Twist

  Twist

  By

  Roni Teson

  Houston, Texas * Washington, D.C.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead, or somewhere in between, is entirely coincidental

  Twist © 2014 by Roni Teson

  Brown Girls Publishing, LLC

  www.browngirlspublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical or photocopying or stored in a retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.

  First Brown Girls Publishing LLC trade printing

  Manufactured and Printed in the United States of America

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It is reported as “unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.

  For Mom—

  Who would do anything for her children and is always my number one fan.

  Acknowledgements

  The writing of Twist came to me fast and furious. The timing amazingly fit into Brown Girls Publishing and for that I am so grateful. I must acknowledge the whole team at Brown Girls and my inspiration singularly: Victoria Christopher Murray.

  Devry Coghlan who inspires me with her Kenya Relief work and loaned me a red coat years ago that she almost didn't get back.

  Karen Coccioli my writing ally who has been instrumental in making me a better writer since Heaven or Hell was published.

  My lifelong friend, Debby Mahoney Townzen, who walked me through how she would feel if Luke and Mike were one and the same.

  Ted Gilley and G. Miki Hayden for their expert editing advise.

  My oncologist for putting me through hell and saving my life so that I could eventually find this peaceful place by the ocean where I live to write. Thank you.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part Two

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part Three

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part Four

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Part Five

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Coming Fall 2015

  The Bishop Girls

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  I’d seen him at school before, the kid who came in with Mr. Drake. I didn’t know his name was Lucas. When he brushed his blond hair away from his forehead and his blue eyes met mine, my insides liquefied. I thought I saw a flicker of recognition on his face, but how would he know me?

  “Do you go to Sage Creek High?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, as I looked down at my tennis shoes and wished I’d dressed better. But I didn’t know a cute boy would be standing in front of me tonight.

  “I thought so,” he said. “Aren’t you new?”

  “Yes.”

  We were at Aunt Charlotte and Uncle George’s house, me sitting in the living room and the boy hanging around the threshold.

  Only a few seconds earlier, my uncle’s plumber, Mr. Drake, had said, “Stay here, Lucas. Talk to Beatrice for a minute while I work on George’s sink.” And then he followed my uncle into the kitchen.

  “Did you hear me?” Lucas said.

  “What?” I answered.

  A tiny chuckle puffed off of his lips. “I didn’t think you were listening. Call me Luke.”

  His voice was so smooth my belly did backflips. “Bea,” I said, because a single syllable was all I could manage under the gaze of such a magnificent creature as Luke.

  “So, Bea.” His eyes wandered around the living room and stopped on me. “What’s your story? Where you been hiding?”

  I stared at his perfectly straight, white teeth and froze.

  “Dad makes me tag along on some of his jobs,” Luke said, as he sat down on the edge of the couch. “I’ve been to this house a lot, but I’ve never seen you here.”

  “You weren’t here last week when the kitchen flooded.” I flicked a piece of lint off of my leg, acting disinterested. “I’m staying with my aunt and uncle for a while”—and then I stopped short, before the darkness of the last twelve months could creep into our conversation. I picked up the remote and channel surfed, looking for something he could grab on to instead of me.

  “Where’d that frown come from?” he asked. Then when I didn’t answer, after a pause, he posed another question. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  And that was all I needed to hear. I lost interest. He was way too nosy, and far too comfortable asking me about my personal life. I kept my eyes on the TV and said, “Do you always talk so much?”

  “Hey, a cute girl shows up at school and I want to know.”

  “Now you’re way too flirty.”

  “I like the tomboy thing you’re rocking. What can I say?”

  In my peripheral vision I saw him wink at me. That was so cheesy, I thought I was being played. “Really?” I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m just being friendly. Geez, Beatrice.”

  And the timber of his voice, mixed with a playful tone, hit the right note—it softened me. “Call me, Bea,” I said.

  “Can’t anyone be nice to you?” he asked.

  When his lower lip protruded, exaggerating a pout, I must have been like a swinging mood tree because my entire being thawed. “Yeah, I’m just having a bad day,” I said.

  More like a bad year.

  We stared at each other and he smiled again, so I smiled, too.

  “See,” Luke said. “I knew you had it in you.”

  He moved closer to me on the couch and put his hand on mine. “My official name is Lucas Drake.” With that, he squeezed my fingers, lifted my hand, and kissed my knuckles.

  An unfamiliar feeling of warmth ran down my spine and into my toes. I jerked my arm away and stood up in a curtsy. “Beatrice Malcolm.” I plopped down again, tucking my right leg under my butt.

  Luke glided even closer and whispered, “I’m glad you moved to Cali. I think you’re cute.”

