Liz Reinhardt - Rebels Like Us

“So three guys in one house—wait, no, four if you count your grandpa—”

“Actually, it’s five.” When I greet that number with shocked silence, he explains, “Brookes, my cousin—his mama got remarried and he and his stepfather don’t see eye to eye. And his stepfather gets mean when people don’t see things his way. I guess my grandparents’ place is kinda a home for wayward Rahn children. We all figured, what was one more bunk bed, plus Lee’s only around when he’s on leave, so it’s a lotta...”

He waves his hands around like he’s looking for the words to fill in the blank.

“Dirty boxers? Farts? Package adjusting?” I rapid-fire guess.

For a second Doyle stares at me, eyes and mouth wide-open. Then he starts to laugh, hard, and I join him. We both laugh until we’re buckled over.

“Geez, I was gonna say, ‘it’s a lotta testosterone,’ but I guess you got the point across your way jest fine.” He balances easily on the balls of his feet despite his clunky boots. “People ’round here hardly ever come out and say the first thing that pops in their heads.”

I wince. One of the last fights we had, Lincoln told me, You know you don’t have to say every thought that goes through your head out loud, Nes. You need a way bigger filter between your brain and your mouth. I guess that’s the consensus, then.

“Yep, I’ve heard that before.” He tenses up at my tone like he felt a chill in the air. “My big mouth gets me in a lot of trouble. Probably best if you steer clear.”

“I never did have patience for people who play it safe.”

The ice wall I was rapidly constructing around myself thaws.

“Fair enough. But now you can never say I didn’t warn you.”

“Most’ve my favorite things come with a warning.” He clears his throat. “So, we’re short a second baseman since Marnie Jepson moved, and we need someone like yourself. Someone who can call a whole country dicks in their own tongue. Whatta you say? You got a mitt?”

“Nope.” And I plan to leave the discussion right there. Because, seriously? Baseball? It’s very sporty middle school, and so not my thing. But I like the sloppy-slow way Doyle talks—I wonder if he plays ball the same way he speaks. And once I start wondering about something, I have to go with it until I know for sure. Damn my curiosity. If I were a cat, I’d be dead nine times over. “You have an extra mitt?”

He nods and smiles down at a jug of blue stuff he’s now pouring on the roots of the “tree.”

“I do. Wouldya like me to bring it over Friday night?”

For one cold thump of my heart, I think I shouldn’t take this guy up on what might be a date. The last guy I dated messed with my head so badly, I wound up fleeing the state. Then I get annoyed with myself. Sure, Doyle is super attractive, but I’m a girl who’s learned the hard way how to be careful with my heart. This is one single game of baseball, not a promise ring. And I’d like to have some fun with a guy—no, a person—who clearly likes me for myself, not some censored version of me.

I need a friend, and Doyle seems like he might be a really good option.

On top of that, this is all very 1950s’ date-night adorable. “You know what? I would like you to.”

He looks right at me, no smile, no niceties. Just a bald, hungry look. “Cool.”

My guts pull in all different directions. “So, are you, like, the ambassador of Southern hospitality or something? Because you’re the first nice Southern person I’ve met.”

“What? You didn’t like Lovett?” His long fingers cap the jug, and my arms and legs inexplicably tingle.

“You’re in my English class?” It finally clicks, why I recognize his voice. “You schooled that guy, Alonzo, in geography.”

Doyle rolls his eyes. “Hell, a preschool baby could school that ding-dong. He’s a good guy though. Friendly.” He screws his mouth to one side. “I know some people can be chillier than a Yankee winter ’round here.” The way he chuckles when I almost sputter lets me know he’s teasing me. “Not a whole lotta tolerance for anyone who don’t fit in right away.”

I’m not usually embarrassed by much, but I still feel like an idiot over the spectacle I made fumbling through that class. But Doyle seems like a good ambassador for all things Southern, so I straight ask him about something that’s still bugging me.

“What’s with the ‘ma’am’ thing?”

He squats back on his heels and cocks his head, owl-like. “You know... You say ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ when you speak to your teachers—to any adults. I thought you were jest raggin’ on Lovett. She’s all bark, I guarantee you. And she likes smart-asses better than kiss-asses, so you’re gonna do fine.”

“I never called any of my teachers ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ back home.” 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.”