Moon Spun (10 page)

“Hey!” she snapped. “I knew you’d say that so I wrote it down. What do you think of that, Miss Smarty Pants?”

Chad’s head had been swiveling back and forth between Trilby and me. “Why are you being so mean, Allie? She’s an angel. You’re supposed to be nice to angels.”

Trilby floated down from the tree and patted the top of Chad’s head, creating a halo of golden sparkles. “Hear that? The kid knows what he’s talking about.”

She plunged a hand into the neckline of her dress and pulled out a scrap of paper. Squinting to read the words illuminated only by moonlight, Trilby said, “Okay, here’s what I wrote down. Something about a boy, a motorcycle and a bird.”

“That’s it? A boy, a motorcycle and a bird?” Since I was frustrated beyond belief, my words were shrill.

Trilby shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to figure it out. Do it fast, okay? I really need to get back to the second floor.” She clapped her hands twice. “Chop chop!”

“But, but,” I sputtered. “There has to be more.”

“See ya, kid,” Trilby said and shot upward, accompanied by the sound of tinkling wind chimes. Chad and I watched, mouths agape, as Trilby sailed up and away, her voluminous dress flapping 300

around her body like sheets on a clothesline. When the swirling pink gown was just a tiny dot in the moonlit sky, Chad turned to face me, his eyes full of wonder. “Wow, Allie,” he said. “Hanging out with you is really fun.”

The next day, Saturday, Faye was still asleep when I grabbed a quick breakfast—leftover green bean casserole from the diner—and headed for the fruit stand to work my eight hour shift. Eight hours was exactly how long I needed to figure out my strategy as per the Faye/Mr. Hostetler thing. I know, I know, the whole stopping-time thing should have been a more pressing matter, but in between feats of magic, I had to live my life.

In the past, Faye’s relationships had caused me major grief. So, after work today, Faye and I would hitch up our tiny home and pull it to Friendly Fred’s Trailer Park to dump our sewer tank and have our weekly chat. Nothing like dumping sewage to enhance the mother-daughter bonding experience.

I was considering two possible strategies: 1. Pretending last night never happened (Faye and I both excelled at this). 2. Act thrilled that she and Mr. Hostetler had found each other, my theory being Faye usually did the opposite of what I thought she should do.

Fortunately, I was working with Mercedes today, who was bound to be full of advice, since she never missed Dr. Phil and considered herself an expert on other people’s relationships. When I got to the fruit stand, she was already there. She was picking through the tomatoes, removing the overripe ones from the display case and dropping them into a bucket. She looked up as I approached and gave me a big grin. “Hey, Allie! Did you hear about the hot guy your uncle hired yesterday?”

Since I couldn’t say I was busy stopping time and talking to my guardian angel, I shook my head.

“No, I was babysitting Chad, whose father, by the way, went out with my mother last night.”

A squishy half-rotten tomato fell from her hand and plopped into the bucket with a splat. “No way!” she screeched. “Your mom and Principal Hostetler? How cool is that?

”

“Not cool at all,” I grumped.

Mercedes stopped what she was doing and stared at me for a few seconds. “You’re bummed about it, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait ‘til you see your uncle’s new worker.” She smacked her lips. “That boy will definitely cheer you up.”

I sighed, realizing Mercedes couldn’t concentrate on anything new, until she’d told me every teensy weensy detail about some guy I could care less about. I went to the big cooler and pulled out heads of cabbage, cauliflower and broccoli, laying them out in a colorful display.

“So, what makes him so hot?”

“Oh, he’s the real deal. Know what I mean?”

“No.”

She picked up the bucket of rotten tomatoes and put it behind the counter, then turned to me with a dreamy smile. “Well, for starters, he’s got the blackest hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Looks like Elvis before he got old and fat. And . . . ” she paused and fanned herself.

“What?” I demanded.

“He rides a motorcycle.”

“That’s it?”

“Heck, no.” She waggled her eyebrows. “He’s got the whole package. Muscles, broad shoulders and the way he talks, it’s, it’s . . . ” she paused and frowned, as if searching for the right words. “He 301

talks like a gentleman.”

I snickered. “How does a gentleman talk? Do we have any in Peacock Flats?”

Mercedes glared at me. “Go ahead. Laugh. You’ll see.”

Since Mercedes was a big Junior Martinez fan, I asked, “Is he as hot as Junior?”

