Page 2

chapter one

Tuck

Eleven Years Ago

I hopped the split rail fence, jogging along the creek bed, bending quickly to cup my hands and bring a drink of fresh, clear water to my mouth. A lizard scooted from under a rock, both of us startling each other before he darted away. Upright again, I ran the path I’d used a thousand times, toward the old stable on the east end of our property. The sun was just beginning its descent, purple streaks bleeding slowly across the horizon. Behind me I heard the shouts and laughter of my friends—the children of the farmhands and a couple neighbor kids—goofing off among the citrus groves. Normally I’d be hanging out with them, especially on a summer night like tonight, but more and more recently, I’d craved the quiet of my own thoughts, the time to focus on my dreams.

I was only fourteen, but my grandfather had come from Mexico and settled in California when he was just about my age, and even then, began to map out and work toward his future, the results of which spread out all around me, from the logo emblazoned on the front gate, to the far pasture where our horses roamed. Honey Hill Farm.

The old stable, no longer in use anymore, except for storage—and a secret space I’d claimed as my own—came into view and I raced toward it. A slight breeze rustled the leaves surrounding the structure, and I pulled the side door open just enough to squeeze through into the dim interior. It smelled like motor oil, dirt, and old wood, and though the mingling scents couldn’t necessarily be described as pleasant, they comforted me in some odd way. They spoke of peace, of found solitude, of safety even. This was my hideaway, a place of secret thoughts and dreams that felt as never-ending as the sky, and as bright and sweet as those oranges dripping like jewels from the trees.

There was something different—though temporary—occupying the space, however, and I thinned my lips as my gaze caught on the shiny convertible decked out in American flags and “Phil Swanson for City Council” campaign signs. The restored 1957 Ford Thunderbird was undeniably cool, the pride and joy of the owner of the orange grove neighboring ours, but I’d be glad when Mr. Swanson had backed it out of here, and this all-but-forgotten space once again belonged to me and me alone. That would be this weekend, right before the annual Labor Day parade, where Mr. Swanson planned to drive the car for his campaign. It was only being stored here because he’d washed and waxed it and didn’t have a space to house it as his own garage was undergoing some sort of expansion.

I looked away from the shiny red interloper and headed for the ladder that took me to the loft area. As my head cleared the high-up floor, my eyes widened, shock halting my movement, one leg raised to step to the next rung.

Emily Swanson.

Kneeling in front of the small, round window, next to my pile of books and among the other things I’d brought here, a hardcover open in her hands as she read.

No. Way.

Of all the people that I never wanted to find this spot or rifle through my things.

The burst of anger fueled my movement and I practically catapulted over the top of the ladder, coming to my feet, my head just grazing the ceiling. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

Emily whirled around, fell to her butt, and dropped the book. “You scared me!”

“I scared you ? You’re not supposed to be here. You’re…trespassing!”

She scrambled to her feet and then immediately put her hands on her slender hips, one golden brow arching. Despite my indignation, I couldn’t help noting how pretty she was. In fact, just the day before, I’d lain beneath that very window, my head propped on my backpack as I wondered what it’d be like to brush my lips against hers. The memory made heat flood my face like she might be able to read my mind, and my anger flamed hotter. It felt like she’d not only invaded my personal space, but somehow crept into my private thoughts as well. Thoughts about her that sort of embarrassed me, but mostly intrigued and excited me. When I was alone with them. For all my life, our parents had called us the worst of enemies and the best of friends, which I supposed was true. But now…something else was floating around the perimeter of our friendship, something I’d only begun to explore haltingly, secretly. Alone.

Emily stood, smoothing her sundress and brushing off her backside. “I wasn’t trespassing,” she insisted. “I just came out here to see my dad’s car all decorated.”

As if she had part ownership of this stable just because we’d allowed her dad to park his car here for a few days. To be fair, we’d always sort of treated each other’s neighboring orange groves as one continuous property, but I was in no mood to be fair. And anyway, what she’d said was clearly a lie. “Your dad’s car is down there,” I gritted, pointing behind me as though she didn’t already know that.

Emily moved her eyes slowly in the direction I’d pointed and then back to me, smiling sweetly. “I saw the books from below and was curious. I thought some homeless person might be living here. Maybe even a mass murderer or a…cannibal or something. I figured your mom and dad would want to know.” She looked around at the things I’d brought into my private hangout—books, binoculars, a pad of paper and a few pens, a deck of cards—and her lip quirked. A cannibal ? Really? No, the little brat had uncovered a secret of mine and could tell I was mad. She was enjoying this.

