Incense and Peppermints Read online

  “Hey, guys! Over here!” she hollered, throwing her arms over her head. “Hurry. Run.”

  Dee hightailed it quicker than a jackrabbit. Tracking her, I squeezed in the backseat, surprised to find Gwen roosting on Tom’s lap. An uneven smile touched her face. With Candy still hanging out the window, Jesse maneuvered the Mustang into the road, squealing on the blacktop.

  The car’s interior was more than enough to get me high; the dense fog stung my eyeballs. Tom sucked on a joint, drawing deeply. He turned to Gwen, and they suctioned their mouths together. She then turned toward me and blew out a gray cloud. I squinted, swamped in the heady scent, and fanned my wrist.

  “Mary, you’re funny,” Tom said with a snort. “You’re supposed to inhale.”

  “Oh.” I learned something new every day.

  “Here.” Dee passed the joint. Faltering for a second, I gaped at the smoke drifting from the paper. As if sighting my hesitation, she jiggled the reefer in front of my face. “Take it, silly.”

  As I’d seen demonstrated, I handled it nimbly between my thumb and finger, put it to my lips, and inhaled until my chest expanded like a balloon. The tip sizzled red and then went ashy. Smoke charged along my windpipe, plaguing my lungs.

  “Hold it in,” Dee said as if she’d discerned my newbie status.

  I handed the reefer to her and exhaled a barking cough.

  “Take another toke.” She shoved it back.

  Dragging hard, I gagged it down and passed it off. It burned and wasn’t pleasant—at first.

  “C’mon, Mary.” Gwen rolled down the window, and imitating Candy, crawled onto the frame.

  I also climbed to sit on the window ledge. We were stuck in a caravan of vehicles. Shooting red flares lined the roadway, and instead of harassing us, the cops were laughing at our antics as they directed traffic. Fantastic accolades heralded from car to car—horns beeping, kids bellowing, and we weren’t the only crazies hanging out of car windows.

  “Whoa-a. This is awesome.” From across the roof of the car, Gwen’s arms gestured to me. “Hey, Mary, Mary quite contrary. How does your garden grow?”

  As if I’d never heard that one before.

  When Jesse ramped up the volume to “It’s Your Thing,” our bodies kept the beat, and we started to sing. The car suddenly zoomed off the main road. It’s a good thing I’d been clutching the window bar, or else I could’ve been dead meat on the street. For some unknown reason, a stupid grin had its way with my face as I slid from the window ledge and onto the seat.

  We arrived at Putnam’s two-story colonial. Not bothering to knock since the yard was teeming with kids, we walked into a rear door that led to the kitchen. Guys and girls sat at the table playing cards. The party was in full throttle with more people spilling in. Boisterous kids gathered in front of two kegs, and soon, a plastic cup with suds sloshing over the top was stuffed into my hands.

  The Rolling Stones rocked the house, and a bevy of kids moved and grooved to the tunes. In a single line, we squeezed through the mass and stopped at a stairway leading to the second story. It was shelved with kid’s snuggling shoulder-to-shoulder, deep in conversations or mouth-to-mouth deep tonguing.

  I felt someone breathing down my neck, and I turned my head to see Jesse.

  How could I forget his odd phone call? Is he making a move on me? Oh, cripes.

  He grinned.

  While looking at him, I kept moving forward, trying to think of a polite blow off and rear-ended Dee. She spun around, barring teeth and her eyes threw me lightning bolts.

  Sheesh, she must be PMSing tonight.

  The girls stalled, and we made our own space with Jesse on the outskirts, looking like a bird of prey hanging over me. I monitored the conglomerate of Lancaster High students from all the social caste systems. The cheerleaders on the sofa surrounded Jimmy Pender, and even the geeks had collected in the corner, slinging their heads with spectacles askew.

  “There’s a pool table in the basement, want to go down there?” Dee eyed Candy for consent.

  Perfect, that I can have fun with. Four years ago, Dad had upgraded our basement with a second-hand billiard table. Ever since, I’d practiced and played for hours on end.

