Peaches (10 page)

Birdie knelt on the floor, trying to organize what was there. The old natural disaster insurance form was buried underneath a stack of papers beside the trash can. She wondered if she should renew it, just in case, behind Walter’s back. She held it up, then dropped her forehead into her hands. She stuffed the corner of the paper into her mouth and bit it without having any idea why.

“What’d your mom say?”

Birdie looked up and yanked the paper out of her mouth. She swallowed. “She said you should send her the papers.”

Walter looked at the carpet, studying it, his shoulders sagging.

“Right.”

Birdie stayed on the floor a long time. If her dad had given up and her mom had given up, then how could she hold things together on her own?

She crumpled up the insurance form and lobbed it at the trash. It went in, nothing but net.

As usual, Murphy was late for school. She rattled through the pantry for a box of Froot Loops, eyeing her mom’s bedroom door, which contained her mom and Richard. She sank onto one of the kitchen chairs to eat a few handfuls straight out of the box, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, which she could see from where she was sitting.

The door cracked behind her.
Damn.

“Hey, Richard.”

“Hey, Murph.”

“It’s Murphy.”

Her mom appeared behind him, stroked his back, and smiled blissfully. “Well, next time I want to hear Sonny and Cher, I’ll check with you,” she said low, and giggled. She looked at Murphy, noticing for the first time that she was there, then looked at the clock. “Murphy, you better get going, baby—look at the time.”

“I know. I know.”

Murphy hopped down the front steps and into her car. “Bring on death,” she said out loud as she turned the car on. It gave its signature rattle, loud enough to announce to the classes in session at Bridgewater High School that she was arriving at 9:10.

To make itself look like a big modern facility instead of the podunk dump that it was, Bridgewater High School had installed a huge tiered fountain at one corner of the building, engraved with some words in Greek. Everyone had long since forgotten what they meant. Murphy tossed the last of her handful of Froot Loops into the water as she passed by it and pushed through the double doors into the hall, making her way down to Brit Lit.

Mr. Meehan taught the class, and he had a major crush on her. He only nodded quietly at her as she slipped into the room and into her desk.

Her textbook was full of little drawings she’d done—of food (when she was hungry), of band logos, of herself, and more recently, of peach trees, which she couldn’t get out of her head.
She was a subpar artist, but she practiced a lot. She searched for an empty, relatively large space and started sketching a baby tree, with the white stuff wrapped around it and a pair of hands making it secure.

Mr. Meehan droned on about the Wife of Bath and Murphy sank onto her hands. She never listened in class since she much preferred reading on her own. She used class time as a kind of brain vacation. Behind her, Allan Brewer, who she’d let touch her boobs in tenth grade, pushed on her bun from behind and whispered, “Beep beep.” She lifted her hand behind her back and gave him the finger.

On their way out of class, Allan caught up with her. “Hey, Murphy, why’d you flick me off?”

“That’s what I do to people who annoy me.”

“Listen, I’m having people over tonight….”

“And you’re wondering if I can come over so you can give me whiskey and Gatorade and try to feel me up. At which point I’ll smack you.”

“You’re right about everything but the slapping part.” Allan grinned.

Murphy came to a stop. Down the hall Leeda was walking with the usual flank of three or four girls who dressed like her, ate like her, and talked like her. Murphy leaned against a locker, casually, and decided to talk to Allan until Leeda’d passed. She always felt weird seeing Leeda and usually liked to pretend she didn’t see her at all, even in the class they shared.

“So listen, since I’m friends with you, do you think I can get a free oil change?”

Murphy frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Allan frowned back and gave her the old nudge. “Since your mom’s hooking up with that guy from Pep Boys.”

Murphy felt all cramped up inside. How did everybody find out about everything?

“Shut up.”

Allan made a sex face and started slapping an imaginary butt. “Oh, Jodee. Oh God.”

Murphy smiled hard at him. “Can I look at your binder for a sec?”

“Sure.” Allan handed it to her, grinning too.

Murphy opened the binder, then started ripping out the pages, one by one.

“Hey, what the hell?”

Rip rip rip.

Murphy backed away as he grabbed for his stuff and continued to rip and rip until every page had come out, cascading down around Allan’s shoulders and through the hall. When she was done, she shoved the binder against him. Around them everyone in the hall had come to a standstill, including Leeda, whose gray eyes were huge and shocked.

The only movement was Mr. Meehan plowing toward her.

“I don’t need an escort,” Murphy said, and pivoted in the direction of the administration office at the end of the hall.

“Murphy, do you know what your grade point average is?”

“Yep. It’s when they add up all your grades and divide them by the number of classes. Sure do.”

“Four point oh. That’s perfect. That’s the highest anybody can hope for. There’s no four point one.”

