Love Edy (2 page)

“Well then,” Hassan mumbled, low enough for
Edy’s ears only. “I’ll be sure not to miss my chance.”

She grinned.

Outside, a gleaming black Land Rover inched
forward, slowing past Edy’s house. When they stopped, it stopped.
When they started, it started again. Finally, Hassan let out a
snort, grabbed Edy by the wrist, and hurried down the walkway.

The Land Rover continued its creep, moving
slow enough for Hassan to throw open the back door and wave Edy in.
The moment she lifted her foot, however, the Rover shot forward,
only to jerk to a halt. When she tried again, it did the same. Edy
couldn’t help but giggle.

“Would you stop before she falls?” Hassan
yelled. “Friggin’ clowns.”

The front window slid down and a pair of
snickers greeted him. The driver’s head emerged.

“If all the beer’s gone, Sawn, you’d better
morph into Sam Adams and brew more,” Mason Dyson warned.

Mason, one half of the Dyson twin freight
train that lived two blocks away, swiped a swath of perfectly
managed dreadlocks from his eyes and grinned. Edy seized the
opportunity to jump into the SUV. Once inside, she mumbled hellos
to Mason and his identical, Matthew, who thumped her on the
forehead in greeting. Edy settled in next to their younger brother
Lawrence. Hassan climbed in behind her and slammed a palm into the
driver’s side headrest, jarring Mason before settling in behind
him. Mason, seemingly oblivious to the assault, adjusted the low
rumble of hip hop drifting from the speakers, let up his window,
eased off the brake of the factory-fresh Land Rover, and tossed a
wave to Edy’s father, who stood in the doorway. He, in turn, lifted
his hand absentmindedly, thoughts no doubt far and away on some
strand of research. She didn’t know
why
she expected any
different, but it would have been nice for her dad to pretend his
daughter was the least bit . . . desirable and therefore worthy of
serious distrust.

Oh well.

In the front, the twins broke out into a
hand slap tournament over the radio. Mason wanted Pitbull and Matt,
Justin Timberlake, thinking it would “entice the girls.” Though
Edy’s father had ventured to the door to see them off, he’d been
distracted enough to bring a newspaper. A lift of his head froze
the action. In the end, Pitbull reigned victorious.

Edy sighed. There she sat, seconds from the
“it” party of the moment, with not one or two but four of the
school’s star football players. The Dyson twins were upperclassmen,
defensive teammates that had shown talent even in South End’s worst
days. Their younger brother, Lawrence, was a wide receiver just
beginning to come into his own. Then there was Hassan, of course,
the Boy Who Beat Madison, an accomplishment that sprouted legs and
run away of its own accord, growing with every step it took. Since
then, there had been more wins and more touchdowns. At school, in
the corridors,
these
were the boys to know. These were the
boys that girls whispered about, watched, and wanted. There were
times when she overheard one girl or another, spazzing out on
fantasies and trysts that involved Matt and Mason. Edy warmed,
pushing back thoroughly unwanted images. Everyone knew not only
what the Dyson boys did, but that they did it often and well.
Nonetheless, Edy’s father stood in the doorway, waving as his lone
and virginal daughter made off with a car full of jocks.

She was safe. Woefully, painfully,
unquestionably safe; as secure as a Victorian-era maiden out for a
stroll with her beau, watchful chaperones at the ready. With the
Dysons, with Hassan, she was but one of the boys—or worse, a little
sister suffered out of obligation.

As if to illustrate, Matt thumped her on the
forehead once more as Lawrence elbowed her over, claiming to need
more space. There could be no doubt that Edy Phelps was safe from
the clutches of male temptation, even if she wanted it any other
way.

As if on cue, the Land Rover tracked
backwards.

“What’s wrong?” Matt said.

“Castillo. Six o’clock.” Mason shot a look
in the rearview mirror.

Six o’clock, just over Edy’s shoulder.
Chestnut curls sweeping in the wind, makeup runway dramatic,
glamour girl Chloe Castillo—in no need of bra stuffing these
days—had the attention of three Dysons, Hassan, and, to her own
dismay, Edy.

“Party?” Mason wondered aloud.

“Gotta be,” Matt said.

“Well, then. We certainly can’t have her out
here all alone. Not in the mean streets of Boston.”

