The wayward sons book 2.., p.1
The Wayward Sons (Book 2): Starlee's Turn, page 1
The Wayward Sons
Starlee’s Turn
Angel Lawson
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Untitled
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
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To My Wayward Sons,
August in North Carolina is hot. Not Death Valley hot, but muggy hot with mosquitos and thunderstorms and crickets that chirp late into the night. The trees are tall and thick, making sunrise views a rarity. Jake—I don’t wake up early here, don’t worry about that. Usually I try to sleep as long as I can, avoiding my mother and rushing to work as fast as possible.
How’s work? Well, babysitting three rowdy kids is kind of like wrangling unpleasant lodge guests, except it’s all day, and thank god the older two are back in school next week and the baby starts daycare. I’ll get to spend my Friday nights babysitting instead of going to football games and after school activities. That’s right—no school. I tried. I failed. Star Jones isn’t buying into my desires to spend my senior year like most other girls my age. In school, with my peers, going to football games, homecoming, and prom.
I take comfort in knowing that Sam and Dean never had formal education. Maybe that’s why I’ve fallen for the Winchesters. Or it’s Dean’s pretty eyes and Sam’s nice smile. (Kidding! Promise! Love you all!) Anyway, if they survived, then so can I, right?
It sucks that we can’t talk on the phone. I miss your voices. I miss your faces. I miss other things too, but if Sierra finds this letter I don’t want her to have to read it, kwim?
Anyway, I know the tourist season is dying down and you’re all headed back to school. I’m jealous, but I know your senior year will be great. I know Dexter is going to stay out of fights, and Jake is going to do all his homework, and Charlie is going to get some fresh air, and George is going to just…well, don’t burn down the school, okay, babe?
I think I hear the kids moving upstairs—they never nap long enough. I miss you. I love you. One day, I’ll get back to the mountains and back to you.
Love,
Starlee
P.S. Give Leelee a big hug for me.
1
Starlee
“The baby’s in her crib and both boys had a bath and are in their pajamas,” I say as I slowly inch toward the door.
“How were they today?”
“Great. I think they’re excited about school on Monday.”
Ms. Caldwell studies me for a moment. “You’re home-schooled, right?”
“I am.”
“Did you ever go to, uh, normal school?”
“I did, until the 6th grade.”
“Can I ask why you stopped going?”
Actually…no.
“My mom and I just felt like it would be a better fit.”
She sighs and leans against the kitchen counter. “I’m just worried about the public schools, but I can’t afford private and the charter school is a total long-shot to get in because it’s so great…”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” I take another step backwards. I’d been there since seven and it’s now six. I’m beat. “My situation was kind of specific. They really seem ready.”
The boys are going in first and third grade. Other than being a little smelly, I see no reason for her to be concerned. But maybe that’s just what moms do. Overprotect their kids about schools.
Speaking of…
“I should go, my mom gets worried when I’m late.”
“Oh, of course. Oh and wait!” She rummages in her purse on the counter and fishes out an envelope. “Don’t forget this.”
It’s my paycheck. The last full one of the summer.
“Thank you.”
“No, Starlee, thank you. When my nanny quit mid-summer, I was in a huge bind. You really helped me out.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
It’s not true. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be back in California in my grandmother’s house, working at her lodge, next door to my four amazing boyfriends.
But when do I get what I want?
I had it, I think, walking down the sidewalk toward my house a block away. I had a taste of freedom. Of normalcy. But like everything else, my mother snatched that away.
I see our house in the distance. The olive green-painted slats of wood. The cream trim on the porch. It’s a little bungalow, not that different from Leelee’s. The irony isn’t lost on me that my mother ran across the country to a house similar to the one she grew up in.
I push through the little picket fence and past the wildflowers, the petals drooping with the heat. In Dexter’s last letter he said it was already starting to cool in Lee Vines.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the hem of my shirt. I can’t imagine.
Bracing myself for the low burning anger that rolls over me every time I’m in my mother’s presence, I climb the stairs to the porch.
My mother may have taken me away from Lee Vines, my grandmother, and the boys I love, but she hasn’t been able to pry them from my heart or me from theirs.
That’s the problem when you give a caged animal a taste of freedom.
They just want more.
2
Starlee
The first week of homeschooling is like any other week of homeschooling. Boring. Focused. Short. When I was younger, my mother would take me on little field trips to fill the gaps in my day-to-day adventures, but all that stopped when I hit high school and my academics were more about hard numbers and facts. Colleges didn’t care if I went to the Georgia O’Keeffe museum. Things were tense between us by then anyway, and neither of us wanted to spend that much time together. We already spent all of our time together.
