The Firefly Effect

by Gail, Allie

  “Um, probably because they’re about as bright as an underground cave at midnight. Duh.” Linking her arm in mine, she says, “Come on, let’s get to homeroom.”

  We have to pass by the goon squad to get to our room, and I avoid looking in their direction. They just want attention and I won't give them the satisfaction of knowing how much they bug me.

  But to my dismay, just as we walk past they both burst into song. If you can even call it that. All I hear is two horrible, earsplitting voices belting out some painfully off-key Broadway tune. And before I know it, just about everyone in the entire school is being treated to a really sucky rendition of Hello Dolly: The Musical.

  One of these days I’m going to murder Shane Becker.

  I'm not even kidding. So help me God, I'm going to kill him.

  In fifth period, Kim Barlow passes me a note that says Craig Masterson told me at lunch that he likes you.

  Ugh. Maybe if I cry and beg, I can convince my parents to move to Brazil.

  ~ Chapter Eight ~

  Ironically, even after a long night of tossing and turning, I manage to roll out of bed before the source of my insomnia is up and stirring.

  Maybe she had trouble sleeping as well.

  The house is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, so I switch on the TV to drown out the silence. I want to check the weather, anyway. The news is both bad and good – the hurricane has strengthened to a strong category two, but the latest forecast now has it heading in a more westerly direction. We might not get a direct hit after all. Still, the eastern side of the storm always carries the highest potential for tornadoes so we need to be prepared in the event of bad weather.

  I’m scrounging around in the kitchen looking for coffee fifteen minutes later when Melanie comes sashaying in. Apparently she’s just showered because her hair is still wet, and when she breezes past me to snag a Pepsi from the fridge I get a quick whiff of whatever fruity-scented shampoo she used. Or maybe it’s lotion or something, I don’t know. All I know is, she smells damn good. Good enough to eat.

  If I’m not mistaken, that ambition was number four on the list I made somewhere around tenth grade. Things I Want To Do To Melanie Lane. Manufactured and stored only in my mind, of course, because I would just as soon have slept on the railroad tracks before I’d ever confess that I was secretly crushing on her.

  “Good morning.” Figure I might as well break the ice first. As usual.

  “Morning.” Popping the top on the soda, she eyes me warily while taking a sip. Through the yellow tank top she’s wearing, I can vaguely make out the contours of her bra, which brings last night’s intoxicating image back into my head. Both of them.

  Down, boy. It’s way too early for this.

  “Where do you keep the coffee?” I ask, reluctantly pulling my eyes away from the delectable curves that I want to bury my face in.

  “I don’t,” she responds coolly.

  “What, you mean you’re out?”

  “No. I never had any. I don’t typically drink coffee.”

  “You don’t drink coffee?” I thought all writers were addicted to coffee. Not sure why, it just seems to fit the profile. Isn’t it kind of a stereotype that authors like to write in coffee shops?

  “Is there an echo in here? No, I don’t drink coffee. Unless it's covered with whipped cream and made by a barista.” With a defiant lift of her chin, she adds, “Should’ve brought your own. I’m not responsible for supplying you with your Maxwell House or whatever.”

  “I never expected you to. Actually I was planning to go to the store in just a little while.”

  “Good. There’s one about three hundred miles that way.” She jerks her thumb in the direction of the interstate. “By all means, take your time.”

  Damn. Is she always this bitchy in the morning, or is it just me? “Well, at least you’re having a healthy breakfast,” I joke, indicating the soft drink in her hand. It feels like a small victory when she finally relinquishes a smile.

  “Never said I wasn’t a slave to caffeine.”

  “Then you better come shopping with me. If you’re this pleasant now, I’d hate to see what happens when you run out.” Leaning into the fridge, I grab a Pepsi for myself before straightening to ask, “Do you mind?”

  Her eyes dart away from me quickly as she shakes her head back and forth just a little too zealously. Her cheeks are flushed and I could swear she has a guilty expression on her face.