There were mean streets in Boston. Edy’s
mother, the district attorney, could attest to as much. But those
streets never pierced the tree-lined affluence of their posh
enclave.

“Gonna give her a ride, Lil’ Dyson,” Mason
said to Lawrence. “Try not to pitch a tent.”

Lawrence winced, ears reddening at their
snickers. Edy looked from one to the next for clarification. Only
when Matt flicked his pointer finger skyward that she could make
sense of the comment.

Aroused. Try not to get aroused.

Warmth crept over Edy’s cheeks. She ducked
her head, wishing herself away.

“Matt—” Hassan warned.

“What? I didn’t
say
it! And anyway,
she’s a big girl. She knows what we’re talking about.” Matt shot
Edy a mockingly suspicious look. “Somehow.”

Suddenly she, instead of Chloe Castillo, had
the attention of the entire car. They were so full of crap that
way. Still, Edy stiffened under their looks and took an interest in
the back of her eyelids instead. Long seconds passed where her
heart simmered down to a slow beat. She stole a peek at Hassan, who
glared back at her, foul as a bare mouth mule gumming on thumb
tacks.

The SUV screeched to a stop near Chloe,
reminding Edy that they were moving at all.

“You must be heading to the party,” Matt
said. “You should be riding with us.”

Chloe peered into the Rover.

“Is there even room?”

“Sure. You’ll just have to, uh, squeeze onto
Lawrence’s lap. No biggie, right?”

Chloe took a step back, face a shade pinker
than her makeup allowed.

“I guess not,” she said.

She peeked at Lawrence, whose head snapped
left, treating her to his back instead. Matt shot his little
brother a look of impatience before jumping out and opening the
back door. He flexed arms that were the subject of schoolgirl
whispers and lifted Chloe up in a show of bravado, making her
giggle. Edy pursed her lips and looked away. For a girl with
apparent reservations, Chloe Castillo settled into Lawrence’s lap
easily enough.

Edy looked up to discover a silent
head-jerking argument underway between Mason and Lawrence. It grew
wild as the seconds ticked on, with the older boy eye popping, neck
jerking and wheel barrowing emphatically, urging Lawrence to put
his arms around Chloe. When the younger Dyson lifted his hands in
slow surrender, he placed them ginger as two broken limbs at her
side.

They ventured six blocks over before Mason
whipped a U-turn in the middle of the street. He parked at a
three-story Victorian the color of a setting sun. Teens pressed
into the yard fence to fence. Lights and bass-laden hip hop spilled
from yawning windows and a wide-open front door, as a gyrating
rainbow of adolescents crowded round a keg on the northwest side of
the house.

Chloe eased out the Rover, followed by the
boys, who were met with an uproar of shouts and greetings. Football
players swarmed, swallowing them in an intricate exchange of
handshakes. They disappeared into the crowd, and Edy hung back,
unsure of what to do in a melee of testosterone.

Long seconds passed, and Edy exchanged a
look of quiet awkwardness with Chloe. The two hadn’t had words
since sixth grade. No reason to change that now.

Chloe’s lips parted just as the team’s
quarterback slipped between them, dividing the space between the
girls with his back to Edy.
Great
. She counted the moments
with her gaze on his broad expanse, knowing that her view would be
brief.

“Oho! My QB, the man I’ve been looking for.”
Mason Dyson swept an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders and
whipped him in an arc away from Chloe. His twin appeared in the
quarterback’s place.

“He smells,” Matt announced, then blinked as
if just noticing Chloe. “Thinking out loud. Sorry. But he’s not
your type, is he?”

Edy smirked. Of course he is. Of course,
they
were. For all the obvious reasons.

“You mean Jeff?” Chloe said. She hesitated
as if still trying to figure out if the quarterback had B.O. “I
don’t really know him. I—”

Matt flicked an impatient hand. “Tell me
what you think of Lil’ Dy—er,
Lawrence
,” he said.

“Think?” Chloe echoed.

Oh Lord.

“You do
think
of him, don’t you?” he
said.

Matt smiled as if he knew some well-shrouded
secret. Chloe blushed, though whether from his presence or some
homed-in thought was impossible to tell.

