One
It was a blue-sky kind of morning, when the breeze begs you to come outside before the humidity sets in and makes everything sticky around the edges. I’d been lying out at Holiday Beach since nine, desperate to get a jump on my summer tan for once. I’d slathered SPF fifty on my nose and shoulders but went for number eight everywhere else. It was a long shot; if you looked up my name online, it would say, Darby Peacher, fifteen, never been kissed. Synonym: pasty. Still, I was determined to get some color on my legs so I didn’t look like a sundress-bedecked Q-tip this season.
I’d been on my back for half an hour, so I flipped over to my front, checked my phone, and ran my hands through the stark white sand. I wondered if the sand down in Florida was really this fine. I’d never seen a real beach; being landlocked in Kentucky, we only had the man-made kind. It was a great imitation as far as I could tell. We even had a few potted palm trees, blooming with silver and red glass ornaments, where the beach met the grass, to give the place a tropical feel.
Holiday Beach was really just a strip of sand at the edge of a zero-entry wading pool, next to the greenway and the town playground. Everyone hung out here all summer, but only little kids and their moms were out this early. The toddlers shrieked and poured water from buckets onto one another’s heads while the moms sat grouped together in the shallowest part of the pool, splashing water onto their knees while they talked. I knew Fran and her son, Tony, and recognized a few other ladies from town, but no one else was around. Another benefit of sunbathing before noon. No one important would see my pasty legs.
Unless … No, he wouldn’t be out yet. I checked my phone again. No texts.
An older man in a UK ball cap strolled by on the walking trail. He saw me and smiled. “Morning, Darby.”
“Hi, Mr. Oates!” I called.
“Ready for tonight?”
“Yes, sir, we’re ready.”
“Looking forward to it.” He passed with a wave.
I checked my phone again. Was it even on? Yep.
Maybe he was waiting for me to text him. But what had Penny warned me before she left for riding camp? Never be the one to start the conversation; don’t break the seal.
“Easier said than done,” I muttered.
I rested my cheeks on my hands and closed my eyes. The breeze was warmer than it had been at eight, but it still felt fantastic when it blew across my back.
“Hello, Darby!”
I looked up. A woman was running along the trail, checking her pulse.
“Hey, Dr. Hoey! Are you coming tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Use sunscreen!” she called over her shoulder as she jogged past.
“Yes, ma’am, I am!”
I wiggled around in the sand to make more of an indention under my stomach.
Maybe he was still asleep. After all, it was almost one a.m. when I’d sent the last text, asking if he’d ever seen a blue moon. He had never responded, probably because he had fallen asleep. I stayed up until nearly two, waiting, just in case. I sensed he was this close to asking me out, and I didn’t want to miss it when he did.
He, by the way, was Roy Stamos, this amazing guy who had moved to town over Christmas break. I’d been crazy for him since Penny’s New Year’s Eve party. I was hanging back from the others, waiting for my just-friends date to bring me something to drink. Roy broke away from the group of guys hanging around the food, walked up to me with a sprig of mistletoe, and pecked me on the cheek, right by the corner of my mouth.
“What was that for?” I whispered.
“For the mistletoe.”
Before I could say or do anything else, he turned and walked over to Josie Randall and did the same thing. Then every other girl in the room. But I had been the first, and I knew that had to count for something.
Not that I thought for a second I had a chance with him. I mean, he was so … scrumptious. But then, a week ago, on the last day of school, I was cleaning out my locker when he’d passed, alone for a change. He’d done that hot-guy head nod—the kind where guys nod up instead of down? It’s like the opposite of a nod. It’s a don. Anyway, as he was passing, he donned at me and said, “Hey.”
I played it extremely cool. I donned back and waved. I might have dropped a few books on my feet when I waved. And I may have tried to say, “Have a great summer,” but instead said, “Hegratsum,” because I was in so much pain from the torrent of textbooks.
I may have.
Maybe.
However ridiculous I’d felt at the time, my bumbling response must have been endearing because he had texted me three times since. And then, last night, he’d texted his first truly romantic message.
full moon 2night
It had taken me seven minutes to think of a good reply.
Yeah.
He responded immediately.
made me think of u
At first I thought it was a joke, something to do with how pale I am or how I’m as round faced as a Peanuts character. And, cruel fate being what it was, my dad had the unfortunate habit of calling me Moonpie. So I asked:
Really? Why?
so beautiful it glows 2
My affection for him skyrocketed.
