Once Again (4 page)

Sliding into the seat next to him, I searched
for something witty to say. Small-talk under pressure had never
been my forte.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m happy to report that I
haven’t seen Miller-the-idiot this morning.”

My words sounded ridiculous. Inane. I
should’ve stopped with “hey”. Suddenly the fluorescent lights
seemed like heat lamps as I felt my face heat from awkwardness.

“You won’t see him down this hall a lot,”
Lucas chuckled. “He’s not much into the advanced courses.”

I took that to mean that Miller was either
stupid or lazy, or a combination of both.

Lucas continued. “Your dad owns the big music
store downtown, right?”

Again, he surprised me with the knowledge he
already had about my life. Of course, Sky Cove wasn’t a huge
metropolis, so he’d probably just heard it around town. It didn’t
mean he was interested enough to go searching for information about
me on his own.

“Right,” I answered, reaching in my backpack
for my book and the folder I’d labeled for this class. Looking back
at him, I couldn’t resist a lingering look at his deep brown eyes.
Since I was looking straight at him, I figured I better say
something else. I decided on my dad’s new slogan. “Vintage and new
guitars and amps, and everything else you might need to start a
rock band.”

Actually, my dad was now the owner of String
City, a thriving business specializing in guitars, both new and
old. Kind of strange to find a booming music store in the middle of
small-town Maine, but the place had built a reputation over the
years, and people were willing to travel to do business here. The
previous owner was a guitarist my dad met in Nashville. He’d been
in town often to do studio work, which is how my dad knew him. When
he decided to move near his daughter and grandkids in Texas, he
offered to sell the store to my dad.

And my dad was thrilled. Studio work was
beginning to dry up for him as a new generation of musicians
emerged, and he wanted out of the rat race anyway. A guitar store
was the perfect fit for him.

“It’s a really cool place,” Lucas said.
“People come from everywhere to buy guitars there.”

I nodded. “One of the many reasons my parents
decided to buy it.”

“Do you play?” he asked.

I stifled a laugh, but not a grin, as I shook
my head. “Uh, no. My dad’s tried to teach me a few things, but I
don’t really have a gift for guitar the way he does.”

He smiled at me. “Well, I know nothing about
guitar, so you should show me what you’ve learned sometime.”

I struggled not to crack up. As if I’d ever
let him hear me fumble around with a guitar!

Mrs. Chadwick stood up to take attendance,
just as the warning bell rang, and curbed our conversation.

Over the
course of the next couple of weeks, Luke and I settled in to a
pattern of chatting before class. After our day off for Labor Day,
he’d been in the parking lot after school each afternoon, and
walked me to my car. The breezes became more and more blustery as
summer pushed toward autumn, and the girly part of me found it
terribly romantic to walk through the wind with Luke.

Of course, he was always on the way to
cross-country practice, and I forced myself to acknowledge that his
running was the only reason we ran into each other as I left
school.

Despite my internal struggles to keep all
things Lucas in the proper perspective, I discovered his reputation
for being a nice guy was absolutely warranted. Whatever iffy
feeling he’d had about me that first morning of school seemed to
have disappeared. But I continued to be confused by his attention.
He hadn’t been anything more than friendly, but it all seemed very
strange. High school boys weren’t supposed to be friendly. They
were either interested or uninterested, for a variety of reasons
that usually had nothing whatsoever to do with the type of person
you really were.

And besides, I was so ordinary, and Lucas was
so...
not
ordinary.

Our quasi-friendship hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Jessie was constantly interested in what Luke and I talked about. I
assured her over and over again it was nothing - that we talked
only because we happened to be in lit class together. But she was
certain more was going on and successfully swayed Marsha and
Tiffany to her way of thinking.

Most of the time I just rolled my eyes at
them when they suggested Lucas was interested in me as more than a
friendly acquaintance.

But apparently, other kids had started to
notice as well. Several times, when Lucas walked me to my car in
the afternoon, his normal crowd of people – fellow runners Corey
Jacobs and Will Harlow, I’d learned - just waved at him from across
they way, rather than trying to get his attention or convince him
to join them.

