The Stillburrow Crush (3 page)

Almost everything's on Main Street, except for a few biggies. We have three churches not on Main as well as the park (which is deserted ten months of the year), the library, Dean's Auto Shop—that also serves as a used car lot—and the school.

The school's the heart of the town.

Stillburrow focuses its attention on its children. Stillburrow Education Center, also known as SEC, holds classes from kindergarten through twelfth grade. The grade school is on the east end of the building and the high school is on the west. Years ago, the city built a sports complex, with a track, football field, gymnasium, and ball diamond for the school.

It's not next to the school building but is located just outside 23

The Stillburrow Crush

by Linda Kage

town on Still Road. Most towns have a sign introducing their city with a population number under it. But not us. We have the SEC Sports Complex with its manicured lawns and impressive, lighted stadium.

Like I said, Stillburrow prides itself on its younger generation.

But we don't start our education at SEC. Mrs. Eggrow, the principal's wife, runs the preschool across the street from SEC

in a yellow two-story house, where many children learn to read and write before they walk. Actually, all the parents in town seemed to be in one big competition to see who'd end up with the brightest kid.

Mrs. Wallace was sure her daughter, Theresa, would become a famous actress. Theresa was a senior when I was in third grade. I can still remember how she glowed on stage.

That was the year the drama club had six plays and sold out every seat in the auditorium each production. And Theresa did get pretty far. She made it all the way to Hollywood before she fell in with the wrong group of people and died on an acid trip. I remember how school was let out that day, as well, and everyone in town attended the funeral. Up until this year, she was our big tragedy.

After Theresa's death, the competition over star children died off for a while. Most kids graduated and stuck around Stillburrow, or went off to Paulbrook.

Then a couple of years ago it all started again. It seemed a few kids around town showed special talent in their field of expertise. There was Timmy Newell, the football coach's son, who could play the trumpet like he was a member of the New 24

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York Symphony. His twin sister, Brenda, had a singing voice that could make you cry to hear. Coach Newell was a little put off when his kids turned out to be more musical than athletic but that didn't stop his thick chest from swelling each time someone complimented him for his children's abilities.

Rick Getty—who was going steady with Brenda—could paint like Andrew Wyeth. Jill Anderson, the late Theresa Wallace's niece, tried her hand at acting though she wasn't as talented as her aunt had been. And Luke Carter was the best quarterback the town had ever seen. His dad was president of the bank and most town folk had their hopes set high on Luke.

Mom tried to talk me up for being the editor of
The Central
Record
. It was only the school's paper, but since the town didn't have a newspaper of its own, everyone subscribed to
The Central Record
and read it like it was the town paper.

Mom thought I'd make it big someday with my writing. And that was my dream too, to be a star investigative reporter in some big city, becoming nationally famous. But I was only the town mechanic's girl and not too widely known.

I didn't mind who I was. I was proud of my father. He was honest and owned his own business, which was impressive in my eyes. I didn't care if the mortgage on the house was maxed out or if the bank owned over half his shop. Most people still looked down on my parents because they had married right before my mom graduated from high school, when she found out she was pregnant with Marty. But that's a small town for you. People give out their gossip and their snooty opinions like they're the Word of God.

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Once upon a time, I thought such prejudices against people were so old fashioned they no longer existed, but then I grew old enough to hear and understand more. And yes, they're still around. They are in Stillburrow, anyhow.

Mom tried to overcome the "scandal" by being the perfect housewife, like she could scrub away her past. So I grew up in a clean home. Well, OK, maybe clean is too mild a word for it. Sterile would fit better. I didn't know what dirt was until I was five and asked my dad what all that brown stuff was in the grass outside. Mom also thought if she attended every PTO meeting, if she had her hair done every week at Georgia Anderson's Hair Salon, or if she volunteered to bring food to every potluck dinner, she'd be accepted. But she claimed people still talked behind her back.

Dad just shrugged her worries off, doing and saying exactly what he would've done anyway. People still gave him their business but when they walked away from his shop, Mom said they would shake their heads and whisper, "It's a shame what he and that pretty little Andrea Burke (that's my mom) did back when she was a senior in high school."

Dad was a hard-working man and I helped him sometimes in his shop. I'd only started doing this recently, though. Marty used to be his right-hand man. But since the parents in town had started back into the competitive spirit, Mom had been putting pressure on Marty, and they'd had a falling out a few months before. So after a pretty loud yelling match between my mother and brother, Marty moved out and was currently living in an old rundown shack with his friend, Austin Fitz.

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Like I've already mentioned, Marty started working at Getty's General. Dad gave him a hard time for being a grocery store clerk at twenty-three. But I don't think it was Marty's life ambition to become one. It just turned out that way. Both Mom and Dad thought he could be so much more.

I, on the other hand, had my doubts.

Since he'd been gone, I'd spent some time standing around the shop while Dad crawled under cars. I handed him screwdrivers and stuff. Piece by piece, I was learning what a carburetor and a head gasket were. And if I felt so inclined, I could even change the oil in a car or switch out a flat tire.

Dad started calling me his little mechanic. Mom made me shower every time I stepped foot inside the house after helping him.

I was helping Dad one Saturday afternoon, a little over a week after Football Homecoming and that dreaded interview, when Luke Carter strolled into the car lot next to the shop.

Mom was gone uptown to get her hair styled and I was thumbing through one of Dad's magazines, leaning against the workbench and looking at pictures of old cars, when I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye.

I looked up and the paralysis set in. Dad was asking me for a nine-sixteenths wrench. But his voice sounded distant and its meaning didn't set in.