I’d never had anyone look at the moon and think of me. I’d never texted a guy for an hour about anything, let alone about how my beauty compared to the moon’s. I had climbed out my window to sit on the roof and stare up at the moon between texts, wishing he were next to me. It had been magical. Then I’d asked my stupid question about a blue moon, and that was the end of my perfectly magical night of texting.
So now, here I was, the morning after the moon texting, and I still hadn’t heard from him. Should I text him good morning? Or was that too … girlfriend-y?
Hey.
There. That seemed casual. Right?
I pushed Send before I could change my mind again.
The thing was, I didn’t have much experience with guys before this. And by not much experience I mean, well, none. Penny’s New Year’s Eve party was the only time I’d seen any action, and that was just a peck on the cheek. A smoking-hot peck on the cheek, but still, I knew it didn’t count as a real kiss. Come to think of it, that was also the night of my one and only official date, although, like I said, it was a just-friends date. I’d known Calvin forever. He had acne and snorted when he laughed, which I’d thought was kind of cute right up until he ditched me in the middle of our date to go to his friend’s house and play video games. We hadn’t spoken since.
So, yeah, you could say I had zero experience with guys.
“Hey, it’s Darby! Hey, girl!”
Maya Johnson and Laeticia Marshall, two seniors I knew from church, were staking out a square of sand a few yards away. They had a cooler and folding beach chairs and everything. They were always at the beach in the summer. Like me, they didn’t go off to summer camp. But unlike me, they didn’t have much to do during the season.
“Isn’t it beautiful today?” Maya asked as she expertly popped open her chair.
“Gorge. Perfect for the festival.” I brushed my bangs out of my eyes and squinted up at the sun. “Y’all are coming, right?”
“For sure,” Laeticia said. “Are you in it again?”
I nodded. “Unveiling’s at seven.”
“We’ll be there.”
There was an awkward moment where no one really knew how to end the conversation. We weren’t good enough friends for them to ask me to join them or for them to join me. Maya kind of smiled and then angled her chair slightly away from me. When she sat down, I turned my head the other way.
I already missed Penny.
My phone dinged. Roy?
Dad.
TCL @ 11. Dont b late!
Bananas! I’d almost forgotten the monthly town council luncheon. It was quarter ’til eleven now. I jumped up and threw my red gingham button-up over my green tankini. My white shorts needed a good beating to get the sand off. I shimmied into them and stepped into my flip-flops. Had I brought mascara with me?
I searched my bag for some as I hurried through the parking lot, glad when I reached the shade of the sycamores on Garland Street because it was getting muggy and I didn’t want to sweat through my clothes. I half walked, half ran toward the business end of town on the square.
Downtown Christmas was a sight to behold in the summertime, decked out in all its glory. Fake snow was piled under store windows like it had drifted there on a polar wind; green plastic wreaths with giant red bows festooned every light post; and storefronts displayed their best holiday wares. Sure, we were hokey. But where else in the world could you go to celebrate the best holiday year-round? Tourists came to town for the seasonal attractions like our life-sized Snow Globe and the biggest Christmas festival in Kentucky that isn’t held in December, and to see the town decorated like a full-scale ceramic holiday village.
It really was amazing. This year, we’d even made Travel America’s list of “Top Ten Best Small Towns South of the Mason-Dixon Line.” I was extremely proud, not just of Christmas, but of my dad. As the mayor, it was an honor for him, too.
I hurried up Main Street, tying my hair into a neat ponytail as I dodged tourists. I waved to Mr. Johnson as I passed his toy store. He kept sweeping but made a duck face at me. I laughed; he’d been making faces at me since I was four years old. I hurried past the Vista Brody Christmas Museum, an old Victorian mansion on the square with a bright-red banner stretched across its little lawn, teasing the antique ornament collection inside. I stopped to check my reflection in a storefront window. I swiped some lip gloss across my lips and brushed my bangs to the side. Mrs. Jenkins called through the open door, “You look fine. Hurry, now! The luncheon starts in five minutes!”
Mr. Jenkins was on the town council, but he didn’t make a move without talking to Mrs. Jenkins first. She probably already knew what Dad’s speech was about and probably even who would eat what. Mrs. Jenkins knew everything about everything.
I headed for the diner on the corner of the square. The bells on the door jingled as I went inside, and the icy air hit me full in the face. Thank you, Lord, for air-conditioning. I stood in the blast and let the breeze frost the beads of sweat on the back of my neck while I looked around for the council and Dad. It being a Saturday, the booths were crammed with families eating brunch. Many of them were visitors who were in town for tonight’s unveiling, but I recognized lots of faces. Being First Daughter in a town as small as Christmas meant I could name most of its citizens. There were the Hollisters, Mr. Steinman and his grandkids, Josie Randall from homeroom, and a few other familiar faces.
