Any Red-Blooded Girl (7 page)

I’m not sure what came over me then, but I
temporarily lost my mind. “Thanks a lot, Mom,” I spat. “And just so
you know, that boy who was just here—he’s my boyfriend. His name is
Mick, and he’s very nice. And I’m pretty sure I hurt his feelings
by pretending not to like him. But I
do
like him. I like him
a lot
. And you have no right to judge him, because he’s
never done anything to you. And he’s only sixteen, by the way. And
he’s not a gypsy, like you said he was. His family just travels
around and makes things. They’re like…entrepreneurs. And just
because people are different, that doesn’t make them bad. Mick
knows lots of things about butterflies and milkweed and Mexico and
cars. He’s a mechanic, you know. He fixes things. So, I swear to
God, the one and only thing I want for my birthday is for you and
Dad to butt out of my life and leave me alone.
That
’
s
what would really make me happy.”

I must say, on the lifetime scale of Flora
meltdowns, this one was quite ugly. And normally I’m pretty cool;
not much fazes me. But this time an emotional ripcord had been
pulled in my brain—only the parachute never opened, and I ended up
spiraling headlong into a dramatic crash.

While I tried to stop hyperventilating, I
noticed that my family had frozen shoulder-to-shoulder in complete
silence, and a bunch of annoying kids and a couple of nosy old
ladies had gathered in the road to watch me freak out. How
fantastic.

“All right, everyone,” I announced, as soon
as I could speak clearly again. “I’m okay. You can all relax.
There’s nothing else to see here.”

The old biddies left first, then the kids
trickled off. But my family remained stuck in their wax-statue
poses.
If I gave Will a push, would they all topple over like
dominos?
I wondered.

“Come on. I’m fine,” I repeated. “You can all
breathe now. I’m not gonna go postal. Really. I was just
upset.”

My mother was first to break the line. And as
she approached, I tried to imagine what she might say, how she
might react to my meltdown. Anger? Of course. I expected
that
. Punishment? Probably that too. Disappointment? Well,
that
was a given. But the one thing I never expected, the
thing I was least prepared for, was cruelty. Then, with a few
simple sentences, my loving mother—the woman who’d given birth to
me—squashed me like a bug.

“I just have a few questions about this new
boyfriend
of yours, Flora,” she started in a biting tone.
“You’ve known him how long? One day? And you know so much about him
already, do you?” A peep of sarcastic laughter escaped her lips.
“Clearly, you know a lot less about him than you think.”

“No,” I interrupted. “That’s not true. He’s
very honest,” I said, assuming she was still stuck on the whole
gypsy thing.

“I’m not suggesting he’s a liar. I’m just
saying you’re too naive to make a clear judgment in the matter.
This boy has bewitched you. You’re not thinking straight. A girl
like you needs to rely on her family to point her in the right
direction.”

“I do not!” I yelled.

“Well, Flora, we don’t have to look very far
for evidence of some really bad choices you’ve made, do we?” she
continued, as if I was going to join her in assassinating my
character. “For example, you lost out on Europe because you snuck
beer into the house. Certainly
that
wasn’t the smartest
thing you’ve ever done, was it?”

“That was Jimmy Bickford!” I cried. “I didn’t
even know about it!”

The Mental Hygienist shook her head and
smirked. “Blaming others is a sign of immaturity, Flora. You need
to take responsibility for things. That’s how you earn trust,” she
spewed, like she’d memorized it from an episode of Dr. Phil. “It’s
pretty obvious that your behavior has slipped into a destructive
pattern,” she went on. “You need guidance. And your father and I
are certainly not going to let you get involved with some character
who we know nothing about, some boy who travels around with a bunch
of weirdoes doing God only knows what. It doesn’t look good.”

“A bunch of weirdoes?!” I screeched. “My God,
you’re so superficial!”

I guess I should have left out the direct
slam, because it really seemed to have pressed the Mental
Hygienist’s buttons. “
I’m
superficial? Ha! That’s funny,”
she said. But she wasn’t actually laughing. Instead, she was
glaring daggers at me. “Obviously, Flora, you know nothing about
this boy,” she continued. “Yet you’re willing to stand here and
insult me? Well, I just have one question for you, smarty pants.
This boy—your new
boyfriend
—what is his name?”

