“Close,” I say, taking another sip of juice to smother my laughter.
“Shut up, Melinda,” comes her frustrated reply.
“Hey, did Brian eat before he left?” I ask, suspicious now. Mom picks up the splattered pancake and examines it for debris. With a shrug, she deposits it on a plate.
“No, he, uh, he just grabbed coffee on his way out.” Turning back to the cooktop, she frowns, concentrating hard on her second try. This time, she executes the pancake rotation with much greater success. “He had an early meeting. A one-week honeymoon was more than I could ever hope for with him. Did I tell you he was paged off the beach to talk to investors? It’s like the man can’t turn off his cell phone for one lousy day.”
With breakfast more or less complete, Mom loads up our plates and motions for me to pick up the syrup. I uncork the bottle, flooding the air with the sweet scent of maple. “Is this the real stuff?”
Mom nods. “We’re moving up in the world, baby girl. No more chemical replications. Let’s eat outside.”
We dine on the terrace, soaking up warm sunshine. Nearby, a copper fountain gurgles.
“How are the pancakes?” Mom asks.
I grab a knife and saw away.
“Rubbery,” I admit, after a good deal of chewing.
“Great.” Mom stuffs a sliver into her mouth. “I seem to have cornered the market on breakfast tires.”
I reach over and pat her shoulder. “A stellar achievement. You should be proud.”
“Of course. Just don’t write about it in your school paper.”
I scoff. “As if. We only print real news.”
She pushes her plate away with a sigh. “Lucky me, I have a steady job to fall back on. Plus, Brian installed a professional espresso maker.” She hoists her steaming mug of coffee and sinks back into her chair, tipping her face to the warm sun. “It’s so beautiful here. Who knew this part of Harmony existed?”
“Yes, surreal. Like an extended vacation.”
“For the next two years, this is your life, Melinda.” Her eyes flutter closed. “What are your plans today?”
“More unpacking. Setting up my desk.” The pancakes sit like boulders in my belly as I turn my attention to Brian’s gardens. “Everything here is so green.”
“Yes, thanks to the underground irrigation system.”
Above the treetops, even the bright blue sky seems closer to perfect from our new perspective. Leaves rustle as a squirrel scampers up a tree trunk into his nest. My eyes slowly sweep along the edge of the woods, pausing when I spy someone wearing gray overalls and a floppy straw hat crouching in the mulch. He grabs a cluster of weeds between his hands and yanks it from the ground, stumbling back a step from the effort.
“Jack’s early.” Mom also notices our visitor.
“Who’s Jack?”
“Brian’s landscaper. He stops by almost every day to work on the gardens.”
“You mean Brian doesn’t plant his own flowers?”
Mom smiles. “According to my husband, when he bought this house, Jack was part of the bargain. He charges below market, however much that is, and somehow gets the best plants from his suppliers, so we don’t ask a lot of questions.”
“Maybe I’ll go over and introduce myself before he leaves.”
“How nice of you. And can you ask him when he plans to mow the front yard? It’s starting to look overgrown.”
“Mom. I’m not accusing him of doing a bad job the first time I talk to him.” I drain my glass of juice and push the remnants of my pancakes around on my plate. “Also, I want to ride Truffle. I called Lainy at the stables and let her know I’d stop by later.”
Mom takes a small sip of coffee. “You haven’t spent much time riding this summer. Do you miss the shows?”
I shrug. “Not really.” In our pre-Brian days, Mom liked to watch me ride, even when I wasn’t competing. Then she found better things to do and lost track of most of my day-to-day activities. “I ride for exercise now, and to spend time with Truffle. He’s not getting any younger.”
With a lingering glance at the sun-soaked backyard, Mom sighs and picks up our breakfast plates, deciding to finally get dressed for work. “Tell your horse I said hello. And enjoy the sun while I’m cooped up in an office all day.”
***
After Mom leaves, I pull out my label maker and set up new folders for each school activity: yellow for yearbook committee, blue for student council, green for the newspaper, gray for honor society, and orange for basketball. Just the act of organizing instills a sense of calm inside me similar to the effects of ten power-yoga sessions.