  Did I seriously just catch her checking out my ass?

  “I…um, I guess I do need to pick up a few things,” she relents, playing with the tab on her soda can. “Especially if we’re supposed to get bad weather.”

  I decide it's best to keep things neutral for now. She's like a nervous cat – one wrong move and I'll scare her off. “I need to pick up some batteries. There’s a lantern and a couple of flashlights in the utility room, I think, unless Leah’s done something with them. And we should probably get some bottled water.”

  She merely nods and takes another sip of her drink, avoiding my gaze altogether. What is she thinking? And why is she so damn jumpy? I wish I could figure out what's going on in her head. One minute I think she's into me and the next, she acts as if my mere presence disgusts her.

  I'm a stubborn man, though. And I am far from done with this ripe little peach. One taste was not enough. She may as well get used to having me around because I am not leaving here until I have thoroughly and effectively fucked every ounce of contempt right out of her.

  But for now, I will maintain a respectable distance.

  “I better go make sure they’re still there.”

  “Make sure what's still there?” She seems distracted.

  “The flashlights.” Quickly gulping down half my Pepsi, I leave the can on the counter and head out to the garage. The lantern and flashlights are still where I left them, so I bring them inside. Then I gather up the patio chairs and stack them in the utility room along with the table. The gas grill and trash can are the only things left outside that are likely to blow away, so after I move those inside the garage I'm done securing the yard.

  Before coming back inside, I take a moment to study the sky. The azure blue is splotched with billowy cumulus clouds, the only harbinger of the powerful storm that’s slowly churning closer. The day is eerily still, the atmosphere stifling and humid. There’s not so much as a breath of air to stir the leaves that hang limply in the heat. Kind of a paradox, considering what’s coming. According to the weather channel, we should start feeling the effects in about thirty-six hours. If this thing continues to increase in strength I might need to consider taking Melanie away from here, whether she likes it or not.

  I shake my head with a sigh, wondering why I suddenly feel responsible for keeping her safe. It’s not as if she’d give a flying fuck if I got swept away by a typhoon. She’d probably throw a party to celebrate.

  Gazing at the deceptively calm sky, I don’t hear her footsteps until she’s practically underneath my nose.

  “Do you need help with anything?” she tentatively offers.

  “No, thanks. I’m done out here.” I point to the silver Corolla parked on the grass. “You might want to pull your car into the garage, though. Before it starts raining.”

  “Uh, yeah. I was going to.” She seems annoyed that I would assume she didn’t have sense enough to figure that out on her own.

  “Just making sure. Coming with me to the store?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she nods.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  Another terse nod.

  I’m not sure which exasperates me more – her snippy insults or this frigid silence. For a brief moment, I consider pulling the ice queen against my chest and kissing her until that cold barrier thaws. And believe me, it will. One little spark is all it will take to rekindle last night’s flame.

  Whether she wants to admit it or not, that spark is very much alive. I see it flickering in her eyes even now.

  I can
hardly wait to reignite those embers.

  But first, we have to get reacquainted. And that’s not going to be easy if she isn’t even willing to talk to me.

  9th grade

  I’m sitting on the front steps of the high school with some of the guys, gabbing aimlessly and waiting on the first bell to ring when Phil Sanders lets out a low wolf whistle and murmurs, “Oh, man. Would you look at that? I think I’m in love.”

  I turn my head to see what he’s talking about and suddenly, inexplicably find my jeans tightening and my mood darkening.

  Pulled alongside the curb is a cherry red Mustang convertible with the top down. But it isn’t the car Phil’s drooling over. Melanie Lane has just hopped out of the passenger seat and is now leaning over the side talking to the driver. The first thing I notice is that her plaid skirt is so short I can just about see the promised land. The second thing I notice – which isn’t until after she straightens, of course – is that the driver is some asshole who’s got to be at least nineteen or twenty. Maybe even older.

