Peaches (15 page)

Murphy was sitting on the front porch when they got back.

“Are you waiting for us?” Birdie asked.

Murphy looked around and shrugged. Clearly she was. She looked like a little lost puppy.

“I thought you guys might have drowned in the jacuzzi or something,” she murmured sarcastically.

“It’s too hot for the jacuzzi,” Leeda joked back.

“You guys wanna go to the lake?”

They plopped down on the grass by Smoaky Lake, stretching out on their backs. Leeda felt so helpless, but she also somehow felt like she didn’t have to say it. Watching the clouds go by with Birdie and Murphy was very Zen.

“Will you guys come with me to the engagement party?” Leeda asked suddenly, surprising Birdie and Murphy and even herself. “I don’t think I can take it by myself.”

Silently Birdie and Murphy nodded.

“That one is Danay getting jilted at the altar,” Leeda finally said, pointing to a fat white cirrus that was drifting by.

“That one is Danay and your mom tied to some train tracks,” Murphy added.

Birdie searched the clouds too. “There’s a big chocolate Easter bunny,” Birdie said. “Sitting next to the Virgin Mary.”

They all laughed.

I
t drizzled all day the next day, so peach picking was called off. Birdie walked around the orchard in the rain, looking for ripe blackberries along the perimeter. The cider house was at the far back corner of the farm, and Birdie could see from under the hood of her sweatshirt that the door was open, an orange glow coming from inside. She pulled her hood back and gave herself the breath test. If Enrico was inside, she was not going to do what she’d done last time, with the Band-Aid. She wasn’t going to screw it up. She walked up to the threshold.

Enrico sat below the bare lightbulb, reading. When he saw Birdie, he didn’t smile, but merely nodded to her. She straightened out her sweatshirt and ran her fingers along her denim shorts to smooth them out. They hung low on her hips, like either Birdie had shrunk or she’d been wearing them for too many days.

“What’re you reading?” she ventured, stepping beside him and behind him so she could look over his shoulder. The smell of sickly sweet cider and sawdust filled up her nose.
Love in the Time of Cholera,
by Gabriel García Márquez.

“I already read this in Spanish,” Enrico said. “I think this will help me with the English book.”

“Oh.”

Birdie knew she was breathing warmly on his shoulder. She backed up a step.

“What do you read?” Enrico laid his book down on his lap and turned to look at her. Though it was raining, it was still sticky and humid, and sweat had collected above his lips.

“I watch TV,” Birdie said, smiling sheepishly. She tugged on the cord that the bare bulb was hanging from, letting it swing back and forth. “Aren’t you lonely out here?”

Enrico smiled softly. “No. I like being alone. Too much talking at the house.”

“I know what you mean.” Birdie leaned against the cider press, watching his big serious eyes, her stomach starting to ache. “I like being alone too. I can get away to my room sometimes, but…”

“These rooms are too small to do.”

“I know.” She sighed unevenly. “Sorry.”

Enrico shook his head, still smiling. “Not your fault.” He looked down at his book, then up at her. “Maybe you help me with a few of these words?”

“Sure.”

Enrico flipped through the pages of his book, frowning in concentration. He opened a page and held it out toward Birdie. The word
frivolity
had been marked with a pencil.

“Oh,” Birdie said, thinking of the right way to put it. “That’s, um, having fun.”

Enrico nodded and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth,
chewing on it thoughtfully. This alarmed Birdie. It made her feel like she was going to cease to exist.
Something
was going to happen to her. She couldn’t go on this way.

“This one?” He thrust out another page with another word:
shrouded.

Birdie looked at it. It danced on the page in front of her like something in the wavy hot air of the desert. She could swear her pulse was loud enough for him to hear. “Um, I think that means covered up, hidden.”

When Enrico pointed to the next word, Birdie’s finger darted out to touch the page and slid next to his.

“Um, I think that means…um…”

Birdie looked up at Enrico. His face was just inches from hers. Her first instinct was to look away, but bravely she kept her eyes on his profile, forcing herself to stay still. He didn’t notice for a second. He was still looking at the page and the place where their fingers were touching, and then he tilted his face toward her, sending the shadow cast by the lightbulb on a slow trek from his forehead to his jaw.

Enrico jerked slightly and cleared his throat. Then he pulled back, fanning the pages of the book against his fingers. “Maybe I look in the dictionary,” he said faintly, apologetically.

Birdie was suspended in space. She could feel her skin flushing, radiating prickly circles. She sank back on her right foot, retreating, but trying not to retreat idiotically fast. “Well, um, I guess I’m not sure.” She hadn’t even seen the word.

Crap. Crap crap crap.

Maybe he hadn’t even noticed that a second ago she’d been trying to be kissed.