Murphy rolled her eyes. If Mr. Lafitte, the principal, had to speak to everyone this slowly, it was no wonder she had a four point oh.

“Do you know how hard some people in this school work to get grades as good as yours?”

“Nope.” Murphy didn’t care to know. She nibbled at a hangnail on her thumb. She picked at the run in her stockings and fiddled with the zipper on her short skirt.

“Look, Murphy, I know you have some problems at home. I just want you to know if there’s anything you want to talk about, that’s why we have a counselor here.”

Murphy stared ahead blankly.

“I’m not going to suspend you. I could.” Mr. Lafitte looked at her meaningfully. “I’d be the first to admit that nobody’s perfect. But it seems to me a lot of people have cut you a lot of slack. We have a lot of faith in you. I think it’s time you paid us back by readjusting your attitude. Senior year could be your time to shine.”

Murphy eyeballed him blankly, in the manner of a dead fish.

“You’ll need to re-create Allan Brewer’s binder from scratch. You guys will meet every day after school to go over it until it’s done. Got it?”

“Yep.”

“And if I see you back here again in the minuscule amount of time that’s left before school’s out, things will get a lot more serious.”

“You bet.”

Murphy walked back down the hall, her arms crossed over her chest, feeling like a powder keg. All the class doors were closed,
and she could hear the drone of her AP Bio teacher talking about the lab today, which he’d explained yesterday would involve trucking down to the freezer by the cafeteria to retrieve the dry ice being stored there.

Murphy kept going. She ducked into the empty darkness of the A/V room and leaned against the wall inside the door, throwing her head back. She let out a deep breath and stared at the row of TVs and movie equipment. On the wall were posters for
Star Wars, American Beauty, Casablanca.
Standing directly across from her was a knee-high replica of Yoda, a full-size Darth Vader mask propped on the table beside it.

Murphy stuck her thumbnail in her mouth and smiled.

G
eorgia hadn’t had such a hot June since 1951. All over Bridgewater, you could practically hear air conditioners busting from overuse. All over the orchard, you could hear the creak-creak of the trees drooping in the sun.

Leeda started sweating as soon as she stepped out of her car. She noticed immediately that Murphy McGowen’s beat-up yellow Volkswagen, which she’d finally connected with her in the lot at school, was parked on a swath of grass a few feet away. And the first person she saw when she rolled her huge suitcase into Camp A was Murphy herself. She was splayed out on the couch, her right leg hanging over the back, her left hand dragging on the floor. When she saw Leeda, she lifted her head slightly and just said simply, “You.”

Leeda didn’t need to ask why she was here. Everyone in Bridgewater knew about Murphy’s prank with the fountain. After laughing their asses off, all of Leeda’s friends had started making fun of Murphy, saying what a burnout she was. Then they’d moved on to Murphy’s mom and the different stories they knew about her: She’d shown up to parent-teacher
conferences in black leather shorts and a lace halter top; she’d been seen making out with some guy on the picnic table outside Toodles Honky Tonk at three in the afternoon. Then they’d speculated that Murphy McGowen was as much a hopeless case as Jodee. Leeda had felt differently. She hadn’t said it, but she’d thought the prank was pretty ingenious.

But now, standing under Murphy’s cool green gaze, Leeda just threw back her shoulders and pasted a look of boredom onto her face. “Hey, Murphy.”

The whole gang was already here, the same ladies from the spring, along with a few new faces. Everyone greeted Leeda with cool politeness as she yanked her suitcase up the stairs one step at a time, and down the hall.

She stared at the empty room and felt her resolve waver. And then her pride reared up, causing red-hot tears to pop out along the edges of her eyelids. She unzipped her suitcase and dragged out all the comforts she’d brought from home—pictures of her friends, a photo of Rex in a silver Tiffany’s frame, one of her mom and dad, a Swarovski crystal swan her mom had given her for her birthday last year. Danay had picked it out.

The next morning Leeda rolled out of bed at dawn with everybody else and stumbled out onto the lawn to await the big talk from Uncle Walter. She hadn’t noticed the night before, but the smell engulfing the orchard was heady and sweet. The trees had sprouted green, droopy leaves, and of course, peaches dangled like bubbles—bright orange and everywhere. The peaches all looked fine from where Leeda stood, but that wasn’t saying much. What meant more was that her parents had said that
Walter
was
optimistic
—two words that didn’t fit together in Leeda’s mind. Word was that the first few peaches had been culled, and that there was no sign of brown rot yet, and that the Darlingtons were planning to move forward with the summer harvest in the hopes that the rest of the peaches would follow suit.

Still, if it was possible, Uncle Walter looked even older than he had in April, the gray at his temples having grown up the sides of his head like fungus.

