Nathan grinned, feeling guilty that he hadn’t helped Skeet solve his problem with the jocks. “Want to knock a few balls around tomorrow? It’s been a while and I’m not good, but you’ll get some practice in.”
“Hey, that would be cool.” Skeet flashed a grateful smile as the first bell sounded. “I work the early shift at the store, so I’ll be off by three o’clock.” He bagged groceries for spending money—and to stay out of his house as much as possible.
Nathan sprinted off, rounded a corner and ran smack into Lisa Lindstrom. He grabbed her arm to steady her. “Wow, sorry!”
She twisted away as if he’d burned her. “Hands off.”
He stepped back. “I—I didn’t mean …”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you blushing?”
Nathan’s neck and cheeks felt hot. “No!”
“It sure looks like you are.”
Their gazes locked and he was startled to see that her eyes were blue-violet. He’d never seen eyes that color before. “Is blushing a crime?”
“No crime,” she said quietly. “Sort of refreshing, really.”
“Well golly, gee whiz, I’ll have to remember to do it more often.”
Her expression hardened. “Don’t bother. The charm is gone.”
She turned and he felt a second of panic. He had been talking to her and now he’d put her off with a smart-aleck remark. Bad move. He caught up with her in a couple of strides. “Didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. Sorry.”
She stopped again. “You sit behind me in Fuller’s class, don’t you.”
“Guilty as charged. Nathan Malone, which is Gaelic for ‘he who blushes freely.’ ”
She suppressed a smile, making his heart beat faster. If he could keep her talking … “Um—you got your assignment?”
“I always have my assignments for his class. He’s the only teacher in this place worth his paycheck.”
“Really?”
“He was teaching college and stepped down to high school because college freshmen were so ill prepared. He figured he’d better come back to the source and do the job right. Plenty of people want to take his class, but only a few make it in.”
“How does one make it in?”
“Test scores and ability to write. How do you not know that? Are you new? Living under a rock?”
“Yes to both questions. I’ve been homeschooled up until now.” She studied him with an intensity that made his mouth go dry. He added, “Ever since sixth grade.”
“Six years of homeschooling?”
“My mom has a degree in education, so she’s good at it.”
He willed her to ask more questions, but the tardy bell buzzed.
“You’re late to class,” she said. “You’ll get a black mark.” She turned, headed into a girls’ bathroom.
“You’re late too,” he called. “Won’t you get a tardy?”
“The difference between us, Malone, is that I don’t care.”
“I don’t care either,” he called as she disappeared into the bathroom.
“Liar!” he heard her say through the door.
And she was right. Nathan didn’t want any black marks on his record. He didn’t want to have to return to being homeschooled. From this moment on, he had one goal: to look into Lisa Lindstrom’s blue-violet eyes every day for the rest of the year.
When Nathan walked into Fuller’s class, Lisa was nowhere around. He wondered if she had skipped the whole day. He didn’t have time to dwell on it because the first thing Fuller did was take up the writing assignments, and then announce that they were going to begin a study of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century poets. “Because I know all of you have read Beowulf and Shakespeare until you’re sick to death of them,” he said. His gravelly voice dripped sarcasm.
Actually, Nathan had read those works, but he wouldn’t have admitted it publicly. Too nerdy, even for an advanced class. He fought to concentrate the whole fifty minutes, but his thoughts kept drifting to Lisa. Where was she? Why hadn’t she shown up, or turned in her assignment after telling him that she never missed turning them in? Fuller’s class only admitted top students, and it was a class she’d said she liked. Nathan was forced to assume that she really didn’t care. What he couldn’t figure out was why.
After school, he dropped off Skeet at the grocery store where he worked and drove home. His mother wasn’t inside, and when he peeked into the nursery, the twins were sound asleep. He grabbed a bag of chips and strolled into the backyard, where he found her in her grubby gardening clothes planting a bush.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Fine. Isn’t it early to be planting the beds?” He knew she planted annuals twice a year, but the summer begonias still looked bright and healthy, and the weather hadn’t turned cool enough to plant pansies. He knew because her large well-groomed gardens were expertly tended despite the birth of the babies, and because he helped her keep them that way.
