June First

Part 2 – The Second Tragedy

June, age 14

Celeste gasps through a mouthful of strawberry-glazed doughnut. “Hayden is coming?”

“He said he was. Marty, too.”

Marty. Sigh.

A warm July breeze causes the tree branches to shimmy as I sit on the patio with my best friend, twirling a can of Dr. Pepper between my fingers. My sunglasses block the glare from the afternoon sun blazing down on us, and my long hair is woven into a single braid over my shoulder. One of my favorite songs, Dangerous by Big Data, is the perfect soundtrack to this summer Saturday as my friend and I chat about the upcoming soirée.

I stretch my legs, hoping for a semblance of golden glow. I’m pale like Mom, my porcelain skin practically allergic to sunlight.

Annoying.

Leaning back in the lawn chair, I’m happily content, when I’m startled by something hitting me in the face.

“Put some clothes on, Peach. Jesus Christ.” Theo tosses a beach towel at me as he strolls out through the patio door.

I scoff, lifting my sunglasses. “I’m wearing clothes. Jeez.”

“Those aren’t clothes. That looks like the shit you used to dress your baby dolls in, for Christ’s sake.”

Glancing down at my teeny denim shorts and tight halter, I purse my lips. “You’re being a hypocrite. You’re not even wearing a shirt.”

He scratches at his bare chest—bronzed, because he was blessed with skin that does that.

So not fair.

“I’m not a fourteen-year-old girl who looks twice her age,” he barks back. “Brant’s got a friend over who said, and I quote, ‘Little sis has got legs for days and a nice rack to boot.’ No.” Theo whips his hand though the air like he’s trying to slice oxygen in half. “Fuck. No. I’m not having you eye-raped on my watch; absolutely not.”

Celeste and I share a look before she turns away, hiding behind her half eaten doughnut.

“You’re really embarrassing, Theo,” I mutter, throwing the towel onto the patio pavers. “It’s not my fault if some guy wants to be a creep.”

“No, but you can sure as hell give him less to creep on.” He storms over to me, picks up the towel, then drapes it over my bare legs. “Until I have the authority to arrest any asshole that has the balls to put his eyes on my kid sister, cover yourself. I mean it, Peach.”

I stick my tongue out at him, then lower my sunglasses, indicating the end of the discussion. Theo hovers over us for another beat, folding his arms and silently glowering like a big brute. His hair has recently been trimmed short, longer on top and buzzed around the sides, making him look more dominating than I know he is—Theo is a softie on the inside, regardless of his muscles, surly attitude, and new macho haircut.

He has more freckles than me, but they’re lighter, like a smattering of sand. Like the honeyed color of his hair. Theo looks more like our father with his sharp angles and square jaw, but his eyes are blue like Mom’s—dark, dark blue, reminding me of steel.

Steel armor, steel blades, steel gallantry.

Steely overprotectiveness that often drives me mad.

The moment he marches away, I toss the towel.

“Yikes, your brother is obscenely protective.”

Filling my cheeks with air, I blow out a breath, sipping on my soda. “Lucky me.”

Theo is finishing up his last year at the police academy, so he thinks that gives him some kind of free pass to act like the law around me. He’s already scared away two boys who made the mistake of stopping by the house to study. As much as I love him to death, I really can’t wait for him to move out once he gets a position on the force—he’s totally embarrassing in front of my friends.

Thankfully, Theo is going to his girlfriend’s apartment tonight, which means he won’t be around when I have my little get-together. We all graduated eighth grade last month, so Mom said I could throw a summer party as long as everyone clears out by nine P.M.

Celeste mock-shudders beside me. “Super lame. I’d die if I had two older brothers breathing down my neck.”

“Yeah, it’s rough.” Setting my soda can beside me on the side table, I tinker with the fringe on my shorts. “Anyway, do you think we should set up some games for tonight?”

“Ooh. Truth or Dare?”

My chin pops up, and I bite my lip as a wave of thrill rolls through me. “Definitely. And maybe… Spin the Bottle?”

“Oh my God. With Hayden?” She clasps her chest with her hand, throwing her head back. “Stick a fork in me. I’m done.”

We both giggle.