Then Dad noticed Luke too—or noticed me noticing him.

And he slid out from under the engine. He dusted off his pants, pulled a cleaning rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. Walking out toward Luke, he called a greeting and I felt compelled to follow. The gravel crunched under our 27

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shoes as we neared Luke, who was slowly circling a black '93

Ford Mustang like some kind of prospective buyer.

He looked wonderful. His shoes were leather Dockers. His designer jeans were held snug around his waist by a thin, black leather belt, and he wore his letterman's jacket, bright red with the school emblem of a brave weighted down with medals, over a navy blue collared shirt. He wore a lot of blue, which was good, since I thought he looked best in that color.

The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and he had the shadow of a beard along his jaw as if he hadn't shaved in a while. It gave him that masculine, rugged appeal and made him look too mature for a mere seventeen.

"Car shopping?" Dad asked, stuffing the rag back in his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. He planted his feet wide. He always stood that way when he got into talking cars with someone. It was like he was in a boat, braced for anyone trying to rock him with the wave of an unsolvable automobile problem.

"Maybe," Luke said. "Since I'm going to college next year, I'll need a car. And Dad's making me buy my own. He thinks it'll teach me to watch my finances. So..." He rubbed the back of his neck and sent a quick glance my way, making my stomach churn with nervous jitters.

He turned his attention back to Dad and I lifted my hand to my mouth to chew on the nail of my index finger.

"I was just checking out my options," Luke said with a shrug.

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Dad stood by him and stared at the Mustang. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then glanced at Luke. "You going to Paulbrook University, then?"

"Yes, sir." Luke darted another look at me.

"Are you going to be staying at home when you go to college, or will you find some place in the city?"

I wanted to tell my dad to quit interrogating him. Instead, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other and crossed my arms over my chest. I stared at the gravel between my feet and soaked in every word Luke said.

"I was planning on staying home. At least through my first year."

"Well," Dad drawled the word slowly. "Commuting to the city everyday's going to be a long drive." He glanced toward the Mustang. "And this thing here is quite the gas guzzler."

Luke made a noise of understanding. "I guess it wouldn't be very practical then."

Dad nodded. "Now if you want something that's got good mileage..." He turned from the sporty coupe. "This Toyota will run forever on a single tank."

Three pair of eyes moved to the blue compact car. I almost slapped my hand to my forehead and groaned. The car was so un-Luke-Carter-like, I felt embarrassed for...well, for all three of us. Luke for meeting someone who actually assumed he'd ever drive this heap, my dad for misreading his customer so badly, and me for witnessing the mortifying exchange.

Besides the dent in the back door on the driver's side, the Toyota's previous owner had been Loma Myers. And the only 29

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reason her daughter had confiscated the keys and sold it was because Loma was being put into a nursing home and was too senile to drive anymore. I couldn't believe my dad even considered selling the old hunk of scrap metal to Luke.

Dad must've realized his mistake or he read the look of complete horror on Luke's face because he went on, scratching his chin again. "We don't have a lot of options here." We only had about seven or eight cars on the lot. "But if you think up any questions or see anything you're interested in, I'll be in the shop there."

"OK," Luke said. "Sure thing."

Dad nodded and started back toward the garage. His mind, I knew, had already returned to his work. I pivoted to follow him when Luke spoke.

"Hi, Carrie."

I stopped and pressed a hand against the constriction in my chest before I could face him. Then I dropped my fingers to my sides and turned back. "Hi."

"I read your article about the game." He left the Mustang and neared me. "Good piece."

"Thank you." The words came out a hoarse, garbled mess because my throat had dried up, and I had to clear it.

"Thanks," I repeated.

"The only thing is..." He slowly began to circle me as he had the Mustang. "I don't ever go by the name Lucas." He looked up and stopped. I fell into a trance staring back at those hypnotic blues, and I couldn't glance away.

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I swallowed. He'd caught my barb. Everyone knew how much Luke detested his Christian name. And that's exactly why I'd called him Lucas Carter in the article.

He started walking again, kicking a little at the gravel. "I figure there's really only four times in my life I have to suffer through it. The day I was born since it's on my birth certificate, the day I graduate, the day I get married, and the day of my funeral. So unless you're planning on killing me off or marrying me, I'd really appreciate it if you'd just call me Luke." He looked up again for my response.

I could only nod.

He lifted one of his eyebrows. "You already knew that though, didn't you? That I hate my name?"

My voice sounded small when I answered. "Yes."

"Then why'd you do it?"

I shrugged. "I don't know."
Maybe because I don't want
anyone to know I like you
.

He gave a small laugh and looked off across the street toward the park. It was empty except for a few squirrels chasing each other. No one bothered with the metal playground equipment when the weather turned cold.

"You know," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck again. I bit down on my fingernail. "You're not like any girl I've ever met before."

I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a complaint so I decided not to answer.

"Do you..." He stopped rubbing his neck. I guess he realized he'd been revealing a nervous habit because he stuffed his hands in his pockets. My mind whirled. Luke Carter 31

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was acting nervous? Around me?! I was beginning to get the feeling he hadn't stopped by just to look at cars.

Stop trying to give yourself an ego boost, Carrie.
What
would Luke Carter want with a skinny, stick girl like you? I
mean, look at you. Stained jeans, an old bulky sweater you
stole from your brother's closet, the picture of the brave half
worn off the front. And that hair, slopped up in a quick
ponytail. Not to mention everyone in school thinks you're the
oddest, most reclusive person to walk the halls.

I let out a deflated breath.

Luke had been looking off across the street at the park, but suddenly he turned back. "Do you want to walk in the park?"