A Taxonomy of Love by Rachael Allen (3)

Fact: Janie Birdsong has been here for five days, and my brother is already a lovesick, sniveling mess.

“Are they back yet? I think I hear a car.” Dean pings from window to window like a puppy. Hope and Janie went out to get groceries over an hour ago, and I think he has been counting down the minutes.

I snicker, but I kind of feel bad for the guy. Having a crush on a Birdsong sister is no joke.

I flip through my Magic cards. “Do we think Janie is more of an Elf Warrior or a Pixie Queen?”

“I dunno.” He pushes aside a curtain. “I really thought I heard something.”

“I’m also getting a bit of a Charging Badger vibe.”

Dean waves his hand like he’s swatting away a mosquito. “Dude, grow up. Nobody cares about your stupid Magic cards.”

Before I can say anything back, there’s the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel. A silver Honda Civic pulls up by the cabin down the dirt road from ours. My family has a couple hundred acres that start at our house and spread across fields and forests to a man-made pond and two wooden cabins that my grandaddy built with his own hands. He and Mimi used to live out here, and it’s always where we spend the week of Fourth of July. Only this year we invited the Birdsongs. So, it’s like we’re still next-door neighbors, only now we’re on vacation.

Dean’s already outside, hovering. “Oh, cool! You got peach tea. Did you go to Granger’s? The tea’s unbelievable, right?”

I swear, if Janie said she thought it sucked, he’d be all, “Me, too!” But she confirms that peach tea is, in fact, the nectar of the southern gods, so no one has to renounce their heritage or anything. Dean helps them bring in their bags, and as fun as it would be to just watch and mentally mock him, I go over and help, too. As I pick up a gallon of milk, my head jerks to the side in a tic. It’s a new one. We always joke at camp about catching each other’s tics and taking them home. Not that it works that way, but sometimes it feels like it. I’m always worried I’ll catch one of the swearing ones. Echoing is bad enough because sometimes it looks like I’m making fun of people.

“So,” Janie says as she shoves the empty canvas grocery bags into the cabinet under the sink. “What are we gonna do? Go canoeing? Wrestle a bear? I need to be fully indoctrinated in your cabin ways.”

“Hmmm . . .” I look at my brother. It has to be just right. My head jerks to the side a few times. “Four-wheelers?”

He nods decisively. “Four-wheelers.”

Dean and I tear off to the garage like little kids because the Raptor is newer and faster. We have a butt war over the seat (Dean wins—jerk), and then we drive the four-wheelers up the hill and to the dirt road between the cabins where the girls are waiting. Dean is in front of me, trying a little too hard to look like some kind of dark and mysterious motorcycle gang leader, if you ask me. He comes to a stop in front of the girls and rakes a hand through his blond hair.

Janie claps her hands together. “Oh! I love ATVs! We rode them in South Africa.”

My brother looks slightly crestfallen that this isn’t her first rodeo.

I try to figure out a nonobvious way to make sure Hope and I end up on the same four-wheeler.

“How fast do they go?” Janie asks.

Dean’s bravado recovers quickly. “I bet I could hit seventy if we had a good straightaway.”

(He has never gone over thirty-five.)

“And I don’t want to brag, but I got the fast one, so you should ride with me.”

Janie shrugs. “Okay.”

Which means Hope is with me. I don’t grin maniacally or pump my fist in the air, so I feel like I’m doing a pretty good job of being cool about it.

She steps up beside my four-wheeler. “So, how does this work?”

“You can sit behind me.” I gesture to the part of the seat I’m not sitting on. She puts her foot in the footrest and swings her other leg over. The insides of her legs are pressed against the outsides of mine.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay. So.” For a second, I forget everything I know about riding four-wheelers. “So, there’s bars. These, um, bars by your legs here.” I point to them. “And you can hold on there. But it’s kind of awkward, so if we get to going fast or make any sharp turns, you can, um, you can hold on to me.”

“Should I be worried?”

“What?”

