The Secrets of Peaches

by Jodi Lynn Anderson

  “Would you mind,” Birdie asked, “letting me walk back by myself?” She knew it would only make him feel worse. But she desperately needed it. She hurried to add, “I just think I need to be alone for a couple of minutes.”

  He took this in too, then nodded. “Sure.”

  Birdie watched him go, his white T-shirt, his khaki pants, his gentle stride back the way they’d come. It seemed to her he was slipping through her fingers. That the trip was slipping through her fingers.

  She sat by the Virgin statue and swirled her feet in the white dust. It was like the dust you saw in pictures of astronauts standing on the moon.

  According to many a history textbook, Mexico City was founded in 1521, when Cortés and his men spotted an eagle eating a snake and interpreted it as a sign from the gods to build the Mexican capital upon the very spot. If anyone asked why an eagle eating a snake was considered a sign from the gods, it is not on record. The fact that the eagle had been driven south by a swarm of angry bats was never recorded either, or even guessed at. Mexico City, incidentally, went on to smell—on its best days—like cinnamon and cayenne pepper.

  Twenty-seven

  When Leeda opened the door, the first thing out of Murphy’s mouth was that it was a New Year’s miracle. In her puffy green hat with the earflaps, her faux-fur coat, and her big gray fleece mittens, Murphy looked like a jolly hipster elf standing in the snow, which was coming down in thick tufts. Murphy held out one hand and opened it, revealing a ball of tightly packed snow. “I brought you something.”

  Leeda leaned against the doorway, surprised. She looked down at the snowball, dubious. “Um, no thanks.”

  Murphy’s smile faltered. She glanced at her offering, then bucked up, dropping it off the side of the porch, and walked past Leeda inside. “We’re going out for New Year’s,” she said over her shoulder, heading up the stairs. Leeda followed along behind her, agitated.

  Murphy skimmed through Leeda’s closet, chatting about this and that, unsinkable. Her mom had apparently made girlfriends at Ganax because they were all going out tonight. A kitchen in one of the trailers at Anthill Acres had caught on fire and one of the firefighters had asked Murphy for her number. She swore she had seen a seal swimming in Mertie Creek. Tension sizzled in the air like electricity, but Murphy tried to override it, and Leeda let her try. Finally Murphy pulled out a red velvety top. “Can I borrow this?”

  Leeda sank onto one hip and crossed her arms. “You never return anything you borrow.”

  Birdie, had she been there, would have been a buffer. She would have offered for Murphy to borrow something of hers. But Murphy wasn’t like Birdie, and neither was Leeda.

  “Well, then, I’m going in this,” she said flatly, gesturing to her schlumpy outfit. “And you’re stuck with me.”

  Leeda stared at her, flustered. She didn’t want to take her up on the invite. Especially since it was more of a demand. But she was sick of being stuck inside. She had cabin fever. She stared at Murphy another minute. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything.

  Leeda pulled her coat on over her silky silver tank top and black jeans, and they tromped down the stairs. She glanced around the warm, toasty common room, considering bailing. She could picture staying in with a DVD and a glass of white wine. She could call Dina Marie, or her friend Alicia, or one of her other friends from school and see what they were doing. She didn’t know why she followed Murphy out the door. It was one of those nights that you just knew, before it even started, that you were going to wish you’d never left the house.

  Walter dropped them off outside the Cawley-Smiths’ hotel. They hopped out with snowflakes landing in their hair and thanked him, and he made them promise to call when they needed a ride home, no matter what the time. Murphy wondered what he was eating for breakfast that was making him so cool these days.

  Holiday music drifted out of the speakers attached to the lampposts on Main Street. Murphy did a little shimmy standing in the snow, looking at Leeda, who was distinctly unwilling to shimmy. But Murphy didn’t care. She was determined to make the night great, even if Leeda had a stick up her butt a mile long. Murphy had never met a person she couldn’t charm. She was mad at Leeda and hurt by Leeda, but more than any of it, she missed Leeda. And it was New Year’s. If that wasn’t a chance to get over your dumb crap, what was? As for her own dumb crap, it didn’t even factor in.