Mr. Grant, the owner of the Holiday Diner, was behind the counter, refilling coffee. He had a rim of silver hair that matched his walrus mustache. He caught my eye and nodded toward the doorway in the back corner, which led to the private party room. I smiled in thanks and headed that way. Mr. Grant was on the council, but he’d only be popping in and out while he served guests. He was Dad’s number-one supporter, though, and would be fine with whatever decisions Dad made.
Dad smiled as I came in. “I’m sure you all know my daughter?”
Everyone laughed. Of course they knew me. I’d been First Daughter since I was four years old. Mrs. Mason from the post office had taught me to write letters; Mr. Gomez used to let me play in the bank lobby while Dad was in meetings; John Grant made my breakfast every weekend at the diner and at least half my dinners; Mr. Jenkins snuck me peppermints when he passed the offering plate at church; and Mrs. Goodwin took me back-to-school shopping in Louisville every fall. They weren’t just people on the town council. They were my family.
Mrs. Goodwin stood up to give me a warm hug. “You smell like summer. Baby oil?”
“Just some sunscreen.”
She looked me over as we sat down, and nodded firmly. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Goodwin was my favorite, and not just because she took me shopping. Her curly black hair had streaks of gray that she refused to dye. Her dark-brown hands were super soft, and she never asked why when I stopped by just because. Mr. Goodwin had been gone since before I was born, but she talked about him like he was still nearby. And she was the smartest person I knew. She could talk to anyone about anything, and she never ever made me feel stupid for asking questions. Plus, she owned Blessings Bakery, so she always smelled like sugar and vanilla. Speaking of:
“I made you cookies.” She opened the cranberry-colored box, and the smell of gingerbread wafted across the restaurant. “There’s one for everyone.”
She’d personalized them. I found mine right away. It was decorated with chocolate hair, blue candy eyes, a red piped dress, and green flip-flops on its round little feet.
“Well?” she asked.
I bit the arm off. The gingerbread was just the right amount of sweet and spicy, and it melted into my taste buds as I nibbled away. “So yummy.”
“Oh, good,” she said with relief. “I’m sampling them tonight for tourists. Thinking of starting a Christmas cookie mail-order business through our website.”
“Really?” I said. “That’s great!”
“Trying to capitalize on our newfound fame,” she said with a smile. “Gotta strike while the iron’s hot.” She offered the box around the table. “Eat up.”
Everyone else took theirs, and I noticed Dad’s cookie had the same blue candy eyes as mine but a swirl of yellow hair. It looked just like him, down to the rolled-up shirtsleeves. The way he darted around, hair mussed from working so hard, he looked younger than fifty-five.
Mr. Grant came over to take our order—he brought me an Ale-8 with a swizzle straw in the neck of the bottle, just like he had at every town council luncheon since I was a kid—and then Dad started in on the business stuff. I opened the calendar app on my phone and checked the minutes of last week’s meeting. There wasn’t much new to discuss this week except the festival tonight. I knew we’d get to that quickly. Before I started taking notes, I texted Dad a reminder that he had a meeting in two hours with the board of tourism and an afternoon on the square shaking hands.
Mr. Gomez was just warming to the subject of the budget when my phone dinged.
I dropped it on the ground, reached down to grab it, and hit my head on the table as I righted myself, rattling all the flatware.
“Darby, are you all right?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“Fine, thank you. Sorry.”
My phone dinged again. I quickly silenced it so Mr. Gomez could go on with his report.
hey … what r you up 2?
It was Roy! I may have squealed.
Dad cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” I said again, remembering where I was. I smiled at everyone and hid my phone under the table.
As soon as Dad returned to his conversation, I texted back.
Eating lunch at the diner. What about you?
The response bubbles came up right away. He was answering!
on my way 2 beach
Seriously? I was just there, and now he’s on his way? My heart sank. I could’ve seen him.
He sent another text.
what r you doing l8r?
Holy kiwis! Was it happening? Was Roy Stamos asking me out?
What should I say? I didn’t have any plans besides the festival with Dad, but I didn’t want to sound like a friendless dork. But if I said I did have plans, then he would think I was busy and wouldn’t ask me out. Conundrum overload.
Probably just checking out the festival or something. What about you?
That was good. Not too specific, not too boring. I hit Send, held my breath, and pretended to be enthralled with whatever words were coming out of Dad’s mouth—they could have been Swahili for all the attention I was actually paying.
