CHAPTER THREE
YOU’VE GOT MALE
“We’re here!” Beau announced, beeping his horn repeatedly. “Wakey, wakey!”
Melody peeled her ear off the cool window and opened her eyes. At first glance, the neighborhood seemed to be covered in cotton. But her vision sharpened like a developing Polaroid as her eyes adjusted to the hazy morning light.
The two moving trucks blocked access to their circular driveway and obstructed the view of the house. All Melody could make out was half of a wraparound porch and its requisite swing, both of which appeared to be made of life-size Lincoln Logs. It was an image Melody would never forget. Or was it the emotions the image conjured—hope, excitement, and fear of the unknown, all three tightly braided together, creating a fourth emotion that was impossible to define. She was getting a second chance at happiness, and it tickled like swallowing fifty fuzzy caterpillars.
Beepbeepbeepbeep!
A husky mountain man wearing baggy jeans and a brown puffy Carhartt vest nodded hello as he pulled the Carvers’ eggplant-colored Calvin Klein sectional from the truck.
“That’s enough honking, dear. It’s early!” Glory swatted her husband playfully. “The neighbors are going to think we’re lunatics.”
The smell of coffee breath and cardboard to-go cups made Melody’s empty stomach lurch.
“Yeah, Dad, stawp,” Candace moaned, her head still resting on her metallic Tory Burch bag. “You’re wakey-waking the only cool person in Salem.”
Beau unclipped his seat belt and turned to face his daughter. “And who might that be?”
“Meeee.” Candace stretched, her chest rising and then sinking inside her light blue tank like a buoy on a choppy sea. She must have fallen asleep on her angry, balled-up fist, because her cheek was imprinted with the heart from her new ring—the one her teary best friends gave her as a going-away present.
Melody, desperate to dodge the I-miss-my-friends bullet Candace would undoubtedly fire when she noticed her cheek, was the first to open the door and step onto the winding street.
The rain had stopped and the sun was rising. A purplish red layer of mist cloaked the neighborhood like a thin fuchsia scarf over a lampshade. It cast a magical glow over Radcliffe Way. Damp and glistening, the neighborhood smelled like earthworms and wet grass.
“Get a whiff of that air, Melly.” Beau smacked his flannel-covered lungs and lifted his head in reverence to the tie-dyed sky.
“I know.” Melody hugged his corrugated abs. “I can breathe better already,” she assured him, partly because she wanted him to know she appreciated his sacrifice but mostly because she truly could breathe more easily. It felt as if a sandbag had been lifted from her chest.
“You gotta get out and smell this,” Beau insisted, tapping his wife’s window with his gold initial ring.
Glory lifted her finger impatiently and then cocked her head toward Candace, in the backseat, to show she was dealing with another meltdown.
“Sorry.” Melody hugged her father again, this time with a softer grip, a grip that begged forgive me.
“For what? This is great!” He took a long, deep breath. “The Carvers needed a change. We had LA dialed. It’s time for a new challenge. Living is all about—”
“I wish I was dead!” Candace screamed from inside the SUV.
“There goes the only cool person in Salem,” Beau mumbled under his breath.
Melody looked up at her father. The instant their eyes met, they burst out laughing.
“All right, who’s ready for a tour?” Glory opened the door. The tip of her fur-lined hiking bootie lowered tentatively toward the pavement as if testing the temperature of a bath.
Candace jumped out from the backseat. “First one upstairs gets the big room!” she shouted, and then charged toward the house. Her toothpick legs moved at an impressive clip, unencumbered by the Speedo tightness of her fashionably torn skinny jeans.
Melody shot her mother a quick how’d-you-do-that? look.
“I told her she could have my vintage Missoni jumpsuit if she stopped complaining for the rest of the day,” Glory confessed, gathering her auburn hair into an elegant ponytail and securing it with a quick twist.
“With promises like that, you’ll be down to one sock by the end of the week,” Beau teased.
“It’ll be worth it.” Glory smiled.
Melody giggled and then took off toward the house. She knew Candace would beat her to the big room. But that’s not why she was running. She was running because after so many years of labored breathing, she finally could.
Bounding past the trucks, she nodded at the men struggling with the couch. Then she leaped up the three wood steps to the front door.
“No way!” Melody gasped, stopping at the foot of the spacious cabin. The walls had the same orange-hued Lincoln Logs as the outside. So did the steps, the banister, the ceiling, and the railings. The only deviations were the stone fireplace and the walnut floors. It was hardly what she was used to, considering they came from a multitiered glass-and-concrete homage to ultramodern design. But Melody had to admire her parents. They were certainly committed to this new outdoor-lifestyle thing.