  The snowflake light arrangement over the door of the hotel was covered with ice. It dripped into Murphy’s hair, finding its way down through the curls to her skin and making her shiver. They hurried inside.

  The party at the Cawley-Smith Hotel was one of the only ones in town on New Year’s. Last year, Murphy and her friends had opted to drive to Macon instead, and Murphy had spent much of the night dancing with the singer for the house band.

  The club was downstairs, in a sort of basement. Inside, the ceiling was lined back and forth with tiny white sparkling lights that made everyone better looking. Murphy flashed her fake ID and got herself a Manhattan, because it seemed appropriate, and a stiff whiskey for Leeda. Murphy made it a double.

  She shoved Leeda’s drink into her hand and pulled her out onto the dance floor. They watched Janine—the old lady who worked at Dunkin’ Donuts and always made Murphy her coffee—dancing alone, clearly toasted, spinning in slow little circles. Leeda sipped quickly and soon started moving more loosely.

  It wasn’t long before she was waving her arms and laughing at everything Murphy did. And there was nothing Murphy liked more than a plan that went off successfully, except for an appreciative audience. They danced for half an hour or more, shaking off their energy like fireworks and still building more, getting sweatier and happier. An American flag hung behind the bar and Murphy ran back and wrapped herself in it, making bug eyes at Leeda and pretending to be Rocky. Leeda laughed so hard she squeezed her knees together and doubled over.

  “Adrian!” Murphy yelled.

  Leeda laughed harder.

  “Adrian!”

  Murphy turned to get more leverage on the flag, and when she turned back, Leeda was looking at the door, the smile gone from her face. Murphy followed her gaze. At some point, Rex had come in. He was standing at the end of the bar, staring at Murphy in the flag. Dina Marie was beside him, her arm wrapped around his, twined all the way down to where they held hands.

  Murphy froze, processing the hands and the fact that she not only saw them, but that they saw her, and that she was wrapped in an American flag, and that something was going off inside her like a land mine. Rex stared at her, and she stared back.

  It was hard to tell whether he was staring with surprise or pity.

  Twenty-eight

  Enrico led Birdie through the electric-lit streets, moving like a swimmer through the colorful crowds. Birdie gaped at everything, the riot of voices and colors and shapes and art. The house where Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo had lived. The elaborate Zócalo—where crowds were gathering to ring in the new year, blowing on noisemakers, shouting, laughing. Birdie felt like a country mouse, bumping into people, getting nervous every time a part of the crowd separated her from Enrico. She felt utterly out of place, but she was enjoying herself too much to mind.

  Every few minutes, she glimpsed something she would have never imagined seeing in her whole life—astonishingly beautiful buildings, people of every shape imaginable, foods drenched in green and pink and yellow, art everywhere. By three o’clock that afternoon, she felt she’d seen enough to think about for weeks. But now, hours later and well into the evening, she felt like the planet was a whole different thing than what she’d thought it was. Birdie had always seen the world from a safe seat in a still place, and part of her had only been able to see it—even when she knew it was in motion—as still. But everything in Mexico City moved.

  As they walked, Birdie kept her hands at her sides. But the way Enrico walked through the city—the way he asked a million questions out loud, some about Birdie, some about the t
hings they saw that he just hadn’t figured out yet—intrigued her more and more. She felt an irresistible happiness to just be next to his restless, beautiful brain. The whole day had been like falling into something almost too big for her. And even though she could keep from touching him, there was no way to dig her heels in and stop herself from feeling it.

  A little after nine, they ducked into a restaurant—old, with beautiful green floor tiles with a path worn down the middle—and ate. Birdie had chicken with mole poblano, a thick, dark sauce made with dried chilies, nuts, seeds, spices, and cocoa that made her want to keel over from how good it was. They walked to Enrico’s university, and even it was unlike anything Birdie could have imagined. Finally they collapsed on the grass and just talked. From time to time, Enrico reached out to touch her knee or her arm, but then he’d seem to think better of it and pull back. For a while, a few stars were visible through the haze above the city. And then big rolling clouds began to drift overhead—tinged with pink and purple by the atmosphere.

