Free Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel Page B

“2 loaves of whole wheat bread, flour, vegetable oil, dried yellow eye beans, yeast, pancake mix, crunchy peanut butter, and wildflower honey.” I grab a bag of onions, a bottle of ketchup and a jar of mustard. I’ve got all I need—as long as I can keep a few bananas away from Marilynn.
    The boy at the checkout wraps the turkey for Grumps and rings up our order, slapping the outdated cash register as if it’s a video game. He is short, not much taller than me, and maybe a year or two older. I catch him staring at my tie-dyed tee shirt, biting his lip, trying not to laugh. I wonder if he’s a pervert or simply amused by the design—a peace sign riddled with bullet holes. I don’t want to stare back at him but it’s hard not to. His black hair spikes in a jagged way, as if he cut it with a dull knife. His eyes remind me of the pale green lichen on tree bark, and his bushy black eyebrows rise up to a point over his nose like a furry teepee. His noxious attitude and offbeat looks give the impression of a snarky leprechaun. He’s no Beetle.
    Grumps reads the notices on the community bulletin board, aloud. “Used Snowmobile For Sale. Mel’s Worms, Crawlers & Dillies. Free Horse Manure. Tag Sale of Biblical Proportions. Veterans Ham and Bean Supper. Over-Fifty’s Singles Dance.”
    This all sounds depressingly hick to me. The leprechaun chuckles at my pained expression and limps out from behind the counter to bag my groceries. I want to ask him if he has hurt his leg tripping over a pot of gold. Instead, I ask, “What’s so funny?”
    He points at my tee shirt. “What’s so funny,” he repeats, “is you. You’re obviously not from around here.” I try to ignore his buttery voice. Its smooth and melodic quality reminds me of Shankdaddy, the amazing old blues man from the other end of my street.
    â€œNo, I’m from Hartford, Connecticut.” I say proudly for the first time in my life.
    I examine the cartoon drawing on his tee shirt. It shows a sexy blond bear with long eyelashes and pillowy red lips. He watches my curious reaction to it, and his lichen-green eyes darken to the color of the twilight trees.
    â€œWhat’s your name, Hartford?”
    I sigh at the way he says, “Hartford.” It makes my dinky city sound sophisticated. Invisible fire ants run up my arms. I’ve never felt this sharp sensation before. Of course, there are no actual fire ants in New Hampshire, or anywhere in New England, for that matter. I only imagine this is how they must feel.
    I swallow and reply, “I’m Mona LaPierre,” carefully omitting my dreaded middle name. My heart is fluttering like a baby bird, and it pisses me off.
    He clomps out from behind the counter in the heaviest black boots I’ve ever seen. Besides the boots, he’s weighed down with nothing but muscle, like you’d expect for a guy who chops his own firewood. He also smells woodsy, like smoke and musky honey.
    â€œI’m Del Pyne,” he says. “Too bad a pretty girl like you has to spend the summer up here in the sticks with us backwoods folks.”
    I step away from him. Nobody has ever stooped low enough to call me pretty, not even jokingly, especially not my parents. They pride themselves on being realists.
    Del’s eyes flash with horror at the sight of my quivering chin. Now, I’m completely confused. Can he seriously think I’m pretty? Might squinty eyes the color of deep-woods mud and tree bark hair be considered attractive up here because they give me a woodsy look. He lowers his flushing face, pretending to review a grocery price book. Oh my God, he does think I’m pretty.
    I muster the courage to ask him a question. “Do you go to school?” I picture the yellow warehouse next to this one. For his sake, I hope he’s already graduated.
    He flashes the most inveigling smile I’ve ever seen—not a