To Love Someone
By Claire Nance
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Chapter 1
Thursday
March 19, 1970
“Hey.”
The deep voice spooked me. My heart lurched, and I jerked my head to the right as Slate Garrett stepped around the corner of the bookshelf. I took in his broad shoulders, coal-black hair, and velvet brown eyes and willed my knees not to give way.
He raised his left hand, palm facing me, in apology. “Libraries are too quiet,” he said, advancing toward me.
Instinctively, I retreated and backed into an abandoned book cart, which set off an avalanche of hardbacks. I gasped. Heat flamed my cheeks. The Klutz strikes again.
“Whoa! Nice block.” Flashing an incredible smile, he squatted on his heels and scooped up the books at my feet.
He juggled them between his hands—the same hands that intercepted numerous passes and tackled opponents during our high school football games.
In my mind’s eye, I could see him in his purple jersey, a white 52 on his back, catching a punt, racing down the field, and diving into the end zone for the Lindell Warriors. My heart fluttered, and that annoyed me. I wasn’t into hero worship. “I—I can get those,” I said weakly.
“I have them.” He stood again, his height dwarfing me, and handed off a book.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, shelving it on the cart.
He handed me another. “Aren’t you Carol Anderson’s little sister?”
I hid the cringe I felt. “Uh—yeah. I am.” And I knew what came next.
The mental comparison. Carol’s golden blond hair to my ash brown, her clear, sea-green eyes to my muddy blue, her unblemished olive complexion to my freckled ivory, her outgoing personality to my introverted one. And inevitably, that concluding statement—as if it were my fault: “You two aren’t anything alike!” My standard reply: “We’ve learned to live with it.”
I had that reply ready now; but, surprisingly, Slate didn’t say a word. I didn’t know how to take that. I glanced up at him. I had seen him exit the high school earlier with two cheerleaders in tow. I wondered what made him come back.
He fed me the last book. “Carol’s in my history class.”
“Lucky you.”
He chuckled.
I seemed to have trouble breathing. Leaving the book cart, I continued the search he had interrupted, my fingers tapping nervously on my plaid bell bottoms as I scanned the spines of the biography section. I could feel his eyes on me. Why didn’t he just leave? Didn’t he have spring training or something? His good deed was done, and I was no one special. I wasn’t in student council, or a cheerleader, or anything. I played the clarinet in band, but so did fourteen other people.
Carol was the popular Anderson. She had been a cheerleader in middle school and as a sophomore at Lindell High. Last April, she decided to try out for the dance/drill team, (Mom had been a member when she attended Lindell); and, of course, Carol made it. In September, Mom said it was exciting having two daughters on the football field at half-time. I found it sort of humiliating—me in a unisex band uniform and Carol in a swingy miniskirt with white boots and tights.
“Which book are you looking for, Dee?”
He knew my name? That was a surprise. “Number eight-zero-eight-point-five-one-two,” I said over my shoulder.
“Eight-zero-eight—”
“Skip it. I can find it myself.”
He stepped closer. “Yeah, but there may be other book carts lurking back here.”
Ha, ha. The numbers were beginning to blur when I spotted “The Life and Times of William Shakespeare” on the top shelf. I stood on tiptoe and stretched. Just as my fingertips grazed the spine, Slate’s blue shirtsleeve appeared above me, and he grabbed “Shakespeare” first.
“Hey!” I pivoted on my toes and found myself mere inches from Slate’s nose. His light breath tickled my cheeks. I looked up into velvet brown eyes that now twinkled with suppressed laughter. Outlining those eyes were thick black lashes any girl would kill to possess. A bomb went off in my stomach. I came down on my heels with a jolt, my heart racing.
“This the one you want, Little Miss Sunshine?” He dangled the book above me like a dog biscuit. I reached for it. He whisked it away. “Good reflexes, but not good enough.”
“Give me the book,” I ordered, ignoring the heat rushing to my face.
He taunted me, holding it just out of reach. “Try again. You might get lucky.”
I folded my arms and stared at him.
He brought the book down slowly by degrees until it touched the tip of my nose.
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t have time for this. “Are you going to give it to me? Carol’s waiting in the car.”
Slate tucked the book under his arm. “This is true. Carol sent me to hurry you up. I’ll check this out for you.” He spun around and headed for the librarian’s desk.
I stood frozen for a moment. “Carol sent—”
Anger quickly replaced my initial shock. I bolted for my purse and notebook and started after him. I didn’t get far. My purse strap caught on a chair causing my keys, compact, contact lens travel kit, and lipstick to spill onto the linoleum.
Mindlessly, I shoved everything back into my purse. When I looked up again, Slate had disappeared.
Running out into the parking lot, I found him by Carol’s gold four-door sedan. Slate’s arms were folded on the edge of Carol’s window, and they were laughing.
