Getting Over You, Getting Under You
Avery Moore does not miss that absolute brat, Isla Kingfisher. Isla held her back in high school. Avery was always slowing down, doubling back, accommodating every need and discomfort the delicate flower encountered. Without Isla to fuss over, Avery has become who she was meant to be: the star player dragging Northern Cascades University back toward relevance.
Then she tore her ACL and spent March trapped on the sideline, watching Isla take the Snowhawks apart in the Sweet Sixteen before going on to win a national championship. Losing is always shit. Limping through the postgame line to congratulate the girl you used to cuddle in bed with on school nights was unbearable. But Avery is healthy now. Isla is three thousand miles away, exactly where she belongs until Avery can finish her off at March Madness.
Then Championship MVP Isla Kingfisher transfers to Northern Cascades. Apparently, Isla can win championships, stand up to her parents, and even cut her own steak without Avery. But she has never slept with a woman, and she needs someone to teach her how.
Well, Avery Moore never passes up the chance to get an assist.
Hello! This is my first time posting my work publicly, and my first time writing a complete story, so please extend me grace but also useful feedback! I'm posting here because I don't really have a ton of people to bounce my ideas off of, so let me know what you think. Thank you :)
Chapter One, Snowe’s Bend, South Carolina —2012
Avery
“Bullfrogs are so terribly shy.”
The words crawl through humid afternoon air in a dry, splintered croak, breaking a positively euphoric stretch of silent company keeping on the front porch.
A long-suffering sigh come down upon me from heavenway, hot and forceful enough to blow my overgrown bangs straight into my eyeballs. God-fricken-dammit. I exhale a breath to redirect those strands back onto my sweaty forehead where they belong.
The perpetual stickiness of June in South Carolina leaves my person covered in a rotation of dandelion fuzz, clippings, loose dirt, pollen, and mosquito bites. I’m overwhelmed with tactile sensation.
So you better watch it, woman.
I turn to squint accusatorily at my personal head-scratcher—whose bubblegum-pink acrylics have notably gone slack on the job. She’s completely distracted now, letting her crazy ass Mama drag her into another senile sermon on the rich inner lives of woodland creatures.
“Mama,” my former star employee drawls, slow and skeptical, “how exactly is a toad meant to be self-conscious? Its brain ain’t any bigger than a dime.”
She relaxes into her rocking chair, my scalp massage completely forgotten. Naturally.
“Don’t be smart Ruth Anne,” Big Bubbe chastises half-heartedly. Her gray eyes are following the flight of a yellow-crowned night heron as it dips below the treeline towards the marsh. Her sharp eyes catch me observing her, observing the bird, and they flash when she exhales a long line of smoke from her Marlboro Gold.
“They’re shy because they’re in love.”
Her 98 pound silhouette is outlined by the fading sunlight, a golden line hemming her long pink bedrobe, the hair she’s already put up in rollers and wrapped in a pink silk headscarf. Smoke curls all around her in the yard, and she looks just as wicked as the kids here think she is.
They say she’s a witch.
However, considering I watch her mix up the tv remote and the remote for the ceiling fan on a daily basis, I’m not so sure.
Bubbe snaps her fingers in my face, motioning for her reading material to be returned. “Well I suppose that answers my question,” she says, licking her thumb to help turn a weathered page of the vintage issue,“Lord knows love don’t take much brain power at all,” she chuckles lightly at her own joke.
“HA—’specially not the way you do it Ruthie,” Big Bubbe guffaws, cigarette down to the filter, though she keeps puffing on it. Bubbe only lets her have one a week, ‘for her health and my sanity’, and she savors it down to the ash.
“Don’t be jealous I’ve got a passionate, virile lover holding me down,” Bubbe giggles.
Please God, I never want to find out what the word virile means.
My mind flashes to Zeyde Ezra, who looks like he was carved directly out of Carolina clay, with sun weathered skin contrasting against a bushy white mustache.
Virile?
“What you need to do is start kissing a couple of them bashful frogs you’re so interested in, and stay out of my business,” Bubbe punctuates her teasing statement with a loud ruffling of her magazine which she pulls up to cover her entire face, diving into an article on ‘how to keep things tight when going through menopause’.
Please God, I never want to find out what menopausal women are trying to keep tight.
They’re shy because they’re in love.
Yuck.
I absolutely hate that kind of talk. Love and kissing always lead in one inevitable direction: boys. I’d much rather smooch a slimy toad than a lousy stinking boy. Except I wouldn’t even risk transforming an innocent amphibian into one of the enemy.
I stand quickly, eager to make a hasty retreat before this conversation can devolve any further, but Big Bubbe stops me with a shaky wave of her hand.
“Share some of that lovely youthful energy and walk me to my chair, Riri-girl.”