“Okay,” she said breezily, clutching to this possibility with all her might. “Well, I gotta go get some blackberries for Poopie.” She showed him her teeth, and for a second she felt like Horatio Balmeade—fake. “She makes great pie.” Her voice caught embarrassingly, so that it actually came out “pi-ie.”
God.
“But if you need any more help, let me know.”

Enrico watched her as she backed up, his eyes wide. He looked like an onlooker at a train wreck.

At least she didn’t trip on her way out.

Back at the house, Poopie was waiting patiently with her pie crust for Birdie’s berries. But Birdie had forgotten all about them.

“Birdie, where is your head?” Poopie asked, shaking hers in aggravation.

Birdie ignored her, digging into the fridge for something crunchy to take out her aggression on. The only thing they had was a bag of carrots. No cookies in the freezer. No nothing. When had she stopped buying snacks?

“Your father wants you to take some papers to Mr. Balmeade tomorrow,” Poopie said behind her, but all Birdie heard was “your” and she assumed Poopie was still getting on her about forgetting. She whirled around, slamming the fridge door behind her.

“Who cares about the goddamn berries!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

Poopie’s face twisted to a look of comic shock. She shook her head and gazed up toward heaven. And then she went out for the berries herself, tapping Saint Jude on her way down the porch.

“I don’t even know why I’m going with you. I can’t stand the sight of this guy.”

“You’re going
because
you can’t stand the sight of the guy. So you can make fun of him once we get there,” Leeda replied to Murphy, who was trailing behind her and now stuck out her tongue.

“You can read me like a book,” Murphy said, deadpan.

Birdie tossed the manila packet of papers over the fence that separated the Balmeade Country Club from the orchard, then began to climb, sticking her toes between the metal squares, swaying slightly, and slipped over effortlessly, bouncing on her feet as she hit the ground. She wore an uncharacteristically pissed-off look, one she’d had on all day. And the minute she landed on the Balmeade grass, it seemed to Leeda to settle harder onto her features.

“Hey, Birdie, you’re having a skinny day,” Murphy said, sounding like she noticed the look too. Leeda always cringed when Murphy said things so bluntly, but Birdie smiled distractedly.

“Thanks.”

Birdie was actually in short overalls and a flowy orange top. And she did look skinny. But she also looked miserable. She had told them about her incident with Enrico in the cider house. And now they were headed into enemy territory. Birdie shuffled her feet, waiting for them like a person standing on a deserted alley at night rather than on a bland lawn in the middle of the day. She looked distinctly threatened.

“Thanks for coming with me, you guys,” she said, her face softening for a moment.

Walter, Birdie had said, had asked her to bring the packet of
papers to Horatio Balmeade, who was supposed to be in his office to receive them at two o’clock. He had asked her to go alone. He had also asked her to walk in through the front entrance like a civilized human being. But Birdie was taking Leeda and Murphy with her and—thanks to Murphy’s needling—she was going over the fence.

“What’s in the envelope?” Murphy asked.

Birdie shrugged.

“Aren’t you curious? Maybe it’s naked pictures of Mrs. Balmeade.”

Birdie didn’t even crack a smile at the joke. “I don’t think I should look. It’s private.” She let out a soft, distressed sigh. “You guys are going to behave yourselves, right?” she asked Murphy diplomatically.

“Tweety Bird,” Murphy answered, gnawing on a peach she’d pulled out of her pocket, “Leeda will do her best.”

Leeda had stopped at the fence, not quite sure how she was going to get over. Since they were going to the country club, she’d worn a skirt. And Leeda had never climbed a fence in her life, except the time her friend Alicia’s party got busted and she ended up with a huge bruise from when Rex had pulled her over.

“Go on, Lee,” Murphy said, catching up.

Leeda looked at the fence, then stuck a foot in one of the gaps in the wire. It hurt. Her toes jammed together. She pulled her foot out and put it down.

“Just climb it,” Murphy ordered.

“I’m wearing a skirt.” She knew as she said it that Murphy wouldn’t let it drop. Which made her feel embarrassed and annoyed.

Sure enough, Murphy looked at her like she was an alien. “Oh my God. Birdie, I can’t believe we brought Leeda all this way so we could see her undies, and now our plan’s not going to work!” Leeda blinked at her, confused, but Birdie giggled halfheartedly. Murphy turned a duh face on Leeda. “Who
cares
? It’s just Birdie and me.”

“It’s a thong,” Leeda said tightly.

Murphy fish-eyed her.

