“Are you all right?” he asked me.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mumbled, so embarrassed.
He held on to my hand and looked me over for cuts and bruises. The other kids shut up then, cuz Clay’s older than them and far cooler.
“You gotta be careful,” he said, and I could see that he, too, wanted to laugh, but he didn’t.
“Thanks,” I said. I tried to pull away from him, but he didn’t let me.
“I’m not hurt. I swear.” I tried to pull away again, and he held on again. And he was starin’ at me hard, and even though I was sweaty, dressed like a derelict, and partially covered in mud, he seemed to like what he saw.
Then one of his friends from the baseball team came by, and that was it. He let me go, smiled, and went off with his buddy.
But that was last summer. Since then, we’d see each other every now and then and were friendly, but not much more than that. Something happened this spring, and it happened to him.
He has been silly lately. Not me. Ever since school let out, I feel like I run into him just about everywhere I go. Not that I mind, of course. He’s cool and casual, like always, but I don’t think every time we’ve bumped into each other has been a complete accident. I mean, I ran into him at the salon. Once in a blue moon, I go to get my nails done without tellin’ Mama (she’d be furious if she knew I was spendin’ money on somethin’ we don’t need), and when I went in a week ago, guess who turned up? And I noticed he didn’t leave with a manicure or a new hairdo. I also believe he asked me three times if I’d be here tonight, knowin’ full well I would be, and where is he at?
This cookout started two and a half hours ago. Bein’ fashionably late is one thing. Standin’ somebody up is another.
“Why ain’t nobody dancin’?” Bernadette hollers, and turns up the radio playin’ Bunker Hill’s “Hide and Go Seek” and proceeds to mash potata like she invented it.
“Too hot,” I call back.
“Y’all ain’t no fun,” she argues, and keeps on dancing, sweat flyin’. A couple other folks join her, and pretty soon this is just a big outdoor dance party. While everybody’s occupied, I slide up to the punch bowl and add a few drops a joy from my purse flask. Just enough to stay happy. Smells like the burgers are burnin’, and I wanna help out, but it’s so hot, and it’s surely hotter over by that grill! I keep on fanning myself like I done stepped into Hades. I am South Carolina born and bred. And we are in the south of South Carolina (Savannah’s just a short ride away). So I can’t for the life a me figure why I feel like a withered wild flower soon as the mercury hits ninety.
I do have a theory, though. I think it’s got somethin’ to do with the haints.
I was seein’ haints before I knew I had the strangeness inside me. Probably before I could walk. These are restless spirits that can’t seem to get to wherever they sposeta be goin’. A lot of ’em are angry. All of ’em are sad. Not everybody can see ’em. I tried to introduce one of ’em to a neighbor girl when I was about three or four, and she couldn’t see a thing. That’s when I learned that they weren’t people.
I can ignore ’em usually, but I know they’re always around. I know this because if I focus, I can know what’s goin’ on in more than one world at a time. Imagine you could tune your radio so you could hear several different stations at once and understand everything you hear perfectly. That’s the best way I can describe it. So I wonder if the heat is such a trial for me cuz I got haints flockin’ all around me, crowdin’ my atmosphere all the time.
R. J. attempts to dance over to me while looking hip, but he can’t pull this off.
“Evalene. You not gonna come out here?”
I pretend I don’t hear him and sorta walk-dance with my homemade fan over to the grill to salvage the meat that ain’t been burnt to a cinder. I try to overlook the heat as I plate a couple hot dogs, the few burgers that survived, and when I turn around…
“Hey, Evvie girl,” he says to me, and I try to act cool, like I ain’t jumping up and down inside at just the sight of him. He smiles this real shy smile, and I smile back even though I know he’s a liar. There ain’t nothin’ shy about Clayton Alexander Jr. Least I ain’t never seen that side of him.
“Hey there,” I say back. “Didn’t think you was gonna show.”
“And miss an opportunity to see you in a dress? Am I a damn fool?”
I roll my eyes but keep on smilin’. Only Clay can get away with flirtin’ with me like this.
“I don’t know. Are ya?” I flirt back.
He chuckles and looks down at his feet, but he doesn’t say anything. I wish to high heaven I had a hand mirror right now and two minutes of privacy so I could pat down my hair in the spots that have poufed up and double up on my cherry bomb lipstick.
From the corner of my eye I catch R. J. watchin’ us like a lost puppy. If he didn’t look so pitiful, I’d fling a burnt patty at him. I shift my position to cut him outta my view.
Because it’s still in my hands, I hold out the plate to Clay. “Weiner?” I offer, regretting the word as soon as it left my lips. I honestly thought that was gonna sound sexy when I said it. Lesson learned.
He just grins. Once again, I think he’s tryin’ not to laugh at me.
“Well…” I try to regain my dignity. “Do you want anything to eat?”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps lookin’ at me. The way he looked at me last summer when he pulled me outta that puddle. I feel dizzy in a good way, but I try not to let it show.
“Okay then.” I put the plate down and walk back to my seat and my lemonade. If he has somethin’ to say to me, I’m sure he’ll say it sooner or later. I ain’t gonna beg him to talk to me.
“Evvie?”
I take a big gulp of lemonade before answering, just to show him how much more interested I am in it than him. “Yeah?”
“Will you come dance with me?” he asks. Now, if I didn’t know better, I could swear that Clayton was just a teeny bit nervous asking me that question. Did he really think I’d say no?
I take one more sip and close my eyes, savoring the sweet, tangy goodness before I look back at him.
“Why not?” I offer him my hand. He smiles and takes it, leading me to the trampled patch of grass that has become the dance floor. Just as we stop, feeling that we’ve found the optimal dance spot, not too far away from the music and not too close to anybody else, a different song comes on. A slow one. He encircles my waist, and I start to feel another one of them goddamn headaches comin’ on.
No. Not now. I take a few deep breaths.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice full of a particular kind of masculine concern. Not paternal and certainly not brotherly, but somethin’ I know I’d never feel from another girl.
No. Honestly, I am not all right. Sometimes—some very unlucky times—I get these special headaches.
Everybody gets a headache once in a while. You just take an aspirin or two and go about your business. Not these kinda headaches. They’re rare, but they’re bad news. Part of me not bein’ normal is my ability to do strange things. Like make the ground shake or knock down an oak tree on unsuspecting bigots. For some cockeyed reason they call it Jubilation. It ain’t the typical kinda jubilation, though. Not the definition you’d find in Webster’s. It’s a catchall word for the spooky magic shit that runs in my family. The headaches are almost like a warning bell that lets me know I’m about to do something dramatic. Something I probably can’t control and probably won’t remember.