Heat rushes up my neck and floods my cheeks and I curse my sun starved skin as my embarrassment makes itself plain as day. I’ve heard myself described that way before and I don’t understand it. I have a twin. We’re not identical. But there is no doubt that we’re siblings. And, I look just like my mother. I clear my throat and “I have to go and you’re late for study hall, I’ll see you tonight.”
“Wait.” He grabs my arm to stop me from turning away. His head remains bowed and his grip on my hand tightens as if for moral support.
“Yes, what is it?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
“About the window. I was…” he rushes the words out and then comes to a sudden, stuttering stop. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, his hair sways with the baleful shake of his head that follows. “There’s no good reason for it. I’m just sorry.” Hope shines out of his remarkably clear hazel eyes. I put a hand on his shoulder and smile at him as wide as I can. “I forgive you. Thank you for apologizing.”
His frown is skeptical. “Your smile looks like you don't mean it.”
“I know. It’s just how my face is. I promise that all is forgiven. We’ve got a clean slate.”
I hold my hand out for him to shake.
He ignores it, takes a step forward and wraps his arms around my waist. His head comes just to the top of my torso. He rests it there and squeezes me tight.
It’s so sweet and sincere, and the unexpected warmth so welcome, that my embarrassment falls away and I return his embrace automatically, “You know that I came here to punish you, right?” I ask when he doesn’t let go.
“You could have, I would have deserved it. But you’re helping me instead. Thank you, so much,” he says with his mouth pressed to my belly. I let him hold on for a minute more before I lean back, so I can look him in the eye.
“Maybe Stone, just maybe, you deserve this, too.” I give him a wink and walk away.
Chapter 3
Alchemy
Stone
“Hey, come in here for a few minutes,” Regan sticks her head through the door of the office she set up for me to work in. I glance at the clock in surprise. I’ve only been working for thirty minutes. But I put my pen down and close my notebook. “Oh, okay…Are you ready for me to start cleaning already?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Nope. I have a treat for you. Can you take a break?” Surprised, I look up at her and instantly forget what she asked me.
She’s so pretty. I know I shouldn’t even be thinking it, but I can’t help myself. She has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. Her lips may not be made to smile wide, but the way her eyes twinkle when she’s happy more than makes up for that.
“Well, can you?” she asks, when I don’t answer. I’ve still got at least an hour’s worth of work to do, but after this afternoon, I would do anything she asked me to.
“Yeah, I can. I just need to finish this equation. I just need a few more minutes?”
“Okay, see ya,” she calls as she disappears down the hall.
I glance at the now repaired back door and smile when I remember the first time I came to this bakery. Thankfully, for me anyway, a faulty lock wasn’t a high priority on anybody’s to - do list in places like Rivers Wilde.
This is a community that behaves the way a family should. And that includes trusting their neighbors to walk past a broken lock and not see it as an invitation.
But since my stepfather died, and my brother Hayes left to live with his aunt in Italy, I’ve been repeatedly reminded that in the eyes of most of the people I’ve called friends since I was three years old, I’m nothing close to family.
My mother is seen as the person who drove the much beloved and respected head of the Rivers Family, to an early grave. The Rivers family is without an official leader even though my Uncle Thomas is acting in his place. He can barely manage his own life, much less an entire empire.
It threw Houston’s philanthropic community into a tailspin and created enough uncertainty to send the Rivers family’s business, Kingdom, stock value into free fall.
Fortunes have been lost or greatly reduced in the last few weeks, and my mother is viewed as the person who knocked over the first domino.
I came back to campus after the funeral and learned the hard way that being her son, too small, and way too smart for my age, was a triple curse.
Life at Blackwell turned into a game of survival. During the day, I had to be on constant alert for pranks and traps my bullies set. I couldn’t focus enough to study. I got a C on the first exam I took after the funeral and it scared the hell out of me.
The school had been hesitant to admit a student as young as me. Despite my test scores and performance on the assessments they gave me, it took funding the library’s endowment and my stepfather’s clout to convince them. With him gone, I'm afraid they’ll kick me out of here so fast, my head will spin.
I can’t afford to let that happen. Not just for my sake. But for my two younger brothers as well. I’m the only responsible person in their lives now. My mother will ruin them, just like she ruins everything else she touches. The sooner I graduate, the sooner I can take care of them. When I walk into the kitchen, she’s sitting at the counter with a plate full of biscuits and two glasses of milk in front of her.
“Come on, sit down. I want you to try these. I created the recipe myself.”
“Okay...” I wasn’t expecting her to feed me, but I’m glad. I’m too busy watching my back to actually eat anything at mealtime.
Most of the kids come back to school with care packages or get them regularly from home. I don’t have anything like that, and I usually go to bed hungry. I sit down and pick up one of the tender, golden biscuit looking things and examine it.
“Looks weird. What is it?”
“It’s a scone.” She says scone like she’s saying diamond.
I frown at her. “Looks like a biscuit.”
She presses a finger to my lips, her eyes wide with alarm “Hush, before you hurt its feelings. Taste what it’s made of, then you’ll know why it’s special.”
