Rebels Like Us by Liz Reinhardt
Author:Liz Reinhardt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2016-03-25T16:00:00+00:00
EIGHTEEN
Off and on for the next few weeks, Doyle bothers me about the prom business.
That’s not all he does, of course.
He drives me to a deserted beach with white sand dunes we run to the top of, then slide back down, screaming until our mouths are full of grit. When we’re tired and sun pinked, I drive his truck on the beach. Once the stars speckle the sky, we park and lie in the bed, our heads pillowed on rolled-up sweatshirts. The radio is stuck on the oldies station, and Doyle sings “Brown Eyed Girl” to me even though I don’t have brown eyes and I’m not Doyle’s girl.
“Your voice is so beautiful,” I sigh as he croons along to Van Morrison.
“Hush now, you’re gonna make me blush,” he says, but he’s clearly pleased with his talent and even more pleased with my admiration. He continues to sing the song in a way that makes me think those “hearts a-thumpin’” might be all about us.
One random Saturday morning he knocks on my window with a bundle of hangers and tells me to shut my piehole as he digs through a box from the pyramid in my room without asking permission.
“You need to make up your fool mind ’bout whether you’re staying or going.” He points the hangers at me like a judge’s gavel.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I snap.
“Are you?” He tugs out some long-sleeved shirts that are too hot for this sauna state. “If you’re stayin’, commit. I’ll help you dip your baby toe in, chicken.”
“I’m not a chicken.” I bok.
“Really? Prove it.” He holds a bare hanger out to me, but I swat it away.
“Later.”
“Now.” One more shirt, one more hanger. “You don’t wanna dip your baby toe in, I can always straight toss you into the deep.”
“I wish you’d find someone else to bother.” I negate my weak threat by grabbing a hanger and zipping my leather jacket onto it. Another thing I can’t wear here, but I couldn’t wear it in Brooklyn in March either. It’s practically summer here, and they’re getting another freak spring snowpocalypse back home.
“You’d cry a river if I found someone else to bother.” He hangs the next shirt with arrogant determination.
“Would not,” I mutter, but not too loud.
By the time we’re done unpacking that single box, there are a couple shirts hanging in the closet, an owl sculpture on the windowsill, a few pictures stuck to the once-bare walls, and a tin of violet candies on the bed between us. Doyle grins at me as he sucks on a candy only he’d like, and when we almost kiss but don’t, his eyes brighten to lavender and his lips smell like tiny purple flowers. I’m hungry to know if they’d taste that way too, but I’m too gutless to find out.
On other days, he picks me up for school too early, and we sit with our legs draped over each other’s in the grassy school courtyard. Doyle crowns me with tiny flower wreaths.
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