“Have you kissed anyone yet?” Celeste asks mid-chew, swiping crumbs off her leggings. Her dirty blonde hair is piled high on her head, shimmering in the sunny haze. “I kissed Jordan last month at the beach bonfire. I think I told you.”

I clear my throat. “You did.”

The beach bonfire.

The beach bonfire I was banned from going to because Brant and Theo found out about it and told Mom and Dad there would be drugs and debauchery.

There wasn’t, of course. It was held at Adam Plankton’s beach house with his parents and grandma-ma who likes to wave her cane around, threatening to smack anyone with alcohol on their breath. Sure, maybe a few kids made out, but honestly—we’re only fourteen.

I think everyone was just excited to stay out past curfew.

Chewing on my thumb nail, I shake my head. “Nope, not yet. I haven’t had much of an opportunity. My brothers seem to think that I’ll get pregnant in the mere presence of the opposite sex.”

Celeste snickers. “Welp, maybe tonight’s the night,” she sing-songs. “June and Marty sittin’ in a tree…”

“Don’t be immature,” I smile deviously, plucking the towel from the pavement and chucking it at her.

She laughs. “Bitch!”

When our giggles ebb, I fall back onto my lounge chair, drawing up one knee. My thoughts float to Marty. Specifically, kissing Marty.

My skin hums with nerves.

I’ve been curious about boys for a little while now. My own body has been evolving, growing, becoming more mature. My breasts began to bud shortly before my thirteenth birthday, growing fuller and more pronounced with each passing month. I went from wearing a sports bra to needing a B-cup within a twelve-month span.

The boys at school teased me, at first…

And then they stopped teasing me, suddenly wanting to be my friend, instead.

The patio door slides open, and Yoshi comes barreling out. He’s eight years old already, but still acts like a puppy, with his short, stubby legs, high-pitched yelp, and overly-excited tail. Running in circles around the patio table, he pauses to lick a crack in the pavers, where something must have spilled, then darts out into the backyard, disappearing around a mulberry tree to chase a squirrel.

My smile is still in place when I glance up, watching Brant saunter out onto the patio in a baseball cap, white t-shirt, and athletic shorts. “Where’s your friend?” I inquire, recalling Theo’s comment.

Brant closes the door behind him, then flicks his gaze between me and Celeste. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just approaches us in bare feet and an unreadable expression, bending down to scoop up the beach towel, then plops it onto my legs. “He’s out front working on my car. The brake pads are shot.”

I take the hint, grumbling internally and adjusting the towel so I’m more covered. “You know I’ll be dating soon, right?”

“I’m only protecting you from the wrath of your brother. He’s going to blow a fuse if he sees that you lost your towel again.”

“Yeah, well, Theo wishes he could keep me in a glass jar on his bookshelf. He’s gonna have to realize he can’t protect me forever.”

Brant seems to flinch at that. Something crosses his face, pinching his eyebrows together for a split second before he shakes it off. “Try telling him that.”

“I have. He just says, ‘Nice try, Peach. You’re hilarious, Peach. A real comedian, you are, Peach.’”

His lips twitch. “Sounds about right.”

Celeste perks up from her own chair, taking a swig of her water bottle and twisting the cap back on. “I should get going so I can freshen up before the party,” she chirps, glancing at her cell phone, typing out a quick text message, then rising to her feet. “I’ll be back at six.”

I stand as well, taking the towel and throwing it over Brant’s head. He shrugs it off with a smile he can’t help, and it causes me to grin right back. Celeste gives my cheek an air kiss, tugs at her messy bun, and strolls around the side of the house to her bicycle, calling out a final farewell.

I stretch my arms over my head, feigning a yawn. “Are you going to Wendy’s tonight?”

“No. She and Wyatt have some family barbecue to go to.” Brant pulls off his baseball cap, scratches at his unruly mess of brown waves, then returns the hat to his head in the opposite direction. “I’m on chaperone duty.”

He says it with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, and I freeze. “You are not.”

“Am, too. Your dad appointed me, and I plan to take my responsibility very seriously.”

“Brant, I swear to God—”

“I have a list of rules. Handwritten, very official.”

