Any Red-Blooded Girl

  Chapter 9

  TO my surprise (and slight dismay) everyone at Tupelo-9 was asleep when I crept into my alien pod in the wee hours of my birthday morning. There was no late night vigil. No worried hand wringing. No outward sign my presence had been missed or my absence even noticed. Was this what adulthood was like? You got your freedom but nobody gave a damn about you anymore? What a rip-off.

  One thing that wasn’t a rip-off, however, was the yummiest smell on earth that woke me on my sweet sixteen: Belgian waffles. I guess my parents were pulling out all the stops in their quest to control me. And this time they’d sunk to a new low: bribery. Gee, if I’d known psycho meltdowns led to absolute freedom and personal chef service, I swear I would have lost my marbles a whole lot sooner.

  “Mornin’ Flowbee,” my dad said, as I staggered toward the picnic table. “Waffles?”

  “What time is it?” I muttered.

  Mr.Tightwad checked his wrist. “Precisely ten forty-one. Brunch time,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “Well, let’s see… Lu-Lu’s at the bingo. And your brother’s trying his luck in the volleyball tourney,” my dad informed me, prying two huge waffles off the griddle and dropping them on my plate. “Oh, and Moo-Ma left you a schedule. There’s tons of activities today. Even a dance tonight, I do believe.”

  “Oh,” I said, feigning disinterest. I mean, I hadn’t expected Wild Acres to host social events. As far as I knew, only those richy-rich resorts like the one in Dirty Dancing bothered to entertain you. “Where’s the dance?” I asked. After all, he’d brought it up.

  “Geez…?” he said, sucking his teeth and shaking his head. “The Clubhouse? Possibly. I haven’t read the schedule, though,” he admitted, handing me the printout my mother had left behind. “Here ye go.”

  I rolled my eyes at the Old English. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You’re ever so welcome, m’lady. ’Tis your special day, ’tis not?”

  “Huh?”

  “The anniversary of your birth, m’lady.”

  “All right, Dad,” I said, exasperated. “You’re confusing me. Yes, it’s my birthday—if that’s what you said. But will you please talk normal? I just woke up for God’s sake.”

  “As ye wish.”

  While I chomped down the rest of my birthday breakfast, I concentrated on the Wild Acres Recreation Schedule.

  8:00-10:00 Breakfast Buffet in the Clubhouse

  (Missed it, but Belgian waffles were better anyway.)

  10:00-12:00 Bingo in the Activity Center

  (Check. The Mental Hygienist had it covered.)

  11:00-1:00 Volleyball Tournament

  (Double check. Will’s specialty.)

  12:00-2:00 Buffet Lunch in the Clubhouse

  (No thanks. Buffets are usually gross.)

  1:00-3:00 Arts and Crafts in the Activity Center

  (Probably for little kids.)

  2:00-3:00 Pie Eating Contest in the Clubhouse

  (Fun to watch, maybe. But participate? No.)

  3:00-5:00 Family Movie in the Movie Room

  (Only if it’s a classic like The Princess Bride.)

  5:00-7:00 Dinner Buffet in the Clubhouse

  (Again, yuck.)

  7:00-8:00 Karaoke Contest in the Activity Center

  (Not bloody likely. I’m a super chicken.)

  8:00-10:00 Family Dance w/ DJ in the Clubhouse

  (Only if Mick wants to go.)

  “Hey, Dad, can I keep this?” I asked, waving the baby-blue sheet of paper in the wind on my way to the garbage can.

  Out of nowhere, my father got one of those sappy, wistful looks in his eyes. “Sure thing,” he agreed. “And, Flowbee, happy birthday.” Before I could stop him, he caught me in an awkward hug that only lasted a few seconds but seemed more like an eternity. “I love you, squirt.”

  “Okay, Dad. Thanks,” I said, backing away slowly. “Thanks a lot. I’ve gotta go get ready now. And then I’m going to…” I glanced down at the sheet of paper I was still clutching. “I’m going to go see how Will’s doing in the Volleyball Tournament,” I declared.

  “Okie dokie, smokie,” my dad said, signifying the end of our serious father-daughter moment, which was definitely A-okay with me.

