Southbound Surrender (2 page)

“Whose house is this?”

“Someone’s.” The insult feels dirty in my mouth. Piper Sullivan isn’t
someone
. She is
the girl
, but I’m not lying to Hudson. Technically, this is someone’s house. “How did you know I was here?”

He points to my beauty standing in the grass. “Who else drives a 1995 blue Yamaha dirt bike with red flames that’s been street legalized?”

“Point taken.” I exhale, wishing that Hudson hadn’t showed up. But you know what they say about wishing. You can wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one gets filled first. Getting Hudson out of here is going to be impossible, just like Piper Sullivan.

Screw Hudson
.

I spin back around and press my eye back against the fence to the usual spot. It’s getting quite comfortable, but I can feel and smell Hudson behind me now. The scent of fresh cut pine and lemon oil permeates from his hands. I can pick out that smell anywhere. His whole house smells like it. I blink my eyes, trying to shake the scent – and Hudson – out of my head. This moment is just for Piper. I press my palms against the fence and scan the backyard, looking for any sign of that pink bikini in the burn of the late August sun. The sunscreen. That blonde hair. Those peach lips. The emerald eyes. Any glimpse of her. My heart drops.

She’s gone.

“You asshole.” I shove Hudson until we’re both on the sidewalk. Child versus man.

“What’d I do?” Hudson asks with a laugh before he scrambles past me to the fence. He presses his own face against it. “What am I looking for?”

“You’re too late. She’s gone,” I reply. This is where the down-on-his-luck boy kicks a stone with his shoe except there is no stone to kick so I shove my hands back into my pockets.

“What’s her name?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“It’s that new girl you’ve been blabbing about for the last week, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I can’t lie even though I want to. Hudson knows I won’t lie and that if he keeps asking I’ll eventually cave and tell him everything he wants to know. We both know it doesn’t take much. I’m a bowl of Jell-O, without the fruit.

“How’d you get her address?”

I’m silent.

“How’d you get her address, you dirty dog? What’s her name again?”

“Piper Sullivan.”

“Address,” Hudson demands.

“Roster at school when I was helping my dad.” I cave like the sucker I am. There’s no sense in holding out any longer. Hudson’s going to get it from me eventually. When I saw Piper Sullivan’s name as a new student on the senior roster a week ago, I couldn’t get her name or the note attached to her name out of my head. I never met a Piper before and the sound of her name rolled off my tongue. But in the end, it wasn’t her name that did me over. It was the flawless 2400 SAT score that made me drive to the north side of town, literally across the highway, to check out Piper Sullivan’s house. It’s the only score in the school higher than mine.

“Big Dave let you in the administrative offices? You know what you could do in that office?” Hudson jerks his head away from the fence to look at me with his steely eyes. He calls them his panty-dropping eyes, even though neither of us has been dropping any sort of panties. Hell, we haven’t even been close to even
seeing
any panties.

I’ll let you in on another little secret: We’re both wannabe badasses, but we’re not even remotely close. We’ve maybe got a pinky toe in the badass arena, if we’re lucky, on one of those good days when I look fifteen. There’s a silent agreement between us not to share our major shortcomings in this endeavor. At least Hudson looks tough. I’ve got nothing, except my dirt bike, which could go either way. Lame or badass. I’m not really sure.

“We could hack into the computer system and mess with the grades. Turn Fs into As,” Hudson adds.

“I’ve never gotten an F and neither have you.”

“For other people,” he replies.

I shake my head. Definitely not badasses.

“Are you sure you saw a girl in there? Are you delusional? The heat index is high today. Maybe the sun’s getting to you. Maybe you should sit down,” Hudson says as he turns back to the fence. I want to peel him away from the fence so he can’t witness the beautiful sight that I just experienced.

I want Piper Sullivan all to myself.

“No, she definitely was there,” I whisper like I’m trying to convince myself that she actually
was
there. She had to be.

“Did she see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure about that?”

All I can see are those emerald eyes and all I can hear is that low whistle she released between those glistening lips.

