Page 60 of June First
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 back and forth between me and Celeste. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just approaches us on bare feet and with an unreadable expression, bending down to scoop up the beach towel then plopping 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.’”
Brant’s lips twitch. “Sounds about right.”
Celeste perks up from her chair, taking a swig from 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 that makes me 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, love seats, 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 7:00 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—”
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.