“His name’s Mick,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Sheesh.” And
I
was supposed to be the dumb one here.

“I mean his
full
name,” she demanded.
“Unless you know so little about him that you don’t even know
that
. Because if you’re standing here arguing with me over a
boy whose name you don’t even know—well, that proves my point
exactly. You’re definitely not thinking straight, so…”

I hate to admit it, but the name thing
totally blindsided me. I glanced back at Mr. Tightwad and Golden
Boy, hoping for a last-minute reprieve from my mother’s
irrationality. But of course they were no help.

So I took a single step toward my mother. And
when she didn’t move, I shoved her aside with my forearm, which
made her stumble a little before she caught her balance.

And the crazy thing was, nobody stopped me.
In case my dad and Will just had delayed reflexes, though, I darted
around our tent and broke into an anxious jog down the dirt
road—and away from Tupelo-9.

Eight

WHEN I rounded the corner toward Mick’s, his
compound was again busy with activity: The redheaded twins (and a
young boy I didn’t recognize) sat cross-legged before a crackling
fire, spearing marshmallows with sharp twigs; two middle-aged women
strung laundry on a makeshift clothesline; and a trio of beautiful
young ladies huddled together over trays of polished stones.

I wondered about the three beauties. Were
they Mick’s cousins? I couldn’t remember what he’d said about them,
but they seemed very approachable.

I conjured my happy-to-meet-you smile.
“Ahem,” I croaked, hoping to draw the girls’ attention. But
apparently they were so entranced by their work that my existence
didn’t register. I tried again, “Ahem.”

In unison, the girls jerked their heads in my
direction, which was kind of jarring, really, since it made them
seem like puppets instead of real people.

“Um, hi. I’m Flora,” I squeaked. “I’m looking
for Mick. Is he here?”

The girl in the middle perked up. “Oh, Flora,
it’s nice to meet you,” she said, hopping up and offering me her
hand. “I’m Mick’s cousin, Penny. And these are my sisters, Helen
and Abby.”

“Hi,” the sisters chirped in harmony, as I
clutched Penny’s outstretched fingers.

But just then a curious sight in the distance
caught my eye. “Hi. Nice to meet you,” I mumbled, distracted. “Um,
are those Mick’s parents?” I asked, pointing out an attractive
woman with lush red hair and a hot older guy with Mick’s raven
locks and lean, muscular build.

“Uh-huh. That’s Stella and Cy…and Jo-Jo and
Kat and Sean,” Penny confirmed, rattling off the list of names with
a little laugh.

“Sean? Is he your brother?” I pried, still
trying to arrange the labels on Mick’s family tree.

“No. Sean is Cal’s brother,” Penny explained.
“They’re Billie’s kids.
Our
brother is Donny. But he’s not
here right now. He went fishin’.”

My mind was swimming with names, but I was
still pretty sure I’d connected a few dots. And if I’d connected
them right, the boy with the marshmallows was the brother of Cal
the Creeper, and Donny the fisherman was the other card player I’d
tripped over at the rest area.

“So…did you say Mick was here?” I asked
again, attempting to get myself back on track.

Penny pushed a small pair of pliers across
the table to her sister. “Oh, yeah. He’s out back working. Come on.
I’ll show you.”

With my happy-go-lucky new friend in the
lead, we slipped out of the compound and into the trees. And that’s
where we found Mick working on some horribly complicated automotive
task involving nuts and bolts and metal and rubber and wires
and…

“There you go,” Penny said with an approving
grin. “He’s all yours.”

“Uh…thanks.”

Mick must have heard us coming, because when
I took a step toward him, he crushed me with his sad, hurt
eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I was wrong. I like
you. I
love
you. I didn’t mean what I said before. I just
said it because of my parents. Forgive me?” I begged.

Without a word, he swallowed me in his
strong, muscular arms. And from the tight, hungry way he squeezed,
I knew he not only forgave me, but he also loved me back. As hard
as it was to believe, the most exquisite creature on earth belonged
to me. Flora Fontain. Little Miss Ordinary.

I let out one of those little sucking gasps
people sometimes make in the middle of a good cry. “Shh…” Mick
cooed, kissing little circles around my eyes and stroking my hair.
Meanwhile, I clamped my arms around his waist like a needy toddler.
And we stayed like that—stuck in an understanding, apologetic
embrace—until the sadness between us dissolved into sweet,
unadulterated love.

