The Stillburrow Crush (11 page)

"Who wrote these?" I said, turning the page.

Luke glanced up. "I did."

I stopped reading.
"You
wrote this?"

He nodded.

I shook my head. "I don't get it. Your secret is poems?"

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He jerked to his feet then. "Never mind," he said, reaching for his notebook. But I held it away from him. He gave me a warning look. I, of course, ignored it.

"No, I guess you don't get it," he said, letting me win the notebook war. He took a huge step back, as if he needed space before he exploded. "I'm a football player. A tough guy.

I'm not supposed to write sissy poetry. Everyone would think I'm gay."

"Not every male poet is gay," I said. "What about Shakespeare? Robert Frost? E. E. Cummings? Lord Byron?

Now he was a real ladies' man."

"He didn't grow up in Stillburrow, either," Luke said.

I shrugged, because he was right. That would be the first assumption folks around these parts would make if they knew he leaned toward artistic pursuits.

"But it's not just that," he said. "My father expects me to go into business. To be a banker, like him."

"So be a banker," I said. "You can still write poetry on the side. That way if your work never sells, at least you have banking to fall back on."

Luke ran a hand through his hair, turned in a circle and came back to face me. "And I'm scared," he said.

My eyebrows shot up when I heard this quiet admission.

"This is important to me. I mean I really, really like doing it. And I didn't want to show it to someone and find out I'm bad. That's why I've been bugging you so much." He sat down on the bed again. When he looked up at me, his eyes were pleading and my heart fell directly at his feet.

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"I didn't dare take it to a teacher. It had to be someone my age. And you're the best writer in the whole school, Carrie. You'd know if it was any good or not. Plus I've learned you're extremely honest. You wouldn't lie to me." He looked at the notebook in my hands. "So what do you think?"

Suddenly, it felt like I was holding the Holy Grail in my grasp. This was Luke Carter's heart and soul. If I told him it was bad, it would break his spirit. But could I be completely honest? I mean, I had a crush on the guy. I'd tell him I loved any piece of rubbish he wrote to make him feel better.

All right, all right, I wouldn't. I can't deny the truth. To be honest, I was suddenly jealous.

It wasn't fair. Luke Carter had the money. He had the popularity. He was already the football star. And what did I have? Writing was my only claim to fame and now he wanted that too? If anyone read these poems, they'd stop calling me

"The Stillburrow Writer" and suddenly Luke would be Mr.

Shakespeare himself. I couldn't tell him how good he was.

But I couldn't tell him he was bad, either.

Talk about being stuck in a bad situation, huh?

And then an idea hit me. "Why don't we let the students of Stillburrow decide?"

His eyebrows crinkled in distrust. "What do you mean?"

I flipped open the notebook and scanned more poems.

"Why don't we put a few sample pieces in the paper?" When his mouth opened in an instant refusal, I quickly added,

"Anonymously, of course. I'll make it a survey on the editor's page. I can say that an unnamed poet would like the public's 101

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opinion on his or her work. 'Please reply with your thoughts on these poems.'"

Luke seemed to deliberate. I decided to put on a little more pressure. "I
could
tell you what I think about them. But that's just one person's point of view. What you really need, Luke, is a lot of opinions."

Luke had his hands clasped together and was holding them close to his mouth. His blue gaze was riveted toward me.

"And you won't tell anyone who wrote them?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

He stood up, licked his lips, and then held out his hand.

"We've got a deal, then."

For the second time in my life, I shook hands with Luke Carter. "I don't think you'll be disappointed," I said. "And just in case you're a big hit, we shouldn't put in your best poem first. Remember, an audience always expects a better performance the next time."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eight

I loved the smell of newspapers hot off the press. OK, OK, by the time we got the paper back from the printing press at Paulbrook, it was cooled down. But I still loved the smell of the ink and the texture of paper under my fingers. I loved holding the first copy in my hand, and I loved the anticipation.