“Pretty sure…”

“Does that vision you had include a fifty-something-year-old man in khaki pants and a tie?” Hudson asks. “Who happens to be walking toward me and looking pretty pissed like he’s going to pound someone’s face in?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought,” Hudson says as he backs away from the fence. I know it’s serious because Hudson doesn’t back down from anything. He’s usually the one people are backing down from even though he’s never come close to punching anyone in the face. I think he’s secretly afraid of how bad it would hurt to punch someone – I know I am – but I’d never dream of mentioning it to him just in case he decides he wants to practice on me.

I jump on my bike and rock the kickstand back. I know my bike’s going to be a dead giveaway, but there’s no way in hell I’m confronting Piper’s dad after I just watched her lather her almost naked body through the fence. I’m not technically on his property so I can’t be slapped with trespassing, but I definitely don’t want to find out if I could go to juvie for being a peeping tom. I make a mental note to research that when I get home.

My bike roars to life and as I’m about to throttle the engine, I feel Hudson climb on behind me and wrap his huge arms around my waist.

“Are you kidding me?” I yell above the rumble. There’s nothing I hate more than riding tandem with Hudson. I can only imagine what it looks like with the huge man child behind me. It’s the third time I’ve been forced to do it.

The first time involved a fuming Mrs. Hawley after we devoured a pie that wasn’t meant for us. The second time involved a screaming Jill Havens, a trombone, and cockatoo named Larry. Don’t ask.

“
Damn you!” I yell.

“Just drive.”

Chapter 2

“Philips?”

I pull my head from underneath the motorcycle tire to see my dad’s outstretched hand holding a screwdriver. He’s holding it with the handle facing me and a smile plastered on his face, just like he always does when he hands me a tool. He’s still wearing his blue work shirt with his name embroidered right above his heart in case anyone forgets: Big Dave. Believe me, no one forgets Big Dave. The last three years have served as a reminder of this since he’s the custodian at Xavier High School. Big Dave looks just like you’d expect him to. He’s lean, like runner’s lean with long, stretched out calf muscles, and is maybe 5’8” when he’s wearing shoes. So naturally, Big Dave was a clear and easy choice for a nickname. I have Big Dave to thank for jeans that always require a belt and the metabolism of a race horse, except I’m not running any Triple Crowns. He tells me I won’t complain when I’m older, but I find it hard to believe considering I pound protein drinks any chance I get to no effect.

“Thanks,” I mumble and pull the screwdriver back underneath the Harley Davidson.

“How many hours you think yet?” Big Dave asks as he leans his head over the handlebars toward me. I close my eyes and let out a big sigh.

“I didn’t know we were talking in hours now,” I reply without looking at him. We’re not even close to finishing the restoration on this ’78 classic Shovelhead. The motorcycle has been in our garage since I’ve stopped wearing Spiderman pajamas. And no, it wasn’t last week.

“What’s it been? Five years now?”

“Try seven,” I reply. We have this conversation every couple of weeks, and it always ends the same way. Big Dave denying that it’s been seven years.

“No way. We haven’t had this old beauty for seven years,” he says as he pats the black seat I replaced just last week. I can still smell the earthy scent of the leather – the new car smell that I’ve only ever smelled when Big Dave let me test drive a brand new Chevy Camaro on my sixteenth birthday. The stodgy salesman knew Big Dave wasn’t going to be bringing that Camaro home, but he gave him the keys anyway. Big Dave can be pretty persuasive. It dawns on me that we had this same conversation when I was taking off the old seat last week, which tells me that Big Dave is either slipping, or he has an angle. Big Dave doesn’t slip.

“Should I say what I usually say or do you want to tell me what you’re fishing for?” I set down the screwdriver with a clank and shimmy my body away from the bike.

“Say what you usually say,” Big Dave grins.

“Oh geez, Dad. It’s been seven years. You got the ol’ Shovelhead when I was only ten. Don’t you remember?” I lay it on thicker than usual, and I can’t help returning his smile. This is where the father ruffles his son’s hair in one of those cheesy Hallmark movies. I realize that most seventeen-year-old boys don’t know a thing about Hallmark movies, but sadly, I do.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” I say as I wipe my greasy hands on my work jeans and stand up. “So what’s up?”

“Nothing, I just like hearing you say those words. I like to think about you with your scruffy hair that hung over your forehead and your Spiderman pajamas that you wore holes through.” He pats me on the shoulder and leaves his hand there. I know Big Dave is about to get all sentimental and spiritual on me. I can see it in his eyes. They well up and crinkle at the corners. Wait for it…

“Sixty pounds soaking wet,” I reply. I know this is going to send him over the edge.