I cast her a skeptical look but bite the biscuit thing before she starts talking about it like it's a human being again. It’s as light as air, and practically melts on my tongue. I groan, my eyes roll heavenward. The butter, ginger, lemon and sugar are like biting into sunshine.
“I knoooow,” she croons.
I nearly choke on my biscuit. She’s smiling wide, even though she’d said she couldn’t. But yesterday when I said it, she looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. So, I keep the thought to myself and take another bite of scone, intending to play it cool this time.
But I can’t.
It’s just too delicious.
“These flavors together -this is alchemy,” I exclaim and then bite my tongue. I know how my vocabulary annoys people.
Her eyebrows raise up and she smiles down at me, something like pride shining in her eyes.
“Alchemy? That’s a great word. How does it feel to be so incredibly smart?”
My stomach knots and I don’t want to talk about this, not with her. I shrug. “I’m only kinda smart, but mainly I read a whole lot.”
She smiles “I know you don’t think it’s great now but when you’re older, you’ll be so glad--”
“Yeah, obviously.” I hate how people seem to like telling how much I’ll love being me when I’m an adult. But that doesn’t make it feel better right now. I want to be normal.
Embarrassed by the attention and not wanting to say anything else, I grab the glass of milk and wash down the rest of the scone.
She hops off the stool she’s perched on and walks over to the huge cabinet and starts taking out bowls and baking sheets. “It’s not so bad to be misunderstood and ahead of your time …Jesus, Jane Austen, Malcolm X, Winnie Mandela - they were all revolutionaries who were ahead of their time. People thought they were weird, chased them, teased them, rejected them. But they didn’t stop. And neither will you.”
<
br /> “I won’t?” I ask absently. I’m mesmerized by the economy and precision of her movements as she lays out her tools.
She gathers up her long, straight dark hair and ties it up on top of her head in a huge bun.
“Nope. Because we can’t stop being ourselves. Just because you’re not like everyone else, doesn’t mean there’s a single thing wrong with you. You’re perfectly made.”
I can’t speak around the tears clogging my throat, my heart feels too big for my chest. No one has ever spoken to me like this.
“Okay, you go to do your homework while I get to work. I’ll have tons of clean up for you by the time you’re done.” She points me in the direction of a dark corridor but doesn’t even spare me a glance as she dons her crisp white apron and gets to work.
“Are you sure you don’t mind me being here?”
She shakes her head, her bun bobs as she ties the strings around her waist. “After living with my two brothers, hanging with boys is my forte. You couldn’t possibly annoy me half as much as they do.”
She cocks her head to look at me, that half smile on her pretty mouth, and my stomach feels weird, like I’m on the Texas Cyclone at Six Flags. I’m afraid that I’m gonna fall off the stool, so I stand up and grab the counter. “Give it a couple of days. My mother says I could try a saint,” I warn her.
“Well…I’m made of sterner stuff than some old saint. Besides, you’re like me…a giver. And I’ve heard it said somewhere, that when two givers get together, it’s like…alchemy.” Her eyes twinkle and this body that's always felt too small for the soul inside it, relaxes and I draw in a deep lungful of air. And then she says the words that, later on, I’ll recall as the ones that made my heart hers forever. “I water you, you water me. Together, we’re going to grow.”
“You did good. Cleaning up my colossal messes just might be your calling.” It’s a few minutes past midnight and Regan just locked up the store.
“As if it takes any talent to wash dishes,” I grumble, glad the dark is hiding the blush that blooms at her praise.
She nudges my shoulder as we make our way down the main street of Rivers Wilde. “I don’t know if it takes talent, but it certainly takes determination to scrub every last burned-on crumb off those cookie sheets. I used to think spotless baking pans were the sign of a dispassionate baker. Now, I’ll think of them as fruits of a committed dishwasher’s labor.”
We walk in silence the rest of the way to her blue Mustang and she pops the trunk for me to drop my BMX inside the surprisingly roomy compartment. When she starts the car, music blares from the speakers so loud that it rattles the windows. She winces and turns the volume down to just above audible.
“Sorry, I listen to it like that when I’m alone.”
“It’s cool,” I shrug and stare out into the night, still lost in my thoughts as we make our way toward the exit of Rivers Wilde.
She didn’t go easy on me tonight. She gave me all the work she would have done if I wasn’t there. And I loved every minute of it.
I’d never washed a dish in my life before – I’ve been missing out. It feels good to see that sparkling, empty sink after it was with dirty whisks, mixing bowls and measuring spoons.
In fact, the whole night was nice. Everyone else treats my enjoyment of hard work as a flaw. “Chill, kid,” or some variation of that sentiment is a common refrain from my brothers, parents and teachers.
“I failed second grade.” Her unexpected statement draws my eyes to her. She’s got her eyes on the road, but her jaw flexes in sync with her hands’ grip on the steering wheel.
“Why?” I ask.
She shrugs, but her jaw is still tense.
“I failed math, social studies, and science.”
“Yeah but, why?”