There was nothing like opening the cover and taking the first look at something I helped create. It was usually the bright spot of my whole week.

I also liked standing in the front hall on Friday mornings to pass out copies to students walking by. And every Friday right after school, I hand delivered the newest issue to a few old folks in town who were avid readers. My last stop on this delivery route was usually my Aunt Kay's house.

My great aunt, Kay Burke, lived in the nice section of town.

Actually she lived with her nephew, my mom's brother, Uncle Stan. But when I went there, it was usually to visit Aunt Kay so I called it her house. Aunt Kay was my surrogate grandmother. She'd been the town's spinster librarian up until a few years ago when she'd fallen shelving books one evening and broken her hip. Now she was retired. But back in the day, she'd devoted her life to researching information for Stillburrow.

She had one brother and that had been Mom's dad. And since she'd never married or had kids of her own, she spoiled her brother's children. First Uncle Stan had been born. Aunt 103

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Kay had given him a $1,000 savings bond on his first birthday. And then came Andrea, my mother. But Grandma Burke died giving birth to Mom. So Aunt Kay moved in and helped her brother, Grandpa Burke, raise his two kids. She stayed with Grandpa even after Mom and Uncle Stan moved out, staying with him until he died. After Grandpa's death, she bought a little brown dachshund dog, which she named Chigger, to keep her company.

But a few years ago, about the time Aunt Kay broke her hip, Uncle Stan, who'd been living in Paulbrook with his wife and daughter, got a divorce. He'd decided to buy a house here in Stillburrow and have Aunt Kay and Chigger live with him. And every other weekend his twelve-year-old daughter, Jordan, stayed there as well.

Uncle Stan's house was huge. It was two stories high with six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a basement, and an in-ground pool in the backyard. I was envious. But then, Burke had always been a respectable name in town. Mom had really messed up when she'd hitched herself to Dad. Of course, she'd been in high school and it probably seemed exciting to date a guy seven years older than she was. I once overheard that Grandpa Burke almost disowned Mom when she came up pregnant with Marty. But Aunt Kay stepped in and smoothed down the ruffled feathers.

Still, I don't remember Mom and Grandpa ever talking when I was young. She'd always drop Marty and me off to visit and then leave. A few hours later she'd return to pick us up. We'd wobble back to the car, stuffed with Aunt Kay's snickerdoodles and ready for a nap. But after Grandpa died, 104

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Mom stayed around during our snickerdoodle visits to chat with Aunt Kay. I never thought that was odd until I got older and learned how to listen to gossip.

Anyway, Aunt Kay lived with Uncle Stan and Chigger and sometimes Jordan. Directly across the street from her lived the president of the bank. The Carters also had a two-story house with a front circle drive. Theirs was bigger than Uncle Stan's house though, and had a three-car garage attached to it. I couldn't help but stare at it every time I went to visit Aunt Kay. I almost tripped on Uncle Stan's front porch steps I was so busy examining Luke's house.

It was a Friday afternoon. Jordan had just come to visit the weekend before so she wasn't due to show up for another seven days. I caught my footing and turned away from Luke's house, trying not to wonder if he was home.

The Central Record
had published his first poem in that day's paper. Here's a clipping from my editor's column:

* * * *

It's time for the good students of Stillburrow to become literary critics. One citizen, who wishes to remain anonymous, is interested in pursuing a career in writing poetry. But our mystery poet would like to know if he or she possesses any actual talent. So let's give Anonymous our honest opinions, good or bad. Just drop off a short review of what you think of his or her work in the journalism room to let us know how you feel. And now here is a sample piece. Drum roll please: Hibernation

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Still deep I burrow, waiting for tomorrow.

Closed off, I bear. The open elements don't care.

Laid here in this nest, dormant now I rest, Aching to live and roam, though still burrowed in my tomb.

When time brings my spring, maybe I'll rise like a king.

—Anonymous

I'd already received plenty of feedback to Luke's masterpiece. And just as I'd thought, they all loved him. It hurt knowing I'd lost my standing in the writing department.

