option.
On top of that, this is all very 1950s’ date-night adorable. “You know what? I would like you to.”
He looks right at me, no smile, no niceties. Just a bald, hungry look. “Cool.”
My guts pull in all different directions. “So, are you, like, the ambassador of Southern hospitality or something? Because you’re the first nice Southern person I’ve met.”
“What? You didn’t like Lovett?” His long fingers cap the jug, and my arms and legs inexplicably tingle.
“You’re in my English class?” It finally clicks, why I recognize his voice. “You schooled that guy, Alonzo, in geography.”
Doyle rolls his eyes. “Hell, a preschool baby could school that ding-dong. He’s a good guy though. Friendly.” He screws his mouth to one side. “I know some people can be chillier than a Yankee winter ’round here.” The way he chuckles when I almost sputter lets me know he’s teasing me. “Not a whole lotta tolerance for anyone who don’t fit in right away.”
I’m not usually embarrassed by much, but I still feel like an idiot over the spectacle I made fumbling through that class. But Doyle seems like a good ambassador for all things Southern, so I straight ask him about something that’s still bugging me.
“What’s with the ‘ma’am’ thing?”
He squats back on his heels and cocks his head, owl-like. “You know… You say ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ when you speak to your teachers—to any adults. I thought you were jest raggin’ on Lovett. She’s all bark, I guarantee you. And she likes smart-asses better than kiss-asses, so you’re gonna do fine.”
“I never called any of my teachers ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ back home.” I blow out a breath. “I thought that was military-school crap. Is that the rule, like, hard-and-fast? For every teacher?”
He nods again and pulls off his ratty ball cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead. His eyes are so blue, they’re almost a light purple. Adorable.
“Every adult. If you don’t want them to think you’re a total punk. You lived in New York City all yer life?”
“Yep. Brooklyn, specifically. A haven for punks of all varieties.” I smile when his face goes slack. “Is New York City, like, the scariest place in the world to everyone here? Because every single person makes that exact face when I talk about Brooklyn.”
He puts the ball cap back on, shadowing those pretty eyes, and picks up the jug. “Jest exotic as hell. Most people ’round here’ve never left the Lowcountry. And don’t want to.”
“Yeah. I get that vibe.” I probably shouldn’t bring up the fact that, when I’m not at home with Mom, I’m at my father’s apartment in Paris or my cousin’s house in the Santo Domingo in conversation here. People might have heart palpitations and pass out.
“Not me though.” His adamant declaration interrupts my stereotyping thoughts.
“No?” I’m instantly more curious about Doyle now that I know he might want to escape this place. It’s like finding another inmate to help you chip a hole through the concrete walls of your cell.
“My grandparents took me with them to Maui last year. My granddaddy was stationed there when he was a marine, and he really loved it, so they took me and my brothers. It was pretty amazing. Speaking of them, I better get going. My grandmother will beat my ass if I’m late for supper.” He stands up and brushes the dirt off the knees of his Dickies, and I feel a tug of regret.
Because I like talking to him. My FaceTime sessions with Ollie are always great, but I’ve been hungering for real-life human interactions, and Doyle’s already twisted my expectations a few times. I like the way he’s surprised me.
“See you in class tomorrow.” I turn over and notice that he gives my cherry-red bikini a second and maybe a third look. I tip my sunglasses down and smile at him. “Aloha, Doyle.”
His laugh is equal parts sheepish and pleased. “Aloha, Agnes.”
“Nes.” It jumps out of my mouth before I’m ready for it.
Nes is what my friends call me. My standards are dipping low if I consider Doyle a friend after only a couple minutes of conversation. But I guess desperate times and all that…
“Aloha, Nes.” He hesitates, then points to the tree. “Do me a favor? Water her when the sun dips? Jest a trickle outta the water hose for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to get a good soak going.”
I slowly raise one eyebrow. “Doyle? I hate to break it to you, but that tree is dead. It’s kindling. A lost cause. Have some mercy and let it die a dignified death.”
His fingertips caress a clump of light green baby leaves barely clinging to life. “I like to root for the underdog. See you tomorrow in class.”
Ah right. Before the awkwardness of bas
eball, there will be the awkwardness of school. Lovely.
I make a point to not watch Doyle’s tall, rangy self saunter away from me.
I come so close to succeeding…
At the last second, I drink him in, then flip over and drag my phone close. My idiotic traitor brain actually thinks about calling Lincoln.
The boy who’s been my best guy friend since we were twelve.
The boy who gave me my first kiss under an old oak tree.
The boy who broke my heart when we were seventeen.
Or the boy who only loaned me his heart so he could take it back eventually, while I gave him mine on a silver platter, free and clear so he could shred it into tiny pieces. Dumb. So dumb.
I toss my phone to the side and throw an arm over my eyes, wondering whose bed Lincoln will be in while I’m standing on second base this Friday. Guilt shoots through me when I remember Mom planned on the two of us going to Savannah on Friday after I got home from school so we could stroll through the art museums downtown and maybe check out the local performing arts college’s production of Grease. I’m torn between wanting to hang out with my mother doing things we love together like we used to and holding tight to a lot of pissed-off anger over the way she screwed things up for us. The betrayal that still cuts deep won’t magically disappear just because we’re both excited to see some Helen Levitt photographs and bop along to “Greased Lightnin’.” Everything is too complicated.
Except baseball.
Playing baseball is definitely easier than dealing with the whole sordid mess of a relationship I currently have with my mother. I roll back onto my stomach, and baseball and cheating and Hawaii and Sandra Dee all invade my dreams as I fall asleep in the oven-hot afternoon of my strange new life.
THREE
“Agnes!” Mom’s on the patio in her favorite pencil skirt and silk blouse, her uniform for lecture days. “You’re a lobster!”
“Wha—” I wipe the drool off the side of my face and try to push myself up, but my skin feels tight and puckered. “Coño! I actually used sunscreen, I swear.”
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