I’d passed my summer online classes in California and was able to transfer the credit. At this rate, I’d graduate by December and enroll in our local college by January. I’d be eighteen in three weeks, an adult. I waited for the day to come, feeling like there would be some kind of change, but I knew better. Even if I enrolled in college in January, I’d still be expected to live at home. I saw no escape from this. Not any time soon.
Or I didn’t.
Not until recently.
Not until my mother had relented right after we returned home from California and she’d allowed me to get the babysitting job. For the first time, I had something I’d never had before.
Money.
I saved every dollar. Every dime. I spent nothing except postage for my letters to the boys. What else would I buy? Movie tickets with friends? Late nights at the Dairy Queen? I even have some stashed away from the small salary I’d been given by LeeLee.
If I can work the rest of the year, picking up babysitting jobs in the neighborhood, I may have enough to get back to California some day. That’s the dream that keeps me going.
“Starlee! The mail is here!”
The mail. That’s the other thing that keeps me going.
I hop up from my bed and run down the stairs. It’s Wednesday. The day after Tuesday. Pie Tuesday, to be specific.
The square box sits on the counter and a surge of excitement runs through me. The mystery of what kind. Angels Apple Pie? Charlie’s Chocolate Cream? Leelee and I are up to season nine and each episode is like peeling back pieces of the Wayward Sons—I understood them a little bit more.
“How long are those boys going to send these to you?”
Until I’m there to eat it fresh, I wanted to spat back. “I’m not sure why you’re complaining about homemade pie being delivered to our house each month.”
I grab the scissors and cut the tape on the box. The scent of sugar and buttery pastry hits my nose. It smells like Dexter, and my heart twists with the sadness of not being with him.
My mother peers inside. There’s a little note taped over the plastic. “Prophetic Pear,” she reads. “What in the world does that mean?”
I shrug, pulling it out of the box and pocketing the letter hidden beneath. “Inside joke, Mom, you wouldn’t get it.”
She rolls her eyes. “I guess it makes sense for that boy to send you a thank you pie. You did get him out of some serious trouble.”
I place the pie on the counter.
“I didn’t ‘get’ him out of trouble. I did the right thing. Something I’d think you ’d expect of me.”
“I expected you to follow directions at your grandmother’s house, not wander around at all hours and get yourself in trouble!”
Here we go. The same fight. Over and over. It never ended. She’s still angry I didn’t follow her rules when I moved to Lee Vines. She’s horrified I made friends—with boys. She loathes the fact they care for me and send me letters and pastries and pies. It’s like she’d rather them have been awful, terrible boys, instead of good, sweet, and kind ones.
My mother has a lot of issues.
What she didn’t know was how close we’d become. That it wasn’t just Dexter I’d fallen for. It was all of them. They’d stolen my heart and changed me. That change wasn’t something she could accept. Not now, anyway.
“Mom, I’ve done everything you’ve asked since I came home. I work, I study, I do my chores. I have no friends. No social life other than a few letters and a TV date with my grandmother who lives three thousand miles away every night. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”
And there we have it. That’s where I am with my life, and from the look on my mother’s face, she has no answer. None. She caught me in this web and we both know I’ll be eighteen soon. I’ll keep earning money and one day I’ll head to college. But not here. Not on the East Coast, and she knows it.
“I bought some fresh cream at the market,” she says, moving to the refrigerator. “I know you like it with your dessert.”
I cut a large piece and place it on a plate I’ve taken from the cabinet. It’s gooey and the pears look fresh, and in my mind I can see Dexter in a white, stained apron covering his red and black flannel, with a dusting of flour on the bridge of his nose. I long to brush it off. To kiss his lips. To turn and find the others standing nearby.
The plop of cream on my pie and the clank of the fork on my plate breaks me from my thoughts and I’m not in the kitchen of the Wayward Sun, but in my kitchen with my mother.
“Thanks,” I mumble, gathering up my dessert and heading out of the kitchen.
“You’re not eating down here?”
“Nope. Homework,” I lie. There’s a letter burning a hole in my pocket.
I don’t turn to see the hurt look on her face. At this point, I don’t really care.
Dear Starlee,
School starts back after Labor Day, which will coincide with the summer season being fully over. I’m ready for a break. Between Ms. Nye’s manual labor and Sierra’s never-ending pile of dirty dishes, I’m actually looking forward to school.