Before the late-August temperature soars too high for Truffle, I throw on gray riding tights and one of my dad’s retro baseball t-shirts in powder blue, deciding to say hello to Brian’s landscaper on my way to the stables.
I open the back door and nearly smack into a huge dump truck rolling into the driveway. The back half of the truck raises, and a gate slides open, releasing a mountain of reddish-brown mulch. A foul stench rises from the heap, where flies circle hungrily. The driver honks twice, and Jack appears, giving a thumbs-up. I swallow the taste of my regurgitated breakfast as I stick out my hand to shake his.
“Hi, I’m Melinda, Brian’s new wife’s daughter.” I speak loudly and slowly to the older man, perhaps an instinct after many communication failures with my grandparents. Jack’s tanned face creases when he grins. Up close, I notice that his nose hooks slightly to the left, possibly due to a past breakage.
“Jack.” His rough hand rubs my palm like sandpaper. “Good to see Brian’s finally settling down and turning into a family man.” His warm gaze sweeps from my purple Nike Air Jordans to the top of my high, messy bun.
I shift uncomfortably. I’m still not ready to refer to Brian as my family. “I’ll only be living here for two years. I’m a junior at Harmony High.”
“Good old HHS is my alma mater. A fine school. Welcome to Meadow Lane, Melinda.”
“Thanks. Do you need any help with this?” I tilt my head toward the heap of mulch, hoping he says no.
“Appreciate it. If I roll the wheelbarrow to you, can you fill in the flower beds?”
“Seriously? That’s, like, real work,” I say, unable to prevent my mouth from hinging open.
“What’s the matter? Afraid of a little gardening?” Jack’s lips pare back, revealing a crooked line of bottom teeth.
“I’ve never gardened before. If that’s what you’d call this.”
“No experience needed. I have another helper coming, too. With three of us, the work shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
I yank my phone out of my pocket and text Lainy at the stables to ask her to hold off on prepping Truffle.
Jack hands me a pair of gardening gloves. “Let me know if you need a different size. I keep a supply in my truck. We’ll work along the back of the yard, from left to right.”
When Jack rolls me the first load of mulch, I keep my eyes trained on the flower beds, hiding my face as I recover from the shock of somehow winding up volunteering my free labor.
Crawling in the flower beds, the mulch vapors nearly smother me. My small shovel unearths squiggling worms each time I turn over the dirt and I wish I could wrap myself in a plastic bubble to prevent them from touching any part of my skin. No matter where I strategically place my body, I can’t seem to find enough shade. The sun beats down on my fair skin and I practically feel the freckles popping up on the back of my neck.
Amazingly, Jack never slows his pace or gripes about the heat. He rolls the wheelbarrow from the driveway to the backyard, talking nonstop about growing up in Harmony. I decide he’s older than I thought—possibly older than the dirt I’m scooping and throwing.
Secrets of Old Harmony High.
Tales of the First Graduating Class.
Famous Harmony Graduates: Where Are They Now?
I wonder if I can find a story somewhere in Jack’s rambling. His endless tales about the history
of our hometown keep me entertained. They’re much more interesting than lecture devoted to the proper care of shrubbery.
“This is the last load for now. I’ll finish when my next helper arrives,” Jack says, after the sun crests in the sky and the humid air has plastered my hair to my face. My spine twists and cracks when I straighten up and stretch my arms wide. Poor Truffle got bumped in favor of yard work.
“See you later, Jack. Thanks for the nice … chat.” Before the landscaper changes him mind, I run inside, rehydrate, and call Lainy, asking if she still has the time to squeeze me in this morning. After throwing my sweat-soaked clothes in the laundry, I change into new riding tights and a clean shirt before following the trail to the stables.
