Any Red-Blooded Girl (5 page)

So what I did next was another testament to
my inexperienced flakiness. At full speed, I ran up and tackled my
should-be boyfriend to the ground. I swear, it was supposed to be a
hug, not a football play. But I lost my balance, and then he lost
his and…well, the rest was history.

“Wow,” Mick said, once we’d finally caught
our breath. “That was brutal. You should definitely try out for the
Steelers.”

“Pittsburgh? I don’t know. I was thinking
maybe more like the Dolphins,” I joked. “You know, Miami. Fun in
the sun. That kind of thing.”

He pulled me up from the ground with both
hands. And while I brushed the dirt and debris off my clothes, he
helped pick the stray pine needles out of my hair. How
romantic.

“But you’re from Pennsylvania, right?” he
asked.

Boy, this guy paid attention. He must have
checked out the tags on the Maroon Monstrosity, which just so
happened to match my home state.

“Yup, Punxsutawney.”

“Groundhog land, huh? That’s a nice place. A
little small, but nice. And friendly.”

“You’ve been to Punxsutawney?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve been just about
everywhere.”

“You have?” I said, surprised. After all, I’d
been just about nowhere.

“How about a walk?” Mick suggested. “There’s
a small stream behind the campground.” He pointed a coarse finger
toward the edge of the woods. “And a nature trail. Walk with me,
and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Nature? I reiterate my previous statement:
It’s out to get us. But for Mick, I’d take the chance. “Okay, let’s
walk,” I agreed. Because honestly, I’d rather die of a poisonous
snake bite than miss the opportunity to be alone with my own
personal stud-muffin in a secluded make out spot.

I reached for Mick’s hand, and he let me take
it—which was a good thing, since I’m quite the klutz. I mean, at
least if I was holding onto him, I might not end up face-first in
the dirt. And if I did, he’d be down there with me and we’d both be
dirty.

“So you were in Punxsutawney?” I asked again,
still curious about what had brought him to my hometown (and
secretly wondering if I might have run into him somewhere along the
way).

“Uh-huh. About three years ago,” he said. “At
a Christmas fair at the old armory building. Do you know where that
is?”

“I think so. There used to be a dance program
in the basement when I was little—if it’s the place I’m thinking of
anyway. I took about four or five ballet classes there, but then I
quit.”

Mick frowned. “Why?”

“Short attention span,” I said with a
chuckle. “I think I have ADD.”

“I bet you were a beautiful ballerina,” he
said, gently squeezing my hand. “Maybe you’ll try it again
someday?”

“There’s probably a better chance of me
landing on the moon,” I joked. “But hey, you never know.” I paused
for a moment, just in case he wanted to suggest I’d make a great
astronaut too. But I guess he had to draw a line somewhere. “So why
were you in Punxsutawney?” I pried further. “I mean, I know you
said for a Christmas fair, but why Punxsutawney? And why have you
been so many places anyway?”

Mick took a deep breath, like I’d bombarded
him with so many questions he’d better stock up on oxygen. “My
life’s a bit different, Flora,” he started, then hesitated. “My
family’s…unusual.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. Unusual was good.

He continued, “See, we’re a bit like nomads.
We’re rambunctious. We have adventure in our blood. My mother calls
it wanderlust,” he explained. “And we’re the third generation of
our family to live this way. To surrender to wanderlust.”

“Okay…but what does that mean exactly? What
do you do?” So far, the idea of rambunctious adventurers
surrendering to wanderlust sounded intriguing, but I needed more to
go on.

“Well, basically we work for ourselves doing
arts and crafts out of our campers. And we travel around to fairs,
flea markets, and art expos—all over the country—selling our work.
My cousins make Irish stone jewelry. My mother knits. My father
runs the business side of things. And I keep all the vehicles on
the road. Oh, and I work with leather too. I made this belt.”

He lifted up his shirt so I could get a good
look at the rugged, perfectly sculpted creation that caressed his
rugged, perfectly sculpted waist, at which point I let out an
involuntary sound—sort of a combination of a delighted pig-squeal
and a shocked gasp—that made him grin with satisfaction.

“You like my work, I see,” he said with a
chuckle. “Good. I’m glad.”