“The nursery had only a few pink camellia bushes, so I had to buy one before they were gone.” She shoveled aside a scoop of red Georgia clay.
Suddenly Nathan remembered. It was September, and she always planted something special and showy in September. “So that’s what you picked out this year—a camellia?” he asked, catching himself, hoping she hadn’t noticed he’d forgotten the date.
She leaned on the shovel, exertion showing on her face. “It’s a new variety. Pale pink that darkens as it opens. And it’s all right, Nate. I don’t expect you to remember the way I do.”
Her voice was kind, but still he felt bad. “I—I can help dig the hole.”
“No. I like digging the hole.” A shadow crossed her face. “It’s therapeutic, you know.”
He wanted to say, But Mom, it’s been fourteen years. Instead, he said, “Well, if you change your mind.”
“Just listen for the twins to wake up. It’s close to another feeding time.” She wiped her brow, smearing a swatch of red soil across her forehead. “Of course, it’s always close to a feeding time these days.”
Nathan smiled because he knew that’s what she needed him to do. Which was one of the basic problems he found about being homeschooled—they knew each other too well. Nathan jogged back to the house, grateful that she had Abby and Audrey now. It would make it easier for him when it came his time to leave next year. At least, he hoped it would, because he wasn’t living at home while attending college like she wanted. He was determined to move, no matter how difficult the uprooting.
Certain that boredom was going to make him go crazy, Nathan busied himself over the weekend with chores and playing guitar. He knocked the tennis ball around with Skeet on the public courts, and took a hard whack in the side when he heard the sound of a motorcycle and looked over to the road in anticipation that it might be Lisa. It wasn’t. The only truly bad thing that happened was when Skeet came over Sunday evening sporting a bright red handprint on the side of his face.
“What happened?” Nathan asked, knowing the answer already.
“My old man said I smarted off to him.”
“Want to stay the night?”
Skeet shook his head. “I’ll just wait until he has a few beers and falls asleep. I’ll clear out before he’s even up in the morning.”
“Come have breakfast.”
“Your mom still cook those big feasts?” Skeet had come over many times for a hot breakfast when he was younger and locked outside.
“What can I say? Supermom lives right here in Atlanta.”
“I’ll be here.” Skeet picked up the game controller from the coffee table and punched up one of Nathan’s video games. “Got time to play one?”
“Sure.”
They sat in concentrated silence until long after Nathan’s parents had turned off the lights upstairs and gone to bed, the steady action of the game taking both of them out of their real worlds and into another world, more adventurous and, for Skeet, far safer.
On Monday morning, Nathan watched Lisa dismount her cycle a
nd the driver speed off. She hoisted her backpack and headed toward the building, passing a group of ballplayers on the way. They made kissing sounds that she ignored, flashed them the finger when they made remarks Nathan couldn’t hear. He wondered if she’d show up to Fuller’s class since she hadn’t handed in an assignment on Friday. Fuller had made it very clear that if the assignments weren’t handed in on time, he wouldn’t accept them at all, and since the work counted for a third of each student’s grade, it was in a student’s best interest to hand them in on time.
Lisa did show for the class, and Nathan nodded at her when he caught her eye. She took her seat and he was left to stare at her thick chestnut hair laced with the scent of fresh oranges—like a Creamsicle, he thought.
Standing at his podium, Fuller said, “The first business of the day is to read the best paper turned in on Friday.” He flipped open a manila folder and Nathan’s mouth went dry. Would the piece be his? He had thought it the best creative writing he’d ever done, an essay about the role of music in everyday life.
“Let me begin by saying that most of you did very ordinary writing—a situation I hope to correct as we are immersed in good writing by great masters and thinkers from the past. Only one standout in this first bunch.”