“How did the move go?” Lainy greets me when I enter the front office. She’s a woman you can easily picture as an equestrian—petite, slender, with quick reflexes. Even her chin-length bob fits her riding style, tucking neatly into her helmet. In contrast, my above-average height sometimes leaves me feeling the need to make constant adjustments to my riding. One reason I never made the jump to heavy competition.
“I survived, but my favorite riding trophy didn’t.” I sign the visitor’s log, noting the date and time. “The one from the Tri-State Expo.”
“When you placed first in your age group?” Lainy frowns. “Let me make a few calls and maybe we can hunt down a replacement. You’d just have to pay for new engraving.”
“You mean the moving company would pay for new engraving,” I say, dropping the pen onto the logbook. “Is Doc Steevy stopping by today? I’d like her to check on Truffle if she has the time.”
“I’ll leave her a note,” Lainy says, scribbling on a pad of paper.
After making sure my horse is brushed and fed, I head to the tack room to pick up my saddle. Once Truffle’s ready, I let him trot along the equestrian trail running through the woods, rather than limiting our ride to the pasture behind the stables. Not that he cares. He seems to love everyone and everything about his current home.
We clip-clop over a wooden bridge, and Truffle lets out a high-pitched whinny. I straighten my posture, and the horse responds by stopping short, narrowly avoiding a collision with the person blocking our path.
“Equestrian easement. Keep the lane clear, please,” I call to the intruder.
“A sequestered what?” The voice is familiar. When he turns around, I recognize the boy from the woods last night. Connor. I think that’s his name.
“You’re standing on an equestrian easement. This is the trail where riders can exercise horses, as long as we stay between the white poles.” I point out the painted metal markers. Truffle accentuates my point with a gruff snort. His ears prick forward as he regards Connor in a semi-snooty manner.
Connor steps off the trail. “O-kaaaay. Where I come from people don’t keep horses as pets.”
“Where are you from? Mars?” I lift my helmet, and Connor’s eyes brighten when he recognizes me.
“Ah, we meet again. Good guess, Mel, but I’m from Chicago. The only horses I’ve seen were pulling carriages. Costs twenty bucks to ride around the block. Your animal is a huge beast in comparison.”
I laugh, running my hand over Truffle’s thick mane. “He looks fearsome, but he’s really a gentle baby. Do you want to pet him?”
“No,” Connor says, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t.”
With subtle encouragement from me, the horse prances closer to Connor. I notice his jaw tighten, but he stands firm.
“Don’t be afraid,” I say, allowing my eyes to flash a dare. “He’s a show horse, so he doesn’t spook easily. He likes people. Even people from Chicago.”
Connor reaches out his arm and strokes the short hair on Truffle’s neck. The horse lowers his head and stares at Connor curiously, a strangely human interaction.
“His name is Truffle,” I say.
“Truffle?” Connor gives me a sharp look. “Let me get this straight. Your name is Mel—like Melvin?”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Do I look like a Melvin?”
Connor studies me as he continues to pat my horse. “Truffle sounds like a girl’s name. Wasn’t he allowed to voice his opinion?”
“No,” I say, and then quickly add, “I named him that because he looks like a chocolate truffle.”
“Truffle. Sounds frilly, like ruffle.” Connor tests out the name, patting the horse once more. Truffle responds by nuzzling Connor’s shoulder. “Nice to meet you. I’m Connor.” He drops his voice to a whisper before continuing. “And I promise not to make fun of your name the way your horse buddies do when Mel’s not around.”
My mouth hinges open. I think I might loathe this boy.
“Funny,” I say, though it’s definitely not. “I suppose you think you could come up with something better.”
Connor snorts. “Anyone could come up with a name better than Truffle. Something like … Death Slice.”
I narrow my eyes. “You want me to name my horse Death?”
“Too grim reaper? What about Nuke Warrior? Too badass?”
“I never said I wanted a badass horse.” And now I need to leave. I gather up the reins and prepare for departure. “It was nice to see you again. I’m sure you’re busy, so I won’t hold you any longer.”
“Yep, on my way to work. Thanks for not taking up too much of my time.”