“Maybe sixty-one pounds if you were holding one of your Transformers,” he says with a glint in his eye as he squeezes my shoulder.

“All right, Dad. What is it?” I let him leave his hand on my shoulder because I know it’s his way of connecting his spirit with mine. He closes his eyes and nods his head. Except I don’t feel anything, like usual, but I let him get on with it anyway. Big Dave has been like this since I can remember. He claims he had his spiritual enlightenment when I was just three, so I’m pretty used to the transcendent stuff he likes to pull every once in a while. It doesn’t bother me or freak me out. And it just so happens that it takes a whole lot to embarrass me unlike most normal teenagers. I think Big Dave got pretty lucky with that one if you ask me. Just a few more seconds, and he’ll let go.

Except, he doesn’t.

“Dad,” I start.

“Shhh,” he whispers.

I let him do it because I know I’m all he has. It’s just been the two of us for the last sixteen years. My mom died in a car accident when I was a baby. A head-on collision killed her instantly.
The Corolla crunched up like an accordion
, Big Dave says with a mist in his eyes.
But that time, the accordion didn’t come back apart
. I’ve always thought the accordion analogy was a bit off, but as I’m sure you can probably guess, I hate everything about accordions. I was in the backseat of the Corolla, secured and strapped in my car seat. I came out of the wreck without a scratch on my body but with a hole in my heart where my mom used to be. That’s what Big Dave says anyway.

I love Luella and everything, but I’ve always wondered how I could miss someone I can’t remember. I have tried over the years to learn all I can about her, but there’s nothing. Big Dave threw out most everything after she died, out of grief I guess. I tried looking up the police report or some news article about her accident, but I never was able to find anything.

Big Dave misses Luella more than I can imagine and because of this, I give him five more seconds before I move his hand. I can only be so patient, and I know if I don’t move his hand, I will miss dinner and my plans with Hudson later tonight. Big Dave finally opens his eyes and looks at me with sheer exhaustion I’ve never seen before. I notice a few shards of gray in his hair, and I suddenly wonder when Big Dave got so old.

“You’re still thinking about going to college, aren’t you?” he finally asks.

“That’s what most high school seniors with a 3.9 grade average and 2280 SAT score are thinking about doing,” I reply with an unintentional bite in my voice. “Only two percent of test-takers get that score, Dad. I feel like I have a responsibility to society to do something with my life. I should use my brain for the greater good. Maybe I’ll go to med school.”

“Society,” he repeats in a contemplative voice. Most parents would love for their kids to go to med school, but not Big Dave. I know what’s coming next. His philosophy on life and the world is about to come vomiting out, but all I can think about is that I have about fifteen minutes before the lasagna is ready to come out of the oven, and how I still want to get this tire back on its rim. That’s what happens when you don’t have a mom and your dad only makes frozen pizza. You get desperate one summer when you’re twelve and watch the cooking channel at your best friend’s house until the early morning hours when he’s asleep. Insert major badass accolades here.

“I’m just thinking about it, Dad. I haven’t applied anywhere yet, even though I should have already. I’m getting harked on by both the counselors,” I say, trying to ease him out of this. College is a sore subject for Big Dave, even though he has his MBA from Cornell University. When he applied for the custodial position at Xavier, they offered him a teaching position instead, which he quickly declined. He’s probably the most overqualified custodian in the state. Make that the nation. He only applied at the school so I could go there on a full scholarship. He’s wanted me to go to Xavier since I can remember not because of the education, which would make the most
logical
sense. Big Dave sent me to Xavier because that’s where he met my mom.

The tuition costs a cool twelve grand a year, and even though I could have applied for scholarships based on income level like Hudson, or what I would have preferred, intelligence, Big Dave wanted to earn the right for me to attend. Employees’ kids get free tuition, so he became an employee. His whole job history goes back to his spiritual enlightenment, which goes back to Big Dave meeting a wonky therapist-slash-spiritual healer when he was depressed after my mom died. Depressed, I’m guessing, is an understatement. And wonky is probably another understatement. Shaman Amy has since moved to the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains where she lives in a cabin with no running water or electricity. Shaman Amy lives on the fruit of the land and channels the spirits of the gods.