“Brant…”

He clears his throat, all formal-like. “At least a six-foot distance will be maintained between June Bailey and any person of the male gender while lounging on a piece of furniture, including but not limited to, sofas, loveseats, and benches. Beds, of course, are strictly prohibited.” He’s trying to hold back his amused grin, but it’s not working. “No music that references sexual acts or genitalia will be permitted. No snacks or foods with any sort of phallic representation will be—”

“Stop. Please, stop.” I’m shaking my head, but a burst of laughter betrays me.

“There will be an imposed study break around seven P.M. because education is important.” He lifts a finger in the air. “And last, but certainly not least, I insist on a mandatory retelling of an embarrassing story from June’s childhood every hour on the hour, just to keep things light. I volunteer as tribute.”

I pounce on him.

Leaping onto his back, I wrap my legs around his middle, my arms encompassing his neck and squeezing. “You’re not funny.”

“Humor is subjective,” he grits out.

He carries me through the backyard, attempting to shake himself free of me, but I maintain my grip. I don’t weigh a ton, but I’m toned and fit from years of dance training. “Okay, but nobody thinks you’re funny.”

“I do.”

“Argh, you’re infuriating,” I say, holding on tighter and pinching his arm for good measure. “Take it back.”

“Ouch. If you want to play dirty, I’m prepared.” He tugs at my braid.

“Hey! Low blow. You’re twenty, and I’m still a kid.”

Sort of. I only pull the kid card when it benefits me, but God forbid someone calls me a child when I’m trying to earn privileges or appear older than I am.

“Perfect. Kids love being tickled.” Brant reaches around and starts tickling me, his fingers dancing over my ribs until I shriek, then surrender.

Damnit—every time.

He continues to tickle me, even as I slide off his back and try to escape, my giggles escalating as I writhe and squirm amid the onslaught. “Stop!” I squeal, my lungs gasping for air.

And then my lungs feel like they’re actually gasping for air.

“Wait, wait… st-stop,” I pant, trying to catch my breath.

Brant must notice the shift in mood because he instantly releases me. “Whoa, you okay, Junebug? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I…” My hand lifts to massage my chest, and I’m drenched in confusion and mild embarrassment. It feels like my lungs aren’t filling with air fast enough, and while I noticed a similar feeling at dance practice the prior week, I brushed it off—I’d been getting over a little cold, so I figured that was why. When my heart rate starts to decelerate, I finally inhale a satisfying lungful, my nerves subsiding. “Sorry, I just got a little winded there.”

Brant props a finger under my chin, tilting my head up until we’re eye to eye. There’s worry etched into every crease, every shadow, every pore. His gaze tracks over my face, trying to read me, trying to put the pieces together until he’s confident the threat has passed. A breath leaves him as he lowers his finger. “I don’t like that.”

His irises glow with affection and a trace of unease, the sunlight causing the green flecks to glint brighter than the brown. I’m lost in the sepia swirl for a moment before I duck my head, crossing my arms over my chest. “It was nothing. I’m fine.” Forcing a smile, I slug him gently on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about. You may have won this battle, but you’ll never win the war.”

My teasing falls on deaf ears, though; the tension is too high, the concern still heavy in his stare.

I bite my lip, trying to think of something else to say. “You know—”

“Hey. Brant.”

Brant looks over my shoulder, then moves past me. “All finished?”

Swiveling around, I trail behind Brant as he makes his way to the patio, where the friend working on his car hovers in the doorway. The guy is a grease bucket, with stringy black hair, oil on his skin, and a lecherous look in his ruddy eyes when he notices me approaching.

I fiddle with the hem of my halter top, only to realize the gesture pulls the man’s attention to my exposed midriff.

I’m not sure if it’s intentional or subconscious, but Brant moves in front of me, as if to block the guy’s view. “What do I owe you?”

Skeevy dude coughs into his fist, then swipes his dirty hands along his jeans. “Two-fifty.”

“Great. I’ll meet you out front with cash.”

I hang back, playing with the split ends of my braid, half watching as the man nods and disappears into the house. “He seems like—”

“He’s not my friend,” Brant declares, his back still facing me, his focus on the patio door. “He’s just some auto mechanic I know through Phil.”

“Oh…” I blink, not understanding the point. “So?”