I could imagine what they were laughing about. I had a sudden, mad desire to leave Lindell by any means necessary. Please God, take me up in a whirlwind. My prayer went unanswered. The laughter continued.
I slid into the front seat of the car and slammed the door. “I need that book,” I said firmly.
“Better let her have it, Slate,” Carol laughed. “When her face turns that color, she’s really upset!”
Slate bent his head down so he could see me. “Okay, Little Miss Sunshine,” he teased. “It’s all yours.” The book sailed past Carol and into my lap. “You don’t have to thank me for finding it for you.”
My mouth fell open.
“Too late to apologize. Just remember it’s in my name so, uh, don’t lose it or anything, okay?”
I leaned back against the seat in cold silence.
“Do you need a ride home?” Carol asked sweetly, her golden blond head strategically cocked to one side.
I had seen her practice that look in the mirror at age fourteen. I waited to see if Slate would take the bait.
“Thanks, but my truck is at the fieldhouse.”
Slate: one. Carol: nothing.
He bent his head down again and grinned at me. “So long, Little Miss Sunshine.”
“Good—bye!”
He laughed. “Later.”
While Carol watched him round the corner of the school library, I wiped the perspiration from my upper lip, then rummaged in my purse for my compact. I licked my finger and wiped the powder off the mirror before checking my face.
My makeup was okay, although my nose and forehead were as shiny as a polished apple. Luckily, my mascara hadn’t smudged. I cringed at the thought of going around with raccoon eyes.
“That Slate is so-o-o good-lookin’,” Carol purred as she turned on the ignition.
“Calm down, Carol. You’re going with Chad Williams now. You remember him: brown hair, blue eyes.”
“Funny, Dee.” She backed out of the parking lot and shifted into drive. “I want to know every word he said to you in there. Did he mention me at all?”
“What? Are we back in middle school? I’m not your go-between anymore.”
“I bet you were too scared to talk to him. I bet you didn’t say two words.”
“Which is why you sent him in after me.”
“Of course. Shy little Dee in the library with ‘Slate the Great’ Garrett! I wish I’d been a fly on the wall.”
“Spider would be more like it. Didn’t he fill you in? Weren’t you two laughing about me when I came out?”
My “spider” comment sobered her. “No, smart aleck. In fact, he didn’t mention you. He was telling me about Coach Smith getting a leg cramp during algebra. They were taking a pop quiz, and everything was real quiet, and then Coach Smith screamed all of a sudden and jumped right out of his desk grabbing his calf.” Carol giggled.
“Oh.” I brushed imaginary powder off my cheek. I was not in a giggling mood.
“Little Miss Sunshine…. Why did Slate call you that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Do I know?”
“You must have made an impression. He gave you a nickname.”
“Yeah, well, he can keep it.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
I looked out my window. “Not a thing. Just because I don’t want to date every boy I see like you do.”
“As if you could. Face it, Dee. You wouldn’t know what to do on a date. And double-dating doesn’t count,” she added quickly as I opened my mouth to contradict her.
“Too bad Slate’s never asked you out,” I jeered. “Guess you’re not his type.”
Carol stuck her nose in the air. “The year’s not over yet.” She turned up the radio to end our conversation.
I smiled. The truth hurts, doesn’t it? I closed my compact with a triumphant snap and dropped it into my purse. The car hit a bump in the road, and “Shakespeare” slid from my lap and onto the floorboard. I placed my right hand on the glove compartment and reached down. I had to really stretch for it. Just like in the library....
Without my permission, my mind replayed that moment when Slate grabbed “Shakespeare” before I could. Suddenly, I was face-to-face with him again, staring up into his big brown eyes. My heart lurched; my stomach tightened. I turned to the window to hide my reddened face from Carol.
Minutes later, we turned onto our street, Woods Lane, a newer part of Lindell away from its three refineries built nearly a quarter of a century ago and the change-of-shift traffic. Tall oaks lined the sidewalks, forming an arbor of green shade overhead. Honeysuckle vines climbed chain-link fences while English dogwood and azalea bushes added splashes of white, pink, red, and fuchsia to emerald lawns. How I loved Spring in Southeast Texas.
“Are you sure Slate didn’t say anything about me?” Carol asked again.
“He said you were in his history class.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
At the front door, I heard the telephone ringing.
So did Carol. She knocked me aside and plunged down the hallway toward my bedroom.
“Carol, keep your paws off my phone!” I yelled, struggling to stay on my feet.
“Hello, Chad.”
I threw my books on my bed and glared at her. She turned her back to me, the cord of my pink French phone wrapped around her shoulders. Ignoring me was Carol’s favorite pastime.