If Roy was asking me out, what would we do? Hang out at Holiday Beach? I’d never gotten invited to hang out there after hours before, but I’d always wanted to. Maybe he’d ask me to go to the movies. I shivered just thinking of us sitting in a dark movie theater. Maybe we’d check out the festival together. That would be fun. We could look at window displays, get snow cones …
want 2 meet up or something?
Yes! He was asking me out! What should I text back? Obviously I’d accept, but should I just say yes, or was that too eager? He already knew I had a crush on him—he knew every girl had a crush on him. Should I say maybe? Should I wait awhile to answer?
Dad elbowed me, and I looked up.
Everyone was staring at me. “Yes?”
Dad raised his eyebrows. “I said, you need to be at the ceremony by seven.”
“What ceremony?”
Dad looked at me like I’d grown antlers.
“Oh.” I shook my head slightly. Roy’s words were swimming in front of my eyes, but I needed to focus. “Right. Yes, of course. What time?”
Dad felt the back of my head where I’d banged it on the table. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It should be a wonderful night.” I smiled but inwardly groaned.
Don’t get me wrong—I loved the festival, and I wanted to help Dad in any way I could; we were a team. But Roy had just asked me out, and I couldn’t be in two places at once! I wanted to make up some excuse to get out of it, but I knew I couldn’t. Christmas came first.
But what would I tell Roy?
The luncheon broke up as soon as everyone finished eating. Mr. Gomez was needed at the bank, Mrs. Goodwin had gingerbread to bake for the ceremony, and Mr. Jenkins had to get back to Mrs. Jenkins to fill her in on everything they’d decided.
John Grant came over and refilled our drinks. Dad and I usually hung around for a little bit on weekends. He didn’t have anything scheduled until the tourism board meeting.
“What’s going on?” he asked me. “Are you sure your head is okay?”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “I just … um…”
I’d never had to ask Dad if I could go on a date before. I’d never needed to. But now, well, if I disappeared after the ceremony tonight without an explanation, he’d probably have Sheriff Lewis searching for me.
“I was wondering if I could sneak away from the ceremony a little early tonight?”
“What for?”
I set my fork down and tried to think how to answer that. Dad and I were close, but we’d only ever had hypothetical conversations about boys. “I kind of … got asked to hang out.”
“By whom?”
“A boy.”
Dad choked on his sweet tea. “You mean a date?”
“Kind of?”
“Who is it?”
“You don’t know him.”
“Does he live in town?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I know him.”
“Exactly!” I said, using this to my advantage. “You know everyone in town. Are there any psychopaths running around?”
Dad frowned. “No.”
“Then he’s okay. Just … please don’t make me say. Yet. It’s only one date.”
“Where will this date take place?”
I shrugged. “He didn’t really say. Probably we’ll, like, hang out.”
“Forget it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your father and I don’t like the way you say hang out. What does that mean? Is it some sort of girl code for ‘necking’?”
“Seriously? Necking. What are you, like, old?”
“Decrepit.” He pushed his plate away and looked at me with a tragic expression. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“You’re becoming a teenager.”
“I’ve been a teenager for years.”
“Not one who dates.”
“It’s just one date.”
He folded his hands on the table and considered me. Suddenly, he was back in mayor mode. “We need to discuss a few ground rules. And it’s probably best if we review the importance of—”
“We’ve covered the important stuff. Like, ad nauseam.”
He shook his head. “Seriously? ‘Like, ad nauseam.’ What are you, a teenager?”
“Touché.”
We studied each other for a moment, trying to guess the other’s next move. His hair flopped over his forehead, and his eyes were bright with anticipation of the coming festival. He looked like a little boy waiting for Santa Claus.
“Okay, how about this?” I said finally. “You let me go out after the ceremony, and I’ll be on laundry duty all month.”
Dad smiled wryly. Laundry duty was always my offer when I really, really wanted something. He wiped his hands on his napkin, mulling it over. “Fine. But you have to text me where you are, you are not allowed to be at his house if his parents aren’t home, and you can’t get in a car with him until I’ve met him, whoever he is. And you have to be home by ten.”
“Eleven.”
“Ten thirty.”
“Deal,” I said before he could take it away. “Thank you.”
He rose and kissed the side of my head. “I have to go if I’m going to make it to my meeting. See you tonight, Moonpie.”
“I’m getting a little old for that one, aren’t I?” I asked as he walked off.
“Never,” he called back.
I smiled.
As soon as he was gone, I texted Roy back. This was shaping up to be the best day of my life.
Copyright © 2018 by Tiffany Stewart
