“I’m not not glad, how about that?” he says. He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the two-lane highway. “It’s not the worst place I’ve ever lived, that’s for sure.”
Ah. And there we have it. Coming in at the bottom of the list: Reason Number Three I Should Stay Away from Kelley Hamilton: his super-weird past. I wrote that in green highlighter.
Until we were in the sixth grade, Kelley lived in Haleburg with both his parents. His dad was a doctor in Dothan, the nearest big town, and his mom taught at the high school. Even back then, I’d had a crush on him. I mean, I still had a drugstore valentine he gave me in kindergarten.
But when we were twelve, Kelley’s parents got divorced. His dad moved to Dothan, and Kelley’s mom took him back to her hometown, somewhere in Georgia.
But Haleburg is a small town, and people still talked. When I was in eighth grade, my mom heard from a nurse who used to work with Kelley’s dad that Kelley was having . . . issues. And then the next year, that same lady said that Kelley’d had to go to Atlanta and live either in a hospital or reform school. No one was ever really sure.
And then of course there were rumors that he was messed up on drugs, and someone else said they’d heard he was homeless in Nashville. But just as many people said that it was nothing like that, that yes, he’d a rough time with the divorce, but nothing out of the ordinary.
And then, a few months ago, at the beginning of our junior year, Kelley suddenly reappeared. He sure as heck didn’t look like someone who’d been a junkie and/or homeless. And there was his easy grin, his quick laugh. If he were all psychologically damaged, he wouldn’t be so nice, right?
I mentioned that to my mom just the other night, but she got a funny look on her face. “Maybe, but I still don’t want you hanging around him. Just to be on the safe side.” (That, by the way, was Reason Number Two I Should Stay Away from Kelley Hamilton.)
We come to a four-way stop, and Kelley glances at me. “Since I’m not stalking you, I actually don’t know where you live. Which way?”
“I’m staying with Lindsey tonight.” Now he’s looking at me, and the next words come out in a rush. “She’s not expecting me for a few hours, so we can hang out or . . . whatever.”
Oh, God. Or whatever? I’m so glad it’s dark in the truck so he can’t see the blood rushing to my face.
Or whatever. I hate myself so hard right now.
But Kelley nods. “Excellent. You, uh, wanna drive around then?”
I’m not sure if that’s universal code for “go kiss each other’s faces off,” or if it’s just a Southern Guy Thing. I do know that I’ve never just “driven around” with any boy.
So even though my voice is light when I reply, “Yeah, sure,” my hands are twisting in my lap, pulling at the hem of my sweater.
Kelley makes a right, and soon, we’re leaving Haleburg behind, the truck speeding down the dark road, nothing on either side but peanut fields. Overhead, there’s a crescent moon, and the stars look bright and cold against the dark blue sky.
Kelley opens his window, and I roll down mine, too. Even though it’s a chilly November night, I have to fight the urge to stick my head out like a dog. I settle for dangling my hand in the air, my skin quickly going numb. Ever since Kelley strolled into homeroom in August, I’ve felt like we were circling each other, heading for this night, this moment. And now—
A chime rings from my purse. I fish out my phone, expecting a text from Linds. But the name flashing on the screen is JUSTIN, and the text reads HEY, U AT LINDSEY’S? MISS U!
I hold the phone for a second, debating whether or not to answer. Because this? This is the Number One Reason I Should Stay Away from Kelley Hamilton: I have a boyfriend.
Or I kind of do. I mean, Justin and I have never had a conversation that involved words like boyfriend or girlfriend, or exclusive. There’s been no, like, jewelry exchanged or anything. So I have no reason to feel guilty, really.
But thinking that doesn’t stop my stomach from clenching as I slide the phone back into my bag.
“Anything important?” Kelley asks over the rush of the wind. By now, we’ve passed the peanut fields and are driving through the woods that encircle Haleburg. Thick copses of evergreens block the moon.
I smile back at him. “Just Linds, checking on me. So are we driving anywhere specific, or . . .”
He grins, and I catch my breath, hoping he doesn’t notice. “I thought we might go check out the covered bridge.”
“Cater Creek Bridge? We can’t.”
Something crosses Kelley’s face, and for a second, I think it’s annoyance. But it’s gone as soon as it appears, and he shrugs. “I know we’re not supposed to, but—”
“No, I mean we actually can’t. They blocked the road.”
The covered bridge used to be kind of famous in Haleburg. My parents had taken me there a lot when I was little. Sometimes we’d had picnics under its broad red roof, sometimes I’d played in the icy-cold creek running under it. It had been a pretty spot.
But over the years, fewer families came to the bridge for picnics, and more teenagers went there to get high or have sex. The bridge, which had been so picturesque and quaint, had started to feel seedy and sinister.
I couldn’t remember if Kelley had been here when Cater Creek Bridge started going downhill, but then he says, “So did the county finally get sick of picking up joints and condoms?”
I laugh nervously, even though him saying the word condoms brings another rush of heat to my face. “No, um, it’s actually kind of weird. There was a couple from Dothan about three years ago who went down there. Never came back.”
“This is the part where I start humming The Twilight Zone music, right?”
“Well, it’s not that mysterious. I mean, they found their car but none of their stuff. Everybody thought they just ran away together. But it was still enough of a big deal that the county decided to close off access to the bridge.”
Kelley slows as we reach the little dirt road that winds through the woods. There’s still a sign that reads, CATER CREEK BRIDGE: ALABAMA’S LARGEST COVERED BRIDGE with a fluorescent-white arrow pointing into the trees. Under that, block letters scream, ACCESS FORBIDDEN. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
“Why not just take down the sign?” Kelley mutters.
Branches scrape against the roof of the truck, and I bite my lip. PROSECUTED blares in my brain. All the happy, euphoric feelings rush out of me, replaced by that awful twisting sensation that’s your stomach’s way of saying THIS IS A BAD IDEA.
But it’s not like we can even get to the bridge. They brought in mounds of dirt and clay and piled them into hills about halfway down this road. We’ll get to those, Kelley will see that the whole bridge idea is impossible, and then we’ll leave. And maybe go somewhere else to make out, although, I have to admit, I’m not much in the kissing mood anymore. There’s even a small part of me wishing I’d just gone home with Linds tonight.
But then Kelley takes my hand. It’s the first time we’ve touched (if you don’t count a round of duck, duck, goose in second grade), and it sends a pulse through me. Keeping his eyes on the road, Kelley rubs his thumb in little circles on my palm. “You’re awfully quiet over there.”
My mouth is dry as I say, “Signs that say ‘forbidden’ and ‘prosecuted’ tend to freak me out a little, that’s all.”
I want him to say something like “Okay, we’ll leave then.” Instead, he says, “Where’s your sense of adventure?”