  I wondered if his head had begun to swirl, the way mine had. I’d never experienced anything like this before, ever. But suddenly, Uncle George and Luke’s dad were standing at the front door, about fifteen feet from where we sat. And thank goodness Mr. Drake broke the spell with his gruff voice. “Lucas, let’s go!”

  Luke seemed to become abruptly aware of his surroundings and even looked puzzled when he saw how close we were sitting. He flexed his hand and wiggled his fingers—I ran my thumb across my knuckles and glanced at him.
We both blushed and quickly looked away. I was relieved to stand up and walk the few steps to the entryway with Lucas Drake behind me.

  Uncle George shuffled a bit while his hand automatically searched the pocket where he used to keep his cigarettes.

  Mr. Drake said, “George, I still can’t believe you quit smoking after all these years.”

  “Shut up, Kyle. It makes me want one real bad when you talk about it.” My uncle clapped Mr. Drake on the head, and they must have seen the look on my face because they both burst out laughing.

  “Your niece is looking at me like I have three eyes,” Mr. Drake said, and then he snorted, which caused Luke to laugh. “Darling, your uncle and I go way back. In fact”—he faked a punch at Luke’s stomach—“he was there when this one was born.”

  Standing a few inches over five feet, I was a midget next to these men—including Luke. So when all three of them looked down at me with grins of epic proportions on their faces—the proverbial cats that swallowed the canary—I barked at them. “What?”

  “She sure reminds me of Grace,” Mr. Drake said softly.

  “I can hear you,” I said.

  “It’s a compliment, dear . . .” For a split second I thought he was going to cry. “Grace was something else . . .”

  As they moved down the steps, my uncle and I waved good-bye, and I heard Luke say to his dad, “Who’s Grace?”

  “Beatrice’s mother,” Mr. Drake answered.

  Then Uncle George quickly shut the door and smacked his hands together real loud. “Kitchen’s working again. I hope Aunt Charlotte doesn’t cook tonight.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “What?” he said. “You know it’s true. She’s not a good cook.”

  Chapter 2

  I woke up early the next day and fixed myself a bowl of oatmeal. A few minutes after I sat down, Aunt Charlotte entered the kitchen and made my lunch. I felt silly carrying a paper sack to school at my age, but she insisted. “The starchy food in the cafeteria isn’t healthy,” she said as she handed me the bag. This was the same thing she’d said almost every morning for the two weeks that I’d been living there. And Uncle George usually shoved a five-dollar bill in my hand when Aunt Charlotte wasn’t looking.

  “I was thinking about taking you shopping.” My aunt’s eyes skimmed my clothes and stopped at the rip in my jeans. She lifted her chin toward my layered T-shirts and the boy’s army surplus jacket I’d bought at the Goodwill. Then, with a scowl on her face, Aunt Charlotte took me over to the mirror. “You’re so beautiful.” Her hands lifted my thick, brown hair from inside my collar. “You’re striking, Bea . . . You’ve got your father’s dimples and your mother’s blue eyes.” She squeezed my shoulders, and neither of us spoke.

  The mere thought of my mom was the rhinoceros in the room that quieted everyone, including Mr. Drake the night before.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We can talk about her if you want to.”

  “I . . . It’s too soon.” A tear hung in the corner of her eye.

  Sometimes I forgot that she’d lost her sister. “Maybe later, then. I need to go to school anyway.”

  Aunt Charlotte tapped at her eye with her fingertip, a delicate procedure she had mastered and used frequently over the last few weeks. I assumed it was her way of smoothing out her sadness without smearing her makeup. “I can drop you on my way to work,” she said.

  I balanced three books and the lunch sack in my arms. “Okay.”

  “Honey, why didn’t you say something? I’m sure we have a bag for all of that stuff.”

  And just like that, she perked up. And I acquired a new-to-me vintage book bag that was totally cool and had once belonged to Uncle George—canvas with snarls and a long strap so I could wear it sidesaddle across my body.

  On the way to school, Aunt Charlotte asked, “Have you made any friends yet?”

  “A few,” I said.

  “You can invite them over if you want. Our house is your house.”

  I nodded.

  Aunt Charlotte looked at me while she was driving. “Bea, it’s okay to ask for things. We want to take care of you.”

  A car horn sounded and she reacted too quickly, slamming the brakes and causing us both to jerk forward in our seats. The driver waved his hand in anger.

  She chuckled. “I bet there’s no road rage in Seattle.”

  “Are you kidding? The worst kind. Ever drive with my mom?” We both laughed for a second and then we had another rhino moment; and for the rest of the ride, we were absolutely quiet.

  Aunt Charlotte dropped me at the main entrance, and right after she drove off, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around and there was Luke. His eyes widened as if to say, Well, here I am. But then he scrunched his face together. “What’s with that sad look again?”