Frustrated, I headed for the kitchen, grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the table, and washed it. Glancing out the window, I saw Mom surveying the rose bushes bordering the patio. A first-grade teacher, she usually didn’t get home before we did. I noticed the tired look on her face.
Stepping outside, I said, “Hi, Mom,” and sat down on the patio swing which looked out onto the yard. “You’re home early. Rough day?” I took a bite out of the apple.
She turned around to face me. “Hi, Sugar,” she replied, taking off her gardening gloves. “You could say I had a rough day. I had a parent conference that almost ended in a shouting match, one of my children tried to run home during recess, and Michael Greene threw up during math.”
“Ugh!”
Mom ran a hand through her salt-and-pepper hair and scratched the back of her neck. “Things went downhill from there,” she continued, “so I decided not to stay late. I’ve been enjoying the humidity-free afternoon and deadheading my rosebushes.” She jiggled her pruning shears at me. “Very therapeutic.” Then she spotted my apple. “Did you wash that first?”
“Yes, Mother,” I assured her. “I washed it, and dried it, and now, thanks to Michael Greene, I’ve lost my appetite for it.”
“Sorry.”
“Remind me not to teach first grade when I get my elementary degree.”
She dusted off the knees of her jeans with her gloves. “Don’t teach first grade when you get your elementary degree.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Dad called from Fort Worth,” she continued. “Said he’s learned so much about that new accounting program this week that he can’t imagine what’s left to learn in the next five. He’ll call again tomorrow. He has to study tonight. He said it feels like he’s back in college cramming for exams.”
I started the swing with my big toe. “That’s what he gets for being a refinery comptroller without any serfs under him.”
“Serfs?”
“Yeah, if he had serfs, he could stay home and send them to these computer training seminars.”
“I think that Shakespeare unit is having an effect on your vocabulary.”
I scratched a mosquito bite on my arm. “Me thinkest thou art correct. I don’t think we’ll ever finish this unit on Julius Caesar.”
“Speaking of which—Got much homework?”
“Oh, yeah,” I sighed.
“Well, you always manage to get it done. You better go change for twirling practice. And try to eat that apple. We’ll have supper late. Where’s Carol?”
“On my French phone. You’d think it was her Christmas present as much as she uses it.”
Mom set her gloves on the bench by the back door. “To tell you the truth, I enjoy using it myself occasionally.”
I stopped swinging. “‘Occasionally’ is the key word. Every time I turn around, she’s on it. And that’s not all. She’s borrowing my clothes without asking, takes my records and leaves them who knows where, uses up my hairspray whenever hers runs out, borrows my makeup—and you know that’s not sanitary. You need to have a talk with her.”
“Why don’t you talk to her?” Mom came and sat beside me. “I referee enough disagreements at school.”
“I don’t know why she thinks she needs my stuff,” I continued. “She’s already got it all. Looks, personality, a wonderful guy like Chad wrapped around her little finger….”
“Do I detect a little envy?” Mom gave me a one-armed hug. “I know you’ve had your share of boy troubles, but think of them as stepping stones to the right fella. I’ve told you God has someone special picked out for you. Just wait and see.”
“Waiting is hard work.”
“Tell you what. This weekend you can help me plant those begonias I bought to go along the walkway to the tool shed. Get your hands in some peat moss. It’ll do you good.”
I grimaced, and she laughed. As she went inside the house, Trixie, our tan-and-white Chihuahua, trotted out with her tail wagging furiously. She looked up at me, her large brown eyes hopeful, and whined. I picked her up one-handed and set her in my lap. Immediately, she curled into a ball, then heaved a huge sigh as though she’d been waiting for this moment all day.
“What’s the matter, girl?” I asked. “Have you had a tough day, too?” I gently stroked her head along the white streak that ran between her brows. Her pointed ears twitched back and forth like antenna trying to pick up a signal. Then she yawned, stretching her mouth wide, her pink tongue curling upward.
Feeling sleepy myself, I took a deep breath of air and absorbed the “humidity-free afternoon.” Living about fifteen miles from the Gulf of Mexico, we didn’t get many of them. My big toe started the swing again, and I relaxed against the smooth wooden slats.
The afternoon sun shone through the branches of the maple and sycamore trees, casting leafy shadows on the lawn. A light breeze brought the sweet perfume of the roses to the patio, along with the sound of a woodpecker drilling tree bark. Edging its way down the rough trunk of the maple, a gray squirrel with raisin eyes hopped to the ground, started rooting in the grass. Overhead, purple martins were soaring above the martin house, chirping like parakeets.
“De-e!”
Trixie and I jumped.
“If you want to make it to practice on time,” Carol yelled through the window, “get a move on.”
“So much for tranquility,” I said to Trixie. I picked her up and looked her in the eyes. “Just wait until I get my license in June. Then I’ll be in the driver’s seat. Literally!”