I’d never been the object of so much
speculation in all my life. I felt uncomfortable with the attention
I was attracting, but secretly thrilled during those moments when
Luke chose me over his buddies. It was stupid, this crazy mix of
feelings I had going on.

Even Kara, attempted to gain his attention
without success, though her efforts were a little less conspicuous.
The best I’d been able to figure out, without asking him outright,
he and she were not getting back together.

Which made me happy. Which, in turn, pissed
me off at myself.

And yes, I had to admit, I’d called Adrienne,
several times, and given her the scoop on Lucas. I thought it
couldn’t hurt, since she was like ten states away. I missed her,
but the “miss” was getting less and less the more I became a part
of Sky Cove.

So, my first two weeks at Sky Cove Senior
High were both easier and weirder than I imagined they would
be.

It was my end-of-the-day locker stop that
turned unfortunate, yet so very typical.

The piece of notebook paper taped to my
locker read “Tennessee Hillbilly”.

Fantastic. How long had that been there? I
hadn’t been to my locker since just after lunch, and nausea
threatened as I thought about how many people could’ve seen the
insult and had a laugh at my expense. It shouldn’t matter. It
shouldn’t bother me. I
hated
that it did.

Looking around, the few kids in the hallway
all seemed occupied with their own stuff. I grabbed the paper as
nonchalantly as possible, and wadded it up.

Several lockers down, a girl named Phoebe,
who had a very dark personality despite her sunny blond hair and
seemed to like the “grunge” style of clothing, glanced over and
said, “People in this school suck.”

I figured she probably knew.

I tossed the wad of paper in the garbage on
my way out of the building.

And so, the Friday of my second week ended,
in many ways, the same as my first day. A few nice people, a lot of
strangers, and a stupid teenage prank. Although, I did have to be a
bit thankful it wasn’t Miller-the-idiot and his vulgar joke this
time.

Walking to my car, the afternoon sun was
still warm, the heat of it a pleasant hum on my skin. And Lucas was
there, taking my backpack and tossing it into the backseat.

I chose to forget about the hillbilly sign.
Well, I chose to
try
and forget about it.

“So, you have big plans this weekend?” he
asked.

“Not really.” I fumbled around with my keys,
taking longer than usual to unlock my door. Why was he asking about
my weekend plans? “I work at the store on Saturdays until three,
and after work Jessie and I are studying for our first chemistry
test.”

I opened my door, but instead of getting in,
I turned back toward him.

“I remember Mr. Hartley’s tests from last
year,” he said. “They can be lengthy.”

“I was afraid of that,” I laughed.
“Fortunately, Jessie’s good at it, so maybe she can help me get
prepared. You have plans?”

“Cross-country meet this afternoon,” he said.
“First one of the season.”

“Wow. Good luck, then.”

“Thanks,” Lucas nodded. He put his hands in
his pockets and looked down at the ground, a kind of awkward
gesture I hadn’t seen from him before. “And listen, when you have
the time, if you want a tour of the town, let me know. I’ll be
happy to show you around.”

My brain broke in half, into two distinct and
very different pieces. One part wanted desperately to believe Lucas
was asking me out, because he liked me in
that
way. My heart
hammered wildly, and my breath became shaky. The second part of my
brain shouted loudly at the first part, declaring my stupidity at
even considering such a ludicrous idea, furthermore ordering my
heart to get itself under control.

In the end, I decided to believe the second
part. It was much safer that way.

“Thanks,” I replied, forcing my tone of voice
to show absolutely no enthusiasm. At least I hoped so. “Maybe
sometime.”

He studied me for a second, and I wondered if
I’d offended him. I mean, he’d seemed kind of nervous when he’d
said it. As much as I didn’t want my imagination running away with
my heart in tow, I also didn’t want to make him upset at me.

