The Firefly Effect (7 page)

With that, he shuts the door right in my face.

8th grade

Stephanie and I are comparing our new schedules on the first day of school when who should come slinking down the hallway but Shane the Pain and his equally disgusting minion, Craig. Too bad their families didn’t get transferred to Brazil over the summer. Frankly, I’m surprised either of those two goons managed to pass seventh grade.

Come to think of it, I don’t know how they managed to get past kindergarten. You'd think a person would have to possess an IQ above single digits to figure out how to stay in the lines when coloring.

“’Sup, hookers.” Smirking, the Pain slows his pace as he and his shadow approach us. “Lookin’ for a street corner to hang out on?”

Lowering my schedule, I narrow my eyes and shoot him the dirtiest look I can muster. “You again. Terrific. I was hoping you got caught in an undertow or something.”

The insult is wasted because he doesn’t appear to even hear it. Instead his eyes are glued to my pink Hello Kitty t-shirt. What the heck is he staring at? Self-consciously I look down, wondering if I spilled something down the front of it.

Elbowing Craig in the ribs, Shane grins lewdly. “Damn, girl – what’d you do, hide your morning grapefruit in your bra?”

What?!

“No!” Mortified, I fold my arms just beneath my chest. While it’s true I had a growth spurt over the summer, I didn’t think it was as noticeable as all that. And they most certainly didn’t get
that
big! I look desperately to Stephanie for backup, but she doesn’t seem to know what to say either.

“Somebody musta fed you a lotta carrots then. ’Cause…wow. That’s some major boobage you got goin’ on there.”

“Aw man, she’s prob’ly stuffing,” Craig suggests, even though the whole time he has his eyes trained on Hello Kitty’s ears as well.

“I am not!” God, could these two be any more obnoxious? Right now I'm wishing I had a sweater to put on, but it’s still August and ninety degrees outside.

“Guess I won’t be able to call you Mosquito Bite anymore, will I?” He finally lifts his gaze to meet mine, and I’m surprised to see that his eyes are actually quite pretty. Darker than I expected. A glossy shade of brown that’s almost black.

Funny how I never noticed that before. Maybe because I never really paid that much attention to what his face looks like up close.

Eww, am I actually standing here thinking about Shane Becker’s eyes? Barf in a Birkenstock! Who cares what he looks like? He’s a walking, talking maggot!

“Maybe we should start calling her Dolly Parton instead,” Craig is snickering.

“This from someone whose face could stop traffic,” I scoff back. “As a matter of fact, I think it did. Head on.”

Stephanie finally decides to speak up. Better late than never, I suppose. “Why don’t you go bother someone else? Nobody here is interested in your ignorant opinions.”

“Was I talking to you, Ste-fanny?”

“Hey, we were just pointing out the obvious.” Shoving both hands in the pockets of his ratty jeans, Shane cocks an eyebrow and gives me a deliberately innocent look. “Sorry if the truth hurts, Dolly.”

“Well, the truth is you’re a pig,” I inform him.

“
Both
of you,” Stephanie adds.

“Takes one to know one, lard-ass,” Craig calls cheerfully over his shoulder as they turn their backs on us and continue on their merry way.

I’m not sure which one of us he’s referring to, but since neither of us is fat I decide it isn’t worth worrying about.

“Those two are
so
gonna end up in prison,” Stephanie predicts. “And when it happens, I’m gonna be the first one there on visiting day laughing in their faces.”

“Are they really that big?” I ask, straightening my shirt and looking down anxiously. “Tell me the truth. I want to know.” All this time I thought they looked good, was proud of them even, but now those two dimwits have me wondering if I’m some kind of big-boobied circus freak.

“No. I mean, they’re bigger than they were last year, yeah, but it’s not like that’s a bad thing. Don’t listen to them. You look fine.”

“Swear?”

“I swear.”

“Really, they’re not too big?”

“Are you kidding me? No, for the last time they’re not too big!” she reassures me, laughing at my paranoia. “You’re not gonna start obsessing about this, are you? I promise, cross my heart, you have no reason to be insecure. You’re gorgeous. Anyway, look at it like this – they’re pretty much the same size as mine.”

“Why didn’t they say anything to you, then?”

“Um, probably because they’re about as bright as an underground cave at midnight. Duh.” Linking her arm in mine, she says, “Come on, let’s get to homeroom.”

We have to pass by the goon squad to get to our room, and I avoid looking in their direction. They just want attention and I won't give them the satisfaction of knowing how much they bug me.

But to my dismay, just as we walk past they both burst into song. If you can even call it that. All I hear is two horrible, earsplitting voices belting out some painfully off-key Broadway tune. And before I know it, just about everyone in the entire school is being treated to a really sucky rendition of
Hello Dolly: The Musical
.

One of these days I’m going to murder Shane Becker.

I'm not even kidding. So help me God, I'm going to kill him.

In fifth period, Kim Barlow passes me a note that says
Craig Masterson told me at lunch that he likes you.

