Make the Fireflies Dance, page 10
I look down at my outfit. The shirt has the words Running Wild in bright letters across the chest, as if I run. Ever. Exercise and I don’t exactly get along, so it’s not like I have a lot of options to choose from. I may not know what exactly Kenyon had in mind when he told me to dress for exercise, but I’m relatively sure one of Mom’s old dresses isn’t going to work.
“What?” I say, pulling the bottom of the shirt out so I can see it better. “He said I should dress for exercise.”
Nana places the hoop on a small table next to her chair. She looks the epitome of a Southern grandmother sitting with her embroidery, but in the light of the library lamp she set it under, I can read the beginnings of the crude word she’s stitching.
“Come here,” she says, waving to me with an over-enthusiastic flick of her wrist. I trudge across the room until I’m standing right in front of her.
“Where is this boy taking you?” With deft hands, Nana grabs the waistband of my shorts, flipping it down once, then moves to the hem of my shirt.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We’re meeting at Fort Fisher.” I check my phone as she twists my shirt into a knot above my left hip. “I actually better get going if I’m gonna get there on time.”
“There’s not much I can do about your shoes,” she says with a weary sigh, “but go look at yourself.” As I make my way to the bathroom, she adds, “And put a bit more blush on while you’re in there. Look alive, girl!”
Inside the small powder room off Nana’s entryway, I stand in front of the mirror and pull my hair into a quick ponytail. I left it down this morning, letting my natural wave air dry, so now it’s bouncy and wild at the back of my head. I skip the blush Nana suggests, but I do slick on a fresh layer of Berry Burst lip gloss.
I take a minute to admire Nana’s handiwork. Somehow, she’s taken my ill-fitting, frumpy outfit and turned it into something cute. My shorts fit better with the waistband flipped down, and between that and the tied shirt, a narrow stretch of skin shows. This is about as date appropriate as workout clothes will ever be.
I snap a quick picture on my phone and send it to our group text. My friends would kill me if I didn’t share my pre-date prep with them. The responses start coming in immediately, my phone dinging five times in rapid succession.
HADLEY: You look so cute!
NAOISE: You’re wearing that on a date?
HADLEY: What? It’s cute!
NAOISE: Y’all have no sense of fashion.
SHYLA: You look great Q! You gonna get your kiss this time?
My stomach jumps and twists at the thought of kissing Kenyon. By the end of our date Friday, I wanted to kiss him—maybe not just because of Operation Mystery Kisser, either. But now that I’ve had a full day to think about it, I’m not sure how I feel. I’d never gone on a date before Friday night; did I want to kiss Kenyon because of Kenyon or because I’d worked myself up to the idea of a first-date kiss? The date was fun, sure, but I don’t know what to think about how it ended.
My cheeks warm with the memory, though, so maybe I do know what I think about it.
“You all right in there?” Nana’s voice carries through the door, startling me back into motion. I wash my hands so it sounds like I’m doing something productive, then I type out a quick reply.
ME: He said to dress for exercise! This is the best I could do. And I dunno. I guess we’ll see.
SHYLA: You HAVE to kiss him! How else will you know?
HADLEY: I guess she could go on a third date if they don’t kiss today.
I can’t even think about a third date right now. My nerves are ratcheting up the closer it gets to being time to leave. My hands shake as I swipe across my phone screen, responding.
ME: Well, I gotta go. I’ll update y’all when I get back.
New messages flood in lightning quick. I’m pretty sure my friends are even more invested in the outcome of this date than I am.
SHYLA: Don’t die. It’s only a little exercise.
NAOISE: Have fun! We still on for later?
I’m going to her house after my date so we can work on fitting my prom dress. I can’t wait to see what she’s done so far.
ME: Very funny Shy. Yeah we’re still on. See you then!
HADLEY: Okay Dad’s calling me. Gotta go play. There’s youth council after church so I won’t see messages for a while but tell me EVERYTHING ok?