  After a soaking shower and a fresh change of clothes, I once again headed for Mick’s place. And against my better judgment, I allowed myself to start getting excited for whatever surprise he had in store for me. After all, it was the first time I’d had a real, legitimate boyfriend on my actual birthday, so I had to squeeze in as much fun, romance, and indulgent pampering as I could.

  But as I approached Mick’s compound, two things immediately stood out: First, the place was uncharacteristically quiet. And second, a few of the vehicles were MIA. Plus, the only person in sight was Mick’s mother, who I technically hadn’t even met yet.

  I drew a deep breath and slunk toward the twiggy chair, where she sat buried beneath a mountain of yarn. “Um, hi,” I said from about ten feet away.

  Mick’s mother just kept knitting.

  I took two more steps. “Excuse me,” I tried.

  There was no response.

  Okay…what now? Should I push my luck and risk getting jabbed with a giant knitting needle? Maybe the third time was a charm. “Hello. Is Mick here?” I asked.

  “Shh!”

  As ridiculous as this sounds (and as embarrassing as it is to admit) I peed my pants a little when she shushed me. Only like a drop or two, but still.

  After about another thirty seconds of complete silence, Mick’s mother finally spoke. “I’m sorry about that, dear. I was in the middle of a complicated pattern, and I had to finish the row. I hope I didn’t scare you,” she said, flashing me a kind, welcoming smile. “You must be Flora. Mick has been raving about you for days. And he wasn’t exaggerating either, I see. You are absolutely as radiant as he described.” She extended her hand. “I’m Stella. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Nice to meet you too,” I said, clamping onto her fingers like I’d just caught the game-winning football pass.

  “Mick’s out back working,” his mom said. “He’s taken on a special project.” She paused for a moment, like she was considering letting me in on a secret. But then she continued without spilling the beans. “I think he should be just about done, though. Why don’t you go ahead back? It should be fine.”

  “All right. Thanks,” I said, already heading for the trees.

  Behind the Donovan compound, I crunched around aimlessly until—from somewhere deeper in the woods—I heard Mick’s voice. “Flora!” he called.

  Even though it was another bright, sunny day, I couldn’t quite find him through the trees. “Where are you?” I asked, stepping over a downed limb and meandering in the direction of his voice.

  “This way.”

  I’d already passed his work benches, so I was out of obvious landmarks to go by. “I don’t see you,” I complained. “What are you doing?”

  “Just finishing up your birthday shopping,” he revealed. By the volume of his voice and the clear echo of his footsteps, I could tell he was headed in my direction.

  I leaned back against a fat, old tree and whined, “Hurry up. I miss you.”

  “Close your eyes,” he ordered playfully. “I can see you. I’m almost there.”

  As silly as his request was, I clamped my eyes shut and waited. And within seconds, I heard his voice again—this time face-to-face. “Good girl. Thank you for playing along,” he teased. “You can open now.”

  I peeled my eyelids apart to find my hunk of a boyfriend down on one knee, clutching a fistful of fresh wildflowers. And as cliché as the Prince Charming move was, I must admit, it won me over; I was converted.

  “You’re amazing. Did you pick all these?” I asked, pulling the flowers to my face for a long, deep breath. “They’re beautiful.”

  Mick stood up. “They pale in comparison,” he declared. From anyone else
, the line would have been ultra corny, but his sincere delivery made me believe him. “Happy birthday, sweet sixteen,” he said with a wide grin.

  I couldn’t wait another second. Still gripping the burgeoning bouquet, I flung my arms around his waist and squeezed, probably crushing a few of the delicate blossoms in the process. It was the beginning of my real birthday present: time and attention—and hopefully more kissing—from my sweet, sweet Mick.

  So I guess I should add one more talent to my new boyfriend’s repertoire of skills: mind reading. Because the minute I started fantasizing about him kissing me…well, he did. Then, with a little more force than necessary, he pushed me to the ground, rolled on top of me, and pinned me in place. And like any sane girl would, I had a momentary flash of panic. After all, I was trapped. If Mick wanted to do anything I didn’t want to do, I would have been powerless to stop him.

