Rebels Like Us. Liz Reinhardt
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guys who was born a natural soldier. He’s a leader, he handles stress real well, he’s always got a plan, thinks on his feet. One time we got lost out hiking in the woods overnight when Lee was only ’bout ten or so. I was jest a little kid. Lee built a lean-to, caught us some fish to eat, made a fire... He near burned down half a nature preserve, but that’s what led the rescue crew to us. I was crying so hard when they found us, but my brother was cool as can be. He got a medal from the sheriff, and, man, it blew his head up so big. He was... What’s the word? A bite?”
I love the way his accent coils softly around the rude French word. “Brothers are annoying as hell, but Lee sounds like a great guy to have around in an emergency. My brother would have known every statistic about how close we were to death and had a panic attack.”
Doyle’s eyebrows, lips, and dimples all lift up when he smiles. I’ve never seen a smile change a whole face that way. “Problem is, Lee got used to being the boss, and he forgets I’m his brother and a civilian, not some jarhead in his platoon. But my grandparents won’t hear it when it comes to him. They tell me to grab Lee’s laundry, and if I decline, my granddad says, ‘Your brother puts his life on the line for this great nation. You show some respect and pick up his dirty socks.’ I don’t sass my granddad anyway, but that’s some hard logic to argue.”
“So you live with your grandparents?” My guard must be way, way down because I swear I planned to keep that thought in my head, but there it is, sprung from the trap that is my flapping mouth. Maybe I’m relaxing after so many months of watching what I said around Lincoln. “I’m just asking because I considered going to live with my abuela in New York.”
“Huh. Yeah, I’ve lived with them since I was in elementary school.” He leaves it at that, and some instinct tells me not to push. “How ’bout you? Were you just so ready to come down here and soak up all this sunshine?” He holds his hands out at his sides like he personally ordered the blazing heat that surrounds us.
“Ha! No. The snow and ice of the north match my cold heart.” I bat my lashes and am pleasantly shocked when his grin widens even more. “Her place was a super long commute from my school.” I hesitate before I say more, but there’s something about his face that I trust. For once I don’t shut down and pull back. “She’s also scary strict. Like, super Catholic, gets up at dawn to hit the rosary, full rotation, every morning, Bible class at her place every week, having Father Domingo over for dinner every Sunday night... Just not the end of senior year I was looking for.”
“So you didn’t want to sign up for the convent experience?” The laugh that starts from his mouth doubles back on itself. “I meant... ’Cause your grandmother is a Catholic... Not the whole vow of chastity thing,” he says in a garbled rush.
I get the feeling Doyle’s as uncomfortable tripping over his words as I am opening up.
“No worries, I get it. And, yeah, the cloistered life isn’t for me. At all.” The deep pink blush that’s building under his stubble is adorable. “So it’s just you and Lee and your grandparents?”
I’m employing polite conversation diversion to steer us into less embarrassing territory, but something in the question makes Doyle’s features harden.
“And my little brother, Malachi. He’s at Ebenezer too, but you prolly won’t see him around. He stays back in the computer lab with his friends all day every day. Think he might be allergic to sunshine and fresh air.” The best way to describe Doyle’s expression is perplexed. It’s probably the same way my face looks when Jasper tells me he’d rather watch a documentary on spelling bees than the latest Marvel movie.
“So three guys in one house—wait, no, four if you count your grandpa—”
“Actually, it’s five.” When I greet that number with shocked silence, he explains, “Brookes, my cousin—his mama got remarried and he and his stepfather don’t see eye to eye. And his stepfather gets mean when people don’t see things his way. I guess my grandparents’ place is kinda a home for wayward Rahn children. We all figured, what was one more bunk bed, plus Lee’s only around when he’s on leave, so it’s a lotta...”
He waves his hands around like he’s looking for the words to fill in the blank.
“Dirty boxers? Farts? Package adjusting?” I rapid-fire guess.
For a second Doyle stares at me, eyes and mouth wide-open. Then he starts to laugh, hard, and I join him. We both laugh until we’re buckled over.
“Geez, I was gonna say, ‘it’s a lotta testosterone,’ but I guess you got the point across your way jest fine.” He balances easily on the balls of his feet despite his clunky boots. “People ’round here hardly ever come out and say the first thing that pops in their heads.”
I wince. One of the last fights we had, Lincoln told me, You know you don’t have to say every thought that goes through your head out loud, Nes. You need a way bigger filter between your brain and your mouth. I guess that’s the consensus, then.
“Yep, I’ve heard that before.” He tenses up at my tone like he felt a chill in the air. “My big mouth gets me in a lot of trouble. Probably best if you steer clear.”
“I never did have patience for people who play it safe.”
The ice wall I was rapidly constructing around myself thaws.
“Fair enough. But now you can never say I didn’t warn you.”
“Most’ve my favorite things come with a warning.” He clears his throat. “So, we’re short a second baseman since Marnie Jepson moved, and we need someone like yourself. Someone who can call a whole country dicks in their own tongue. Whatta you say? You got a mitt?”
“Nope.” And I plan to leave the discussion right there. Because, seriously? Baseball? It’s very sporty middle school, and so not my thing. But I like the sloppy-slow way Doyle talks—I wonder if he plays ball the same way he speaks. And once I start wondering about something, I have to go with it until I know for sure. Damn my curiosity. If I were a cat, I’d be dead nine times over. “You have an extra mitt?”
He nods and smiles down at a jug of blue stuff he’s now pouring on the roots of the “tree.”
“I do. Wouldya like me to bring it over Friday night?”
For one cold thump of my heart, I think I shouldn’t take this guy up on what might be a date. The last guy I dated messed with my head so badly, I wound up fleeing the state. Then I get annoyed with myself. Sure, Doyle is super attractive, but I’m a girl who’s learned the hard way how to be careful with my heart. This is one single game of baseball, not a promise ring. And I’d like to have some fun with a guy—no, a person—who clearly likes me for myself, not some censored version of me.
I need a friend, and Doyle seems like he might be a really good option.
On top of that, this is all very 1950s’ date-night adorable. “You know what? I would like you to.”
He looks right at me, no smile, no niceties. Just a bald, hungry look. “Cool.”
My guts pull in all different directions. “So, are you, like, the ambassador of Southern hospitality or something? Because you’re the first nice Southern person I’ve met.”
“What? You didn’t like Lovett?” His long fingers cap the jug, and my arms and legs inexplicably tingle.
“You’re in my English class?” It finally clicks, why I recognize his voice. “You schooled that guy, Alonzo, in geography.”
Doyle rolls his eyes. “Hell, a preschool baby could school that ding-dong. He’s a good guy though. Friendly.” He screws his mouth to one side. “I know some people can be chillier than a Yankee winter ’round here.” The way he chuckles when I almost sputter lets me know he’s teasing me. “Not a whole lotta tolerance for anyone who don’t fit in right away.”
I’m not usually embarrassed by much, but I still feel like an idiot over the spectacle