I don’t answer but shut my screen off and slip my phone into the waistband of my shorts. That’s another thing about exercise clothes: Where am I supposed to put my stuff? Would it be so hard for designers to throw some pockets into shorts?
“I better get going,” I say as I walk toward Nana. She’s still in her chair, embroidery hoop back in her hand, and she looks me up and down in one swift movement.
“You have fun, dear,” she says with a smirk.
I don’t like the look she’s giving me. “What?” I say.
Her smirk shifts into a full smile. “Nothing, dear. Don’t die out there, okay?”
“Ugh. Why do people keep saying that to me?” I mean, I know I’m not the most athletic person in the world, but I’m not going to die doing whatever it is Kenyon has planned.
At least, I hope not.
The Jeep is parked at the Fort Fisher Rec Office, backed in and facing the entrance to the parking lot. The top is off today, and it looks like it was made for the beach. Kenyon’s sitting on the hood, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and he lifts a hand in a casual wave as I pull into the lot.
He’s wearing a fitted V-neck shirt and slim board shorts, and… wow. He looks good. I’m suddenly even more self-conscious about my T-shirt and shorts. At least Nana’s adjustments made the outfit a bit nicer. I lean to the side, trying to catch a surreptitious glance in the rearview mirror. As far as I can tell, my hair is still looking good, and my lip gloss has just the right amount of shine to draw attention to my mouth. Perfect. But maybe I should’ve taken Nana up on that blush tip after all.
The sun is warm on my skin when I step out of my car, and a gentle ocean breeze flutters my ponytail around the side of my face. For a moment, I let myself close my eyes and inhale deeply, savoring the salty tang in the air. Then I make my way toward Kenyon, who drops off the Jeep hood and meets me halfway.
“Hey,” I say when we’re standing in front of each other, closer than normal. A smile pulls up the corners of my mouth as I look up at him. Warmth kindles in my chest, and I realize I missed him—not that I’m ready yet to figure out what that means.
“Hey yourself,” he says, his grin matching my own. “You ready to go? We gotta move if we want to beat the tide.”
I lean, peering around him toward the park office and what I can see of the beach beyond.
Kenyon gestures to the Jeep, his arm wide and dramatic. “Your chariot,” he says with a goofy half-bow.
Pulling my seat belt across my lap, I click it into place and ask, “Where are we going exactly?” The rec area is pretty much the last thing on the island, so I’m confused why he had me drive all the way here if we’re going somewhere else.
“I thought we’d take a bike ride,” he says.
“But I—”
“I borrowed my mom’s bike for you.” He jerks his head, and I follow the gesture toward the back of the Jeep, where—sure enough—two bikes are attached to a metal rack. Helmets, water bottles, and small backpacks fill the back seat.
“Okaaaay,” I say, drawing the word out. “But where?”
In response, Kenyon takes a sharp turn out of the parking lot and onto a road that’s not so much a street as it is an area of compacted sand in a road-like shape. Instinctively, I reach up and grab the Jeep’s metal framing for support. Kenyon laughs.
“Relax, Quin. I’ve got this. We used to go off-roading back in Colorado all the time. The sand is nothing this old girl can’t handle.”
We follow the road until, before long, it fades away and we’re left on the soft sand of a narrow beach. The Jeep’s rear end swerves and fishtails, but rather than the fear I expected, my stomach flips in exhilaration. Kenyon seems to be in total control of the vehicle, and I feel safe with him. I release my grip on the roll bar and flex my fingers one by one. When we lurch into a dip in the sand then bounce back out the other side, I give a loud whoop of excitement.
Kenyon wears the same excited expression on his face that I can feel on my own. I’d never known you could drive out on the sand like this. Of course, my car would probably get stuck about three feet onto the beach, but maybe Mom’s old truck could’ve handled this. She would have loved it too. She was the most adventurous of us all.
The sand is getting softer, the Jeep’s tires slipping more as the engine revs and whines, trying to keep up. Eventually, we come to a stop, and Kenyon pops the stick into neutral before setting the parking brake and cutting the engine.