  “The flowers,” I croaked. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a scattering of fresh petals beneath Mick’s bent knee.

  He kissed me hard and deep on the mouth. “I’ll pick more,” he breathed. “A million more.” Eagerly, he pressed himself into me, jamming my spine against a scraggly tree root—which didn’t actually hurt, but made me kind of nervous. Nervous and excited, if that makes any sense.

  Anyway, I swear I’m not some sicko pervert with a domination fetish; I just liked tasting Mick’s tongue in my mouth and feeling his heart thump against my chest and imagining his lust for me was so powerful we had no choice but to surrender to it. After all, I’m only human. This boy would have turned any red-blooded girl to mush, especially so up close and personal.

  After a good, solid five minutes of sucking face, Mick reached toward his pants. And again, I panicked. I mean, maybe he had more on his mind than kissing and touching. Did he think I wanted to have sex right there in the woods? Did he think I’d done things like that before? Had he? A stream of heavy questions flat-lined my brain. And even though I wanted to say something—like maybe tell him to slow down just a little—I drew a complete blank.

  The next thing I knew, Mick’s forearm rubbed across my hip. Then his hand went into his pants—at which point I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing. Actually, I might have even blacked out, because I don’t remember anything else until he nudged me.

  “Hey, get up,” he said. He tugged me off the ground with both hands. “I want to give you your birthday present.”

  I was afraid to look down. Were his pants unzipped? Shit. What was I going to do if that was my present? I mean, we’d rehearsed all these lame ways to turn a boy down in Sex Ed, but I’d forgotten the whole routine already. The truth was, I hadn’t paid much attention in Sex Ed in the first place, since my prospects of getting anywhere near a boy I liked in the next century seemed dismal. Most of the time when I liked someone, they never liked me back. I was cursed—until now, which left me entirely unprepared for whatever was in Mick’s pants.

  “Okay, close your eyes again,” he said.

  “Do I have to?”

  “You said you loved surprises.”

  So the lie had come back to bite me. It figured. “I do like surprises,” I maintained. “But I’m afraid of bugs and snakes and stuff like that.” Who knew, maybe exaggerating my fraidy catness would at least buy me a couple of extra seconds to think of a good excuse in case I needed it.

  “I’ll protect you. Don’t worry,” Mick said, stopping to plant a tender kiss on my forehead. “Now go ahead.”

  I had no choice but to wing it. If I opened my eyes and his pants were down, I’d have to come up with something on the fly. “Okay, here goes,” I said, shutting my eyes and praying. I mean, it wasn’t like I didn’t want Mick sexually; it was just way too soon. Maybe a year or two down the road—if everything was perfect between us—I would be ready. Just not right now.

  Even though I technically had my eyes closed, I let them drift open just far enough to catch a few hazy glimpses of what looked like Mick fumbling with something in his hand. Not exactly helpful.

  “Okay. Ready,” he finally said. “Open up.” I swear, he sounded so excited I already felt bad about disappointing him.

  “Oh my God! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I squealed. “I love it! Did you make this?”

  Mick was beaming—and his pants were still zipped—which explained a great deal of my excitement.

  Displaying the leather bracelet across his palm, he said, “I sure did. See, these are your initials, and these are mine.” He pointed out the shiny copper FF and MD, which glowed like pure sunshine against the black background.

  “What’s this?” I asked, transfixed by an intricate design between the two sets of initials.

  “Oh, that’s a Celtic knot. It was my mother’s idea,” Mick said. “It’s an Irish symbol of eternal love and other stuff—like the beauty of nature. It’s an ancient pattern. An endless series of connected loops. Do you like it?”

  “It’s perfect. It’s the best present anyone’s ever given me,” I gushed. “Can you put it on?”

  “Why, it’d be my pleasure, Miss Fontain,” he drawled in a faux Southern accent. Then he took my hand in his, strapped the bracelet around my wrist, and pushed the small crystal stud through the slit in the leather.

  “I adore you,” I blurted. Because suddenly I realized that what I felt for Mick was more than love. The gypsy boy I’d met less than forty-eight hours ago was now quite possibly my new best friend and my hero, all rolled into one.