Hope taps the sticker under the handlebars.

“Oh.” My heart rate returns to normal. The sticker has a sixteen with a circle around it and a line through it that says: OPERATING THIS ATV IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF SIXTEEN INCREASES YOUR CHANCE OF SEVERE INJURY OR DEATH.

“Nah, we’re okay. I’ve been driving this thing for years. And my tics ease up a lot when I’m driving, too.”

And then it’s almost like my stepmom can smell that our lives are about to be in danger, because she pokes her head out of the screen door. “You better be wearing helmets,” she calls.

We both groan. “Aw, come on. It’s like ninety degrees,” says Dean.

“I don’t care and neither does traumatic brain injury. Wear your helmets.”

She goes back inside without bothering to watch us, because she knows what’s going to happen next: We put on our helmets. (Grudgingly.) We give one to Hope and Janie, too. And then we’re off.

Hope holds on to the bars, and I ease on the gas, gradually picking up speed. Dean guns it so that Janie has no choice but to wrap her arms around him. I roll my eyes.

Hope laughs behind me. “THIS IS AMAZING! How fast are we going? It feels like we’re flying! It’s got to be, like—”

“Fourteen miles an hour.”

“What?! That can’t be right. Seriously, I think your gauge is broken and we’re actually going, like, sixty-five.”

“I know. It’s crazy, right?” I yell because it’s harder to hear the person in front over the sound of the engine (like a lawnmower on steroids). “It’s too bumpy out here to go really fast, but just wait’ll I get her up to eighteen.”

We follow the path as it cuts through pine forests and fields of yellow and violet wildflowers. It’s been a while since it rained last, and the four-wheelers kick up clouds of red dirt that sting our eyes and throats. I can’t follow too closely behind Dean because if I do, we will literally be eating his dust. Plus, it’s kind of nice being alone with Hope. I point things out to her: brambles of wild blackberries, the creek where Dean and I used to catch crawdads and pan for gold, tree stands that hang from trees every now and then like deranged Christmas ornaments. They look like someone stapled a chair or a tiny platform to a tree and then hung a ladder off the bottom. They’re for sitting in and shooting at deer. Mostly, they’re pretty simple, but my dad has this one that is basically a tree house for grown-ups. He and Dean built it so they could hunt better, but it seems like whenever Pam sends me to get them for lunch, all they’re doing is eating beef jerky and laughing.

Hope points at something black and round. “Is that a trash can?”

“It’s a rain catcher. The deer hang around here more when they don’t have to go too far for water.”

“So, you attract the deer here with water, and then you shoot them?” Even though she’s sitting behind me, I can tell she’s wrinkling her nose.

“Well, it’s illegal to have them within so many yards of a tree stand because that’s just like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Oh.”

“My dad’s really big on following all the rules about hunting and safety and stuff.”

She’s silent behind me. I tic-sniff several times.

“And it’s not like he and Dean are just killing for sport. We eat everything they bring home.”

“It’s fine, Spence.”

“Okay.”

I don’t know why I feel so defensive. I don’t even like hunting. My dad runs the hunting and outdoor supply store off 75. My grandaddy owned it, and his grandaddy owned it, and someday Dean is going to own it. But only after he goes to college on a baseball scholarship like the kind my dad dreamed of getting before he tore his shoulder.

I focus on steering the four-wheeler down into a small creek bed and up the hill on the other side. It’s not the easiest thing, and I feel Hope’s arms squeeze around me quick. Today is possibly the best day of my life.

We stop a few times to get off the four-wheelers so we can look at things. Old wells that are half-filled in with dirt but could still reach water if you dug them out. The remains of a row of Depression-era shacks.

Hope and Janie zip together every time the engines stop. Did you see those wild hog tracks? Can you believe how hot the seat gets after a few minutes? Are you checking your phone AGAIN?

Janie flushes and shoves her phone in her back pocket. “I was just checking to see whether Max got my last e-mail. We haven’t talked in—”

“A few days. I know.” Hope rolls her eyes.