  On our way to the basement, Dee introduced me to Greg Putnam. I’d recognize the senior class president anywhere with his pretty-boy features, curvy brown hair coiffed cleanly to his neckline, and green eyes that said I’m irresistible. The girls hung off his every word like tittering nitwits, though, the guy didn’t do it for me. Even Dee and Candy played up to him as if he was God’s gift.

  With a cockeyed smirk, he browsed me from head to toe “You’re welcome in my bed anytime, sweet thing.”

  Gag me.

  “You girls are invited, too,” he said to Dee and Candy, “you know that.” Greg extended an arm and took my jacket. “You don’t want to carry this all night. It’ll be upstairs. In my bedroom.”

  Ugh. I felt like punching him. “I don’t mind carrying it.” Groping for my jacket, I couldn’t believe it when he chuckled and held it out of my reach.

  “No prob, sweet thing.” His white teeth glinted behind a photogenic smile.

  Greg was an honor roll student, and rumors had spread about him being accepted to Duke University through early admission. I wasn’t impressed.

  Goes to show you, brains don’t make the man.

  As we walked away, Jesse drooped over my shoulder, saying, “Want me to wipe the floor with that guy? Never did like Putnam. I only like his cosmic parties.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. Not worth the effort.”

  “Jesse, we’ll meet you downstairs,” said Candy. “I think Tom is there with Gwen.”

  She must’ve noticed him dogging me, and I was grateful for the reprieve.

  Jesse took the hint, and then the girls and I crammed into a small bathroom to hover in front of the mirror.

  “I think Stevie’s in the basement.” Candy looked at Dee in the mirror.

  “What makes you think he’s downstairs?” I said while trying to subdue my insubordinate hair with my fingers.

  “Steve wouldn’t miss Putnam’s party,” Dee answered. “It’s always over the top.”

  “I thought you and Steve broke up?”

  Candy’s almond eyes reduced to slits. “Yeah, but I want him to see what he’s missing.” She puckered her mouth and slathered on lipstick. “Mary, learn to play the game.”

  I am trying, real hard.

  CHAPTER 5

  We hiked down to the basement and sailed through billowing smoke. The dim lighting was made dimmer by the cloudy atmosphere. Three globes of light showered over an exquisite pool table. My brother was there, as the girls had presumed, sloped over the green felt with stick in hand making a shot.

  Once we made our entrance, Candy’s fingers gathered the hem of her sweater, and in a gradual, seductive move, she lifted the material over her head. Underneath, she wore a scant chemise that caught the light, enhancing every curve. All eyes were on her.

  “Sure is hot in here,” Candy said with an alluring voice, sounding more like Marilyn Monroe than I looked.

  A smug smile worked over Stevie’s mouth.

  The stairwell bisected the basement. One half sustained boys and girls loitering around a billiard table, while across the way, kids danced in the diffused light. Persons were coupled on a variety of cushioned recliners and chairs that lined the outer walls, and I spied Gwen and Tom making out. I then spotted a mattress on the floor in a darkened alcove, and a subtle beam of light spilled onto undulating bodies.

  I strived for cool and unbiased as the stereo boomed one of my favorite songs, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” The reverberating tune calmed my nerves. My first party, and I was psyched.

  My friends turned left, but I shunned the dark side and deviated to the light and the p
ool table. Stevie must’ve been on a roll because people cheered when he sunk the eight ball.

  “No one’s going to play you, man,” Monty said, the guy we’d met in the park.

  I shrilled, “I’ll play,” louder than expected and sounded like a zealous nerd.

  “Hey, man, it’s your sister.” Monty offered me a broken smile with his front tooth missing.

  My eyes clung to the gaping hole; I remembered he’d had all his teeth at the park.

  “Some guy sucker punched me,” he said, and stuck the tip of his tongue through the empty space between his teeth.

  My eyebrows lifted high on my forehead, and I made a face of condolence.

  “You can’t beat your brother, can you?”

  “Yeah, Mary’s good. She can beat me,” Stevie said. He angled against the wall, holding the pool stick against his chest like a pledge and appearing nonchalant.

  “Really, man?” said a male voice.

  I looked over to see him with his arm over Jennifer Paluch’s shoulders—a girl from my homeroom.

  “Bet five bucks Steve beats his sister.”

  “Count me in,” said another guy.