Standing up on the porch beside Walter, Birdie looked the opposite—she looked fresher, a little thinner, and excited. Her eyes scanned the group in front of the porch frenetically. Leeda looked behind her to see who Birdie might be looking for. Instead, her gaze landed on Murphy, skulking in the back, dark circles under her eyes and her arms crossed around her waist.

Leeda turned back around, pulling her fine-mesh sun hat tighter down over her eyes to keep the glare from giving her a migraine.

“We’ll be picking Empress, Sunbright, Springprince, and Candor for the next two weeks,” Walter droned flatly, “then we’ll move on to Goldprince, Summerprince, Gala, and Rubyprince. Birdie will take you out and show you where to get started. We’ll harvest the trees in three rounds—please be careful about picking only the ripe peaches on each round.”

Leeda felt like he was speaking Greek. Coming out of his mouth, the colorful names of the peaches sounded like a joke.

“Pick up your harnesses by the supply barn. That’s also where the bins are and where some of the women have already set up their tables to start sorting. Dump your peaches there and
Poopie will give you your tokens to mark how many bushels you’ve done.”

Walter paused for a moment, looking uncomfortable. “Thank you to all of you who helped with the fires in April. We’ll be checking the peaches as they come in for signs of brown rot. If this harvest is successful, it will be thanks to everybody’s hard work.” Leeda picked at her nails, uncomfortable with the memory of the night of the fires. It hadn’t been one of her shining moments. She didn’t really have shining moments. Walter’s mouth turned down slightly, and the rest of him turned and walked back into the house.

Birdie looked around. “This way,” she said, so low Leeda had to lip-read to make out what she’d said. But everyone followed anyway.

Leeda, uncomfortable in the crowd, walked up beside Birdie.

“You’re supposed to go work at the sorting tables,” Birdie said. Just as she did, Murphy caught up.

“Hey, Birdie, what do the tokens mean? Does that mean I have a quota I have to pick?”

“Murphy, you too. Most of the women are at the sorting tables because it’s easier. The stronger women pick if they want. Poopie’ll explain everything to you if you go over there.”

“Walter doesn’t think I’m a stronger woman?” Murphy demanded, her curly dark hair flying around her ears as she walked.

“Well.” Birdie looked wide-eyed and nervous again. “You’re
small.
”

“Whatever. I’m picking peaches.”

“Murphy…”

“It’s my choice, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“I’m picking.”

Leeda looked between the two of them, tensing up. “Well, if Murphy’s picking, I’m picking.”

Suddenly Birdie stopped in her tracks and gave both of them a death glare. It was the first time Leeda had ever seen such a look from Birdie, and it surprised her so much she stumbled back a foot.

“Fine. Whatever.” Birdie threw up her hands, then walked on ahead of them, leaving both of them to follow her.

Murphy looked at Leeda. “See, you pissed her off. Your cousin’s a total powder keg.”

Leeda scowled at her back as she walked on ahead. Birdie wasn’t a powder keg. She wasn’t even a firecracker. She was maybe, at most, a sparkler.

It was past nightfall by the time Birdie started toward Camp B, her last stop of the day. She strapped on her Tevas and stepped off her porch and onto the front lawn, swiping her arm across her face to rub off some of the sweat that had gathered on every bare inch of skin, making her feel like a salamander. Honey Babe and Majestic nipped along behind her, catching bugs in their teeth.

The crickets chirped at her from the trees as she dragged across the grass, more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life, and also more drained. Her mom had always done so much with the workers—getting them settled in, getting them supplies for picking, keeping an eye on the different areas to see if everything
was running smoothly. Birdie was sure she was a poor substitute. She hadn’t spoken to Enrico once, one-on-one, since he’d arrived back at the farm. He’d been part of the group she’d led to pick the Springprinces, but they’d barely met eyes. And Birdie had been so focused on combing through the peaches, looking for signs of rot with her paring knife and a worried flutter in her throat, that she had hardly noticed.

But now, on the stairs of Camp B, she tightened her ponytail and stuck her sweat-slicked hair back behind her shoulders. She rubbed the sweat off her face one more time, her heart pounding, and looked at her dogs. “Stay.” And then she took the last couple of steps and knocked on the door, calling through the screen.
“Puedo entrar?”

One of the men, Fonda, appeared at the door and pushed it open slightly, smiling.

“I just want to make sure you have everything you need.” Birdie stepped in and the door hissed closed behind her. Immediately, she was bowled over by the foreign smell of the dorm. It smelled like
men.

Birdie could feel herself blushing. “Is everything okay?
Necesita más?
”

Fonda just smiled at her and shrugged, then turned and led her into the common room, which was disgusting compared to the women’s—the couch was in a shambles with cushions lying all over the floor, empty beer cans and soda bottles were strewn about, a pair of tighty whities lay across the top of the TV. Five or six guys were sitting on the floor, a card game spread out in the middle of them. Everyone was covered in the same glistening layer of sweat. Enrico wasn’t among them.