She thought it over for a full minute. “Well, he’s close.”

Before I could steer the conversation toward my problem, a tour bus loaded with senior citizens pulled up. We were busy for a solid hour, bagging produce and ringing up sales. When the bus left, our regulars started dropping in. I’d just sold the last of the peaches when Uncle Sid drove up, his big flatbed truck loaded with boxes of fruit. Mercedes’ brother, Manny, pulled in behind him, the pick-up bed full of fresh corn. Uncle Sid climbed out of the driver’s side. When the passenger door opened, Mercedes jabbed me in the ribs and hissed, “There he is.”

Trying not to appear overly interested, I gave the Hottest Guy on the Planet According to Mercedes Trujillo a quick glance. Sunlight glinted on spiky hair, black as a crow’s wing, and yes, he had a nice build, which was totally obvious since he was wearing a white tank and faded black jeans . . . like a thousand other guys.

Mercedes handed a customer her change and chirped, “Thank you. Would you like Allie to carry that box of pears to your car?”

When I picked up the box, Mercedes leaned close and whispered, “Go. Check him out.”

Knowing Mercedes as I did, I shook my head in mock despair. “Yeah, whatever.”

I had to look, of course. After all, I’m sixteen, and if the guy was half as drool-worthy as Mercedes described, a little peek wouldn’t hurt. Lugging the heavy box of pears and taking baby steps across the gravel parking lot, I probably looked like a real dork, but this wasn’t about me looking good.

My plan was to offload the pears, greet my Uncle Sid and then give the guy a quick once over. But, before I could execute it, footsteps crunched on the gravel, muscular arms lifted the box from my hands and a deep voice said, “Let me get that, Ava.”

Startled, I looked up into eyes that were tilted slightly upward at the corners and of the palest blue imaginable. “What did you call me?” He looked down at me and smiled. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

Mercedes was right. Something about the way he spoke was different. I stared at him, puzzled.

“No, my name is Allie.”

He bobbed his head in apology. “My mistake, miss. I’ve been misinformed.”

He placed the heavy box into the trunk of a Toyota Camry. When the woman thanked him, he said, “Think nothing of it.”

I’m not all that experienced in the ways of the world, but no teenage guy I knew ever uttered that particular phrase. Still, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt when a third weird thing happened.

302

Chapter Thirteen

As the Toyota pulled away, he turned to face me and pulled at the chain tucked inside his shirt. His fingers closed around an object hanging from the chain. He stepped closer and opened his hand, revealing a small silver ring. My mouth went dry, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled. I shook my head in disbelief, as I stared at the ring.

As improbable as it seemed, this guy, this complete stranger, wore a ring around his neck identical to the one Grandpa Claude wore. It was a smaller version of the

“Hearts As One” handfasting ring, with the same squiggly lines or runes as my grandfather called them. How could that be?

Alarm bells in my brain went ding, ding, ding. I took a step back. “Who are you? Where did you get that ring?”

With a dazzling smile, he dropped the ring and extended his hand toward me. “I’m Ryker Matheson.”

His hand was broad and callused. I stared at it for a long moment before offering him mine. When our hands touched, I glanced up at him through my lashes. Backlit by the sun, radiant light danced in his black hair like it was touched by flames. Startled, I pulled away, unable to speak for a moment. Finally, I croaked, “The ring. Where did you get the ring?”

His smile faded. He observed me solemnly. “I was sent to find you, Ava.”

Okay, the boy was definitely getting on my nerves. I narrowed my eyes. “I told you, my name is Allie, not Ava.”

“Whatever you say . . . Allie.” He reached out and patted my cheek, flashed his brilliant smile again, then turned and walked to the flatbed truck.

“Hey,” I yelled. “I need answers.”

“Later,” he called over his shoulder and started unloading boxes of peaches. I walked into the fruit stand and stepped behind the counter, bracing myself against the torrent of questions I knew would pour out of Mercedes. Fortunately, Uncle Sid chose that moment to get chatty. He placed a damp burlap bag full of fresh corn on a wide table. “Hey, Allie. Blaster and I are taking a little trip to Idaho.”

Mercedes and I exchanged a glance. She was biting her lower lip to keep from laughing. We both knew when Uncle Sid couldn’t stand one more second of Aunt Sandra’s nagging, he loaded Blaster into his special trailer, and they set out in search of cows for Blaster to impregnate. Since the apples wouldn’t be ripe for another month, I supposed it was his last chance to get away.