  “I hope it doesn’t rain on the fireworks,” Birdie offered.

  Enrico shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  When they started walking again, a fine drizzle had begun to fall. Enrico said he wanted to take her up into the hills for the best view of the festivities. They were walking through a hilly area known as Chapultepec when the sky opened up completely.

  Birdie pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt and looked up, getting plonked in the eye by a big fat drop. Enrico reached out and grabbed her hand, tugging her forward so that they were both running hard, their feet sopping with loud slaps against the pavement. He led them into a gaping opening in a concrete wall. They found themselves in a dark, cool tunnel only slightly taller than they were. Enrico pulled her back from where the rain was spattering inward. They leaned side by side, their backs bending along the curved wall, out of breath.

  It rained and rained. Minute after minute went by, and it didn’t let up. How long did heavy rains like this last in Mexico? Birdie could hear Enrico breathing, and it made her nervous to be this alone.

  “We may have to sleep here,” Enrico said.

  Birdie turned her face to him, horrified, but he laughed. “Kidding, Birdie.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed, studying him. He looked even better all wet, the drops dripping from his dark bangs and snaking down the sides of his face. One was next to the corner of his eye, like a tear. Birdie did it as a reflex. She leaned forward and kissed the spot.

  It was like a switch going off. And Enrico was suddenly two things at once. His arms floated down around her sides and his hands rested on her waist gently, but he kissed her fast and solid, pushing his soft lips against hers—like the rest of him wanted to move fast, and his hands were only there to steady him. A moment later she was curving her back into the wall again and he was moving in front of her, holding her so unsurely it was like she was a butterfly that might fly away. Birdie’s throat went dry and she melted, and then, just as quickly, she went rigid. Reflexively she sidestepped her way out of the kiss, so that Enrico tripped forward.

  “Um…” she said. She felt white-hot heat rushing up her neck, up her legs, her wrists. “I…” She didn’t want to. She didn’t want any of it.

  She turned and walked out into the rain. Ran-walked.

  “Birdie?”

  She could hear Enrico emerging from the tunnel behind her. “Birdie, what did I do?” She hung a right and immediately regretted it because it was the direction that was straight uphill. But it was too late to turn around. She took big monster steps, as fast as she could. “Birdie?”

  Suddenly she felt something hit her legs—something soft and warm. She took it all in at once. A chicken at her feet, a guy dressed in white restaurant duds running toward her. For a moment, Birdie felt she had finally landed in cartoon world after all, with the Swedish Chef.

  The chicken was standing just behind Birdie, bobbing its head, as if it somehow believed she would be its savior. The guy in white met her eyes, then poised himself, walking slowly and gently. Deftly he leapt around behind her, and in a flurry, he emerged with the chicken held tight in both arms.

  He and Birdie stared at each other. The guy smiled apologetically. “Lo siento.”

  Birdie gazed at the chicken, still reeling. “He’s getting cooked?” she asked. “Comida?”

  The guy nodded.

  And Birdie didn’t know why, but she started to cry. The guy looked at her, stunned, the chicken now tucked under one arm.

  Slop slop slop. Enrico’s footsteps made their way toward her, and then she could see him in her peripheral vision, standing beside her. “¿Puedo comprarlo?” he asked.

  The chef looked surprised, looked down at the chicken. “¿Desea comprar este pollo?” “You want to buy this chicken?”

  Birdie too looked at Enrico like he had lost his mind. They went back and forth in Spanish, something about arroz con pollo. The chef said he had others and shrugged. A moment later, he was walking away with a handful of bills and Enrico was holding the chicken and looking at Birdie.

  It was still raining, and he was standing in a puddle that was being rocked by heavy droplets. “Birdie, I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” she asked. He had nothing to be sorry for.

  “I’m sorry if you’re having a bad time. You don’t have to feel about me like you used to.”