Of course I oblige.
The matriarch of the Mordecai family may be eighty-two years old and built like a scarecrow, but she’s Big Mama ‘round here. I can’t imagine she was too thrilled when her granddaughter, Abigail, graduated law school with a husband and a step-child in tow, so I make these small sacrifices to ingratiate Dad and myself to our new family unit.
I offer Big Bubs my arm and she takes it firmly, bony fingers closing around my wrist like the talons of a hawk. Together we shuffle deeper into the yard through molasses-thick evening air.
The farm is settling in for the night around us.
Cicadas scream from the white pine trees. The marsh beyond the pasture glows bronze beneath the sinking sun. Dragonflies skim over the tall grass, their wings catching flashes of amber light. Somewhere in the distance, one of the cows lets out a long mournful mooooo, answered by another farther away.
Big Bubbe’s throne waits just ahead: a white plastic lawn chair parked against the fence bordering the western paddock.
“You know I can’t go to bed before chatting with my girls,” She says.
I glance toward the pasture. The ‘girls’ move slowly through knee-high grass, their black and white hides lit orange in the sunset. I help Big Bubbe lower herself into the chair. Her pink robe opens around her like a wilted flower, and a bloom of Marlboros, Pond’s cold cream, and lavender dusting powder rises with the movement.
“That’s why bullfrogs sing the loudest at night.”
I blink.
“What’s why the bullfrogs sing the loudest at night?”
Normally when Big Bubs says something strange, I nod politely, smile inauthentically and let it drift away on the breeze. I’m not entirely sure why I’m entertaining her this time around.
She sinks deeper into that plastic chair, coughing into her fist. She reaches underneath the seat and I hear the unmistakable rip of tape. A moment later her hand re-emerges with a lighter and three cigarettes stuck onto a line of silver duct tape.
I swear this woman has more secret cigarette stashes than a wild dog has ticks on its ass.
“They’re more comfortable being themselves in the dark,” she says, tapping one cigarette thoughtfully against her knuckle. “Crying out to their lovers from the shadows.”
The evening chorus hums to life around us. Crickets chirp from distance, a woodpecker beats a steady rhythm, the air itself is alive, vibrating with hidden things calling to one another. Out beyond the fence line, twilight gathers in the reeds. The marsh turns dark and secretive, swallowing the last scraps of sunlight whole.
“You be careful in that marsh at night, Riri-girl.”
I avoid her scrutinizing gaze, leaning over the fence to tickle a cow’s nose with a stray piece of bahia grass.
“When night falls, the creatures in the marsh release themselves to be exactly what they are without restraint,” she continues. “So naturally that’s when the will-o’-wisps come out to play.”
I can’t help but steal a sideways glance at her, looking away twice as quickly. For one ridiculous second, I’m afraid if our eyes meet she’ll somehow reach into my skull and pluck that memory right out.
A girl with jet-black hair and eyes lit from within.
“You think you’re following the North Star, but all you’re really seeing is Venus, planet of love.” Big Bubbe clicks her tongue. “Wisps are mighty pretty things that shine brighter than anything else in the sky, so folks mistake ‘em for being somethin’ worth following.”
Sometimes she’s standing ankle-deep among the lily pads, surrounded on all sides by alligator-infested water.
Sometimes she’s perched on a log that’s being slowly devoured by indigo milk caps, blue as bruises against dark rotting wood.
“Venus ain’t interested in guiding you home.”
Once I swore I caught sight of her through a curtain of hanging moss, moonlight carving a silver line along the slope of her full cheek.
“Next thing you know,” Big Bubbe says, “you’re chasing a pretty light through waist-high water, getting pulled deeper and deeper into the marsh until you’re good and lost.”
The words hang there.
Smoke curling into the heat.
I cough on the airborne carcinogens and give a little shrug like I’m not listening too closely.
“Nothing in that swamp I’m particularly interested in chasing.”
A girl with jet-black hair and eyes lit from within.
I cough again.
“But what would you suggest a person do if they did happen to run into a will-o’-wisp?” I ask coolly, giving nothing away.
Despite my nonchalance, Big Bubbe’s eyes sparkle. She crooks a finger, beckoning me closer.
“The only way to deal with a will-o’-wisp,” she says, lowering her voice dramatically and allowing an impish grin to overtake her aged features, “is to give it a real good shock.”
The cows have migrated toward the fence as we’ve chatted. One by one they abandoned their grazing and gathered around Big Bubbe’s chair in a captive audience. A dozen watery eyes stare at us expectantly.
See? Witch.
“What kind of a shock?”
The second the question leaves my mouth, Big Bubbe starts looking far too pleased with herself. Fantastic. I’ve clearly wandered into a trap, but curiosity has already sunk its teeth into me and refuses to let go.
