Goodbyes and Second Chances (The Bleu Series Book 1) Read online

  The other two helping us today are the King twins. They are identical in looks and nature. Maxim, who we call Max, is a few minutes older than his trouble-prone brother, Maverick. We call him Mave for short. Mave is all about getting into mischief, and to be honest, it’s his fault this time, too. Max plays the guitar and Mave rocks out on the drums in Dillon’s band, Bleu Streak. Both have wavy brown hair that brushes well past their shoulders and matching brown eyes. We grew up together, so it’s pretty easy for us to tell them apart. Max’s nose is slightly wider at the tip than his brother’s. And that’s not saying much because their noses are just as thin as the rest of them. They both are tall, well, maybe they’re average but everyone seems tall from where I stand. And they’re way too bony, even though they eat like hogs. They always have something in hand, devouring it and whining simultaneously that they are starving. I personally think those two have a bad case of worms. We actually hide our favorite snacks when we see them coming, because the dudes will eat you out of house and home. No joke.

  We may be considered a misfit bunch, but we have one another’s backs always.

  What happened last night is unfortunate to say the least. It’s spring break and all we wanted to do was have a little fun. We’re teenagers. We’re entitled, right?

  Now, we don’t have the fancy pleasure boats like the others across the lake, but we poor kids know how to improvise. The boys found an abandoned boat in the back of one of the old sheds on the property a few years ago. It was Aunt Evie’s dad’s boat, so she gave us permission to do what we wanted with it. With some boat junkyard digs and some bartering with a few boat mechanics, we had ourselves a fully restored 1953 Chris-Craft Sportsman. The wooden frame shined its mahogany gleam after lots of elbow grease. After more digging around in the shed, we unearthed two sets of antique wooden water skis. All we had to do to them was replace the rubber toe and heel bindings that were past worn out. The twins found some double-handled ski rope (don’t ask, don’t tell). That’s when we knew we were in business.

  Our setup may not be fancy as the rest, but was just as functional. We self-taught ourselves the sport of waterskiing. We spent most of the warm months on the lake as long as we could scrape up the fuel money.

  So anyway, last night we were hanging out on our dock like we do most nights, wishing for some entertainment. I had no gas in my car and no money to remedy that problem, so we couldn’t even go cruising around. Bored. We were outright bored. And that’s when Mave rolled up on his bike, lugging two huge sacks of fireworks. His uncle had given them to him after a New Year’s Eve event as payment for helping with the pyrotechnic show. He had been holding on to them for some reason. It’s a wonder they hadn’t already starred in some catastrophe around here before now.

  “I’ve got an idea,” is all he said as he headed to the boat with the sacks. We sat glued in our spots, not sure if we were up for a Mave idea. They normally ended poorly, so we should have known better from the start. He looked back over his bony shoulder and hollered, “Ain’t y’all coming?”

  So like the bunch of idiots we are, we followed behind him. After grabbing a canoe and connecting it to our boat with the ski rope, we headed out to the middle of the lake to put on a show. Dillon captained the boat with Mave by his side. The rest of us were pulled behind in the canoe. Once we reached the middle, the two boys set out to splitting the night sky with the flashy fireworks. That went well for all of two seconds.

  Then the stupidity began. Kyle jumped over to help them out as they were loading an ignited firework. With the rocking of the boat, the fireworks launcher fell over and the next thing we knew, the entire boat was lit up like a giant fireball. The boys jumped to the canoe while Max worked on freeing the rope unsuccessfully. He couldn’t get the knot untied, so we were helplessly tethered to the burning boat. Each one of them made it off the boat unharmed. Only Dillon’s foot hit the throttle of the boat as he leapt out, causing the blazing boat to take off like shot. A loud boom erupted during the runaway course and the gasoline can took flight in a flash of fire. Before we could decide to abandon the canoe ship, we had plowed into a dock on the other side of the lake. The boat and a good portion of the dock went up in flames, and we were dumped into the lake. Luckily none of us idiots were injured. Well, not too bad. Stupid, I know. And that is what landed us here on the other side of the lake, trying to clean up yet another one of our white-trash messes.