“Behind you,” grunted a sweat-soaked mover trying to negotiate the plump couch through the narrow doorway.
“Oops, sorry.” Melody giggled nervously, stepping aside.
To her right, a long bedroom spanned the entire length of the house. Beau and Glory’s California king was already inside holding court, and the master bath was in the middle of a major facelift. A tinted sliding glass door opened onto a narrow lap pool that was enclosed by an eight-foot-high Lincoln Log wall. The indoor pool must have sealed the deal for Beau, who swam every morning to burn off the calories his nightly swim might have missed.
Overhead, in one of the remaining two bedrooms, Candace was pacing and mumbling into her phone.
Across from her parents’ room was a cozy kitchen and dining area. The Carvers’ sleek appliances, glass table, and eight black-lacquered chairs looked futuristic compared to the rustic wood. But Melody was sure the situation would be remedied as soon as her mom and dad located the nearest design center.
“Help!” Candace called from upstairs.
“Huh?” Melody called back, peeking at the sunken living room and its view of the wooded ravine out back.
“I’m dying!”
“Really?” Melody bounded up the wooden staircase in the middle of the cabin. She loved the way the uneven wood slabs felt beneath her black Converse high-tops. Each one had its own unique personality. It wasn’t a celebration of symmetry, cohesion, and perfection, like Beverly Hills. It was the exact opposite. Every log in the house had its own patterns and nicks. Each was unique. None was perfect. Yet they all fit together and supported a single vision. Maybe it was a regional thing. Maybe all Salemites (Salemonians? Salemers?) celebrated unique patterns and nicks. And if they did, that meant the students at Merston High did too. The possibility filled her with a burst of asthma-free hope that propelled her up the steps, two at a time.
At the top, Melody unzipped her black hoodie and threw it over the railing. The pits of her gray Hanes tee were soaked with sweat, and her forehead was beading up.
“I’m dying. It’s so seriously fuego.” Candace appeared from the bedroom on the left wearing nothing but a black bra and jeans. “Is it two hundred degrees in here, or am I going through the change?”
“Candi.” Melody tossed her the hoodie. “Put this on!”
“Why?” she asked, casually inspecting her belly button. “Our windows are limo-tinted. It’s not like anyone can see inside.”
“Um, how ’bout the movers?” Melody snapped.
Candace pressed the hoodie against her chest and then peered over the railing. “This place is kinda weird, don’tcha think?” The flush in her cheeks burned straight up to her aqua blue eyes, giving them an iridescent glow.
“This whole house is weird,” Melody whispered. “I kinda love it.”
“That’s because you’re weird.” Candace whipped the hoodie over the railing and sauntered into what must have been the bigger bedroom. A sassy mass of blond hair swung across her back as if waving good-bye.
“Someone lose a top?” called one of the movers from down below. The black garment was slumped over his shoulder like a dead ferret.
“Um, yeah, sorry,” Melody answered. “You can just throw it on the steps.” She hurried to the only remaining bedroom so he wouldn’t think she was hitting on him.
She looked around the small rectangular space: log walls, low ceiling with deep scratches that looked like claw marks, a tinted mini window that revealed a view of the next-door neighbor’s stone fence. The closet smelled like cedar when its sliding door was opened. The temperature in the room must have been close to five hundred degrees. A real-estate listing would call it “cozy” if the agent wasn’t afraid to lie.
“Nice coffin,” Candace, still dressed in her bra, teased from the doorway.
“Nice try,” Melody countered. “I still don’t want to move back.”
“Fine.” Candace rolled her eyes. “Then at least let me make you jealous. Check out my boudoir.”
Melody followed her sister past the cramped bathroom and into a spacious, light-filled square. It had an alcove for a desk, three deep closets, and an expansive tinted window overlooking Radcliffe Way. They could have shared it and still had room for Candace’s ego.
“Cute,” Melody muttered, trying not to sound the least bit envious. “Hey, wanna walk into town and get some bagels or something? I’m starving.”
“Not until you admit that my room rocks and you’re jealous.” Candace folded her arms across her chest.
“No way.”
Candace turned toward her window in protest. “Um, how about now?” She blew a fog circle with her breath and then finger-drew a heart inside.
Melody proceeded with caution. “Is this some kind of setup?”
