Part 19 (1/2)
He casts me a look, but I see the grin in his eyes. For several minutes he pulls back on the pole and reels in the slack. I watch the line skim through the water as the fish on the other end fights.
”Gotta be a ba.s.s,” he tells me. ”They usually put up a pretty good fight.”
I see a flash of silver beneath the water's surface, then the fish is out. Tomasetti was right; it's a ba.s.s, probably weighing in at six or seven pounds.
He kneels, grasps the fish in his right hand, and works the barbed hook from its mouth with the other. ”I almost hate to eat this guy.”
”Toss him back.” When he frowns at me, I add. ”He'll sp.a.w.n. Breed more fighters.”
Holding the fish in both hands, he bends close to the water's surface and lets it go. ”We're going to have to make do with the three I've caught, and they're kind of scrawny.”
”We have grapes and cheese,” I tell him.
”And wine.” He wipes his hands on his jeans and turns his attention to me. ”Where were we?” he asks.
”I think I was in the process of putting my tongue down your throat.”
He leans in to me and kisses me on the mouth. It's just a peck, a soft brus.h.i.+ng of his lips against mine, but it moves me, makes me want more.
I laugh. ”So are you going to show me around, or what?”
”How much time do you have?” he murmurs.
”I can't stay,” I tell him. ”A few hours.”
”In that case, let's go inside and get started.”
It's odd that after being with Tomasetti I would dream of Mattie. Prior to the hit-and-run, I hadn't thought of her in any meaningful way in years. Since, I haven't been able to get her off my mind. She was a huge part of my formative years. She taught me many things, about myself, about boys, about the way life worked. Only now, as an adult, do I realize not all of the things I learned were good.
If you were a teenager and living in Painters Mill, the Round Barn Creamery was the place to go in the summertime. The owners, a husband and wife team I always fancied as former hippies from the 1970s, boasted fifty-three flavors of ice cream, sherbet, and gelato and ran their business out of a historical German-style round barn that had once been a dairy operation. The real draw, however, was the patio in the rear. Nestled beneath the shade of a ma.s.sive maple tree, the area was paved with flagstones and dozens of potted tropical plants. An old rococo fountain spurted water that trickled over river rock and made the most amazing sound. A smattering of antique ice-cream tables and chairs were scattered about. Best of all, the owners piped alternative rock through ma.s.sive walnut speakers, which drew teens by the drove and guaranteed a full house all summer.
My mamm and datt didn't know about the music-or the boys-both of which would have ended my new favorite pastime. I made sure they never found out. As long as my ch.o.r.es were finished, they didn't mind my going with Mattie for ice cream. We'd meet on the dirt road in front of my house and ride our bicycles into town. Friday afternoons at the Round Barn Creamery became part of our summer routine.
When you're fourteen years old and Amish, being away from the farm with your best friend was the epitome of independence. I drank in that newfound sense of freedom until I was drunk on it and giddy for more. Still, walking into an ”English-owned” establishment-even a place as teenager friendly as the Round Barn Creamery-wasn't easy. I was ever aware that because of the way I dressed, some people would stare as if I were some kind of oddity.
One hot July afternoon, Mattie and I parked our bikes outside the shop. We'd been in such a hurry to get there and pedaled so fast, we arrived drenched with sweat. The bell on the front door jingled merrily when we walked inside. A wash of air-conditioned air sent gooseflesh down my arms as I made my way to the counter. I wanted to order my usual: a chocolate shake with a single dip of coffee ice cream, but we were both short on cash that day so we settled for small iced teas instead and carried them to our favorite table on the patio, where Kurt Cobain belted out a song about teen spirit.
I was so embroiled in the music and this special time with my best friend, I didn't notice the group that came in behind us. Two boys and two girls. English teenagers about the same age as Mattie and me. The boys wore cut off shorts with T-s.h.i.+rts depicting different rock bands. The girls were pretty. One wore blue jeans with a white tank top. The other wore shorts that displayed long, slender legs. I stole looks at them as they walked onto the patio, and I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to dress like that. To have jewelry and wear makeup and be surrounded by boys.
”They're fat cows.” Mattie whispered the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.
I couldn't help it; I laughed. That was one of the things I loved most about Mattie. Her unapologetic audacity. She was bold and brave and completely unstoppable.
When the group received their ice cream orders-big sundaes stacked high with whipped cream and slivered almonds-they strolled onto the patio. I could tell by the way their eyes swept toward us that they were curious. I wondered if they were tourists, if they'd ever seen an Amish person before. I wondered what that would be like, too.
”We ought to put on a show, give them a reason to stare,” Mattie said, watching them unabashedly.
The group wandered to the table next to ours and sat down. I turned my attention back to my iced tea, hoping they left us alone. Mattie had no such ambitions. She was completely unperturbed by their not-so-covert ogling and the whispers they didn't bother to conceal.
But I felt the burn of their stares like fire against my skin, and I wanted to kick her under the table. After a few minutes, the two boys sauntered over to us. The first boy had brown hair that was nearly as long as mine. The second was blond with a slightly feminine air. I suspected he might have been confused for a girl if it hadn't been for the tuft of peach fuzz sticking out of his chin.
Mattie cast me a quick smile and winked. I couldn't believe she thought they were going to be nice. Even at the tender age of fourteen, I had developed a sixth sense when it came to spotting troublemakers. These two boys had it written all over their too-pretty faces. I sucked hard on my straw, uncomfortable because all of them were watching us expectantly, looking bored and mean and a little too anxious to focus those things on us.
”Do you ladies come here often?” the brown-haired boy asked.
A round of snickers erupted from the girls sitting at the table next to ours. I didn't look up from my drink. But I was quickly running out of tea. That was a problem because once that happened, I'd have nothing to do.
”We're regulars,” Mattie said breezily. ”Haven't seen you around, though.”
He grinned, pleased to have received a response, and shot the girls a this-is-going-to-be-fun look. ”Do you mind if my friend and I ask you a few questions? We're working on a report for school. You know, about Amish people.”
More snickers.
Mattie sucked on her straw, studying him from beneath long lashes. ”What's in it for us?”
”I don't know.” He shrugged. ”What do you want?”
”Buy us a couple of chocolate shakes and we'll tell you everything you ever wanted to know.” She smiled sweetly. ”Won't we, Katie?”
I kicked her, annoyed because I was certain she was about to get us involved in something that would surely backfire.
The two boys exchanged looks, then the brown-haired boy nodded. ”Sure.” Rising, he fished his wallet from his pocket and walked to the counter.
”What are you doing?” I whispered in Pennsylvania Dutch.
”You wanted ice cream, didn't you?” she shot back.
I shook my head, dread building in my chest. This wasn't going to be fun and it wasn't the way I'd wanted to spend my afternoon.
I risked a glance at the table next to us. Only then did I notice the girls sitting there by themselves, looking irritated, and it struck me that they didn't appreciate their boyfriends buying ice cream for us. I experienced a moment of triumph because I realized it was part of Mattie's plan.
A few minutes later, the brown-haired boy set two chocolate shakes in front of us, and they joined us at our table.
Mattie wrapped her lips around the straw. ”Danki.”
For the first time, the brown-haired boy's smile was genuine. He liked the Pennsylvania Dutch. Almost as much as he liked the way she was sucking on that straw. ”What's your name, anyway?” he asked.
”Mattie. What's yours?”
”Hunter.” He motioned to his friend. ”This is Patrick.”
Patrick leaned forward. ”No offense, but what's up with the old lady getup? You know, the granny dresses? You two are pretty hot-looking and that s.h.i.+t you're wearing isn't exactly s.e.xy.”
The girls giggled.