“You can check,” one of the guys said. “I think we have everything.”

“Okay, well…” Birdie took a step backward, thinking that she would just take their word for it. The dorm felt too manly for her to be standing here. It felt like she’d invaded forbidden territory.

She glanced down the hall and swallowed. “Well, maybe I’ll just take a quick look….” The men’s house was much bigger than the women’s, with a long downstairs hall that held eight rooms, four on either side. It was filled with a blue glow from a light that was coming from one of the open doorways. Birdie padded down the hall, peeking in through the door as she passed.

Enrico was lying on the bed by the window, watching a tiny TV, his arms glistening beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt.

His eyes shot up to hers and widened. “Birdie.” He sat straight up, looked around, and straightened the covers around him. He ran a hand through his hair, which was all messy.

“Come in.”

Birdie shuffled in and took the seat Enrico offered beside him on the bed.

The room smelled better than the rest of the house—more like boy than man. His bed smelled like boy. It was beginning to make her giddy. She peered around the room nervously—noticing several books lying all over the place, open and facedown—then glanced up at the TV.

“What’re you watching?”

“The O.C.”

“Oh.”

At the moment a local commercial was on.
“Are you tired of
riding around in that old hooptie? Come see the Credit Doctors, where we make buying a new car easy.”

Birdie tried not to laugh, but a small snort slipped out. Enrico shoved her playfully on the shoulder.

“You think I drive a hooptie?”

“I can’t believe you even know the
word
hooptie.”

“I know many English words,” Enrico said, grinning at her.

In an effort to look casual, she leaned back so that her back curved and her head rested against the wall.

“Here, pillow,” he said, holding up a pillow as if it were a lesson.
“Almohada.”

“Almohada,”
Birdie repeated.

He settled the pillow down behind her head.

“Thanks.”

Then he lounged back beside her.

“This girl is very pretty,” he said, nodding to Mischa Barton on the TV.

Oh.
Birdie sized up Mischa. She was skinny, for one thing. And delicate. Birdie wondered if she was his type.

They lounged like that until the end of
The O.C.

Birdie thought she should go, but she couldn’t get herself to move. She stayed through the mini–news update and still didn’t move. They stayed put through the next couple of shows.

During each commercial break Birdie tried to think of something to say. She’d look at Enrico and he’d look at her, his eyebrows rising expectantly, and then, when she didn’t say anything, he’d turn back to the TV, unconcerned.

Their thighs touched a few minutes later, but Enrico pulled his away.

Finally the nine-thirty news came on, and a hot weight descended on Birdie’s chest. The news was hardly a pretense for staying. She could feel Enrico’s breathing change from slow and deep into a nervous, uneven rhythm. His arm pushed against hers gently, almost imperceptibly, so that the fine brown hairs on it tickled her. Birdie listed ever so slightly to the left, toward him. She studied what she could of him sideways—his tan legs, his hands….

Her elbow came to rest on his—just slightly.

He sat up. There was an open Coke can on the windowsill, and he leaned forward and grabbed it, taking a sip. Then he started playing with the mouth of the can with his thumb and forefinger. Birdie watched his fingers make the slow circular motions. She had a vision of him cutting his thumb on the lip of the can. She would kneel beside him and put a Band-Aid on it for him and then look up at him and they’d just move toward each other easily in a kiss.

“Oh!” Enrico jerked his hand into the air. A thin trickle of blood ran down not his thumb, but his forefinger.

“Oh.” Birdie shot up. Did she have ESP? Telepathy? “Um.” She felt her stomach flop nervously. “Let me get a Band-Aid for you.”

She hurried down the hall to the first aid box hung by the door, grabbed a bandage (the pinky kind), and walked back slowly, knowing she’d been given a sign and if she let the moment slip past, she would be pathetic in the eyes of herself and the fates.

Enrico was still sitting on the bed. He had the edge of his forefinger in his mouth. Oh God.

Birdie walked up to stand directly before him. She pulled the outer wrapping off the Band-Aid. Enrico looked up at her under his eyebrows.

“Here you go!” On reflex, she tossed the Band-Aid at him across the few inches of space. It fluttered madly, listing sideways and landing on the floor. Enrico bent down to pick it up, awkwardly.

“Thank you,” he said, looking at her unsurely, like she might have lost her mind.

“No problem.” Birdie watched him peel off the waxy white strips and apply the Band-Aid, realizing at that moment it was the wrong size and didn’t even cover the cut.

“Thanks,” Enrico said again.

Birdie shifted from foot to foot. “No problem.”

The discomfort between them was so thick Birdie felt she could step forward and bump her head on it. The skin under her armpits was tingling and itching. Finally Enrico stretched his arms back, which pushed his ribs forward against his shirt. “Well, I am going to bed, I think.”