“Well, looks like that’s as far as she’ll go. It’s all us now.”
We meet at the back of the Jeep, where I watch as he lowers the two bikes to the sand. I’ve never seen bikes with such fat tires before; they are almost comical, like they were designed from a kid’s drawing. Kenyon notices me staring and pushes one down with the palm of his hand.
“They’re better for the sand,” he explains. “You won’t have to work as hard.”
“Okay. You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
He’s bent over one of the bikes, pulling a bungee cord tightly around a small bag he’s attached to a rack at the back. Without looking up, he says, “Bald Head.”
“We can do that?”
“Of course, why couldn’t we?”
“Well,” I say, wondering what I’m missing. “For starters, it’s an island.”
He stands, laughing, and runs a hand through his hair. The movement lifts his shirt, and for a second, a sliver of tanned skin shows between his shorts and shirt. I try not to stare. “Didn’t you grow up here?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, the islands are connected. A hurricane closed the inlet, and we can ride across now.”
“Seriously?” I glance around the Jeep as if I’ll be able to see the stretch of sand all the way to Bald Head Island. “When did that happen?”
“Before we were even born. Hey—catch!” He tosses a helmet my way, and by the grace of Lucille, I manage to catch it with only a bit of fumbling. I stand there, holding it numbly, and watch Kenyon as he wraps a thin piece of fabric around his forehead before lowering his own helmet onto his head, fastening it with a sharp click.
“Oh, hey,” he says when he sees me staring, “let me help with that.”
He’s standing right in front of me faster than seems possible, reaching a hand toward my face. I freeze, standing like a statue as he stretches his arm out behind me and slips the ponytail elastic from my hair. My waves drop around my shoulders, free and wild. The ocean breeze whips them across my face, and a lock of hair sticks to my lip gloss. Great. That’s sexy.
“Sorry,” he says with a laugh, trying to free my hair. At some point, I convince my hands to move again and pull my hair into a low ponytail, where I hold it in my fist until Kenyon returns my elastic so I can secure it. By the time he places the helmet on the top of my head, I’m more than ready for this moment to be over.
Kenyon pulls a tube of sunscreen from his bag, and we both slather it on before strapping on hydration backpacks and climbing onto our bikes. It takes a few minutes for us to find our groove, but eventually we’re riding alongside each other down the wet sand toward Bald Head Island. The sun is hot on my shoulders, but the salty mist hitting my face keeps me comfortable. I close my eyes for as long as I dare, soaking in the peace of being alone on this beach with Kenyon.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asks, cutting through my reverie.
My eyes snap open. I’m riding so close to him that I’m surprised we didn’t crash. “Um, nothing,” I manage.
“Oh, come on. Nobody is ever thinking of absolutely nothing.”
“I was,” I insist. “My mind was one hundred percent empty.”
He laughs. “If you say so.”
“Well, what were you thinking about, Mr. Nobody-is-ever-thinking-of-nothing?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I watch him out of the corner of my eye as we ride along in silence. Apprehension slithers up my spine. I pull the mouthpiece of my hydro bag between my teeth to distract myself. The water is still cold, and I end up drinking more than I intended. I need to slow down; I can’t imagine there’s a toilet along this ride.
Finally, Kenyon sighs softly and says, “I was thinking… wondering really”—he hesitates, blowing breath between his lips in a long, steady exhale—“why we’ve never done this before?”
“This? Like bike to the island?”
“No, this.” He gestures back and forth between us. “Why haven’t we ever hung out outside of school? Gone out?”
“Well,” I say, “we’ve not exactly been friends.”
“I know. That’s what I was thinking about. Why is that?”
It’s clear what he’s really asking, the question he can’t quite bring himself to voice: Why have I been such a jerk to him since he moved here? Why did I write him off on day one as the enemy?
“I guess,” I say, drawing the words out to buy myself time, “I was threatened by you. I’ve been working since freshman year to get into Mr. Welles’s advanced film class, and here you come partway through first semester, waltzing in like you belong there.”
