A Taxonomy of Love by Rachael Allen (5)

We eat our Fourth of July feast outside on two wooden picnic tables pushed together. Hot dogs and hamburgers, corn on the cob, chips with salsa, and two kinds of guacamole because Pam and Mimi almost had a throwdown over cilantro. (Personally, I think it tastes like soap, but there was no way I was putting my foot in that.)

I spoon some guac onto my plate, sneakily so as not to trigger the apocalypse. Hope’s dad goes for more pimento cheese dip.

“This dip is delicious. Where did you get it?”

Pam grins. “I made it myself.”

“Okay, you have to tell me your secret.”

They jump into a conversation on cooking that sounds like it could last the whole night. On the other end of the table, Mimi fans herself with her napkin.

“It is hot as Hades out here, don’t y’all think? Lord, and they say global warming is a myth.” She takes another sip of sweet tea. “Whew. So, Janie. Spencer tells me you’ve been in South Africa for the past year. I want to hear all about it.”

(Everything you need to know about Mimi: She was the first female reporter for the Macon Telegraph at a time when working was something women down here simply did not do. She also claims to be the first Democrat in all of Peach Valley, though I haven’t fact-checked that one.)

Mimi trains her reporter eyes on Janie and asks her every question under the sun about South Africa, the foundation, and her work. Janie gushes about how excited she is to go to work every day, how her next project is going to revolutionize access to health care. My head jerks to the side a bunch of times while she talks, but everyone lets the conversation flow right around my tics like water, even Janie, who seems totally used to them even though she hasn’t been around me that long.

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” says Mimi.

Mrs. Birdsong squeezes Janie’s shoulder. “We’re really proud of her.” She beams at Janie for a second before putting her other arm around Hope. “And, of course, we’re proud of our Hope, too. She’s next.”

Hope feigns shyness, but her grin could light up the world.

“I can’t wait for you to come and visit,” says Janie, touching Hope’s hand. “Everyone at my work would love you, especially Max.”

“And who’s Max?” asks Mimi.

“He’s my new boyfriend,” says Janie.

Dean wrinkles his nose and picks at the chili on his fourth hot dog. She’s twenty-three years old, dude. It wasn’t going to happen anyway. But Dean’s girl logic is very simple: I like her, therefore I will go for her.

“I thought Jonathan was your new boyfriend,” says Mrs. Birdsong.

“That was her last new boyfriend,” says Mr. Birdsong across the table. “Max is her new new boyfriend.”

Janie rolls her eyes. “You know, not everyone meets their soul mate when they’re fifteen years old. I don’t even think I would have wanted to. You’ve got so much to figure out still.”

Janie keeps talking about life and figuring things out. Dean seems less than interested.

“Psst. Hey, Birdsong, think fast.” He launches a tortilla chip at Hope, and she giggles.

The plan was to eat as the sky fades to orange-pink-purpleblack, and then set off fireworks. My brother and I can’t wait that long. We were antsy at pink, and have completely lost the ability to sit still by purple. If you saw the set of fireworks my dad bought at Big Zack’s, you’d understand. This thing is the mother lode, and really, it’s not our fault that he didn’t think to hide it somewhere better than the garage.

“C’mon, Dad.” Dean bounces on his bench. “C’mon. C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.”

“Pleeeeease,” I add.

It’s like we’re seven years old, only infinitely better because now we’re old enough to touch all the really dangerous stuff.

“They’re gonna be on you like ducks on a June bug until you say yes,” says Mimi.

A wise woman, that Mimi.

“Fine,” he eventually tells us, and we high-five each other and race off before he can change his mind.

We return with seventy-two megatons of firework glory and grins that threaten to break our faces in half. We are ready to set the entire world ablaze. First, some bottle rockets, staking them into the soft ground, lighting the fuse, then sprinting away before they shoot up over the lake and explode in red and blue starbursts. Something about the whistling noise they make when they cut through the air makes me feel like I’m the one soaring.

Hope’s German shepherd is freaking out and trying to clamber under our bench. Hope calls a cease-fire to the festivities so she can lead Eponine inside by the collar and tuck her into her anti-firework bunker aka the bathroom.