“Well, things were kind of tense when I left because I spent my last night in South Africa with my friends, so I just want to make sure we’re good.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Hope walks in the other direction, lips buttoned up tight.

Janie comes over and stands next to me while I’m looking at what’s left of a building foundation. “So, you used to come here all the time as kids?”

I nod. Even though she smiles at me a lot, she makes me nervous. I want so badly for her to like me.

Dean jumps in. “Oh, yeah. Spencer and I used to scavenge what’s left of these shacks for glass bottles and other little stuff like that.” He talks and talks and talks and talks.

Hope is still inspecting a rock in the foundation with something like wonder.

“Hey, there’s a grove of beech trees up the hill right there,” I say. “You wanna go see them?”

“Sure.”

We walk away from where Dean is still regaling Janie with stories of our youth.

There’s a tree to our right. Its pale trunk is dappled with gray like a pony, and the branches spread skyward with a kind of queenly magnificence.

“You can tell they’re beech trees because of their smooth gray bark,” I say. “They’re the best trees to carve in.”

We get to the top and I lead her to the biggest one, the oldest, the mother of all beech trees. It is covered in writing. “See those initials?” I say. “Those are my great-great-uncle Clint’s. He was born in 1890.”

Hope traces the CB with her fingers.

I point at another set. “And here’s my mom and dad.” I lower my voice. “We don’t really point them out if Pam’s around.”

Hope smiles her secret-keeping smile.

“And here’s Dean. And my granddaddy. And me.” I tap the SB at waist level that stands for Spencer Barton.

Hope’s eyes travel up and down the trunk. She grins. “You literally have a family tree.”

I grin back. “You want to put your initials in it?”

She shakes her head. “No way. Your stepmom’s not even on it.” She surveys the grove. “But maybe we could start our own tree.”

So we pick one. A skinny beech with young green leaves and a trunk that’s only as big around as a can of soup. I take out my pocketknife and carve an SB and then Hope carves an HB. There’s no plus sign or heart or anything, but I like how our initials look next to each other.

“Hey, Spence, where does your mom live?” Hope is looking at the sky when she asks me.

“I don’t know.”

We never really talk about my mom. Well, I never bring her up, and Hope has always politely steered around her, even though I suspect she’s always wanted to ask me questions.

“She’s a singer,” I finally say. “My parents met and fell in love at a show of hers in Athens. She had to run away from home to be a singer, so I don’t even know if I have, like, grandparents or uncles or anything.”

“What was she like?”

A slow smile settles over my face. “The best. She used to take us in the bathroom at restaurants just before my dad hit the point where he’d get grumpy and yell, and we’d have these bathroom dance parties where we’d get all our sillies out so we could behave at the table.”

Hope grins.

“And we look alike. Dark hair and dark brown eyes.” Sometimes I think that’s why Dean is my dad’s favorite. He can’t stand the look of me. “And Mimi says we act kind of alike, too. She says we’re dreamers.” My breath catches, because I remember it isn’t just the good things we share. “She didn’t fit here, either.”

Hope touches my shoulder. “Spence, you—”

Dean and Janie start yelling for us, so I don’t get to find out what Hope was going to say. I take the knife from her and tuck it in my pocket fast, because I don’t need to guess how long Dean would tease me about carving our initials into a tree (for all eternity, it’s a given).

“One sec!” Hope calls back.

She moves down the hill in short flying leaps, each time grabbing a new tree to steady herself against the steepness. She pauses in front of a tree trunk almost entirely covered in skinny white mushrooms, and I stop short so I don’t run into her.

She turns. “We don’t have to tell anyone,” she says. “About the initials.” It’s almost like a question.

Her secret-keeping smile comes back, and it makes me think there are other things she wants to do and not tell anyone about.

“No, of course not.”

I shove my helmet on as soon as we get back to the four-wheelers because I can feel my face getting hot.

“Hey, do you wanna try driving?” I ask.

“YES.”