No one would picture me anymore when they thought of the town's writer. They would now think of this new mysterious poet.

But I was also proud. The man I had a crush on was living out his dream. He was a local star poet already. And he was destined for better things.

I knew he'd probably be looking me up any time now, eager to know what everyone thought. I was going to have fun stringing him along. I felt it was my duty to make him sweat it out as long as I possibly could before letting him see the replies. I smiled just thinking about my next round with Luke Carter.

I knocked on Aunt Kay's front door and waited. I could hear Chigger barking inside, his long toenails clicking against the hardwood floor as he came running. I couldn't resist one more peek toward the Carter House, though. I stared up at the windows and wondered which one was his room. But then Aunt Kay opened the screen door behind me and I turned back to greet her. Chigger jumped up and his paws landed on my shinbone as I stepped inside.

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"My favorite grand-niece," Aunt Kay said, and immediately gave me a pillowy hug. Chigger sniffed at the brown paper bag in my hand. I lifted it out of his reach and handed it as well as a copy of
The Central Record
to Aunt Kay.

"Happy Birthday," I said.

"Oh, my goodness. Is it that time of year again?" Like a giddy child, Aunt Kay opened the bag. I tossed the paper on an end table and watched my great aunt inhale the hot air coming out of the opened sack. The aroma that spilled out of it about had Chigger going crazy. He jumped and barked, his long body flailing and twisting in the air with each bound.

"Down, boy." Aunt Kay wiggled her finger at him but she didn't close the bag. Instead, she pulled out a still-warm doughnut and took a huge bite. Her favorite food had always been glazed doughnuts. She closed her eyes and moaned as she chewed. When she opened them again to look at me, I read the thanks on her face.

"Mom will be over after her hair appointment," I said.

Aunt Kay rolled her eyes and said with her mouth full, "I swear, your daddy might've paid off his shop by now with all the money Andrea's put into fixing her hair."

I laughed because it was the truth and watched my great aunt stuff her mouth with another bite. Chigger had opted to jump on my leg and whine while staring up at me with begging eyes.

"Mom's got another gift for you. The doughnuts are from me and Marty."

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Aunt Kay nodded. This time she finished her bite before saying, "And where is that boy? I don't think I've seen him since summer."

"He's..." I was trying to come up with an excuse for my brother when I realized what I was doing. Why should I make excuses for him? "He's an idiot," I finally answered. "He doesn't go to visit Mom and Dad, either. I guess he thinks he's too good for his family anymore."

"He sounds just like his mother. I heard about him moving out. And he's working at the grocery store, is it?"

"Yep." I nodded. "He looks really stupid in that little apron he's got to wear. But that hasn't stopped Abby Eggrow from giving him the goo-goo eyes."

"Eggrow? You mean the principal's girl?"

Again, I nodded. "She's the older one."

Here's where I should pause and say I never gossip...until I hit Aunt Kay's company. There's just something confidential about being around her that makes me want to spill every piece of information I know.

"He's been dating her for a few months now," I went on.

"Isn't she still in school?"

"She's a senior this year. Next year, she's going to Paulbrook for a pre-med degree. She's going to work her way up into being a doctor. The principal and his wife won't shut up about how proud of her they are. She'll be the first doctor in the family."

Aunt Kay didn't seem all that impressed. "And how is it she fell into Martin's company?"

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"Well, Abby's been working at the grocery store as well.

Her uncle, John Getty, gave her a job there. I guess she's going to rent some apartment off campus next semester and she wanted some money to buy furniture and that sort of stuff for it."

"I suppose her parents will be paying for her education and the apartment, then?"

I rolled my eyes. "Of course."

"I see." Aunt Kay looked down her nose at me. She disapproved of parents paying their children's way through college. She said that at age eighteen, the child was an adult and should fend for him- or herself, as she had done. And look at her, master's degree in tow, paid for by her own sweat and toil.