“It’s not like I—”
I cut him off, needing to finish this before I lose my nerve. “I know, I know. It wasn’t your fault. And you’re good, Kenyon. Really good. You should be in that class. But that didn’t make it any easier to have you swoop in and steal the attention.”
“Wow. I had no idea you had such a fragile ego, Quincy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a woman of mystery. Anyway, after a while, it became normal for us, you know?”
“What did?”
“Arguing. Fighting. It’s what we do. Or did, I guess.”
We fall silent, nothing but the sound of soft waves washing across the shoreline to keep us company. The tide is coming in, the bar of sand we’re riding narrowing by the minute, and a mild panic that we won’t make it to the island before the water totally covers our path starts to grip me.
“I have a confession,” he says, breaking through my worry.
“That’s a great way to start a conversation.”
“Okay,” he says, “here goes. I’m not in your group for Maybe, Probably by chance. I convinced Mr. Welles to let us work together.”
“You did? But why?” This makes no sense, especially since all we ever did was argue in class.
“Because you’re the best writer in the class. I knew your movie would be good, and I wanted to work on the best.” He throws me a quick smile. “Plus, Donovan told me you were trying to get the Blackmagic, and there’s very little I wouldn’t do to be able to work with that camera.”
His voice is teasing, so I match his tone. “Even work with your nemesis?”
“Especially that.”
chapter Seventeen
LESS THAN FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, WE REACH BALD Head Island, biking farther up the beach and away from the water. Kenyon slows, propping his bike up between his legs as it comes to a stop, and I drift next to him. Unfortunately, this bike is too big for me, and I can’t stand astride the middle bar. As I start to tip, I suppress a squeal and fling one leg over the bar, jumping into the sand. By some miracle, I don’t fall on my face, but I can’t say the same for my bike.
I can hear the laugh Kenyon tries but fails to keep muffled. “That was the most graceful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Shut up,” I grumble, but I can’t help but smile. “You’d fall, too, if you didn’t have daddy long legs.”
He pulls the bag off the bike rack and digs through it, eventually revealing a small rainbow packet, which he shakes until it expands into what looks like one of the parachutes we used to play with in gym class as kids. It settles onto the sand, then Kenyon turns back to the bag.
“You gonna stand there all day, or do you want to join me?”
He’s looking at me with an amused expression on his face, all raised eyebrows and half-smile, and oh. I’ve been staring at him this whole time. Standing here like a dork next to my fallen bike, watching this beautiful boy who’s full of surprises.
I make my way to the parachute blanket and settle onto the edge of it, sitting cross-legged. Kenyon tosses two bottles of some sort of juice onto it then lowers himself next to me with the bag in his lap. It’s not until he reaches in and pulls out a heavy paper take-out box that I see the bag is actually a cooler. He sets the box on the blanket in front of me then pulls a second one out for himself.
He pops open his box, so I do the same with mine. Inside is an assortment of food: a New England hot dog bun, toasted on both sides, a pile of lobster, a small plastic container with a yellow liquid in it, and a thick slice of cucumber.
“Oh my gosh, you brought lobster rolls?”
“No,” Kenyon replies, picking up his bun, “I brought all the stuff to assemble them. They’d get soggy if I brought them this far already put together.” He sets to work doing just that, stuffing the lobster into his bun and drizzling lemon butter over top.
“Where’d you even get this stuff?”
He shrugs. “Lobster Dogs had their truck out at Carolina Beach this morning, so I swung by and picked them up on my way to meet you. I also got”—he reaches back into the cooler and pulls out another container—“some of their pineapple cole—”
I snatch the new container from his hand before he can finish his sentence and pry the lid off. “This stuff is my favorite!”
He’s already eating his roll, so I assemble mine, adding a scoop of the coleslaw to the bottom of the bun before topping it with lobster. We eat in silence, looking out over the water as waves crash gently across the shore.
