Dead Over Heels
by Alison Kemper
Copyright © 2014 by Alison Kemper. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Autumn sunlight streams through the kitchen of our vacation house. “Come on, Ava.” Mom slides the glass across the counter. “It’s just iced tea. The poor boy’s probably dying of thirst. Take it out to him.”
I fight to suppress a giggle. My mother’s matchmaking attempts have never been subtle. “Which brother’s working today?” I ask. “The hot one?”
“Like I’d have any idea which is the hot one,” she says in her best mom voice.
I close the SAT prep book I’ve been reading since breakfast. “Well, the older brother is tall, dark-haired, and takes off his shirt while he works in our yard—even when it’s, like, forty degrees out. And the younger one wears camo and plays the banjo. I’m not sure he’s my type.”
She nods at the tea. “You’ll have more fun here if you make friends. And I’m sure both boys are very nice.”
“If they’re so nice,” I tease, “why don’t you bring the tea?”
Her eyebrows lift, disappearing behind her bangs. “Like I don’t have enough to do around here. Your dad and I are heading to the lumberyard this afternoon to get the post caps.”
I wince sympathetically. If mom’s helping dad all day, she probably has enough on her plate. “Dad’s still planning to fix the fence himself?”
“He’ll try. I hope he doesn’t screw it up before he calls a professional.”
“Like when he installed the new garage door?”
She grins. “And it closed on the hood of my car?”
Laughing, I hop from the bar stool and grab the tea. “You guys are cute. Go fix your fence. I’ll meet this country boy. Maybe he’ll serenade me with a banjo tune.”
She hands me a fistful of sugar packets. “Take these. People around here don’t seem to like my tea.”
The screen door bangs shut behind me, a blast of cold, outside air reminding me I’m not in Florida anymore. Our patio is still a mess—crumbled concrete and half-missing steps. Six months ago, my parents decided to buy this vacation house in the country—a fixer-upper with enough land for a tree farm.
From now on, I’ll spend every summer and school break in the North Carolina mountains. It’s beautiful here, but remote—maybe even a little lonely. No cable TV. No internet. Heck, my phone doesn’t even work here half the time. It’s like one of those maps the cell phone companies use to show coverage—with the blank areas. I’m in a blank area. A big blank area.
As I navigate the overgrown path toward the edge of our land, I wonder what’s happening in the nonblank areas. It’s Thanksgiving break, and if I were home in Orlando, I’d be heading to the mall with my friends. We’d eat lunch in the glassed-in food court—the one place where I feel like I’m outside without actually being outside. It’d be warm enough to wear a tank top and flip-flops. Here, the temperature has dipped below sixty. I already regret leaving my hoodie in the house.
I’m careful not to touch any of the plants on the unkempt trail. Part of me wants to stop and tuck my yoga pants into my socks—to stop bugs from crawling up my leg—but another part of me—the vain part—knows I look dorky when I do this.
I follow the buzz of the weed whacker. My parents hired the Greer brothers to clear the overgrown fields so we can plant Christmas trees. The Greers live down the mountain, like, a half mile from us. Our other neighbors, the Beavers, are at least a mile, maybe two, up the road. There’s some swanky country club over the next ridge, but it’s pretty far. Everything in between is national forest. No houses for miles. For a girl from the ’burbs, this isolation feels totally bizarre.
Banjo Boy has already cleared half the scruffy field. Fall-colored leaves smoke and pop in a small fire.
“Hey,” he yells, turning off the weed whacker.
That’s what the locals say. Not hi or hello, but hey.
They also say red light. If they give directions, it’s, “Turn left at the red light.” Never green or yellow. Always red.
I joke around with my parents about the local accents, but truth be told, I think the Southern drawl is kind of cute. Especially on the shirtless brother.
I edge closer to the fire, careful to stay out of the high, dangerous grass. “Um, yeah. Hello. Hey. My mom thought you might be thirsty. She sent tea.” Smoke burns my nostrils, making me cough.
He eyes the drink warily. “Is it sweet tea?”
I hold up the sugar packs.
He appears less than thrilled but takes them anyway. The hand reaching for the glass is coated in grime and soot.
Be nice, Mom said. Try to talk.
“Um, sorry it’s iced. Guess she forgot how cold it is out here.”
“It’s warm by the fire.” He says it like far.
Leaning against a stump, he tears the sugar packets with his teeth. I kind of wish I had an excuse to snap a pic of his outfit—camo pants, navy work jacket like mechanics wear, and a brown ball cap with the words “Trout Magnet” embroidered across the front. It’s sort of adorable, but my friends back home would never believe it.
The boy doesn’t say anything, just focuses on dumping each pack of sugar in the tea. Is he shy? Antisocial? Guess it’s up to me to make the small talk.
“So, you hear about that flu?” I ask.
“The one in China?”
I nod. “Yeah. Crazy stuff, right?”