“Okay, have fun.”

Uncle Sid removed his John Deere cap and scratched his head. “Yeah, Manny knows what to do to keep the fruit stand supplied. And I hired a new kid to help. Just make sure you or Mercedes take the money box to Sandra when you close.”

We promised we’d take care of the money. He nodded once and when he walked away, he had a little bounce in his step.

Mercedes and I grinned at each other and chorused softly, “Sid and Blaster . . . road trip!”

Thankfully, the subject of Ryker Matheson was put on hold when Mercedes spotted Mrs. Prentice hovering over the corn, her fingers itching to strip the husks away from the end of the cob. Mercedes rolled her eyes. “Damn.” She lifted the hinged section of the counter separating us from the customers and trotted over to Mrs.

Prentice. “Hola, Senora Prentice! It will be my pleasure to serve 303

you.” Yeah, Mercedes was good.

Just as Uncle Sid, Ryker and Manny pulled away, Beck’s mother, Melissa, and sister, Nicole, drove in. Since I hadn’t heard from Beck for a week, I was dying to know what was going on in his head. Maybe I could worm it out of Nicole . . . subtly, of course. On the other hand, I had a bone to pick with her. Nicole had witnessed my magic during the school crisis and had sworn to keep it secret. But, thanks to Chad, I knew she’d blabbed to at least one of her friends. I had a dilemma. Kiss up to Nicole and find out about Beck, or chew her out for having a big mouth. After mulling it over, I decided to focus on her mother, Melissa.

"Hi Melissa," I chirped. "Heard from Beck lately?" Why beat around the bush when I could go right to the heart of the matter. She looked up and me and smiled. But, I noticed her forehead was creased with worry lines. Not a good sign. "Actually, he only called me once this week. He's hitting the books pretty hard. And, he has a study group at night."

Study group. New information. I wondered how many hot girls were in this study group and what exactly they were studying. Beck can be very persuasive. In fact, he has a skill no teenage boy should have. He calls it his dazer. Here’s how it works: if he makes physical contact with a person—

think teenage girl—and looks deeply in her eyes, he can control her emotions. Actually, enchanter would be a better name for his skill. Not that he needs one.

Fortunately, I was able to block him with my own magic, but a person without my powers wouldn't have a prayer. I began to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"The reason I asked is because I haven't heard from him either. He usually calls me most every night." I stopped talking and gulped. Melissa smiled pleasantly, but offered no further explanation.

"So, he's not sick or anything?" Geez, I was starting to sound like one of those pathetic, whiny girls who sat around waiting for their boyfriends to call. I hated that feeling so I added, "Just checking."

When Melissa met my gaze, I could see pity in her eyes. I didn’t like people feeling sorry for me. I refused to be that girl, so I gave her a bright smile. "If he calls, tell him

'hi' for me." Melissa put a hand on my arm. "Are you okay, Allie?"

"Sure, sure. I'm great. Couldn't be better. Guess I'll go say hi to Nicole." I bit my lip and backed away from her sorrowful gaze.

Nicole was loading peaches into a plastic bag. She looked up as I approached. "Hey!"

"Hey, yourself." The mixture of worry, confusion and despair I felt as a result of my conversation with Melissa suddenly morphed into anger and I lost it. I leaned close and whispered, "You told Caitlin what happened at school last fall. I knew you couldn’t keep a secret." Yeah, that was really harsh. I shouldn’t make excuses, but occasionally my emotions build up and burst out of me in a very nasty way. Obviously, I have a lot of room to grow as a human being. Nicole looked shocked at first, then guilty. Yes, definitely guilty. She inhaled sharply and her face turned bright red. It didn’t last long. On hand flew to her hip and her jaw jutted out. Eyes sparking with anger, she said, “Well, excuse me! Did somebody forget I saved her ass when she got kidnapped, and was so scared she peed her pants and almost froze to death because she was locked in a closet with no heat?”

Her anger tossed gasoline all over my fire. “Yeah, well, I’d like to see you hold it when you have to pee so bad you feel like you’re going to pop a kidney, and then somebody goes and shoots you up with a drug and knocks you out.”

We narrowed our eyes and engaged in an epic stare-down, both of us quivering with rage, unable to speak.