“It’s gorgeous. I love it,” I fawned. “You’re
so talented.”

As I glanced down at Mick’s big, rough
hand—which almost swallowed mine whole—suddenly the dirt and
calluses made sense. He was a mechanic. And an artist. Tough
and
sensitive. Honestly, I was getting moist just thinking
about it.

When I looked back up, Mick was mesmerized by
something just off the trail—maybe a plant, or flower, or small
animal. Gently, he tugged me along behind him, as we crunched off
the path toward the edge of the forest.

Guiding my hand to a strange, oblong pod that
looked like a cross between a baby cucumber and an overstuffed pea,
he said, “It’s milkweed.” Slowly, he moved my fingers over the
prickly looking surface. And I must admit, I was pleasantly
surprised. Instead of being sharp and bristly like I’d expected,
the thing was soft as velvet.

“This is milkweed?” I asked. Again, I know
nothing about nature.

Mick snapped the pod from the plant, causing
some gooey white liquid to ooze from the fracture. “Sure is. Isn’t
it cool?” he said, awestruck.

I nodded so he wouldn’t be offended, but in
reality, I wasn’t totally convinced about the coolness of
milkweed—that was, until Mick tore the pod open to reveal something
wonderful: silky strands of iridescent stuffing that reminded me of
raw cotton. He drew a pinch of the fluffy white stuff and placed it
in my hand.

“This is really neat,” I said, legitly
impressed.

“Those are the seeds,” he explained. “But
what I like most about milkweed is that Monarch butterflies lay
their eggs on it. And after they hatch, they travel thousands of
miles to the hills of Mexico. That’s where I fell in love with
them. In Michoacán. Every year, they fly by the millions to a
butterfly sanctuary there. I swear, Flora, I’ve seen trees so full
of butterflies you couldn’t even see the branches. It was like the
whole tree could just flap its wings and fly away.”

I was floored. On top of all his other
attractive qualities, Mick was smart too. He knew things most
adults probably didn’t know. He’d seen things I’d never even
imagined seeing.

“Did you say Mexico?” I asked. Even though I
was still processing the butterfly-milkweed information, something
about Mexico rang a bell in the back of my brain.

“Yeah, Michoacán. The Monarchs fly to the
hilltops there every year around the Day of the Dead,” Mick said.
“The Mexican people believe the butterflies are the souls of their
family and friends returning to them.”

“I’ve been to Mexico once,” I said. “When I
was like seven or eight. My grandmother lives there.”

Mick’s eyes lit up. “We should go then. We
should see the Monarchs. It would be so beautiful, Flora,” he said,
slinging his arm around my shoulder. “And we could visit your
grandmother. We could do it this year. We still have time—a couple
of months—to plan. Say you’ll you go with me to Michoacán.”

How could I possibly agree to run away with
him to a foreign country? I mean, we weren’t even officially dating
yet. The question was so heavy on my brain that it went blank. Shut
down. Fried.

“Are you a gypsy?” I asked, partly to deflect
his question and partly out of genuine curiosity. After all, if he
was
a gypsy, it would explain why he thought I could
disappear from my life at a moment’s notice.

“A gypsy? No,” he said, shaking his head and
grinning. “But I’ve been accused of it plenty of times by people
who don’t understand my family. They assume we’re bad people, just
because we’re not like them. It gets a bit tiring after a
while.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“That’s okay. You didn’t know. And I don’t
blame you for asking. You must have lots of questions about how we
live. It’s very unique.”

Up ahead, a rickety footbridge spanned a
bubbling brook. Mick let go of me so we could cross single file,
but once we were safely on the other side, he looped his muscular
arm around my waist and pulled me in for a close hug. And
immediately I forgot about gypsies, butterflies, Mexico. All I
could do was
feel
. Feel his heart thumping flush against my
chest. Feel his hot breath in my ear. Feel his soft, inviting lips
flex against my…forehead?

Damn. A sweet, gentle peck on the head.
That
was supposed to happen yesterday. Today we’d walked and
talked and even considered running away together, which made this a
lip-locking, tongue-twirling, make-him-my-boyfriend kind of
day.