“You wish,” Candace said, eyeing the bare-chested boy in the garden across the street.
He was watering the yellow roses in front of a white cottage, wielding the hose like a sword. Lean back muscles undulated every time he thrust forward to joust. His worn jeans had slipped just enough to reveal the elastic band on his striped boxers.
“Is that the gardener, or do you think he lives there?” Melody asked.
“Lives there,” Candace said with certainty. “If he was a gardener, he’d be tanned. Tie me.”
“Huh?”
Melody turned to find her sister dressed in a purple, black, and silver zigzagged Missoni jumpsuit, holding the halter straps behind her head.
“How did you find that?” Melody asked, tying a perfect bow. “The wardrobe boxes are still on the truck.”
“I knew Mom would give it to me if I kept complaining, so I snuck it in my bag before we left.”
“So all of that stuff in the car was an act?” Melody’s heart began to trot.
“Pretty much.” Candace shrugged casually. “I’ll make friends and meet guys wherever. Besides, I need to keep my grades up this year if I want to get into a good college. And we all know that wasn’t gonna happen senior year in Cali.”
Melody wasn’t sure whether she wanted to hug her sister or hit her. But there wasn’t time for either.
Candace had already slipped on a pair of Glory’s silver platform sandals and scuttled back to the window. “Now, who’s ready to meet the neighbors?”
“Candace, don’t!” Melody begged, but her sister was already struggling with the iron latch. Trying to tame Candace was like trying to stop a moving roller coaster by waving your hands in the air. It was an exhausting waste of time.
“Hey, Hot Stuff!” Candace shouted out the window, then ducked below the ledge.
The boy turned and looked up, sheltering his eyes from the sun.
Candace lifted her head and peeked. “Nope. Not interested,” she muttered. “Too young. Four eyes. No tan. You can have him.”
Melody wanted to shout “I don’t need you to tell me who I can and can’t have!” But there was a shirtless boy with black-framed glasses and a mop of brown hair staring at her. All she could do was stare back and wonder what color his eyes were.
He waved awkwardly, but Melody remained frozen. Maybe he’d assume she was one of those life-size cardboard cutouts in the lobby of the movie theater and not a really socially awkward girl who was about to kick her sister in the shin.
“Ouch!” Candace wailed, grabbing her shin.
Melody moved away from the window. “I can’t believe you did that to me,” she whisper-shouted.
“Well it’s not like you were going to do anything,” Candace insisted, her blue-green eyes widening from the strength of her own conviction.
“Why would I? I don’t even know him.” Melody leaned against the bumpy log wall and lowered her head in her hands.
“So?”
“Sooooo, I’m tired of people thinking I’m a freak. I know you can’t relate to that but—”
“Get over it already, will ya?” Candace stood. “You’re not Smellody anymore. You’re pretty. You can get hot guys now. Tanned ones with good vision. Not geeky hose jousters.” She shut the window. “Don’t you ever want to use your lips as something other than veneer protectors?”
Melody felt a familiar pinch behind her eyes. Her throat dried. Her mouth twitched. Her eyes burned. And then they came. Like salty little paratroopers, tears descended en masse. She hated that Candace thought she had never made out with a boy. But how could she convince a seventeen-year-old with more dates than a fruitcake that Randy the Starbucks cashier (aka Scarbucks, because of his acne scars) was a great kisser? She couldn’t.
“It’s not that simple, okay?” Melody kept her tear-soaked face hidden. “Being pretty is your dream. Singing was mine. And it’s over.”
“So live my dream for a while.” Candace swiped gloss across her lips. “It’s more fun than feeling sorry for yourself, that’s for sure.”
How could Melody possibly explain her feelings to Candace when she barely understood them herself? “My pretty is fake, Candace. It was engineered. It’s not even me.”
Candace rolled her eyes.
“How would you feel if you got an A on a test that you copied off someone?” Melody asked, trying another tactic.
“Depends,” Candace said. “Did I get caught?”
Melody lifted her head and laughed. A giant snot bubble burst on her nose, which she quickly wiped on her jeans before her sister could see.
“You think about this stuff too much.” Candace swung her purse over her shoulder and then glanced down at her cleavage. “I’ve never looked better.” She held out her hand and pulled Melody to her feet. “It’s time to teach the good people of Salem the difference between Carhartt and couture.” After a quick scan of Melody’s sweaty gray Hanes T-shirt and baggy jeans, she added, “Just let me do all the talking.”
“I always do.” Melody sighed.