“So,” he says, finally pivoting toward me and pinning his eyes on mine. He swallows, his irises darkening, like storm clouds in the desert. “I wouldn’t be friends with someone who looks at you like that.”

My heart flutters with a peculiar feeling as I chew on my cheek. Clearing the tickle from my throat, I murmur, “Okay.”

He holds my gaze for a single heartbeat, then turns around to head inside.

“Be right back!” I exclaim, setting down my red solo cup filled with iced tea. The sky is gray and dusky, laden with clouds and disappearing daylight. Tiki torches and string lights illuminate the patio as my group of friends mingle and dance to the pop music radiating from Dad’s fancy speakers. He let me borrow them so I didn’t have to waste my cell phone battery.

It’s halfway through the party, so I skip upstairs for a bathroom break. Brant is in the living room with Mom and Dad, binge-watching Breaking Bad, but I know he’s only half paying attention—the other half is tuned into the party, and more specifically, my particular involvement in said party. I’m almost positive he installed secret cameras outside and is checking the footage on his phone to make sure I’m not being drugged or date-raped, or participating in beer bongs or body shots.

Or the Nae Nae dance.

He’d find that equally unacceptable.

His eyebrow arches in my direction as I whip up the staircase with a beaming smile, sending a quick wave to my parents.

All is well. I’m totally not going upstairs to obsessively brush my teeth in anticipation of a game that involves kissing.

I shut the bathroom door behind me, then check the mirror. My hair is a little frizzy from the July humidity, but my loose curls have held up pretty well. I fluff them with my fingers, then pop on some more deodorant and Victoria’s Secret perfume. The indigo sundress I’m wearing complements my eyes, and the glue-on eyelashes help, too. Finishing up with a dab of shimmery lip gloss, I adjust my bra, so my cleavage is more pronounced, and head back down the stairs.

Dazzling my family with another flash of white teeth, I wind through the kitchen and disappear outside.

“There you are!” Celeste announces, yanking our mutual friend, Genevieve, in my direction. Both girls wander up to me and Celeste mutters under her breath. “Behind the big mulberry tree in five.”

My mouth dries up, and I instinctively smooth out my dress, as if that will prepare me for my first kiss. “Who’s all playing?”

“Everyone,” Gen says. “We’re going to play in two separate groups, so everyone doesn’t disappear at once and send up red flags to your parents. But don’t worry… Marty will be in our group.” She winks at me.

I lift my wide, terrified eyes, searching for Marty. He’s laughing with two other boys, Hayden and Josh, leaning back against a food table. His short brown hair is smoothed over with hair gel, causing it to gleam beneath the lantern lights. “Okay.”

“You look like you might vomit, June,” Celeste whispers to me. “You sure you’re good?”

“Of course. I’m perfectly great.”

The two girls share a glance, then shrug. “Let’s head over now. The boys will join us in a few.”

I gather my wits and traipse through the lawn, meeting up with a few other girlfriends along the way. Gen pulls an empty Pepsi bottle out of her hobo bag, her thick black eyebrows dancing with trouble as she collapses, crossed-legged, in the grass.

My heart pounds furiously.

I take a seat between two friends, playing with my hair while I try to ignore the butterflies swimming in my belly.

Marty appears from around the tree a few moments later, accompanied by four other boys. “Hey, ladies. Got room for us?”

He’s grinning wide, devilishly.

He’s grinning right at me.

I gulp, forcing a smile that probably looks unhinged. “Of course. Come on over.” My voice cracks a little, confirming my derangement.

“Excellent.”

The boys situate themselves, forming a circle, Marty sitting directly across from me. One of my friends sets a piece of cardboard from our firepit stash in the middle as a flat surface for the bottle to spin.

“June, you go first,” Marty speaks up, his chocolate eyes starry. “It’s your party.”

The flirtatious smile hasn’t left his face, and my cheeks burn with horrible anxiety. I wring my palms together, nodding my consent. “Sure, okay.”

I’m damn near trembling as I reach for the glass bottle.

Humiliating!

Screaming at my arm to act normal, I laugh lightly while whispered chatter mingles around me. I suck in a quick breath, then flick my wrist. The bottle spins wildly on the cardboard, and I watch it twirl, over and over, slowing… slowing…

Marty reaches out, stopping it, the nozzle pointed directly at him. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

My friend, Arya, giggles beside me. “That’s cheating,” she chides.