Nathan’s heart thudded. Fuller leaned over the podium. “The writer is number four-five-four.” Nathan’s heart sank. “The piece is a free-form poem titled ‘Wings to Fly.’ ” Nathan slumped in his chair and Fuller began to read:
I have fashioned wings of wax and feathers and carefully formed them as things of beauty. And utility.
Snow white.
Pale yellow.
They glow like cat’s eyes.
And I have tied the wings to my thin, earthbound arms, and found a place
on a high rock from which to hurl myself.
I’ll pass just above the sea, being careful not to let the feathers drench.
I’ll pass low away from the sun and suddenly I a flying, flying.
And I wait for night to fall so that I can fly higher.
Suddenly this space is too safe.
And night will come too dark.
For if I only fly and do not soar, how will I know the universe
How will I know what lies inside. Of me?
For starlight is pale and far away.
Stars prick darkness but are not warm.
And so I choose to soar. Upward into blue-lit sky and closer to the sun until I feel the wax dripping, melting, trickling into the sea of glass-still water.
And yet, unafraid, I fly straight toward the sun.
Straight toward the Son.
Will I be caught?
Or will I melt into the sea below?
Fuller looked up at the hushed classroom, his expression intense. He walked to the blackboard and wrote the final few lines for them to see. Nathan was struck by the different spellings of sun/Son, each with a different meaning, and by the imagery that linked them.
Fuller continued. “I leave each of you to ponder the mind-set of this writer and to glean the message there for all of us.” He returned to his podium, tucked the paper into the folder. Nathan yearned to hear this teacher read one of his pieces with such reverence. “And please note, there wasn’t a four-letter word in the piece. Ladies and gentlemen, English is an amazing language, full of both plentiful and beautiful words. Several of you peppered your work with four-letter words. Why? Shock value? Do you think I don’t know these words? Frankly, I think using them shows weakness of mind and lack of talent. Stretch yourselves, writers. Make me care about your pubescent thoughts in poetic language, not gutter-speak.”
Students shuffled feet and shifted at their desks. Nathan cut his eyes sideways on the chance that the writer might subtly reveal himself with a look of pride or embarrassment or satisfaction, but all expressions were merely curious.
When the class was over, Nathan scooped up his books, walked quickly to catch up with Lisa in the crowded halls. “How are you doing?” he asked, falling in step beside her. She looked at him, startled. Did no one even dare speak to the Great Lisa?
“Why do you ask?”
Her question caught him off guard. Usually people said, “Fine” or “Life sucks” or anything other than “Why do you ask.” He said, “I mean, you weren’t in class Friday. I thought maybe something happened.”
“Are you my social secretary, Malone?”
At least she remembered his name. “You said you liked Fuller’s class, but you didn’t show. I thought maybe something went wrong. It’s an inquiry, not an inquisition.”
“I had an appointment,” she said quickly. “Nothing sinister.”
After an awkward moment, he asked, “So, who do you think writer four-five-four is?”
“Was it yours?”
“I wish.”
“It was okay,” she said with a shrug.
“The reference to classical mythology was a nice touch. And the use of sun with two meanings was pretty cool.”
She stopped and foot traffic flowed around them. “You read mythology, Malone? Or did you pick it up from Saturday morning cartoons?”
He felt color seep into his neck at her put-down. He didn’t understand why she was being so caustic and unfriendly. “I’ve read a lot of the old Greek and Roman stories. And I thought the poem Fuller read was deep. Didn’t you?” He held her gaze like a firebrand, determined not to let her get away with it.
She blinked, turned. “I like mythology too. Not sure if I liked the poem. I’ve got to go.”
He stepped in front of her. “Homeschooling isn’t a free ride, you know. I had to work hard and pass regular performance tests. I think public school—this school—is a cakewalk. Kids don’t seem like they care much about their classes, and most of them can’t carry on a conversation beyond next week’s football game or who’s dating whom.”