Jake is still kicking my ass on morning runs and we’ve had practice every day for two weeks. Coach is impressed I upped my stamina over the summer. Less impressed when I crashed into the water table trying to catch a ball. No worries. My helmet protected my handsome face and amazing brain.
Charlie’s obsessed with this new upgrade on his game and has entered a few competitions. He’s gunning for some kind of “e-sport” scholarship. I’m pretty sure he’s crazy. I’m more likely to get one in football.
(Can’t read due to stain. Looks like chocolate) finishing up his probation. I know he’s too chicken shit to tell you, but your testimony really helped at the hearing. If he keeps his grades up this fall, he’ll be cut loose. We’ll finally be criminal-free in the family.
Sierra wants you to ask your mom if you can set up a live stream so we can all watch the SPN season premiere together—that is, if you’re caught up. She’s willing to talk to her, if you want. October 2nd. Mark your calendar.
Okay, I better go. I need to ice my knee from practice and Dexter is giving me the stink eye because there’s a shit-ton of dishes to do.
Love you Starlee Jones,
George
3
Starlee
For my birthday, my mother had a tradition. We’d walk to the business district near our house, browse the local bookstore where I could pick out anything I wanted, eat dinner at the Thai restaurant and over a bowl of sticky rice for dessert, then I’d open my gifts.
I look out the window of our house at the downpour of rain flooding our street.
“Not sure walking is a good idea,” I say, watching the trees sway. “Maybe we should just stay home?”
My mother appears in the doorway. She’s tugging her raincoat closed. “But it’s tradition.”
“True, but Hurricane Betsy doesn’t care about tradition.”
Yep, a hurricane hit the coast last night and is racing through North Carolina.
“We can take the car.”
I sigh, not feeling up to it. All I wanted to do was queue up the latest episode of Supernatural. I had letters from all the boys and package from Lee Vines on my bed. Celebrating with my mom in the middle of a hurricane was a far stretch from how I actually wanted to spend my night.
Mom senses my hesitation. “Come on, Starlee, it’s your eighteenth birthday! It may be the last one we’ll spend together.”
I raise an eyebrow. What’s that? She’s considering that next year I may not live at home? That perks up my spirits enough to grab my rain boots and jacket.
It takes forever to find a parking place, which is surprising due to the rain. The wind blows it sideways, making our umbrella more dangerous than helpful, and by the time we get to the bookstore, my hair is a red nest of curls.
We get inside the shop, dripping water all over the floor. I hadn’t been reading as much lately, instead watching Supernatural and writing letters. I’d even taking to baking a little on my own—trying out little recipes, hoping to surprise Dexter with a package of his own.
Despite the pretty colors and attractive displays, none of the books appeal to me. I roam aimlessly, feeling nothing but the weight of this day. Eighteen should be a big one. An exciting one, and here I am spending it like I’d spend every other birthday since I was six years old.
I feel my throat close up, suffocating.
“Starlee, look what I found!”
She holds up a copy of the Secret Garden, a book we’d first read together when I was in elementary school. At the time, I thought it seemed magical that this little stubborn, badly behaved girl blossomed once she found a friend. Later it just seemed kind of cruel—too similar to my own life in a way.
“I think I’m going to get it,” my mother says, clutching the new edition. I feel the strings of the past holding me down, like my mother truly doesn’t realize I’m growing up. She looks over the stack of books at me. “Did you pick out something?”
I glance around. Nothing catches my eye. “No, the Secret Garden is fine.”
I wait while my mother pays, ignoring the rows of young adult books with couples on the front. I miss the guys so much—the little things like holding hands or hiking with them. I miss the bigger things, like the time I spent with Dexter in his family’s cabin. We only had that one night before I had to leave. What if he felt differently now? What if someone at school caught his or one of the other’s eyes?
“Ready?”
“What?” I blink, lost in my own world of insecurities. My mother looks at me expectantly.
“Are you okay?”
“Just tired or something.”
She links her arm with mine. “Well, let’s go get some amazing curry and sticky rice and get your blood sugar up.”
We step back out into the rain and down the block to the Thai place. The owners recognize us, we come often enough, and my mom gushes about how it’s my birthday. With every moment I feel more detached, like she just doesn’t understand how I’m feeling, what I’m going through. I want to be anywhere but here. I want to be in the warm California sun, the clean air, near the smooth, glassy lake.