“Whoops.” He shrugs, clearly not caring. “Look at that.”

Fresh nerves sluice me. My skin flushes hot, tingling with uncertainty and a trace of fear.

This shouldn’t be scary. This shouldn’t be scary.

I laugh, awkwardly this time, which I suppose is better than psychotic. My lips feel dry and chapped, so I slick them with my tongue.

Marty zones in on the fleeting gesture, then pulls himself to his feet. He holds out a hand to me. “My lady,” he says with formal whimsy.

I beg my knees not to tremble as I rise to a stand. They obey, mostly, but I do nearly trip on some woodchips as I step forward. “I’ve, um…” I swallow hard, glancing around the circle before meeting his gaze. “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

Marty nods. “I’m honored to be your first.”

I lick my lips again, then nibble the bottom. Marty is cute and sweet—and young. He looks so young, just a boy, a kid… and that’s because he is.

I’m not sure why the thought filters through my mind.

I’m young, too. We’re the same age.

Tucking my long, heavy ribbons of hair behind my ears, my cheeks pink even further when Marty reaches out to graze a finger along my jaw. “Ready?” he asks.

I’m grateful that he asks, that he doesn’t just take. I nod my head.

“Okay.” He smiles, biting at his own lip before leaning in.

A breath catches in my throat, and then his lips meet mine. Warm, wet lips. They just sort of hover at first, testing the waters, sampling a taste. Then he presses into me more, his breath hot against my mouth. I’m not sure what to do, but I part my lips on instinct and wait, wait for him to do more, to make another move.

He does.

Marty pushes his tongue into my mouth as his arm lifts, wrapping around my lower back, while his opposite hand cups my cheek. I hear him groan when our tongues collide. I feel something hard pressing into my lower abdomen when our bodies meld. My back arches, and he kisses me harder, swirling his tongue inside my mouth, tangling it with mine, as my hands clutch to the front of his shirt for steadiness.

My own tongue moves, trying to find rhythm. Trying to meet his sloppy thrusts.

And then it ends abruptly.

A hand curls around my upper arm, lurching me backward, yanking me away from Marty. My feet stumble, and I nearly collapse into the hard frame flush behind me. I crane my neck up, my eyes widening when they meet with Brant’s.

Crap.

He stares down at me, his jaw ticking with quiet anger, his fingers still wrapped around my arm. “Party’s over.”

The shock dissipates, quickly replaced by outrage and embarrassment. I tug my arm free. “What the hell, Brant?” My lips feel bee-stung, my cheeks flaming hot. Glancing around at my friends, everyone is rising to their feet, collecting their things, refusing to make eye contact, while Marty smiles sheepishly and trudges away through the grass, leaving me alone with my brother. I cross my arms, my defenses flaring. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Are you kidding? You were sucking face with some kid I’ve never even met before. You’re just a child, June.”

“I am not a child. I’m a teenager. I’m about to start high school!”

He swipes a hand through his untamed hair. It’s shaggy, spilling over his ears and forehead. “I’m just trying to protect you. I don’t even know him.”

“You don’t have to know him,” I spit back. My temper escalates as I take a step closer. “You embarrassed me. You embarrassed me in front of all my friends, including my crush.”

His eyes close briefly, as if he’s reining in his own emotions. “Let’s go inside.”

Brant reaches for me, but I pull back sharply. “Don’t touch me,” I seethe. “I hate you, Brant. I truly hate you.”

He flinches, his hazel eyes flaring with subtle turmoil.

Guilt coils around me instantly.

Brant looks away, massaging the nape of his neck as he whispers softly, “Don’t say that.” He shakes his head a little, then repeats it. “Don’t say that, Junebug.”

My chin drops to my chest, tears stinging my eyes—a mix of regret and low-simmering anger. But my pride is too mighty to apologize, so I simply say nothing at all.

I walk away.

I stalk through the lawn, up to the patio, meeting up with my friends who are lingering in the doorway. Pausing briefly, only once, I brave a glance behind me, looking across the dusky yard and landing on the mulberry tree.

Brant still stands there, right where I left him, with that same awful look on his face.