Free Any Red-Blooded Girl by Maggie Bloom Page A

and risk
getting jabbed with a giant knitting needle? Maybe the third time
was a charm. “Hello. Is Mick here?” I asked.
    “Shh!”
    As ridiculous as this sounds (and as
embarrassing as it is to admit) I peed my pants a little when she
shushed me. Only like a drop or two, but still.
    After about another thirty seconds of
complete silence, Mick’s mother finally spoke. “I’m sorry about
that, dear. I was in the middle of a complicated pattern, and I had
to finish the row. I hope I didn’t scare you,” she said, flashing
me a kind, welcoming smile. “You must be Flora. Mick has been
raving about you for days. And he wasn’t exaggerating either, I
see. You are absolutely as radiant as he described.” She extended
her hand. “I’m Stella. Pleased to meet you.”
    “Oh, yeah. Nice to meet you too,” I said,
clamping onto her fingers like I’d just caught the game-winning
football pass.
    “Mick’s out back working,” his mom said.
“He’s taken on a special project.” She paused for a moment, like
she was considering letting me in on a secret. But then she
continued without spilling the beans. “I think he should be just
about done, though. Why don’t you go ahead back? It should be
fine.”
    “All right. Thanks,” I said, already heading
for the trees.
    Behind the Donovan compound, I crunched
around aimlessly until—from somewhere deeper in the woods—I heard
Mick’s voice. “Flora!” he called.
    Even though it was another bright, sunny day,
I couldn’t quite find him through the trees. “Where are you?” I
asked, stepping over a downed limb and meandering in the direction
of his voice.
    “This way.”
    I’d already passed his work benches, so I was
out of obvious landmarks to go by. “I don’t see you,” I complained.
“What are you doing?”
    “Just finishing up your birthday shopping,”
he revealed. By the volume of his voice and the clear echo of his
footsteps, I could tell he was headed in my direction.
    I leaned back against a fat, old tree and
whined, “Hurry up. I miss you.”
    “Close your eyes,” he ordered playfully. “I
can see you. I’m almost there.”
    As silly as his request was, I clamped my
eyes shut and waited. And within seconds, I heard his voice
again—this time face-to-face. “Good girl. Thank you for playing
along,” he teased. “You can open now.”
    I peeled my eyelids apart to find my hunk of
a boyfriend down on one knee, clutching a fistful of fresh
wildflowers. And as cliché as the Prince Charming move was, I must
admit, it won me over; I was converted.
    “You’re amazing. Did you pick all these?” I
asked, pulling the flowers to my face for a long, deep breath.
“They’re beautiful.”
    Mick stood up. “They pale in comparison,” he
declared. From anyone else, the line would have been ultra corny,
but his sincere delivery made me believe him. “Happy birthday,
sweet sixteen,” he said with a wide grin.
    I couldn’t wait another second. Still
gripping the burgeoning bouquet, I flung my arms around his waist
and squeezed, probably crushing a few of the delicate blossoms in
the process. It was the beginning of my real birthday
present: time and attention—and hopefully more kissing—from my
sweet, sweet Mick.
    So I guess I should add one more talent to my
new boyfriend’s repertoire of skills: mind reading. Because the
minute I started fantasizing about him kissing me…well, he did.
Then, with a little more force than necessary, he pushed me to the
ground, rolled on top of me, and pinned me in place. And like any
sane girl would, I had a momentary flash of panic. After all, I was
trapped. If Mick wanted to do anything I didn’t want to do, I would
have been powerless to stop him.
    “The flowers,” I croaked. Out of the corner
of my eye, I glimpsed a scattering of fresh petals beneath Mick’s
bent knee.
    He kissed me hard and deep on the mouth.
“I’ll pick more,” he breathed. “A million more.” Eagerly, he
pressed himself into