  We use Leona’s dad’s pickup truck to load as much debris as we can. We drive off load after load until the sun is setting and we are completely wiped out. We have to come back tomorrow and help rebuild the blame dock. After we return Mr. Dan’s truck, we set out to the lake. I know we just spent the entire day there, but we are drawn to our comforting side of the water. The boys strike out in a sprint as they tear off their shirts, and each one does some daredevil backflip dive off the end of the dock. Leona and I are too tired for any type of flare, so we merely walk to the end and step off into the cool water as the night closes around us, wearing our sweaty work clothes.

  After swimming for a while, I ease over to the ladder and while I hold on to it, try to free some of the soot off my skin. Dillon swims up to me and holds onto the other side of the ladder. “You alright?” he asks as he wipes my cheek.

  I shrug my shoulders slightly. They are becoming quite tender. “Might as well be.” I dip my head back and let out a groan. “Our poor boat. I’m gonna miss it.”

  “Me too. I’m really sorry, Jewels.” He releases the ladder and treads the water in front of me, waiting for me to soothe him and tell him it’s okay. Words that he needs to hear after the chewing out I’m sure he received from Cora. He gets no slack from her, so he seems to always be seeking it out from me and Aunt Evie. Of course, we both baby him. Someone has to, right?

  “It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.” I splash him in the face and he rewards me with those dimples. “We just gotta find a new hobby.” I know that’s not a lot of soothing, but that’s all I got tonight.

  I go to brush past him, but he grabs hold of me. “I’ll make it up to you one day, Jewels. I promise.” I meet his remorseful eyes and nod my head in agreement to appease him. I don’t have much confidence in that statement. I try to wiggle free, but Dillon takes hold of me a bit rougher before dunking me under the water. A water war takes off for the next hour. The others join in, and we finally laugh the remaining remorse off for the night.

  I’m beat, so I head for the shore. I sit in the shallow water with the crowd as they all grumble about our predicament of being boat-less. That’s really gonna make for a long, unexciting summer, for sure. That boat was our only toy besides bikes and skateboards.

  Well, that’s true, except for me. My weasel of an uncle hightailed it with one of the resident skanks the year after Aunt Evie took us in. His behind was on such fire that the foolish man left his 1976 Mustang II Cobra Hatchback. Aunt Evie generously signed the title over to me on my sweet sixteenth birthday, and let me tell you, this baby is sweet. The exterior is shiny black with a mean silver racing stripe that starts on the hood and sprints all the way to the back bumper. This baby is fast when it’s standing still. The interior is, hello, black leather, and it’s all mine. It’s great as long as I have some money to put into the gas tank, which normally I don’t, so my baby sits under its car cover most of the time.

  I eventually leave the group on the shore and head down Sunshine Street. It’s the street facing the lake, and I’m lucky enough to hold residence on it. I can sit on our small porch and look over the lake and pretend I’m at a retreat, if I’m in the mood to imagine. The view of the crystal-clear lake is gorgeous. If I have to be stuck in a trailer park, at least I’m blessed enough to be stuck in this beautiful one. All of the streets at Shimmer Lakes Trailer Park have too nice of names. They sound like they should be from a children’s board game. Dillon lives on Peachy Path, just behind us, and the twins are a street over on Buttercup Circle. Too much sugar drips off those names for
my likings. It’s a trailer park. Hello! There’s nothing sweet about it. Aunt Evie swears the streets were named before her family bought it, but I’m not so sure I believe her. She seems a bit attached to the silly names. One of these days, I plan on renaming them all. The campground section of the park is called Lulu Lane. This is the only name I like. It speaks to me for some reason.

  I pull open the metal door and it lets out a groaning pop, and I quickly, yet quietly, yank it shut behind me so the cold air doesn’t escape. The moist air inside is pretty chilly from the window air conditioning unit. I walk over to it and find it set on blizzard, aka high. So I bump it down a notch. It’s a must to have it full blast during the humid day, but the nights are more kind, so we can turn it down then. Aunt Evie must have been too tired to worry with it tonight. Her door is closed so I know she is out for the count. I grab up some clean clothes along with my shower supplies and head back out to the bathhouse. We have a small bathroom, but the pipes make all kinds of racket and I hate to wake her.