  And instantly, I felt better—simply because Luke wanted to be near me.

  But who was this guy, and why did he have this effect on me?

  As we walked, I listed to one side, dragged down by the weight of the book bag. “Let me carry that for you,” he said. When he touched my shoulder, I felt a thousand magical chords resonate through my body. My cheeks turned to fire, and I thought my hair would melt off my head.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked, with a grin as wide as the Arctic.

  “Just . . . Thank you,” I said, barely audible.

  “I don’t know what it is about you, Bea.” He lifted the book bag as if it were light as air. “Mancha.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah. My word for best wave ever.”

  “You surf?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Mancha.”

  I had a silly grin on my face when we headed toward my first class, and within seconds Luke’s friends surrounded us. One of them, a boy with curly black hair wearing perfectly ironed corduroy pants, smacked Luke on the chest with the back of his hand. “Did you read that science crap? I fell asleep in the middle of the chapter.”

  “Like it matters, genius,” Luke said, and then he looked at me. “Bea, this is Simon, he’s super smart. Don’t listen to him when he acts like he’s always behind on his homework.”

  “Stop,” Simon said, with a touch of modesty.

  “No, really. Simon, Tate, and Murphy.” Luke snickered. “My dad says they sound like a law firm.” He took a breath. “Meet, Bea. Also known as Beatrice Malcolm.”

  “I didn’t know you went to our school,” Simon said.

  The warm fuzzies inside of me abruptly vanished and a blanket of dread took over, because I knew what was coming next.

  “I’ve seen your picture on the news, right? Isn’t your dad Teddy Malcolm?” Simon asked.

  “Audacious,” Tate said. He was the one kid in the group who looked so average I’d never be able to pick him out of a sea of students if it wasn’t for the braces that took over his face. “That guy is still on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, isn’t he?”

  All four boys stared at me, waiting. I wanted to run. Instead I said, “I can’t talk about that. Can I have my bag? I’m going to class.”

  I reached for the strap and my hand touched Luke’s. He took hold of my fingers, against my wishes—or so said my mind, but not my body. “I’ll walk you,” he whispered, and then he turned to his friends and said, “Later, brainless douche bags. Next time show a little tact.”

  A boy who defended me—that made my insides sing, and if only for a nanosecond, I felt like I was in Heaven.

  Chapter 3

  At my last school, a few boys had followed me around and wanted to do stuff for me, too. But I never felt this glowing awesomeness, or even a bit of delight over their attention, not the way I did with Luke.

  My only girlfriend, Amilee, had said, “Maybe you’re a lesbian.”

  “Not that it matters, but no, I’m not,” I’d answered. “Just because I don’t priss up like you do, doesn’t mean I like the ladies.”

  “It’s okay if you are,” she said. I swear she’d batted her eyes a
t me, flirting! “I mean, the way you like to be one of the guys.”

  I’d ignored her. What she didn’t understand was these boys had chased me as if they were in some kind of a trance.

  But I hadn’t really talked to Amilee since Mom died. I thought I’d call her later on. Making girlfriends was so hard for me.

  “Is this your class?” Luke handed me the book bag when I stopped in front of my homeroom. As I grabbed the strap, he hugged me. “I’m sorry about my sometimes brainless friends.”

  I breathed in hard and sharp when I smelled the wonderful soapy aroma that came off of his skin. Before I could even think about it, my arms reached around his waist and I reciprocated with a squeeze. There we were—two strangers hugging as if we’d never see each other again.

  When we separated, Luke had a bewildered look on his face. “I don’t know what it is about you, but I’m”—he shook his head and finished with a word that I suspected wasn’t his first choice—“speechless.”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “So polite!” He burst out laughing and said, “Lunch—are you early or late?”

  “Late.”

  He picked me up and twirled me around, bumping me into a few kids. One guy nudged us in passing. “Watch it, Drake!”

  When he set me down by the door, a girl with stringy blonde hair and a sucker in her hand glared at us as she passed. Luke’s smile disappeared, but his attention quickly returned to me.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait, wait,” he said. Maybe it was the blue shirt combined with his tan skin and shaggy hair that made his eyes sparkle or just his way, but something about his essence had captured me.

  When he leaned in and kissed me, his mustache stubble tickled my skin. We kept going until his lips parted slightly and he nibbled on my lower lip, causing a mini explosion in my chest. But then Mr. Cooper, my history teacher interrupted, practically pushing us out of the way so he could get into the classroom.

  As the bell sounded, Luke squeezed my hand and took off. He got about a classroom away, then turned around, and running backward through the hall he yelled, “Meet me at the oak tree for lunch, Beatrice!” He pumped his fist as he exited the building.