  It’s none of my business, and normally I wouldn’t give either of them a second thought. But I don’t know, something about the whole scene gets under my skin and starts to itch. Especially when Mr. Mustang lifts his sunglasses and bursts out laughing at whatever it was she just said. He is way too damn friendly. It doesn’t ease my mind any when I see the pervert give her a wink before driving off. He acts just a little too familiar with her and I know he’s sure as hell too damn old to be flirting with a fourteen-year-old girl.

  All our eyes are on her as she bounces up the steps, but I’m the only one with enough kahunas to open his big mouth.

  “Little old for you, isn’t he?”

  Stopping in her tracks, she blinks at me in surprise. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yeah, jailbait. You’re the only one around here who just got dropped off by a senior citizen.”

  Cocking her head, she gives me a look of supreme disdain. “For your information, he’s my neighbor. He was just giving me a ride.”

  “Was he? Sure it wasn’t the other way around?”

  The guys let loose with a round of oohs and crude snickers, and I want to tell them all to knock it off. Part of me knows I’m being a dick but it’s too late to back down now.

  “You’re disgusting!” she snaps. “Why don’t you get your mind out of the gutter?”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who’s mooning the entire school every time I bend over. What’s the matter, couldn’t find the rest of your skirt? Nice panties, by the way. Love the stripes.”

  Her mouth drops open and now I’m starting to feel guilty for acting like such a douche, but for some reason instead of just letting it go I give my mouth carte blanche.

  “I’d watch it if I were you. You’re gonna get lover boy locked up. Messing around with a minor is a felony, you know.”

  “Nobody’s messing with anybody. He’s not my boyfriend, and you’re an idiot!” Tossing her perfectly styled hair over one shoulder, Melanie sticks her cute little nose in the air and continues prissing her way up the steps.

  “Dude…” Beside me, Craig is doubled over laughing. “What are you doing?”

  “Shut up,” I mutter, and I stalk off to my locker in a sullen funk because I’m suddenly not feeling like talking anymore.

  I don’t see Melanie again until third period Spanish. It’s the only class we share – she’s more the honors type while I’m lucky to squeak by with a passing grade – but I just happen to sit right behind her so lucky me, I get to stare at the back of her head every day for almost an hour.

  Some days I want to bring a pair of scissors and quietly snip off a fistful of her hair just for the fun of seeing her go ballistic, but most days I’d rather run my fingers through it to see what it feels like. It looks soft. It’s sort of golden brown, long and straight, and has these highlights that shine under the florescent lights. She smells good, too. Kinda fruity, like strawberries or watermelon or something.

  Too bad she hates me.

  Of course, that only makes me want to pick on her all the more.

  What is it about this girl?

  Ms. Ramirez is handing out our quiz papers from yesterday. The person at the front of each row is supposed to take their own paper and pass the rest back, but when the papers reach Melanie she pauses to shuffle through them.

  I can’t pass up the opportunity to harass her a little. Holding out my hand, I waggle my fingers and say, “Hey. Felony Melanie. Any day now.”

  When she turns her head to give me a smug smile, I realize that I never should have started in on her again because she still hasn’t cooled down from this morning.

  Smirking, she hands me the remainder of the papers. “A forty-six? Wow, Shane. That’s bad even for you. I didn’t even study and I got a ninety-eight. This test was cake. You have seriously got to be the biggest moron I’ve ever encountered in my life.”

  And with those spiteful words, she hits me right where it hurts. Loud enough for those sitting around us to hear. Several girls giggle and I can feel the blood rush to my face. There’s nothing more humiliating than having verifiable proof of how stupid you are. Unless it’s someone throwing it out there for everyone to see.

  I already hear it at home from my dad. Most of the time he just ignores me, but occasionally when Mom isn’t around to run interference he feels the need to remind me what a disappointment I am.

