Her hair is the color of yellow roses, and it’s thick, straight, and shiny. It even smells like roses.
But mine? Some say it’s red—that’s the socially acceptable color name. But my particular shade can be more accurately described as “a flaming inferno.” It’s orange, like the rust near the wheel of my dad’s old Dodge truck. And it’s not thick. It’s somehow both thin and wild, waves and curls sprouting up in its own mysterious pattern.
However, I just turned thirteen a week ago, so it’s my moment now.
My parents said I could get my ears pierced, and we went right when they opened at ten on my birthday. I chose pink gemstone studs. As is normal for me, my ears are even still red a week later. They’re not infected, it’s just me being me. If you look up the meaning of the word “red” or “flaming inferno,” my name, Charlotte Mercer, would be in the description.
“Make Penny a PB and J, will you?” My mom says, running a hand along her very sensible, brown, non-orange, freshly styled hair. She and my dad are going to a local conference here in San Antonio for work. They’re both teachers. My dad teaches at the junior high and my mom teaches at the high school. I get to take my dad’s history class next year.
We’re fine here by ourselves for the day. My older brother, Kyle, promised my parents he’d be around to run interference on his four younger siblings. He’ll do it. He’s not the rebellious type.
I don’t mind that I’ll have to help watch my eleven-year-old brother and six-year-old sister because it comes with an especially exciting gift: Kyle being banished here at home all day means his friends are going to come over.
Kyle is seventeen. His friends are seventeen.
Need I say more?
I don’t care about the boys my age. They’re just gross. But Kyle’s friends?
As if on cue, as I’m standing at the sink, finishing the dishes (one of my Saturday jobs), a couple of them saunter into our backyard, already tossing a football between them. They’re broad-shouldered, big and tall. Their laughter is loud—constant. I can hear it even through the window.
The bright, summer sun highlights them as they joke around, and I wait. I wait forhim.
Taysom Reed.
Look, I’m not picky, okay? Should I be? Probably. But if any of Kyle’s friends were to ever ask me out, I’d say yes in a heartbeat.
They’re all so mature. Gorgeous and exciting. And they’re, as my parents say, “really good kids.”
I say they’remen,but whatever.
Not that any of them will ever ask me out. First of all, there’s my beautiful sister Maddy standing in my way. Who would ever choose me over her?
Second of all, by the time I’m old enough to date, they’ll be long gone, off to college or any number of other adult things.
Still, knowing all of that, doesn’t stop my interest, and if I got to choose, I’d pick Taysom.
He’s the best one by far. He’s the most handsome, with his floppy brown hair, cool blue eyes, and brilliant smile. He’s agenius at football. He has college scouts already vying for him, so I bet he goes pro someday.
I like him most of all. I’m not above dreaming big, because I have my newly pierced ears and I’m wearing my cute clothes I got for my birthday and…I don’t know. Things feel possible for me today.
The morning wears on and I wander around the house, picking up a book but not being able to concentrate on it because of what’s going on outside. Now there are seven guys out there, Taysom among them. When they’re not throwing the football around, running routes and pulling flags from around each other’s waists, they’re sitting around the fire pit (there’s no fire, it’s during the day in an especially hot summer), joking and laughing.
Gage, my younger brother is out there, too. He idolizes Kyle, and Kyle usually handles it okay. He and his friends are nice enough to let him hang out with them sometimes when they’re here at the house. I think Gage secretly pretends he’s one of them.
At some point, Maddy breezes past me and heads outside, too, as I’m lounging on the sofa in the great room. She’s wearing a tank top and denim cutoff shorts, her long, blonde hair pulled up in a high ponytail.
I grab my phone and use it as a mirror to look again at my pink diamond studs (fake diamond, but whatever) when Taysom pulls open the sliding glass door. I drop my phone. Did he see me looking at myself?
“Hey, Charlotte!” he says.
“Uh, mm, uh, yeah.” My smile feels lopsided—my heart slashed clean through.
He goes to the cupboard, pulls out a glass, and then fills it at the sink. He’s breathing heavily, like they just did another round of football.
I manage to catch a whiff of his scent from where I sit. He still smells good, even after running around outside. Neither of my brothers smell good after any sort of physical activity. But Taysom does. It’s a musk from some cologne I don’t know.
But it’s divine.