For the entire week before we came up to North Carolina, the national news focused on a health scare in Beijing. Scientists think it’s some weird mutation of rabies—one that causes people to lose their minds and run around biting each other to spread the infection. The Bleke-Burns virus, they call it, although some late-night comedian keeps referring to it as Zombie Flu, probably because of rumors that the biting has turned to cannibalism in extreme cases. My AP bio teacher has been pretty much obsessed with the outbreak—assigning us extra reading on viruses and asking for current-events reports based on the news. I’m almost glad to be on vacation in the woods and away from the constant footage of infected people. Their bizarre, pale eyes have started haunting my dreams.
The boy’s brow creases. “Reckon we’ll get it here?”
Is he kidding? The outbreak is on the other side of the planet. Plus, we’re, like, in the middle of freaking nowhere. “Uh, no. Glenview’s pretty isolated. I think we’re good. I’m sure the government will keep it contained—you know, like how Ebola stays in Africa.”
He takes a small sip of tea. Awkward silence again. He finally glances up. Under the filthy cap brim, his eyes are the same glacial blue as his brother’s.
“So, um, where’s Jay?” I’m sure this kid’s nice, and he’s not bad-looking, but I’d be more enthusiastic about this errand if I was talking with the shirtless brother.
“Him and Dad went camping. I stayed behind to finish the job.” He nods toward the fire. The far.
“Pretty chilly for camping.”
He tosses the empty sugar packs in the flames. “We’re used to it. Best deer hunting’s in November.”
Hunting? Bleh.
“You bow hunt?” The corners of his mouth quirk up, like he already knows my answer.
“Are you kidding? I could never shoot a deer. They’re too beautiful.”
His smile tightens, accentuating a pale scar on his chin. “You get hungry enough, you’ll shoot the pretty deer.” His eyes lock on mine, waiting for a reaction.
A shiver runs down my spine. Okay, it’s official—I have zero in common with this guy.
“I’d better get back to the house and uh, help my mom.” I take a step away from him.
“Your name’s Eva, right?”
“Ava,” I correct.
“Tell your mom thanks for the tea. It was nice of her to send it.” The politeness doesn’t match this rough-looking boy. “I’m Cole.”
He doesn’t offer his grimy hand, and I’m glad.
“It’s, um, nice to meet you,” I try to smile, but it feels like a lie.
“Yeah, you, too.” He hands back the glass. “Good tea.”
I suddenly realize he might be lying, too.
…
Afternoon sun burns through my work jacket, warming my shoulders and back. I wrestle a dead kudzu vine into the fire and readjust my favorite cap—the funny “Trout Magnet” one Jay gave me for Christmas. When I raise my eyes again, the new girl has already disappeared back into her house.
Floridiots. That’s what we call them around here. Rich A-holes who flatten our forests to make gated communities. Clog our roads every summer with SUVs that cost more than my house. When I washed dishes in Highland, it’d take me an extra half hour to drive up the mountain, stuck behind looky-loos with out-of-state tags.
This new family’s no different. Take the girl, for instance. Acting like she’s doing me a huge favor with that glass of crappy tea. She’s pretty, sure—clean and bright-eyed—but pale as skim milk. I ain’t got much use for delicate girls.
I poke my fire and study the surrounding acres of brush and forest, nestled in a cup between mountain peaks. If my family owned this land, they’d have me down here working, hauling brush or hunting ginseng by the creek. Wonder if the girl gets outta chores ’cause she’s female. I got a hunch, even if she had a brother, I’d still be out here doing hard labor while he played Call of Dutyor some crap like that.
I sling another mess of brambles on the fire and wish for the millionth time I was out in the forest with Dad and Jay. Working for Florida Girl’s parents beats the hell out of slaving at the country club, but it’s still same old, same old. A bunch of city folk with no damned clue about the mountains.
These two acres make up the best grouse hunting along Walnut Creek Road. Or they used to—before this idiot clear-cut the land for Christmas trees. I’ve hunted this thicket since I was eight. Watched the chicks run through the brush every spring. Now I’m burning their homes to ashes.
And the girl said she didn’t like to hurt animals.
Florida people don’t know nothing.
…
Banjo Boy stirred up a ton of pollen cutting that brush. By the time I climb back to the house, my eyes burn like far. I pop a chewable allergy pill, the familiar bitter-orange taste coating the back of my throat.
The kitchen is warm after the chill of the November air. In the other room, Mom and Dad argue in soft voices. As usual, it’s about me. And my stupid allergies. Not the standard pollen aversion that half the world suffers from. The other allergies—the life-threatening ones.
“You know I hate leaving her alone,” Mom says.
“She’s sixteen, Margery. In January, she’ll get her license. And a few years after that, she’ll leave for college.”
“I know, but—”
“She’ll stay inside. What could hurt her?”
“I don’t know.” Mom pauses. “A random colony of fire ants?”
Dad sighs in a long-suffering way. “We’ve had the house sprayed. She’ll be fine. And we can ask the Greer boy to check on her.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise, asking a sixteen-year-old boy to check on our gorgeous daughter we’ve left alone in the middle of the woods.”
Dad grunts. “Point taken.”