“I wanted to thank you again,” I began. “Not
just for rescuing me from Miller that first day, but also for being
so nice to me. I didn’t think I’d be able to make new friends this
quickly.”

“Well, you have.” He smiled, pulling my
driver’s door open wider. “See you soon, Layla.”

My name, spoken in his caramel smooth voice
made my insides melt.

I cranked my car, but didn’t pull out right
away. Instead I pretended to dial my cell phone while I watched him
walk away, black polo tucked into perfectly distressed blue jeans
with a black, D-ring canvas belt at his waist.

And that first part of my brain went haywire
all over again.

On my
way to String City the following morning, I decided to take a
scenic drive through town. Dad had gone in to open the store at
nine o’clock, but he didn’t expect me in until ten. Even now, the
morning fog still lingered, gray and smoky, and atmospheric as all
get out.

So, I took my time, winding my way through
some of the old neighborhoods on my way to downtown Sky Cove.

The houses were beautiful, painted in both
vibrant colors and bright whites. Many of them been carefully
restored by owners who took great pride in their homes.

At the far end of Old Birch Lane a house
stood alone, separated from the rest of the neighborhood. Swirled
with fog, but still visible, I could tell it was older than the
rest, both by the size and the look. It had a sort of character the
other houses did not.

I couldn’t help but slow down as I drove
past. My foot moved to the brake almost of its own volition.

The house itself was nothing special. The
black shutters stood in stark contrast to the chipping white paint.
The main part of the house was an undersized rectangle, with a door
in the center of the long wall and two windows on either side of
the door. There was no porch or even a stoop with an overhang. An
even smaller rectangle room – it couldn’t have been any larger than
a little bedroom – was attached to the main part of the house. One
door and two tiny windows provided access to it.

From the road, I could make out two
outbuildings behind the house. Both looked to be nothing more than
shacks, and I wondered if the ramshackle look of them was natural
or due in large part to painstaking restoration.

For a long moment, I stared at the house. It
seemed beautiful to me, even though it was nothing compared to the
other houses in the neighborhood. And, though I’d never seen it
before, I felt a familiar connection to it I could not explain.

Inside me, strange emotions bumped into each
other. It was as if I were stepping into a whirlpool of longing and
joy and uncertainty and foreboding. Everything around me came into
sharp focus. I was intensely aware of the cinnamon flavor of my
chewing gum, the feel of the cool air coming from the vents, the
sounds of the music coming from my car stereo. I felt my mind
memorizing the moment for future reference.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
I accelerated slightly, pausing to appreciate the blueness of the
sky and the cottony white clouds. Passing the driveway to the small
little house that had captured my attention, I noticed it was an
antique store. How appropriate, I thought, for the house that was
obviously the oldest one in the neighborhood to be a showplace for
treasures that had been seasoned with time.

I made a mental note to visit the Emerson
House of Antiques as soon as possible. Like tomorrow.

For reasons I could not begin to fathom, I
wanted to get inside that house.

***

My five-hour shift, which included a
thirty-minute lunch break, had been productive. I’d swept the
hardwood floors and dusted the counter and the shelves until the
place smelled of homey, lemon furniture polish. I’d also helped Dad
sell a beginner guitar to a young kid and his father, as well as a
pricey Gibson Les Paul to a guitarist from down in Biddeford.

String City had a real vintage vibe, and not
just from the classic guitars my dad had in stock. The dark
hardwood on the floor and the light oak paneling on the walls gave
the place an inviting appearance, and though Dad had a computer for
ringing up purchases and printing receipts, he’d kept the old cash
register on the counter, just for looks.

At three o’clock, I headed out the front
door. My car was parallel parked a few spaces down from the
storefront, and as I walked down the wide sidewalk, I looked
around. It was pretty cool, to see the way people stopped and
talked, or waved at each other from opposite sides of the street.
People in Sky Cove knew one another.

Energy buzzed here, unlike anything I’d known
before. Was it just the newness of life here that made me notice,
or was there a magic in Sky Cove that didn’t exist elsewhere?