  “I’m having a great time,” she choked out, sniffling. She shrugged up her shoulder and rubbed her face against it to wipe off the tears. “I just don’t want to…do that again.”

  Enrico gazed at her for a minute, trying to understand what she was talking about. “Kiss?” he asked.

  “No. That, that.” She said this to the chicken, then darted her eyes up to his.

  Enrico looked at her earnestly and deeply, recognition falling on his features. “Is it because you don’t think I am the right person anymore?”

  Birdie kicked at the ground. “No. I mean, yes. Oh, I mean, it’s not that.”

  Enrico nodded, his brow wrinkled. “Birdie, I just want you to be happy. Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  Birdie softened. Enrico took a small step away. For the first time, it really sank in. “You’re holding a chicken,” she said.

  Enrico looked down at the chicken. “I saw you crying, and…” He, too, seemed to suddenly get how funny it was because he grinned. “Yeah. And now I have a chicken.”

  Birdie burst into laughter, and then so did he. He tucked the chicken under his arm, and finally, all the tension gone from her body, she pushed her hand into his free one.

  “Thanks,” she muttered sideways at him.

  “Of course, Birdie. Anything.”

  They both instinctively turned right and walked up the rest of the hill. The rain had washed off the haze that hung over the city. A stripe of clear black sky lay across the mountains beyond the skyline, creeping up on them. In the rainy glow, the buildings were only shadows surrounded by a low wet mist. There was a loud bang and the first firework went soaring into the sky, bright, white, and brilliant.

  For just a moment, Birdie didn’t feel like a country mouse at all. She felt like it wasn’t the orchard she was rooted to, but the spot where she stood.

  That night, long after they had gotten home, she lay awake, restless. Finally she pushed open the bedroom door and closed it behind her, her heart pounding. She found her way to the couch, felt her way to Enrico’s shoulders. He stirred, and she could feel in the darkness he was looking up at her shadow. Without a word, he pushed himself against the back of the couch to make room for her. She crawled under the blankets and pressed against him, wanting to be understood in some way she didn’t understand herself yet. Even if it was only by touch.

  Twenty-nine

  Leeda pulled Murphy out onto the sidewalk by the hand. When they were outside, she linked her arm through hers, not wanting to lose physical contact with Murphy, who was singing Christmas carols. Even angry, she foun
d it hard not to want to steady Murphy.

  The snow had stopped, but it had left a thick layer on the ground. They tromped along Main Street through the puffy, muted air and cut through the park to get to the road that would take them to the orchard.

  It took them an hour to walk home. Though the rest of Bridgewater had turned gray immediately, the orchard, as they walked up the drive, looked pristine and white. Not a footstep had disturbed the snow covering the fields.

  “Doesn’t it seem warmer after it snows?” Murphy asked.

  “I’m freezing.” Leeda felt vaguely dizzy.

  “Let’s not go inside,” Murphy said, staring up at the house. She held one of Leeda’s hands with both of hers, and she looked, to Leeda, radiant. She looked radiant with hurt, radiantly alive.

  Leeda wasn’t sure if she’d ever been as alive as Murphy looked. But she felt for Murphy despite trying not to. If she hadn’t had those drinks, she would have insisted on heading in. But she felt too loose and unguarded at that moment to say no. “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s go check if the lake froze.”

  They didn’t make it that far. Murphy and Leeda wove through the peach rows, watching their footprints in the snow. They ended up detouring into the pecan grove.

  Murphy shook Leeda’s arm loose and sat down. Then she let herself fall onto her back with a soft thwuff. “I need to make a snow angel in case the snow melts before Birdie gets back.”

  Leeda didn’t have to ask why. It made perfect sense. “I’ve never made one.”

  “Watch the master.” Murphy fanned her arms above her head and fanned out her legs, then stood up carefully. Leeda copied her.

  “Now one for Birdie.”

  Murphy lay down in a new spot and made a new one while Leeda lay in the mold of the one she’d already made. Murphy fanned and fanned, and then she just went completely still, staring up.