Rebels Like Us. Liz Reinhardt

I blow out a breath. “I thought that was military-school crap. Is that the rule, like, hard-and-fast? For every teacher?”

      He nods again and pulls off his ratty ball cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead. His eyes are so blue, they’re almost a light purple. Adorable.

      “Every adult. If you don’t want them to think you’re a total punk. You lived in New York City all yer life?”

      “Yep. Brooklyn, specifically. A haven for punks of all varieties.” I smile when his face goes slack. “Is New York City, like, the scariest place in the world to everyone here? Because every single person makes that exact face when I talk about Brooklyn.”

      He puts the ball cap back on, shadowing those pretty eyes, and picks up the jug. “Jest exotic as hell. Most people ’round here’ve never left the Lowcountry. And don’t want to.”

      “Yeah. I get that vibe.” I probably shouldn’t bring up the fact that, when I’m not at home with Mom, I’m at my father’s apartment in Paris or my cousin’s house in the Santo Domingo in conversation here. People might have heart palpitations and pass out.

      “Not me though.” His adamant declaration interrupts my stereotyping thoughts.

      “No?” I’m instantly more curious about Doyle now that I know he might want to escape this place. It’s like finding another inmate to help you chip a hole through the concrete walls of your cell.

      “My grandparents took me with them to Maui last year. My granddaddy was stationed there when he was a marine, and he really loved it, so they took me and my brothers. It was pretty amazing. Speaking of them, I better get going. My grandmother will beat my ass if I’m late for supper.” He stands up and brushes the dirt off the knees of his Dickies, and I feel a tug of regret.

      Because I like talking to him. My FaceTime sessions with Ollie are always great, but I’ve been hungering for real-life human interactions, and Doyle’s already twisted my expectations a few times. I like the way he’s surprised me.

      “See you in class tomorrow.” I turn over and notice that he gives my cherry-red bikini a second and maybe a third look. I tip my sunglasses down and smile at him. “Aloha, Doyle.”

      His laugh is equal parts sheepish and pleased. “Aloha, Agnes.”

      “Nes.” It jumps out of my mouth before I’m ready for it.

      Nes is what my friends call me. My standards are dipping low if I consider Doyle a friend after only a couple minutes of conversation. But I guess desperate times and all that...

      “Aloha, Nes.” He hesitates, then points to the tree. “Do me a favor? Water her when the sun dips? Jest a trickle outta the water hose for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to get a good soak going.”

      I slowly raise one eyebrow. “Doyle? I hate to break it to you, but that tree is dead. It’s kindling. A lost cause. Have some mercy and let it die a dignified death.”

      His fingertips caress a clump of light green baby leaves barely clinging to life. “I like to root for the underdog. See you tomorrow in class.”

      Ah right. Before the awkwardness of baseball, there will be the awkwardness of school. Lovely.

      I make a point to not watch Doyle’s tall, rangy self saunter away from me.

      I come so close to succeeding...

      At the last second, I drink him in, then flip over and drag my phone close. My idiotic traitor brain actually thinks about calling Lincoln.

      The boy who’s been my best guy friend since we were twelve.

      The boy who gave me my first kiss under an old oak tree.

      The boy who broke my heart when we were seventeen.

      Or the boy who only loaned me his heart so he could take it back eventually, while I gave him mine on a silver platter, free and clear so he could shred it into tiny pieces. Dumb. So dumb.

      I toss my phone to the side and throw an arm over my eyes, wondering whose bed Lincoln will be in while I’m standing on second base this Friday. Guilt shoots through me when I remember Mom planned on the two of us going to Savannah on Friday after I got home from school so we could stroll through the art museums downtown and maybe check out the local performing arts college’s production of Grease. I’m torn between wanting to hang out with my mother doing things we love together like we used to and holding tight to a lot of pissed-off anger over the way she screwed things up for us. The betrayal that still cuts deep won’t magically disappear just because we’re both excited to see some Helen Levitt photographs and bop along to “Greased Lightnin’.” Everything is too complicated.

      Except baseball.

      Playing baseball is definitely easier than dealing with the whole sordid mess of a relationship I currently have with my mother. I roll back onto my stomach, and baseball and cheating and Hawaii and Sandra Dee all invade my dreams as I fall asleep in the oven-hot afternoon of my strange new life.

       THREE

      “Agnes!” Mom’s on the patio in her favorite pencil skirt and silk blouse, her uniform for lecture days. “You’re a lobster!”

      “Wha—” I wipe the drool off the side of my face and try to push myself up, but my skin feels tight and puckered. “Coño! I actually used sunscreen, I swear.”

      “Honey, you’re half-Irish. Sunscreen is nothing but a cruel joke.” She runs her fingers over my tender skin. “Come in. I have aloe. And I picked up Chinese on the way home.”

      How many times have I had to explain to my more clueless pale friends that dark-skinned people can and do burn? What’s that saying about heeding your own advice...?

      “I don’t get it. Why do my genes put me through this trial by fire every summer? Jasper can be out in the sun for hours and this never happens to him,” I growl, limping in and sitting on a stool at the counter. Maybe my skin is reacting so badly because it wasn’t expecting this kind of sun exposure in January. I say a silent prayer it won’t be blotchy and peely tomorrow.

      My mother pushes a carton of cooling Buddha’s delight my way. We’ve already eaten at the one and only Chinese food place in a thirty-mile radius so often, they can recite our phone number from memory based on the sound of our voices when we call to order.

      “You aren’t in New York anymore, Aggie. As far as your brother’s ability to endure the sun goes, I actually wish Jasper was more careful with sunscreen. Just because he can be out for hours without it doesn’t mean he should. Skin cancer is nothing to play around with.” My mother dabs aloe on my skin, and I suck air through my teeth to manage the pain that stings through the cool. “Plus you freckle.”

      I know the go-to image of an Irish lass centers on a redhead with alabaster skin and cinnamon freckles in a wool sweater standing by the Cliffs of Moher, but...

      “Right. I’m Irish,” I say through a mouthful of overcooked vegetables I just slurped off my chopsticks.

      “But my family is bone-white pale, not freckly. I think your freckles are from your Dominican half.” I look down at my mother’s pale fingers tangled with my dark ones. I love that we have the same oval-shaped nails and double-jointed thumbs. I love what I inherited from her, and I love what’s different about us. And that makes me miss how close we used to be. How close my whole family used to be.

      When I was a kid I used to spill out my colored pencils and hold them close to my family members so that I could get the color of their skin just right in my drawings. After a long, dark New York winter, mine would mellow to a dark golden tawny, a few shades darker than my mother’s at the end of summer. By contrast, after a summer spent at our communal family beach house in Santo Domingo, my skin would be a light sepia with a spattering of umber freckles. I’d admire myself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom I shared with