“Get out before I push you over the edge,” I threatened, taking a step forward, hoping to scare her and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off her pretty face.

“You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.”

She glanced toward the edge, noting, it seemed, that she was nowhere near it, and therefore, not in any danger of being pushed. My baseless threat appeared to anger her more than anything, and with a huff, she bent and picked up one of my books and then held it in front of her. “I should have known these were your books the minute I saw them,” she said, her gaze going to the title of the one she was holding. Roman Aqueducts and Water Supply. Her expression registered dramatic disgust. “ Boring books.” She lowered the pitch of her voice, doing a mocking impersonation. “I’m Tuck. I read boring books so I can get more boring. Boring, boring, boring.” I watched, my mouth falling open as I radiated rage and disbelief, and though I wouldn’t have admitted it, a small bit of curiosity. I was never quite sure what Emily was going to do from one moment to the next. She picked up another book, A Soil Owner’s Manual , and held it up to her face, pretending to read, crossing her eyes, taking a few steps one way and then the next in a drunken sort of stagger. “Oh good,” she said. “A book about dirt. I just got even more boring. Just what I was going for. Maybe I can join the Boring Olympics or start a business where I help people who can’t sleep.”

“Boring is better than stupid,” I retorted.

Her mouth set. Her blue eyes sparked fire. Yes, I knew her well enough to know that that was her button. She had trouble in school. Her parents were always on her case about her grades. She was behind in almost everything, except her beloved music class. She picked up one of the hand weights I’d brought up here so I could strengthen my mind and my body, the same way my grandfather had done all those years ago, or so the story went.

“I’m Tuck,” she said, using that same mocking pitch. “I lift weights so I can get even…” she paused to move her eyes over my body “… scrawnier than I already am.” She lowered the weight, crossing her eyes again and pretending to struggle as she lifted it, doing it again, huffing, moving her arm faster as she grunted in a parody of me , attempting to workout. Part of me wanted to laugh at the ridiculous show she was putting on, but the larger part was still raging mad and hugely offended. And so, when she jerked her arm backward and the weight slipped out of her hand, flying over her shoulder and sailing off the edge of the loft, I let out a bark of laughter that died a quick death as the sound of breaking glass exploded from below.

Oh God.

The Thunderbird.

Emily yelped, and we both moved quickly to the edge, going down on our knees and peering over to where the weight had landed, smack-dab in the middle of the Thunderbird’s wind shield, shattering it and landing in a pile of shards on what had been the unblemished white interior.

Her father’s pride and joy. The one he’d spent three years restoring to pristine condition.

Emily’s sudden wail pierced the silence and she crawled to the ladder, turning around and descending in a blur of blue sundress and bouncing blond ponytail. I followed, my body still rigid with disbelief, and a fair amount of horror.

Emily’s dad was going to go ballistic on her.

Good.

Emily was standing next to the car, leaned toward the shattered windshield, as though, up close, it might not have been as bad as it looked from high above. She wailed again, tears pouring down her cheeks as she hiccupped and blubbered. “He’s going to murder me,” she cried. “Then he’s going to murder me again!”

I felt a small trickle of satisfaction but resisted the smile I felt tugging at one corner of my lips.

“At least it’s just the windshield,” I said. I didn’t know much about cars, but I figured that could be replaced more easily than if the weight had fallen on the hood and dented the paint and the metal. “He might only half murder you.”

Emily threw her head back and wailed again. “I’m supposed to go to a music camp this weekend. I’m already on thin ice because of my grades. He’ll never let me go now. He might as well just murder me!” She let out another high-pitched sob.

God, she was dramatic. My mom called Emily a “little showboat,” even if she smiled when she said it, affection in her voice. I gave her a glassy stare. “You really are a baby, you know that? You’re going to have to tell him what you did and accept the consequences.”

She deserved this. She really did. This was called just deserts .

Emily hung her head and sobbed for a minute, her shoulders shaking. But then with a shuddery breath, she nodded and looked up at me with her big blue eyes, now red-rimmed and glittering with tears. “I’m sorry, Tuck. I was mean. You’re not boring. At least not all the time.” Then she turned and headed slowly to the door, shuffling as she walked like she was heading for the gallows.