“Ugh,” I say, entering the kitchen. “Is Mom still trying to set me up with Banjo Boy?”
Mom laughs, fishing her keys from her purse. “Why don’t you come with us today, sweetie?”
Tempting. My phone works sort of randomly in town. I might be able to call some of my friends at home. Of course, I’d just have to hear about all their amazing plans for Thanksgiving break.
“I’ll just stay here,” I tell my parents. “My bio teacher assigned a big research paper on rabies—due Tuesday after we get back.”
Dad nods solemnly. “Wouldn’t want your average slipping to a ninety-nine percent or something.”
I lean over to swat his arm. He gives me a hard time about my school obsession, but I know he’s proud.
Mom unhooks her good coat from the peg near the door. “Stay inside, okay? I don’t like you going outside when we’re not here.”
“Yeah, yeah. I promise. Not a foot out of the house.” I pour myself a glass of tea. “Got your list?”
Dad pats his jacket pocket.
A trip to town means a major haul through the wilderness. It’s nearly forty miles to Glenview, and most of the road is unpaved and pockmarked. The town sits in the valley, surrounded by mountains and national forests. Sure, it’s beautiful, but it makes our home-improvement projects a nightmare. My dad’s not exactly Mr. Fix-it—sometimes, after the long drive, he realizes he’s forgotten something and can’t finish the job.
Our house won’t be completed in record time.
Mom blows me a kiss. “Be back in a few hours.”
I stand at the kitchen counter, draining the last of my tea as the rattle of their car down the dirt road fades to nothing. With a sigh, I pull out my laptop and prepare to spend quality time with Louis Pasteur and his rabies vaccine.
For some weird reason, my brain drifts back to Cole. I move to the window and lean my forehead against the glass. I can’t see him from here, only the road twisting deep into the forest. On the other side of our dilapidated fence, squirrels chase each other through brown November leaves. Part of me wonders what it’s like to spend a cold, clear day outside, working hard, watching birds and squirrels, listening to the creek tumble over stones.
“Don’t go there,” I tell myself aloud. “With your allergies, it’s never gonna happen.” I’ll have to settle for watching from behind a window. Or even better, I could stop daydreaming and get my butt to work.
I write for an hour before I’m startled by the blare of a horn—the musical kind that plays Dixie or Dixieland or whatever that song is called.
“Yeeee-haw!” yells a voice from the road.
I peek outside as a faded red pickup with enormous wheels appears briefly through the trees and bumps out of sight. Our neighbors, the Beavers, feel compelled to yee-haw and blow that loud-ass horn every time they pass our house.
My dad always laughs like they’re being friendly. “Those locals!” he’ll say with a wave.
But I don’t think they intend to sound welcoming. The Beavers only visited once since we bought the house. Mom sowed a row of pumpkin seeds—she thought it’d be fun to have pumpkins during our next visit. Mr. Beaver and his fat son Bubba spent ten minutes telling her she did it wrong and ought to hire them to plant everything. When Mom explained she enjoys working outside, Mr. Beaver spit a stream of dirty tobacco juice on our porch and took off. The next time we came up from Florida, the pumpkin seedlings were dead and a strange smell clung to the dirt. Dad said it was kerosene. My parents downplayed the whole thing, but I knew someone did it on purpose—to remind us we don’t fit in here.
Maybe that’s why I wasn’t excited when Mom asked me to bring the tea outside. I don’t feel totally welcome here. Banjo Boy and his family might act friendlier than the Beavers—more respectful and stuff—but only because they need our work and money. This afternoon, I could see it in that Cole kid’s eyes. He doesn’t want me here either.
…
My gaze skims the acre I’ve been clearing, the once-gold-brown field now stubbed with rocks and tree roots. Another half hour and I’ll have this licked. Mr. Pegg stopped on his way down the hill to say my check’s waiting in the mailbox. It’d be so damned easy to ditch this job and take off with the money. Let someone else demolish the grouse habitat. But I don’t do that stuff no more. Guess all of Dad’s lectures about “you start something, you finish it” finally sunk in. Maybe that’s why I got this job and Bubba Beaver didn’t.
Wind kicks up, tossing the flames and threatening to scatter my carefully raked leaf pile. I yawn into my hand. I stayed up half the night watching an old DVD of David Holt playing “Shady Grove.” I’m dead tired, but I finally got a handle on the tune. My fingers pick the notes on the Weed eater as the music loops through my brain.
I’m nearly done when a dadgum bramble slips under my jacket cuff. I mash the button to shut off the weed-eater. As I roll my sleeve, a soft growl drifts over from the copse of Virginia pine.
What the hell?
It ain’t grouse or bobcats or any of the other million sounds I can pick out in these woods. This is lower. And more humanlike. There’s a crapload of animals that make noises that sound like people—screech owls…goats…pigs—but this ain’t none of ’em. This is something I never heard before.
A panther? Old-timers say panthers still live in these woods. Painters, they call them.
I hold my breath and watch the copse. A rustle, a shift of branches, and the arms of the trees part.
It’s not a panther.
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