I can’t decide if he’s purposely acting like a jerk or he truly is a jerk. “Don’t forget about the white trail markers. We ride back here a lot—Truffle and me.”
Connor raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “I’ll keep off your horse path. Nice to see you again … Mel-vin.”
Wow. He’s a completely asinine jerk.
At my command, Truffle hightails it away from Connor. I don’t bother waving good-bye. Anyone who dares to insult the horse my dad gave me doesn’t deserve a simple act of politeness on my part.
Chapter Three
School starts tomorrow and I can’t decide what to wear. The new jeans and long-sleeved top I bought last week will look ridiculous in the middle of our current ninety plus degree heat wave. Evaluating my options, I slip on a blue circle skirt and matching sleeveless top.
Downstairs, the door bangs open and shut. Mom calls to Brian, who’s returning from his Labor Day golf marathon. I hear the thunk of his golf bag hitting the marble tile before he summons me.
“Be right down,” I call, lifting the sleeveless top over my head and shoving my arms back into my T-shirt. I leave the skirt on to check the level of bounce as I walk down the steps. I need to make sure it’s appropriate for someone in eleventh grade, not a preschooler going to her first Elsa the Snow Queen birthday party.
I step into Brian’s office, which is ripe with the scent of wood polish and the occasional cigar he smokes. Framed diplomas hang on wood-paneled walls, along with pictures of golf courses from around the world. The bookshelves behind his desk are populated with glass figurines he calls tombstones, symbolizing every competitor his company has chewed up and spit out.
I run my hand over the carved edge of his antique wood desk. “Did you need me?”
Brian crumples a wad of paper and shoots for a basket in his gold-plated trash bin. He falls short. I pick up the makeshift ball and execute the perfect reverse slam dunk.
“Nice.” Brian approves. His eyebrows scrunch together when he notices my mismatched outfit, but he appears incapable of deciphering exactly what’s wrong with my clothing. “All set for school tomorrow?”
“Yes … well, my bag is packed.”
He kicks back in his chair and smiles at me. “Great. Do you need a ride?”
I shift my weight back and forth nervously. Showing up with your new stepfather on the first day of school seems like a situation that would attract a lot of the wrong kind of attention. Like buying a one-way ticket to awkward-explanation-ville.
“Uh, sure,” I eventually answer, knowing Mom will slay me if I say no.
Brian
grabs a fancy pen from his desk and rolls it back and forth between his fingers. “Terrific. I played two rounds with Bill Gamen at the club today. His son, William, is in your class, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s in my class … but we’re not really friends.” As a matter of fact, Will Gamen was also in my kindergarten class. And practically every class since then. But aside from that time in second grade when I accidentally kicked over his Lego tower during indoor recess, I haven’t exchanged a complete sentence with him.
Brian’s eyes dart around the office and I know he’s moved on to something more important than my social life. “Great, great. I’ll have him stop for you in the morning.”
The desk phone rings, and with a wave, I’m dismissed.
I wonder if Will can give me any scoop on this year’s football team. Wait. Did anyone sign up to be our sports reporter? Crap. I need to read through my Out of Tune email before tomorrow morning.
***
“Your ride’s here,” Mom says on her way out the door. I drain my glass of orange juice, shove my schedule into my skirt pocket, and sprint out of the house behind her. The first thing I notice about Will is his hair: sun-streaked, shaggier, and blonder than I remember. He sits in a low black sports car, grumbling under his breath about waiting for me.
“Uh. Hi?” My voice is the squawk of a frightened chicken.
Will glances away from the dash, scanning me from head to toe as he blows out an annoyed sigh. “Hop in. We’re late.”
According to my phone, we have plenty of time. But the instant my butt hits the seat, Will rips the car into reverse, tires burning over asphalt. Three left turns later, we pull into a circular driveway in front of a familiar historic-looking stone house framed by two newer additions jutting out from each side. I hadn’t counted on additional pickups. Though I should have known someone like Will wouldn’t take time out of his morning just to drive me to school.
My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz #2) Page 2