Roman candles are up next.

“I don’t like you boys holding them in your hands,” yells Pam. “People have gotten their fingers blown off doing that.”

Thankfully, my father is a man of compromise. “Just keep them pointed at the lake and make sure to count the shots,” he calls.

The Birdsongs let Hope and Janie light some, too. On the off chance that something goes wrong, we do have a member of the Peach Valley Fire Department sitting at our picnic table.

Hope lights sparklers and writes her name in the air.

A fact about girls: They become 200 percent more beautiful when playing with sparklers.

The sky is full-black now, and you can see every star, even the tired ones. Hope lets her sparkler lead her like a flashlight to a tree at the edge of the water.

“Hey, Spencer, come look at the moon. They said it’s supposed to be a supermoon tonight.”

I run over to where she’s found a gap in the trees, and the moon is shining like a beacon.

“It’s seven percent brighter and fourteen percent larger,” I say.

“Um, cool.”

Crap, maybe she just wanted to talk about how pretty it is. We stand there and watch it, while our sparklers trail smoke whispers behind us. When they burn down to the nubs, the darkness wraps itself around us so thick I can’t even see the grass at our feet. We’ve wandered too far away from the house lights. I’m tic-shrugging like a mofo, but I don’t think she can see it.

“It’s so dark out here,” Hope says.

She shifts her weight to her other foot, and the movement makes her shoulder brush against mine. She doesn’t pull it away. I don’t pull away, either.

“I know,” I say. “It feels like there could be anything out there right now, and we wouldn’t even know.”

It’s the kind of darkness that hides clandestine meetings and portals to another world. The kind where anything could happen.

Like a first kiss draped in shadows.

Or your stepmom yelling that she needs you to run inside and get some paper plates so she can cut the dessert. Even though I happen to love the angel food cake/whipped cream/blueberries/strawberries American flag she makes every year, I’m like, Now? Really?

“Spencer!”

“I’m going!”

I run up the stairs of the cabin, leaving behind Hope and the feeling I’ve missed yet another shot. Or maybe I’m just imagining things. I saw the way she looked at Dean after we rode four-wheelers. And this morning when we were hanging out on the dock. And at dinner. I decide to take my frustration out on random items that I bang around while searching for the plates.

Hope appears in the doorway. “Mimi sent me to get forks.”

“Oh, hey. I’m having trouble finding the paper plates.” I set down a jar of apple butter (gently) and step back from the shelves to give them one more scan. Hope stands in front of me and helps me look. Right in front of me. This closet is barely wide enough for two people. If I moved forward, even an inch, my chest would be touching her back.

Hope steps backward. More than an inch. How do people do things like look for plates while touching other people because I am finding it very difficult? I take a breath and my chest moves up and down her back. She takes a breath, and the same thing happens in reverse. I mean, I could just stay in the food closet like this all night.

She turns around so we’re face-to-face. “So, you’re leaving tomorrow, huh?”

“Yeah.” Holy crap, I don’t think our lips have ever been this close together. I can’t believe this is happening. She’s choosing me instead of Dean. That’s what this means, right?

“It’s going to be so boring without you here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She crosses her arms over her chest like she’s pretend mad. “I’m pretty jealous that I’ll be stuck here with Bella while you’re having all kinds of fun with s’mores and canoes and stuff.”

I want to make her laugh with a well-timed joke about poison ivy. Instead I say, “I wish you were coming with me.” I lean closer.

“Me, too.” So does she.

But then she hesitates. “And Sophie? She’ll be there, too, right?”

I feel like there is maybe not enough air in here because I am having trouble thinking. “Um. Well, yeah. She goes every year. Our cabins always have this epic prank war.”

“Right,” she says, nodding her head like she’s figuring things out. “And you’ll be together. At camp.”

“Well, yeah.” I mean, no. I don’t know what I’m saying, but if it stops her from doing whatever it is she’s about to do, it has to be the wrong thing.

And then she’s standing super super close. She reaches out. For the back of my neck? To kiss me? I am paralyzed as her hand brushes the top of my shoulder and grabs something on the shelf behind me.

“The plates. They’re right here, behind your head.”