  I set out, on foot, down the coquina road. The only sounds are that of my feet crunching over the road and the gentle lapping of the water along the shore. The bathhouse is just two streets over on Happy Hill, so I’m there in a flash. We pretty much walk or ride bikes everywhere we need to go, so we all stay in pretty good shape. Our mode of getting from point A to point B is how God intended anyway, is what Aunt Evie tells us. She herself walks to the office and around the place more times than not. She’s fit as a fiddle for a seventy-year-old woman, so maybe she’s right.

  I ease into the abandoned bathhouse, and lock myself in my usual stall at the end. I set the water on at nearly scalding in hopes of loosening my achy shoulders. As I’m washing the grime of the day and lake off, I think ahead. I’m only weeks away from graduation. The next chapter in my life will begin soon. I’m excited to start a new chapter, yet I’m also not ready. I’m still battling with the whole do I stay or do I go decision. I’m pretty sure I have to stay.

  I finish rinsing the conditioner out of my hair and shut the shower off. I’m toweling off when I hear footsteps echoing through the shower room. I pay it no mind until I hear a girl whisper out, “Dillon.” Ugh. That boy is always up to no good. They enter the stall right next to me. Good grief! The good angel and bad angel appear on my shoulder at this moment. I tell the good angel to hush up as me and the bad angel cook up a plan. Being that he is one of my best friends, it is my responsibility to harass him in this moment. I mean, I have to!

  “Dimples, is that you?” I holler to the next shower stall over and have to laugh when he grumbles in aggravation. He knows he is so busted and won’t be enjoying his lady friend on this night.

  “Don’t call me that!” he groans. I hear a faint thud and I can guess he just rested his head on the stall’s wall beside me, knowing I’m not going to let him have his fun. He hates my nickname for him, by the way. “It hurts my manliness,” he says.

  “But you’re just a boy!” I laugh some more, and I do believe I hear his female company join in. “Honey, don’t let that manly physique fool you. He really is just a baby.”

  I’m barely dried off before I start pulling on my clothes. I hurry up before they decide to run off. “Good night, my sweet Dimples,” I say as I dart out of the bathhouse. I rush straight over to Leona’s to rope her into my scheme. I find her stretched out on the small couch watching the Late Night show, with her eyes halfway shut. She tries to stay up to watch the bands that perform on these shows. It’s as close to MTV we can get, beings that none of us have cable.

  “Get your happy butt up. We got business to take care of.” I pull her off the couch and to her feet.

  She seems to wake up and slides on her shoes. “Who’s our victim tonight?”

  “Dimples. He’s entertaining a girl in the bathhouse, and I think we need to put out that fire,” I say on a laugh as we walk briskly over to the small community laundromat where the ice machine is housed.

  Leona helps me fill two buckets with ice, and we top them off with water before hauling them over to the bathhouse. We ease back in and tread lightly so our steps don’t echo. I hear Dillon whisper something, causing the girl to giggle. It’s all I can do not to giggle myself. The idiot should have known not to linger in the very spot he got caught in. Leona and I perch the buckets up and do a silent countdown before launching the ice water over the top of the stall. Squeals and yelps follow, and we quickly dash back out. That should cool the lovebirds down.

  We make a run for it, laughing all the way back to our trailers. I quietly reenter my trailer and tiptoe to my small room. I turn off my lights, and I ease open my window and wait for only a little while before my lullaby begins. Dillon serenades the trailer park most every night, whether he intends to or not. It’s just chords and melodies he strings together at random, but they are always beautiful. Tonight there’s a bit of an edge to the song. You can feel the aggravation in the melody, and I have to smile with the knowing of what’s behind that. No matter, it’s still beautiful. I listen until I doze off.