I teach her how to push the gas with her thumb and how the brakes are just like bicycle ones. After a few jerky starts, she gets the hang of it. And after a few more minutes, she really gets the hang of it.

“I AM THE QUEEN OF THE WILDERNESS!!!” she yells as she races up an easy hill. Then, when we get to the top, she says, “Ruh-roh.”

There are some pretty steep drops here, and on the other side of the dry creek bed, lots of places where you have to do a sharp climb or slalom around some trees.

“Oh. I kind of forgot this is one of the trickiest places to ride,” I say.

Dean sputters up beside her. “You might not be able to handle it,” he says.

He takes off down the hill with a wild animal yell. Janie had her arms around him before, but now she’s slamming against him with every bump.

A fact about Janie: Her boobs. They are massive. And I’m pretty sure my brother’s back is now intimately acquainted with their topography.

Hope turns her head. “Do you think I can handle it?”

I lower my voice. “You got this. Go easy on the downhills, shift your weight opposite the turns and obstacles, and lean forward and speed up to gain momentum on the uphills. And, um, I should probably put my arms around you this time.”

“Okay,” she says.

She gets so still, statue still, while she’s waiting for me to do it. It’s all very precarious. Not the terrain, Hope handles that like a boss. The part where I have to figure out where to put my hands. Definitely not anywhere near her boobs, but I can’t go too low, either. There is not a lot of space to work with, people! I settle on somewhere over her belly button, but her body is still soft in a way that feels dangerous.

Sometimes my head will tic-jerk to the side or my shoulders will shrug, but I work really hard to keep my hands still on her stomach. It’s kind of a relief when we stop again and I can let go of her. I hop off the four-wheeler and pull off my helmet. So does Hope, except she does it with a victory dance. I slap her a double high five. Janie unwraps herself from my brother so she can do the same. Really, Dean is the only one who isn’t in on this little celebration.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he says. “I need to check this pressure gauge.”

Yeah, right. The pressure gauge in his pants. He’s awkwardly hunched over the front of the four-wheeler, and it couldn’t be more obvious what he’s hiding. Well, to me, anyway. The girls actually don’t seem to notice, even though it takes a full five minutes before he decides the “pressure gauge” has been adequately checked.

Hope and Janie and I are already walking around the slave cemetery. The sun filters through the leaves, but it feels like it’s casting shadows instead of light. It makes us speak in hushed voices.

In front of me is a scooped-out hollow in the ground, all covered in grass and leaves. To the left and right are a few more hollows, forming a row. They’re graves. Over time, they’ve sunk a few inches lower than the rest of the ground. There are other rows, sometimes with as many as six graves, sometimes only three, depending on how much space there is between the trees. Every now and then, they’re marked with stones. Not the big headstones with writing and stuff. Just gray rocks the size of a cantaloupe or a large shoe.

“I can’t believe there are slaves buried here,” Hope whispers. “And it really wasn’t that long ago.”

“I know,” I say. A hundred and fifty years. I try to figure out how many great-great-grandparents it would take to count back until I got to someone who was alive when people still actually BOUGHT AND SOLD other people. It makes me sick just thinking about it.

“What were they here for?” asks Janie. “I mean, do you know what they did while they were here?”

“There were some fields a few miles from here. Cotton, I think. But they weren’t our fields,” I rush to say. “I mean, my family didn’t own the land way back then.”

I guess I just can’t stand her wondering.

“One time I found an arrowhead in front of this tree,” I say. “It’s crazy to think there’re four-wheeler paths on top of old lumber roads by Depression-era shacks near a slave cemetery in a grove of trees where a Cherokee family maybe used to live. There’s so much history stacked in layers on one plot of land.”

Hope steps closer to me, like it’ll help her see all the overlapping histories I’m seeing. “It makes you wonder what sorts of things you’ll leave behind. And what the people a hundred years in the future will be thinking about you.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You guys give me hope for the future, you know that?” says Janie.