Now because of what happened next, I’m
obligated to issue a warning: Never, ever kiss a boy for the first
time with your eyes closed. I swear, this advice would have saved
me a lot of trouble if I’d had it beforehand. Because Mick was all
nuzzled into my neck when I tilted my head to the spot where I
thought the sloppy, wet magic would happen, only to discover—a few
seconds too late—that my mouth had connected not with his luscious
lips but somewhere along his jaw line. And at first I didn’t even
notice. That’s right, I aggressively made out with my
almost-boyfriend’s chin. And even though it was humiliating, I sort
of wish I could have seen the look on Mick’s face as I sucked
obliviously away. It must have been priceless.

It’s weird how sometimes it’s the things you
least expect that end up mattering most. Case in point: Mick’s
reaction to my off-target kissing. Before I made the moronic move,
I would have described our attraction as a combination of extreme
lust and absolute like, which to most people sounds like love but
really isn’t. Something has to happen to fuse the
lust
and
the
like
together. There has to be a trigger. A catalyst.
For me, the catalyst was Mick’s reaction to my off-target kissing.
Anyone but him probably would’ve laughed at my stupidity or made a
production out of wiping the slobber off his face. But Mick didn’t
even pull away. Instead, he tenderly took my face in his hands and
guided my lips to his.

And when our mouths were a mere millimeter
apart, he whispered, “Will you be my girlfriend?” Without waiting
for a response, he pressed his moist, supple lips to mine.

Meanwhile, I futilely tried to nod my
acceptance of his offer. But even though I was having communication
problems, I was pretty sure he knew I wanted to be his girlfriend
anyway from the feverish kissing. Honest to God, the way he
devoured me was so intense I could taste sex hormones in my
saliva—unless, of course, lack of oxygen to my brain was just
making me delusional. Lucky me, I was too love-drunk to tell the
difference.

Six

WHEN Mick and I finally
un
locked our
lips, I couldn’t stop smiling. I was happy-as-a-lark,
over-the-moon, on-cloud-nine ecstatic. And Mick seemed just as
thrilled, but in a slightly less dopey, less obvious way.

“So would you like to meet my parents?” he
offered, as we exited the far end of the nature trail hand in
hand.

“Sure,” I said. What the hell. Even if it was
still a bad idea for him to meet my parents, I saw no good reason
why I couldn’t meet his parents. After all, they had to be at least
halfway decent to have such a wonderful son.

Speaking of parents…

I turned my attention to dreaming up excuses
to feed Mr. Tightwad and the Mental Hygienist when I returned to
camp. Because even though they could be pretty gullible, they’d
never actually believe I’d spent two hours in the bathroom like I’d
threatened to.

I was thinking wild animals. Maybe I could
convince them that a bear, or a coyote, or even a rabid raccoon had
cornered me and held me hostage.

Mick squeezed my hand. “Hey, we’re here. This
is it,” he said.

“Oh, sorry. I guess I spaced out for a minute
there.”

He grinned, like he found my flakiness
endearing. “That’s all right. You ready?”

Ready? How ready did I need to be? Suddenly
that one little word made me nervous. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I
said with a jittery laugh.

Then my new boyfriend and I strolled right
into the heart of his family’s compound. And I must say, the place
was—in a word—interesting. Spanning the perimeters of at least
three or four campsites were numerous trucks, SUVs, and campers
that had all seen better days. Total, I counted seven ragged
vehicles. But what stood out most about the place was the incessant
buzz of activity.

At the back of the compound, the redheaded
twins I’d seen the day before were Hula-Hooping with oversized,
glittery hoops. To the left, a plumpish woman about my mother’s age
was cooking something delicious on a big charcoal grill. And at a
dilapidated picnic table by the woods, the two young guys I’d
tripped over at the rest area were hunched together over a laptop
computer.

I was still drinking in the scene, when Mick
reached for the door of a small RV. “Ladies first,” he said,
stepping aside.

“What? No. You go,” I pleaded. Honestly, the
thought of coming face-to-face with my boyfriend’s parents for the
first time in such a confined space made me physically ill. I mean,
at least if Mick took the lead, I could hide behind him to avoid
direct scrutiny.

“If you insist,” he agreed. “But don’t say I
didn’t offer.”

We climbed the single metal step to the RV’s
living room, but it was immediately clear that the place was empty.
Mick’s parents weren’t home after all.