Edy supposed it made no difference to a girl
like Chloe Castillo. It made no difference whether she won over
Matt or Mason or Lawrence. Lawrence, like his brothers, was a
starter. He could talk to Chloe or any one of the mindless girls
that infested their high school, and he could snag her with minimal
effort. She, in turn, would be hysterical with glee.

“Coming?” a voice at Edy’s ear said.

She lurched at the sound of Hassan, then
scolded her skittering pulse. He was close, close enough to dampen
her ear with his lips. Edy yanked the reins on her runaway heart,
urging it to steady. He was the same boy he’d always been, and she,
the same girl.

But her buck wild heart begged to
differ.

He startled me, that’s all.

Edy turned to face him a moment too late.
She spied the top of his hair amidst a second rush of teammates as
they swept Hassan up and into the house.

Eventually, Edy made her way in, ushered by
the cold. In a living room that stood grand even while defaced with
the presence of drunken teens, she had her back to the wall, eyes
on a solid mass of dancers rocking to hip hop. A decade of
professional instruction in ballet made it no easier for her to go
out there and join them. She wasn’t trendy, nor did she keep up
with the latest dance fads. They moved with the jolts and jerks of
the untrained.

But it wasn’t just that. For Edy, anything
not intricately choreographed belonged to the theater of her
bedroom. So, she would keep to the wall, watch and wait. For one
song, two songs, ten.

Only then did she see the slender redhead
ascending the stairs, hand laced with Hassan’s.

Edy’s heart stilled and her lungs flattened,
waiting for him to pull away.

When they disappeared from view together,
she fled.

~~~

Matt and Mason were at the center of a
crowd, executing a series of jerking and improvised shuffle-
-steps. They perfected grinds and lurches, stopping only to consult
each other, before pulling out a pair of giggling girls to
regurgitate their choreography.

It was easy for them. Little more than a
double dose of nonsense, Matt and Mason could get serious about
nothing but football. Tall and dark, lean and athletic, lithe and
dependable, somehow, Matt and Mason could make a girl want them
even when she shouldn’t, even when she ought to know better.

Hassan took a sip of beer–his first ever—and
cringed at its rankness. He imagined his father catching him just
then, voice thick and rippling with the accent of his homeland.
He’d rage for an hour and smack him upside the head to make sure
that the message stuck. It wouldn’t. What he did with the beer
afterward would depend on whether or not Hassan’s mother was
around. If so, Hassan’s father would toss it away. If not, he’d
tackle it in a mouthful of enthusiastic swallows.

Hassan made eye contact with a red-haired
girl that was older and definitely staring. She licked lush, wet,
pink lips, causing him to look away. Was she putting on a show for
him? A second glance said she was.

“Aimee,” Matt announced, and Hassan jerked
as if caught. “Aimee Foss, a junior.”

He took the beer from Hassan, gulped it, and
handed it back.

Hassan risked another look. Weeks ago,
before he made the game-winning touchdown against Madison, he would
have found it hard to believe that a junior would look in his
direction, let alone have interest. But twenty-two days of
post-Madison fervor had shown him teachers who shrugged at late
homework, girls who kissed him on dares, and all the back slaps,
handshakes and fist pounds he could stand. He hadn’t made up his
mind how he felt about any of it yet.

“You’re a coward,” Matt announced. “I’m
gonna talk to her for you.”

Hassan choked. “No! Matt—”

Too late. Already, Matt parted the
crowd.

Rushing over would make Hassan look stupid,
especially if he wound up crashing an otherwise harmless
conversation. Staying put might result in humiliation, considering
embarrassment was the Dyson twin specialty. He had speed and could
bolt for the door, but leaving would mean he ran from a girl.

Hassan gulped the bitter brew and waited. He
shifted, resisting the urge to fidget. One second, two seconds,
three.

She made her way over. Head high, gaze even,
confident in her stride.

They could’ve been in a beer commercial. Him
standing there, looking dumb, with some specialty brew in his hand,
her parting the crowd in slow motion, hair fluttering from the
blast of an A/C vent. This was the part where he discovered she
wanted the beer and not him.

“Hassan.” She made his name sound like a
whisper of silk against satin, the rustle of imported fabric. There
it was again. A dip of the tongue, subtle. She smiled at him and
his cheeks grew hot.

“Aimee,” she offered.