  “Rack ‘em, Mary.” Steve’s upper lip twisted.

  Out of the clear blue, Monty hollered, “Booze, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. What more can we ask for, man?”

  “A sexy hot girl to get my rocks off,” Stevie roared for all to hear.

  Guys raised their glasses in shouts of approbation. Looking suave and naughty by the stair rail, Candy’s mouth tightened, she didn’t appear to think he was hilarious.

  Throughout the game, Jesse supplied me with cold beer that I drank sparingly. “Do You Love Me” set the mood as Stevie and I amused ourselves, and our friends with some Monroe magic—dancing like entertainers around the table. I was having a blast, and though the game was close, I finished Stevie off.

  He laughed. “Told you, man.” He pinched the ten bucks from the corner of the table and handed it to me. “Who wants to try to beat my little sister?”

  “I’d like a piece of that,” the guy holding onto Jennifer volunteered.

  “Dennis,” Steve said in a lethargic tone and pointed the pool stick at him. “You better mean the game.” As he eyeballed the other boy with a look of mischief, a gurgle that evolved into a chortle sounded in Stevie’s throat.

  Snickering spurted around them.

  “Sorry, my man, I’m wagering against you.” Steve pounded Dennis’s shoulder in a conciliatory gesture. “No offense, but Mary’s going to win.”

  I was thrilled to be in the limelight for the moment, and to see my brother was actually proud of my talent. I wasn’t just his little, meddlesome sister. He let them know I was skilled, and he stood guard, making sure I wouldn’t be taken advantage of.

  “Here.” Steve handed me a lit cigarette. “It’ll make you look tough.”

  I fixed the filtered end in my mouth, though I doubted my ability to appear tough. I puffed and exhaled. Squinting through the smoke, I left the cigarette to balance on my bottom lip as if I were a badass.

  Dennis had racked the balls, and I slanted over the table to break. I stalled when commotion derived from above and kids began to flock around the bottom of the stairs. Voices elevated, in congratulatory remakes.

  I glanced up to witness Michael’s signature snakeskin cowboy boots clunk on the top stair, the rest of his body still hidden from me. Leisurely, he tread down the steps. Since he hailed from the south, his boots were considered awesome. But, here, most guys wore sneakers or were into biker boots. Michael had clearly rebelled against fashion standards, as I admired his snug boot-cut jeans accentuating his lean legs, and short-sleeved T-shirt that stretched over his chest and arms. “Fortunate Son” vibrated the walls as Michael Covington, Lancaster’s new football hero, came into view.

  I couldn’t help thinking, How fitting?

  Michael’s head pivoted toward the light and me. His eyes—not the sky blue that I’d observed in the park, but darkened to midnight—seemed to bare my soul. Dark hair feathered over his forehead and a lock dangled over one eye.

  Half of me expected him to be bragging about the game or smiling like a trophy boy. No bold swaggering expressions crossed his face. He looked peeved as kids jostled him and patted his back and shoulders for a game well played.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said in a drawl that made the girls go gaga. Lifting a plastic cup to his mouth, he consumed the beer in one gulp.

  His presence wasn’t unnerving as his eyes drifted over me. Unlike Greg Putnam’s assessment that had made me feel slutty, there was warmth in Michael’s evaluation.

  “Hey, are you going to shoot, Mary?”

  I blinked as Dennis broke me out of my funk.

  Shortness was my prime deterrent, and riding high on the balls of my feet, I slanted over the table. I zeroed in on where the cue ball would make the most of my shot and thunked it with accuracy. The resolute snap into the triangle of balls was music to my ears. I took a short drag off the cigarette and teetered the stub on an ashtray, intending to let it burn to ash.

  Before taking my next shot, I peered up. Dee had commandeered a sought after position and was flirting with Michael. Her Irish wool sweater had been discarded, replaced by a glittery, low-necked tank that she wore to perfection. The girls must’ve orchestrated the under-the-sweater-sexy thing.

  Michael looked tired. Or maybe it was his long lashes shading his eyes. As if he knew I was examining him, his eyes flicked up to meet mine. A measured smile tweaked the rim of his mouth, and he winked. Then he whispered in Dee’s ear, and she bubbled with laughter.