  Why are your grades so lousy? Why do you need money for a field trip when you aren’t even capable of learning anything? Why aren’t you doing this? Why aren’t you doing that? When I was your age, I was blah blabbidy blah…

  I’m not sure what makes him think he’s so much smarter than me. He hasn’t had a steady job in over two years and all he does is sit around the house moping and drinking himself into a stupor. Pretty sure it doesn’t take a lot of brains to do that.

  Melanie has turned around in her seat and I can’t see her face but I can sense that she’s smiling. And maybe I did deserve that, maybe I shouldn’t blame her for wanting to get back at me after I slammed her the way I did.

  But I can’t help but feel like she crossed a line.

  And I am super pissed off right now.

  Normally I don’t get headaches until later in the afternoon, but I can tell today’s going to suck because I’m developing a powerful migraine already.

  ~ Chapter Nine ~

  I shouldn’t have come with him.

  What was I thinking?

  Trapped beside Shane in the front seat of his Tahoe, the tension between us is thick enough to cut with a knife. Or maybe it’s just me who’s tense. He seems perfectly at ease. The long fingers of one hand are tapping the steering wheel in time to some song by Hoobastank, and while he’s singing to himself I can’t help but sneak a few looks his way.

  It’s hard not to look at something that sumptuous. He was cute in high school, but as a grown man he’s positively mouthwatering. His hair is pulled neatly back into a long ponytail, and the contrast of the white Ralph Lauren shirt he’s wearing only makes his eyes seem that much darker. Interestingly enough, he actually sings pretty good. Wonder if he’s in a band on the side? I wouldn’t be surprised.

  I’m so intent on surreptitiously watching him that I don’t notice we’re in the parking lot of an IHOP until he kills the engine.

  “Hungry?” he asks me, unclipping his seatbelt.

  Okay…I didn’t realize we were stopping for breakfast, but whatever.

  “A little,” I reluctantly admit.

  “First rule of shopping. Never do it on an empty stomach,” he advises with a grin.

  He opens the door for me as we walk inside, and as he does I feel the other hand against the small of my back. It disturbs me that I get a shiver just from that fleeting casual touch. I really have to stop thinking about last night and remind myself that this guy is no Prince Charming. He’s more like the character in the dark cloak, the one who turns out to be a villain.

  We
order, and I sit across from him wondering what to say. It occurs to me that I know so little about him. The guy doesn’t even have a Facebook account. I know because I checked once, years ago. Do I even want to know more? Where do I begin? I can translate my thoughts into words with a keyboard, but when it comes to verbal communication I get tongue-tied so easily. Especially when I’m nervous.

  I’m not the same girl I once was. Hasn’t he noticed?

  “So, Melanie.” He eyes me as he takes a sip of the coffee the waitress just brought him. “What have you been doing with yourself since high school? Besides writing, I mean. I’m assuming you aren’t married.”

  “Of course I’m not married.” I frown into my orange juice. Does he think last night would have happened if I were? I would point that out, but I’d rather not bring up the subject of last night. It’s too humiliating. “I’ve never been married.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Leah said. I was just making sure.”

  “You’re not, are you?” Suddenly, horribly, I realize that if Leah could stretch the truth about the house, she may have been less than honest about this, too.

  “Nope. No wife. No girlfriend, either.”

  “Oh.” Whew. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a ring, but you can’t always judge by that. “I didn’t think so, but…good to know. I’d hate to have to kill your sister. Twice.”

  “She told you I was single?”

  “She did mention once that you were a bachelor, yes.”

  “And yet somehow my name never came up?” He sounds skeptical. I guess I can’t blame him for that.

  “I’m not sure you’re aware of this, but your sister typically refers to you as Butthead.”

  His laughter is rich and deep. “That’s probably the nicest thing the little brat ever called me. So you two used to work together?”

  “For about six months. I haven’t really known her all that long.”

  “I see. And what about college? Did you wind up going to Flagler?”

  “How’d you know about that?”