“According to my report card, I didn’t grasp the material.” She glances at me again; her expression has gone from embarrassed to assessing.
“But that can’t be why,” I press because I can’t believe she’s ever failed to grasp anything.
She shakes her head and chuckles. “You're the first person to ever say that. So, I’ll tell you why, but you have to swear that you’re not some sort of spy for your family.”
Family. How I wish. Longing twists like a hook in my heart. “Hayes and my little brothers are my only family and they can’t afford to hire me yet. So, don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”
She exhales the way my mother does when she’s trying to calm her nerves. “I didn’t want to be in the same class with my twin brother for the rest of my life.”
That’s the last thing I expected her to say. “Didn’t you have to live together, too?”
“I didn’t hate him. It was everyone else. He’s great at everything. He’s charming, and funny, and smart. They couldn’t help but compare us, and I was never anyone’s favorite.” She says it like it doesn’t matter, and maybe it doesn’t, anymore. But, if she failed a grade and added an entire year to school to get away from him, it must have mattered a whole lot. “I’m sorry,” I say and hate how dumb it sounds.
“Don’t be. It was one year, and I've recovered nicely. I know it must make you twitchy seeing how you’re in a rush and all.”
That hook twists tighter “Not by choice. I have to take care of my brothers. I’ll peak early and then, I’ll do an Aaliyah or a Biggie, and that’ll be it.”.
“What?” she chuckles.
“They all peaked early and died early. I’m ten, and five years ahead in school. Figure I’ll finish college by the time I’m 18, and then I’ll get a job, kick butt and then kick the bucket by 30, max. So, I’m not gonna get married or have kids. Better not to have people left behind who need me.”
“But…that’s ridiculous,” she sputters.
“Tell that to Selena, Ricky Valens, Tupac, Kurt Cobain, River Phoenix, James Dean.” I counter.
“Are you serious?”
“You look like I just told you I was from Mars.”
She groans. “So, what about Oprah Winfrey, Margaret Thatcher, Vera Wang, Betty White, Viola Davis?”
“Violin who?”
She darts an unimpressed glare in my direction and shakes her head in disappointment.
“I’m going to teach you some women’s history while you’re cleaning. They’re all legends who have lived long after their moment of glory. My dad died young; I know my time could come any day. But that just makes me want to do something worth being remembered for. Your life will have more than one peak, and more than one valley. You might die young and it’s good to live like this might be your last day, because hell. who knows? But you better plan like you’re gonna be here until you’re a hundred and three.”
“And, we’re here,” she announces breezily, oblivious to the seismic shift her words have caused inside me. She pops the trunk before turning to face me. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yup.” I croak and grab the door handle.
“Oooh, I almost forgot. One sec…” She reaches into the back seat, pulls out a white wax lined bakery bag and holds it out to me.
“Scones. In case you get hungry between classes tomorrow.”
I take the bag and hope that she can see the gratitude in my eyes. I’m afraid that if I try to speak, I’ll cry.
I hold the bag with as much delicacy as I can while I walk my bike up to the side entrance. I turn to look back at where she dropped me off, she’s still there watching until she’s sure I’m going to get inside safely, something my own mother has never done. I lift a hand to return her wave goodbye and slip past the gate.
That night, for the first time since my stepfather died, I don’t cry myself to sleep.
Chapter 4
Just My Imagination
Stone
The last four months have been the best of my whole life. Regan gave me more than a place to study; she transformed my whole life. When I walked into class the morning after my first night with her, the ever present ball of dread in my gut wasn’t so heavy.
>
I’d been afraid to fight back because I didn’t want to get kicked out. But I saw their faces when she reminded them that I’m a Rivers and I know they don’t want trouble either. They only pick on me because I let them.
The next time they cornered me, I swung my backpack at the one whose face was closest and broke his nose.
He bled all over the hallway.
We were both hauled to the principal’s office, and before I could say anything, he announced that I’d hit him accidentally.
They never bothered me again.
It only took me one month to work enough hours to earn the $500 I owed her. When she told me my tab was settled, I kept coming anyway. With my bullies vanquished I didn’t need the space to study anymore. So, I started spending the entire evening with her in the kitchen.
She’s a universe of knowledge and she shares it all with me. From baking to history, politics to Pokémon evolution, she knows everything. And when she’s talking to me, I get the feeling that she’s been waiting to tell someone all the things she’s sharing with me.
Some nights, we just listen to music and work on our own. She plays music I’ve never heard before. Her favorite is “Just my Imagination” by The Temptations. When that comes on, she sings along. Her voice is nice enough. But it’s the smile she wears when she’s singing it that makes it my favorite.
Other times, she brings her laptop and gives me an education on movies shot in Houston. We watched Terms of Endearment, Jason’s Lyric, Armageddon, and Selena. All of them were sad, but Selena is the only one that made her cry.
And on the nights when we get every scone off the cookie sheets, without any of them sticking, she plays this song called “Southside” and makes me dance with her. She smells like those scones she makes: lemon and ginger and vanilla… I could smell it all day, every day, and still never get tired of it.
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