  Stevie had disappeared, and I felt deserted. I shrugged off the feeling as Jesse handed me another cold beer.

  “Doin’ good, babe,” he said, which irked me like a paper cut.

  After a generous swig, I saw Dee steering Michael into the area I’d named the make-out room. In fear of smearing my mascara, I delicately rubbed my lids, rejuvenating dry eyes. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the house was on fire because of the layers of wafting vapor.

  I mouthed the words to “I’d Wait A Million Years” by The Grass Roots, as I sunk the eight ball and won my second game. Dennis congratulated me, shaking his head in awe as he rejoined Jennifer. Someone came from behind and tickled my waist. And, assuming it was Jesse, my temper flared as I whirled around.

  “Oh, sorry, Mary.” Monty retracted a step with his hands in the air. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just wanted to know if you’d play a game with me?”

  “I think I’ll take a break and let the guys have the table for a while.” Fingering my plastic cup in one hand, I finger combed my hair to curtain my face to curb any sidelong glances into the make-out room. I took the stairs two at a time.

  Grateful Jesse wasn’t in sight for a change, I plotted my way to the living room. Candy danced in the middle of the mob, and when she saw me, she wiggled over to bracelet each of my wrists and towed me in. I giggled as we danced to “Sweet Caroline” and then “I Can’t Get Next To You.” Shyness frittered away, and so did my impeccably ironed hair that began to curl. By the conclusion of the third song, I plucked damp tendrils from my face, rucked the sleeves of my sweater from where they’d adhered to my skin, and ballooned the hem of my shirt to let in cool air.

  The melodious “My Girl” coasted through the currents like strings of silk. Candy peered over my head, and a funny expression modified her pretty face. I wondered if Stevie had finally come to grovel.

  Obviously, it wasn’t my brother as hands glided the length of my arms.

  Oh God. Jesse.

  Refusing to turn, I felt my back steaming against his body heat. Strong fingers compressed my shoulders and twirled me into a solid chest. Not wishing to make a scene, I crossed my arms in front of me with plans of pushing him away and bolting. Inst
ead, I was blown away to find myself staring into Michael’s face. My head narrowly leveled the tip of his chin.

  I comprehended Candy’s previous perplexing look. Dee had claimed Michael at the park and at tonight’s football game. The code of conduct of not trifling with a friend’s want-to-be or soon-to-be boyfriend wasn’t something to mess with.

  I deliberately let my hands fall to my sides.

  He bent over, parting my hair with his fingers. “Do you even know how every guy here is into you right now?” His breathy words tickled my ear.

  “What?” My face jerked sideways, coming in contact with his warm cheek and nubby whiskers. “That’s some pick-up line.”

  “I guess young Bambi is rapidly growing up. Pulling out all the stops, eh?”

  He deposited my flaccid wrists over his shoulders. I had been hot before, but now I was burning up as my fingers parted the downy soft hair at the base of his neck.

  Not skipping a beat, he added, “What’s that crap on your face?”

  Oh, great. I have crap on my face. I reached to dust off whatever he’d seen.

  “Bambi’s lost her freckles,” he said, wearing a smile that made my heart thrum faster. “That’s what I mean.”

  “It’s called make-up,” I said, relieved.

  “I like freckles. More natural. You don’t need make-up.” Dimples dented his whiskered cheeks as he drenched me with a luscious smile. “I’m fairly good looking, don’t you think? And I’m not wearing any make-up.”

  Jeez. My senses torpedoed out of control. I could lose myself in this guy. Instead of dissolving into a puddle, I stiffened my back.

  “Michael Covington, you’re egotistical.”

  “Truthful. There’s a difference. The guys downstairs are waiting for you to play pool, and that All-American dude framing the doorway is slaying me with bullet eyes.”

  “What All-American dude?”

  “Over my shoulder.”

  “I’d have to be over six-feet tall to look over your shoulder,” I chided.

  As we danced Michael’s large hands gripped my waist, turning me sideways. I was and wasn’t surprised to see Greg Putnam leering at us. I guess he thought I had been ripe for him to pick, and his plans had been thwarted. He dipped his chin at me and walked out of sight.