She didn’t respond right away, but he could tell he’d gotten her attention. “Don’t think that I feel like homeschooling is inferior to this, because I don’t.” She sounded apologetic. “I think you’re lucky to have been able to be homeschooled. It implies somebody cares for you.”
“Are you saying nobody cares for you?”
The halls were almost empty now and she took a few steps backward toward the outside door. “Wrong assumption, Malone.”
It had been a stupid thing for him to ask. Of course somebody cared about her. She probably had a hundred somebodies who cared about her. He screwed up his courage. “Want to talk about it over coffee sometime? I can call you.”
“A date?” she asked.
“Why not? Pick a time and place.”
“I don’t date.”
He watched her step through the doorway into the bright afternoon sunlight. The motorcycle was waiting, and this time Nathan saw the driver more clearly: a lanky man with muscular arms and chest, work boots and dirty jeans. He wore a dark helmet and his long hair stuck out from under it. He handed Lisa a helmet and she slung her leg over the Harley’s seat, slipped her book bag onto her back. The man gunned the motor, kicked off from the curb. Nathan watched the cycle speed away.
Nathan told Skeet all that had happened on the ride home. Skeet listened and didn’t remind him about his prediction that Nathan would tumble for Lisa. “Takes courage to ask, man.”
“I don’t believe she doesn’t date,” Nathan grumbled.
“Hey, here’s something to cheer you up. Crestwater’s playing Highland Friday night, and Highland’s better. Which means that Roddy has a good chance of getting his butt kicked. Want to come watch with me?”
“Why not.” Nathan’s disdain for the jocks had grown over the past few days. They really did act as if they were a superior breed when he knew they weren’t. Rumor was that two had paid underclassmen to write papers for them, and if their teachers knew about it, they let it slide.
“And”—Skeet drummed on the dashboard—“rumor is there’s going to be a party after. Location to be revealed.”
An
illegal party. Nathan knew his parents would never let him go. But then, why should he have to tell them? He was perfectly capable of attending a party without getting into trouble. It was about time that he struck out on his own, blew off steam and had some fun.
Lisa Lindstrom was unable to pinpoint the exact moment Nathan Malone came on her radar; she just knew that she slowly became aware of him, like a buzz one starts to hear in a quiet room. One minute all is silent, then a sound begins to break through a person’s subconscious and annoys until the person has to stop what she’s doing and go find the source. She tried to ignore him, this noise, but one day he broke through—she looked up and saw the most incredible blue eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes, staring at her. Nathan’s eyes.
She determined to steer clear, keep him at arm’s length as she did so many others, which would have been easier if she hadn’t sensed intelligence and sensitivity behind his eyes. Why couldn’t he be self-absorbed like Roddy and his jock friends? Or shy? Or avant garde and far out like the goths? Instead he was lean, dark-haired and blue-eyed—an apparition sent to bedevil her when she had no time for it.
“Is that the guy?” Charlie Terry asked Friday afternoon when Lisa climbed onto the back of the cycle.
“What guy?”
“The one staring at you from the doorway.”
Lisa disliked the teasing tone in Charlie’s voice. “I should have kept my mouth shut and never mentioned him to you.”
“Why? I’m in favor of you finding somebody good enough for you.”
“Sorry. It’s not on my to-do list.” Lisa shoved on a helmet, fastened the chin strap.
“It should be.”
“Well, it isn’t.”
“You’re being stubborn, Lisa.”
“My life. My choice.” Charlie was dirty from the construction site where he worked, but she wrapped her arms around his chest anyway. “We leaving or sitting here all day?”
Charlie gunned the engine and kicked off from the curb.
By the start of the fourth quarter, it was evident that Highland was the better football team. Crestwater’s cheerleaders attempted to whip up the crowd, but enthusiasm was low. “Go team!” Skeet shouted.