Ugh. Maybe if I cry and beg, I can convince my parents to move to Brazil.

~ Chapter Eight ~

Ironically, even after a long night of tossing and turning, I manage to roll out of bed before the source of my insomnia is up and stirring.

Maybe she had trouble sleeping as well.

The house is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, so I switch on the TV to drown out the silence. I want to check the weather, anyway. The news is both bad and good – the hurricane has strengthened to a strong category two, but the latest forecast now has it heading in a more westerly direction. We might not get a direct hit after all. Still, the eastern side of the storm always carries the highest potential for tornadoes so we need to be prepared in the event of bad weather.

I’m scrounging around in the kitchen looking for coffee fifteen minutes later when Melanie comes sashaying in. Apparently she’s just showered because her hair is still wet, and when she breezes past me to snag a Pepsi from the fridge I get a quick whiff of whatever fruity-scented shampoo she used. Or maybe it’s lotion or something, I don’t know. All I know is, she smells damn good. Good enough to eat.

If I’m not mistaken, that ambition was number four on the list I made somewhere around tenth grade.
Things I Want To Do To Melanie Lane.
Manufactured and stored only in my mind, of course, because I would just as soon have slept on the railroad tracks before I’d ever confess that I was secretly crushing on her.

“Good morning.” Figure I might as well break the ice first. As usual.

“Morning.” Popping the top on the soda, she eyes me warily while taking a sip. Through the yellow tank top she’s wearing, I can vaguely make out the contours of her bra, which brings last night’s intoxicating image back into my head. Both of them.

Down, boy. It’s way too early for this.

“Where do you keep the coffee?” I ask, reluctantly pulling my eyes away from the delectable curves that I want to bury my face in.

“I don’t,” she responds coolly.

“What, you mean you’re out?”

“No. I never had any. I don’t typically drink coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee?” I thought all writers were addicted to coffee. Not sure why, it just seems to fit the profile. Isn’t it kind of a stereotype that authors like to write in coffee shops?

“Is there an echo in here? No, I don’t drink coffee. Unless it's covered with whipped cream and made by a barista.” With a defiant lift of her chin, she adds, “Should’ve brought your own. I’m not responsible for supplying you with your Maxwell House or whatever.”

“I never expected you to. Actually I was planning to go to the store in just a little while.”

“Good. There’s one about three hundred miles that way.” She jerks her thumb in the direction of the interstate. “By all means, take your time.”

Damn. Is she always this bitchy in the morning, or is it just me? “Well, at least
you’re
having a healthy breakfast,” I joke, indicating the soft drink in her hand. It feels like a small victory when she finally relinquishes a smile.

“Never said I wasn’t a slave to caffeine.”

“Then you better come shopping with me. If you’re this pleasant now, I’d hate to see what happens when you run out.” Leaning into the fridge, I grab a Pepsi for myself before straightening to ask, “Do you mind?”

Her eyes dart away from me quickly as she shakes her head back and forth just a little too zealously. Her cheeks are flushed and I could swear she has a guilty expression on her face.

Did I seriously just catch her checking out my ass?

“I…um, I guess I do need to pick up a few things,” she relents, playing with the tab on her soda can. “Especially if we’re supposed to get bad weather.”

I decide it's best to keep things neutral for now. She's like a nervous cat – one wrong move and I'll scare her off. “I need to pick up some batteries. There’s a lantern and a couple of flashlights in the utility room, I think, unless Leah’s done something with them. And we should probably get some bottled water.”

She merely nods and takes another sip of her drink, avoiding my gaze altogether. What is she thinking? And why is she so damn jumpy? I wish I could figure out what's going on in her head. One minute I think she's into me and the next, she acts as if my mere presence disgusts her.

I'm a stubborn man, though. And I am far from done with this ripe little peach. One taste was not enough. She may as well get used to having me around because I am not leaving here until I have thoroughly and effectively fucked every ounce of contempt right out of her.

But for now, I will maintain a respectable distance.

“I better go make sure they’re still there.”

“Make sure what's still there?” She seems distracted.

“The flashlights.” Quickly gulping down half my Pepsi, I leave the can on the counter and head out to the garage. The lantern and flashlights are still where I left them, so I bring them inside. Then I gather up the patio chairs and stack them in the utility room along with the table. The gas grill and trash can are the only things left outside that are likely to blow away, so after I move those inside the garage I'm done securing the yard.

Before coming back inside, I take a moment to study the sky. The azure blue is splotched with billowy cumulus clouds, the only harbinger of the powerful storm that’s slowly churning closer. The day is eerily still, the atmosphere stifling and humid. There’s not so much as a breath of air to stir the leaves that hang limply in the heat. Kind of a paradox, considering what’s coming. According to the weather channel, we should start feeling the effects in about thirty-six hours. If this thing continues to increase in strength I might need to consider taking Melanie away from here, whether she likes it or not.