“Wanna go for a swim?” he asked, once things
had finally shifted out of crisis mode.

Even though I wanted to move on, I was still
stuck on what my mother had said. “What’s your name?” I asked.

He squinted and blinked. “Huh?”

“I know it’s Mick, but Mick
what?
” I
asked again. “What’s your
last
name? You never told me, and
my mother made me feel like an idiot for not knowing.”

He chuckled. “It’s Donovan. Mickey Donovan,”
he said. “If you want my full
legal
name, it’s actually
Mickey Reed Donovan. I guess you probably should know it, just in
case we run off and get married or something,” he joked with a
wide, perfectly-crooked grin.

So his first name was Mickey. I’d sort of
been right about that, at least. “Reed? What does that mean?” I
asked. It sounded sort of nature-y and a little bit
hippie
ish,
like my middle name: Moon. “Isn’t it
something…botanical? Like some kind of plant or something?”

“Very good,” Mick said, sounding impressed.
“It’s a type of tall grass that grows in the wetlands.” He paused
for a moment, then said, “You know, you never answered me about the
swimming.”

The sun was still lingering on the horizon,
and I could tell it was going to be one of those oppressive nights
where, at home, we wouldn’t have even been able to crack a window
for fear of suffocating. Perfect swimming weather.

“Sure,” I agreed. “But do you know any
private spots? I mean, my parents are probably still pretty ticked
at me about the fit I threw earlier, so I’m trying to fly under the
radar.”

“I haven’t had much time to explore, since
I’ve been a bit
preoccupied,
” he said with a wink. “But
Donny did mention a good fishing spot. A cove past the main
beach
.
We could try that.”

I tiptoed up, slung my arms around his
shoulders, and planted a soft peck on his cheek. “Perfect.”

“Here we are,” Mick said, as our feet hit the
grainy sand. He paused to survey the area. “It looks like Donny was
right about this place,” he said, nodding in approval. “It’s very
secluded.”

“It’s gorgeous!” I gushed. “I love it!”

Like I said, I’m normally an
indoor
girl. And back in Punxsutawney, that’s pretty much where I stay.
But the way the sky over the lake dissolved from pink to yellow to
orange—like a fabulous painting by one of those dead French
guys—well, you’d have to be dead yourself not to appreciate the
beauty of it.

At the edge of the water, I dipped my toes
in, expecting a shock of cold. But instead, a gush of slippery
warmth washed over me. “Come here. Try it,” I prodded. “It’s nice.
I swear.”

For some unknown reason, my sweet boyfriend
had stopped to arrange our towels side by side on the beach, which
was very cute but not all that important—unless, of course, he was
channeling the way old people push their beds together when they
want to do it. If
that’s
what he was up to, I guess I might
have to reconsider the significance of the move.

So as my thoughts drifted from dead French
guys to geezer sexcapades, Mick approached me from behind, cinched
his arms around my waist, and tilted his head to my ear. “It
is
very pretty here,” he murmured. “But I’d rather stare at
you
for eternity.” With absolute precision, he delivered a
pair of shivery, ticklish kisses to my neck.

“Mmm,” I purred, melting into a pile of
humming happiness. “Me too. Stare at
you,
I mean.”

“Well, we could do that,” he offered. “Or we
could get wet. It’s up to you.”

On that tantalizing note, he spun me around
to face him. And that’s when I discovered he was naked from the
waist up. From the waist down, he was sporting only a small pair of
olive green shorts with white trim.

Confused, I glanced back at our towels, only
to discover Mick’s ripped jeans and plaid shirt crumpled in a pile.
Apparently the man of my dreams had stripped bare behind me while
I’d contemplated trivialities. It figured.

Annoyed about the missed ogling opportunity,
I decided, “I wanna swim.” But the problem was, I had nothing to
wear. After all, I was still technically on the lam, which left few
choices in the swimwear department.

I could skinny dip (but I wouldn’t in a
million years). I could do the whole
bra-and-underwear-as-bathing-suit thing (which was pretty tacky, if
you asked me). Or I could just jump in wearing the shorts and tank
top I already had on (but then I’d have no dry clothes for later).
My options were dismal.