Dean, who desperately needs to turn this into yet another opportunity to show off in front of Janie, starts talking in this weird, deep, serious voice. “Oh, yeah. I think it’s really important to take everything we can from history, so we don’t repeat the same mistakes in the future. The land can tell us so much.” He kneels and touches a headstone dramatically. “These graves can tell us so much.”

I mean, jeez, you’d think he went back in time and abolished slavery himself. Does he really think Janie’s going to buy any of that? I hazard a glance at Hope. She is giving him extreme side-eye.

It makes me feel like doing something bold. And stupid. “Hey, Dean, remember the time you and Tater—that’s our cousin, Tater—tried to dig up one of the graves?”

Janie’s face blanches white as a beech tree. “You dug up one of the graves?”

Dean looks like he may just murder me when we get home (if he can hold off that long), but Hope is snickering into her fist, so I press on. “They started to, but they got all scared because it was getting dark, so they stopped before they could finish. And when they came home, they were covered in chigger bites.” I pause for dramatic emphasis. “Do you know what a chigger is?”

Dean shakes his head sharply. His eyes have gone full Minotaur, but every wedgie he’s ever given me is playing in my head, and there’s nothing I can do. “It’s this teeny-tiny red bug that drills a hole in your skin and uses its saliva enzymes to break up your cells from the inside out so it can slurp up the skin-cell juice like soup.”

Janie looks like she swallowed a slug. “That is the second most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard,” she says. “The first being disrupting the final resting places of people who were treated as less than human.”

“I was—” starts Dean, but I cut him off.

“So, anyway, they come home covered with bites, and Pam said it was God punishing them, and Mimi said they better go out to the yard and pick a switch because God may be done with them but she wasn’t. And they went and picked the smallest, thinnest ones they could find, which is a rookie move because everyone knows the small ones lash your skin up the most. They couldn’t sit down for a week.”

Hope’s eyes bulge. “Your parents really hit you like that?”

I shrug self-consciously. “I mean, yeah. But only if we do really bad stuff. So, like, not very often or anything. People, uh, don’t do that in Decatur?”

“Definitely not.”

I’ve been looking at Hope during most of the story, but now that it’s over, I finally remember to look at my brother. And I realize I am in for probably the worst and most painful revenge ever devised. He probably won’t beat the crap out of me. At least, not here in front of Janie and everything. But sometime. Soon. My demise is imminent.

He forces the scariest fake smile ever onto his face. “It was really stupid and wrong, and I’m really embarrassed I did it,” he says.

Then, he turns and gets on his four-wheeler and cranks the engine.

That’s it? Janie really is a miracle worker. I mean, I know I’m in for it later, but still.

Hope moves past Dean to get to the other four-wheeler, but he grabs her arm.

“Hey, Hope, ride with me on the way back.” He raises his eyebrows at me when he says it.

“Um, okay.” She sits behind him on the four-wheeler and the insides of her legs touch the outsides of his.

Janie bounces onto my four-wheeler behind me. “I’m glad I get a chance to hang out with you,” she says. “Hope talks about you all the time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It sounds like you’re a pretty great friend.”

Friend. “Thanks.”

Up ahead of us, Dean guns the engine so Hope has to press herself tight against him.

Everything is different. I can feel it even before Dean squeals to a stop beside me. Before Hope pulls off her helmet and shakes out her corn-silk hair. They’re both laughing at some joke that’s just for them, and he holds out his hand to help her down, and when she takes it, there it is. A dazed, dreamy look settles over her face, and she hangs on a second too long, and I think now would be a good time to go flush myself down the toilet. For the rest of the day, she giggles whenever he calls her Birdsong.

I don’t get it. I don’t get why one minute it feels like Hope is maybe starting to like me, but then one four-wheeler ride with my brother is enough to turn it all upside down. I wish it was easier to make sense of the world.

I go to my room and pull out a notebook. I guess if I had to throw some labels on me and Hope and categorize our relationship like so many devil scorpions, this is what it would look like:

A TAXONOMY OF HOPE AND SPENCER