  Morning comes way too early. I roll over in my twin-size bed and grumble. One side of my small bed is butted up against the wall with the window, so I only have one side of the bed to wake up on. Today it is definitely the wrong side. My back is tender from the cleanup efforts of yesterday. Also, my shoulder somehow got slammed into the side of the canoe on impact with the dock during our stunt-gone-bad. Today it finally decides to hurt. I inspect it in my small mirror and discover a bruise painted on the back side. I rotate my shoulder a few times, trying to loosen it up, but I give up on the notion of making it feel better quickly. I drag my achy body to the small dinette area and find Aunt Evie dressed for the day in a white tank top and tie-dyed skirt. Her gray hair is braided in a low side ponytail. My great-aunt is a hippie in her own right. This trailer park has been in her family since she was a baby, so she has grown up on these coquina paths and beautiful shore, just as I have. Aunt Evie is a uniquely meek woman. It’s a characteristic that’s not too common in this world anymore. Nothing much gets under her skin. Although she’s not hard on me and Kyle, she does expect us to know the rights from the wrongs that she has instilled in us. We’re pretty upright kids with the exception of a few occasional mishaps. We remember where we came from and how she rescued us. I can’t even fathom what horrible situation we would be in today, had she not taken us in. It’s been over a decade and we’ve still not heard one thing from our parents. I’m not even sure they are still alive. Most days, I don’t really care one way or the other.

  Aunt Evie has us in church every time the doors are open, but I don’t mind. Those good folks are like family to us. Living in the poverty that we do, you have to lean on one another. When one is doing better than the others, they don’t squirrel it away for themselves. They spread it around as thinly as they can. Someone’s electric bill or rent may get caught up anonymously or a box of groceries will show up mysteriously on your porch. In our low-income world, it’s not about outdoing your neighbor as it is on the other side of the lake. Nope. It’s about trying to keep your neighbor’s head above water right along with your own. I’ve seen Aunt Evie do a lot of this for her neighbors.

  She is thumbing through a hymnal while sipping her coffee. I grab a cup and join her.

  “Whatcha doing?” I ask as I try to stretch out my sore back.

  “Looking for some songs for Dillon to play at church tomorrow.” Dillon agreed a few years ago to play the piano once a month to get the old ladies off his back. The boy can play anything, and our church family wants him to share his talent.

  “You think they are going to want a jailbird playing the offertory hymn in the morning?” I rise slowly to grab a few aspirins and a Pop Tart. My young body feels too old today.

  “Ain’t nobody perfect. They won’t hold a stupid stunt against him. Speaking of which, I forgot to tell you that the Lakeshore Times called yesterday.” She jots down a page number before eyeing me. Her watery blue eyes
look at me with some trepidation that I don’t understand.

  “Awesome. I’ll call them back before I head to the dock building project this morning.” I have to use the phone at the park office beings there’s no phone in our trailer.

  I’m totally into writing. It’s my thing. I’m a good enough writer to be the editor of the school paper, but not good enough socially to hold the position. They only allow me to be a featured writer. That sucks. I may talk slow, but I’m not stupid. You did take note that I did not use ain’t. I’ve won several essay and descriptive writing contests throughout the school district over the years. Good enough in fact to be awarded some scholarship money, but still not enough for me to actually go. I have no gas fund, much less a college fund.

  Just as Dillon has been born to create music, I live to write. My fingers get itchy sometimes, and I just have to sit down and pour out my heart on paper. I am lucky enough to get the opportunity to write for the local paper every now and then. I also publish the campground’s monthly newsletter that I had talked Aunt Evie into letting me create my freshman year of high school. It’s just a one page bulletin about the coming events and some other whatnot information.

  Dillon bugs me sometimes to help him with lyrics to a song. I love to write, so I agree to help him out, even though he doesn’t need much. I’m nearing graduation and this is exciting, but at the same time it’s been disappointing. I can only afford community college and there are really no writing and journalism courses there. It’s not my dream come true, but normally dreams don’t come true in my neck of the woods. I just have to go with it. Really, what can I do?

  Aunt Evie brings me out of my thoughts. “They don’t have a writing assignment for you, Jillian. They want a statement on the mess y’all caused the other night.”