Finally, frustrated, Leeda made Murphy wait on one side and Birdie on the other to catch her in case she fell. She climbed over, her thong showing itself in all of its baby pink glory, and came down with a soft thud on the other side. They started across the grass, which was short and fine and perfect, sloped here and there to admit a sand trap or a tiny, perfectly shaped pond. The clubhouse up ahead practically gleamed with the whiteness of its walls. A golf cart zoomed past them, carrying an older couple in all white.

For Leeda, coming to the club had used to feel like a great way to spend the day, but now it was like stepping into a mind-numbing TV show instead of real life. She glanced at Birdie to see how she was dealing.

“Those trees are so ugly,” Birdie said distastefully, pointing to the skinny Italian pines. Leeda had always thought they were pretty, but now, she realized, her taste had shifted. They didn’t look ugly to her. But they didn’t look right either.

“I’d like to stick one of those trees up Horatio Balmeade’s butt,” Murphy said casually, and Birdie giggled.

Leeda had to admit, Murphy knew how to put things into perspective. But she made Leeda nervous. It had taken all of Leeda’s sweetest, eyelash-fluttering persuasion to get Uncle Walter to let
Murphy off the orchard for Danay’s party, and she didn’t want her to screw it up. Already Uncle Walter had started to look at Leeda suspiciously, like he was beginning to figure out that she wasn’t quite the good influence on Birdie he had assumed she would be, though he still seemed to mostly lay the blame on Murphy.

And seeing the way Murphy strode beside Birdie, like she might kick Horatio Balmeade in the shins if he looked at her sideways, was enough to make Leeda wish—half guiltily—that they’d left her in the dorms.

Inside the clubhouse the blandness of the grounds extended itself and hitched up a notch. Leeda felt a little dizzy from the coolness of the air conditioner, the neatness of every person who passed by, the clean, empty smell of the air after the heady, earthy smell of the orchard, which clung even to the inside of the dorms. Leeda looked for Rex but didn’t see him.

“You guys stay here,” Birdie said.

Leeda and Murphy sank onto the leather couch by the door as Birdie crossed the room like a convict approaching the electric chair.

“I wonder what those papers are,” Murphy said darkly, tapping her feet against the marble of the floor.

“It can’t be good,” Leeda said, eyeing her meaningfully. “Do you think she knows?”

Murphy stared across the wide floor as Birdie was reapproaching them. “Yeah, she knows,” she said quietly. “Did you talk to him?” she added brightly as Birdie approached. Birdie’s chest was heaving in tight bursts, and she looked like she might cry.

“He wasn’t there.”

“Didn’t he tell you to come at two?”

Birdie looked back over her shoulder. “Yeah. I just put the papers on his desk.” And then she looked at Murphy and Leeda. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Hey, Birdie, where we going?” Leeda asked.

Birdie didn’t answer. She didn’t know. She took long strides in a straight line, trying to put the clubhouse as far behind her as possible. Everywhere, the Balmeade Country Club appeared to be thriving financially. There were gardeners out trimming the shrubs to perfection and tons of shiny white golf carts crisscrossing the grass. Beside the new condos on the north side there were even newer condos going up. Here everybody was white, wore white, drove white golf carts. There were SUVs parked in discreet lots beyond the course so nobody would have to walk too far. All the golfers were men.

“Birdie, are you okay?” Murphy called out from behind her.

Birdie turned back to Leeda and Murphy and swallowed, trying to talk herself out of all the anger she felt. She took a deep breath. “Those papers were specs. For the orchard. Acreage, tree count, land surveys. I peeked.”

Leeda and Murphy both stared at her solemnly.

She crossed her arms and stared around, blinking. She wasn’t surprised, but she was still shocked. “I just…I want to knock everything down.”

They were standing near a couple of boxwood shrubs, close to the first hole. She was about to kick one of the shrubs when Murphy grabbed her arm and gave her a hard yank. She, Murphy, and Leeda went tumbling behind the bushes.

“What?” Birdie hissed, looking for whatever it was that Murphy had seen. Her eyes lit on Horatio Balmeade, strolling across the grass with another man about fifty yards away.

“Why are we hiding?” she whispered to Murphy. Murphy didn’t answer. Her green eyes narrowed for a moment, and then she seemed to remember something, and she reached her hand into her pocket, pulling out a very ripe, half-eaten peach.

“Here.” Murphy held the peach out, a few drops of juice landing on Birdie’s knuckles. “When he comes by, you should nail him with this.”

Birdie looked at her, wide-eyed. “No!”

“Murphy,” Leeda said, low and tense.

“Come on.” Murphy shoved the peach into her hand, grinning. It squished against Birdie’s fingers. “You know you want to.”

Birdie looked at Leeda, who shook her head. “We’ll get busted,” Leeda hissed. Birdie felt the texture of the pit in her hands, buried in the thickness of the meat of the peach.