flowery perfume overpowering in the tight space. She kept her eyes locked on Sam and plopped down on a nearby packing crate, daring him to refuse her.
“Forget it, jail bait,” said Ricky, “go back upstairs to your mommy.”
“I’m not jail bait—you’re not 18 yet,” Amanda told him, unperturbed, half smiling and raising an eyebrow at Sam. He remained silent and let insolent eyes roam over her body.
“I’ll turn 18 long before you do, bobby-socks, and girls like you don’t like to let go, once you sink your claws in,” said Ricky.
“Whatever.” Amanda flung her unbobby-socked bare legs off the wooden box in Ricky’s direction and stomped up the stairs.
Ricky makes the girls cry. How ironic. “Hey,” Sam called after her, “don’t get your panties in a wad. Entrepreneurs like Ricky just get nervous around the sheriff’s little princess.”
Amanda stopped at the top of the stairs with her hand on the doorknob. “I’m not wearing any panties.”
She waited just long enough for the shortness of her skirt to become apparent from Sam’s vantage, and then grinned as a deep blush crept up his neck. She wheeled around, spinning her skirt to hint at the truth of her boast, before slipping out the door into the noisy restaurant.
“I hate chicks like that,” muttered Ricky.
Sam rubbed his jaw and smiled. She actually had pretty nice legs.
§
Amanda’s heart was hammering, her whole body zinging from the thrill. Rushing out of the hallway back to the dining room, she slammed into the swinging door to the kitchen as the old Mexican lady was pushing through. Her face burning, she muttered an apology and fumbled back through the tables to her seat.
She sat down with a smile, then looked around, trying to act normal. At a neighboring table, she noticed a couple of Sendalee Indian gentleman. That was weird. The older of the two was dressed in crisp clean blue jeans and a denim shirt, buttoned tight, and secured with an elaborate sliver bolo tie. He had a long silver ponytail gathered in a leather thong at his back. Some kind of chief probably. His younger companion wore a tailored, charcoal gray suit and had shiny, neatly styled, raven-black hair. Amanda had never seen the second man before, and she couldn’t imagine him being a resident of Shirley.
He must have flown in especially. How could some dumb club that my mother belongs to actually be so important? Amanda realized that she had no idea what the meeting was actually about, and she tuned back in.
“…international acclaim,” Mieke Walsh was saying, “in the long tradition of foreign exchange.”
Several people shifted in chairs or crossed and uncrossed legs, leaning forward in anticipation, but most continued their private conversations, ignoring Mieke. But she had Amanda’s attention.
“A foreign exchange student,” she clarified, letting her arms drop heavily, her hands slapping her thighs, begging the room to share in her excitement.
“From another country?” asked someone, bewildered.
“Why, of course, another country. Oh—” She hurried over to her laptop and advanced the screen a few slides. When an image of the Leaning Tower of Pisa came into view, an auto-play accordion accompaniment of “That’s Amore” began a static-filled rumble from the blown-out speakers. Mieke beamed, pleased with her artistry, and turned back to her recalcitrant audience to catch their applause—which never came.
“Hon, we’re fixin’ to leave. Vanessa wants to show us the new rooms they added.”
Amanda’s mom was already gathering her purse, and so were her friends. Lindsay was talking with Molly, oblivious to the Rotary Club developments.
“Mom. Aren’t we even going to eat?”
“Vanessa has some stuff for grilling—less fattening anyway.”
“But there’s finally something interesting going on,” said Amanda, incredulous. “What about the meeting?”
“Mandy,” Vanessa took up her friend’s reasoning, Steph nodding
“Forget it, jail bait,” said Ricky, “go back upstairs to your mommy.”
“I’m not jail bait—you’re not 18 yet,” Amanda told him, unperturbed, half smiling and raising an eyebrow at Sam. He remained silent and let insolent eyes roam over her body.
“I’ll turn 18 long before you do, bobby-socks, and girls like you don’t like to let go, once you sink your claws in,” said Ricky.
“Whatever.” Amanda flung her unbobby-socked bare legs off the wooden box in Ricky’s direction and stomped up the stairs.
Ricky makes the girls cry. How ironic. “Hey,” Sam called after her, “don’t get your panties in a wad. Entrepreneurs like Ricky just get nervous around the sheriff’s little princess.”
Amanda stopped at the top of the stairs with her hand on the doorknob. “I’m not wearing any panties.”
She waited just long enough for the shortness of her skirt to become apparent from Sam’s vantage, and then grinned as a deep blush crept up his neck. She wheeled around, spinning her skirt to hint at the truth of her boast, before slipping out the door into the noisy restaurant.
“I hate chicks like that,” muttered Ricky.
Sam rubbed his jaw and smiled. She actually had pretty nice legs.
§
Amanda’s heart was hammering, her whole body zinging from the thrill. Rushing out of the hallway back to the dining room, she slammed into the swinging door to the kitchen as the old Mexican lady was pushing through. Her face burning, she muttered an apology and fumbled back through the tables to her seat.
She sat down with a smile, then looked around, trying to act normal. At a neighboring table, she noticed a couple of Sendalee Indian gentleman. That was weird. The older of the two was dressed in crisp clean blue jeans and a denim shirt, buttoned tight, and secured with an elaborate sliver bolo tie. He had a long silver ponytail gathered in a leather thong at his back. Some kind of chief probably. His younger companion wore a tailored, charcoal gray suit and had shiny, neatly styled, raven-black hair. Amanda had never seen the second man before, and she couldn’t imagine him being a resident of Shirley.
He must have flown in especially. How could some dumb club that my mother belongs to actually be so important? Amanda realized that she had no idea what the meeting was actually about, and she tuned back in.
“…international acclaim,” Mieke Walsh was saying, “in the long tradition of foreign exchange.”
Several people shifted in chairs or crossed and uncrossed legs, leaning forward in anticipation, but most continued their private conversations, ignoring Mieke. But she had Amanda’s attention.
“A foreign exchange student,” she clarified, letting her arms drop heavily, her hands slapping her thighs, begging the room to share in her excitement.
“From another country?” asked someone, bewildered.
“Why, of course, another country. Oh—” She hurried over to her laptop and advanced the screen a few slides. When an image of the Leaning Tower of Pisa came into view, an auto-play accordion accompaniment of “That’s Amore” began a static-filled rumble from the blown-out speakers. Mieke beamed, pleased with her artistry, and turned back to her recalcitrant audience to catch their applause—which never came.
“Hon, we’re fixin’ to leave. Vanessa wants to show us the new rooms they added.”
Amanda’s mom was already gathering her purse, and so were her friends. Lindsay was talking with Molly, oblivious to the Rotary Club developments.
“Mom. Aren’t we even going to eat?”
“Vanessa has some stuff for grilling—less fattening anyway.”
“But there’s finally something interesting going on,” said Amanda, incredulous. “What about the meeting?”
“Mandy,” Vanessa took up her friend’s reasoning, Steph nodding
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