Big Bubs gives my braid a light tug to draw me closer. One hand cups the side of my face while the other shields her mouth from the cows, suddenly unwilling to share secrets with livestock.
Her voice is rough as gravel, but when she whispers the answer into my ear, the words are surprisingly soft. My body stills as they penetrate, but my blood starts pumping faster.
Then I recoil so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
She throws her head back and cackles.
The force of it shakes her from rollers to slippers, and suddenly she’s giving overexcited chihuahua more than her typical esoteric swamp hag.
“Well that’s what worked for me!” she shrieks, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
I stare at her in horror. She just grins wider. Fuck this bird.
I make a noise of profound disgust and turn on my heel to march back towards the house. She clearly has enough energy to make it back on her own. I won’t be mocked by a woman who spent half her childhood eating war rations off lead-painted dinnerware.
She hollers after me, laughter still tangled through every word,“you better be careful little girl!”
I wave her off without turning around.
“Don’t make me send my spies after you!” The cows answer with a deafening chorus of moos.
When I glance back, Big Bubbe grins around her cigarette and gives me a wink.
Witch.
This ball is damn near tacky under my fingertips from the humid air. I dribble once between my legs, take two steps, and lay the ball softly off the board.
Swish.
My shoulders reflexively loosen. I unclench my jaw.
Swish.
Again, Avery.
Swish.
A house ten Mordecais deep behind me. The hoop in front of me. Shot. Rebound. Shot. Rebound. Everything new and overwhelming behind me. The hoop in front of me.
Shot. Rebound. Shot. Rebound.
How many times have I been here?
Not here as in South Carolina, obviously. Here, as in on the court, like this. Taking everything in my life that feels too big and forcing it through a metal rim eighteen inches across.
I’ve found myself in some pretty fucked living situations over the course of my twelve years. Sharing bedrooms with resentful relatives who made it clear I was overstaying my welcome. Sleeping on pull out couches that smelled like wet dog. I’ve collected more than my fair share of bedbug bites from roadside motels where the carpet stayed damp no matter the weather.
Swish. The ball snaps through the net.
I didn’t finish a single school year in the same place—or with the same class—until I got passed on to Dad. But through all of it, I always had this.
Rebound. Shot. Swish.
Even the shittiest rec centers in West Virginia have a hoop. Maybe it’s bent up. Maybe somebody stole the net. Maybe the asphalt underneath is more pothole than court. Doesn’t matter to me. I’m making that ball go in, regardless.
I catch the rebound and go right back up with it.
Somewhere behind me a screen door slams shut.
The ball leaves my fingertips and for the first time tonight, I miss. My shot kisses the backboard, catches the front rim, and kicks back toward me.
I get my hands up, but before I can grab it, a freckled arm is reaching into my path.
“Little too slow there, Moore.”
A nasal Southern drawl hits my ear as I watch a collection of sharp elbows, freckles, and two mean little eyes steal my rebound, pivot, and put up a shot in one smooth motion.
The ball circles the rim once.
Twice.
Then drops through.
I give the hoop a murderous glare.
Benedict Arnold—Judas!
I shift my eyes from the traitorous piece of sports equipment to redirect a scowl to my interrupting step-cousin, Brooks Hudson Wiggly-Mordecai.
The blonde pre-teen is decked in his usual Mama’s boy uniform, a Southern Tide polo and a little pair of chubbies.
I look him up.
I look him down.
I look down again.
“Oh my God.”
The words leave my body on a groan, because this son of a bitch actually stole my ball and scored on me in boat shoes.
Boat shoes. No socks.
Oh, the insult actually couldn’t be greater.
“Give me my fucking ball,” I snap, moving to snatch it, but Brooks, of course, jerks it away. Ass.
He lifts my ball high over his head. An absolutely stupid strategy because we’re basically the same height, and my wingspan is longer than his—so get fucked Brooks.
I extend to secure the possession with ease.
It’s mine.
Or at least it is until Brooks lobs it clean over my head at the very last second.
My stomach drops as I watch her arc across the yard, glowing orange in the last light of sunset. The ball goes right over the fence into the cow paddock, flying deep and ultimately landing in a massive steaming pile of cow—
SHIT.
An honest-to-God mountain of FRESH shit.
“What the fuck is your problem?!” I snap at the rat bastard.
Brooks glances toward the situation, pursing his lips in dispassionate acknowledgement. He brushes an imaginary speck of dirt from the starch-stiff sleeve of his meticulously ironed shirt. His eyes, sharp and verdant like my own, lock on me and a smarmy grin stretches slowly across his freckled mug.
“Avery, honey,” He begins, condescension wrapping around each vowel that drips from that viper mouth. “I know a leopard can’t very well change its spots, but think of the babies when you take to cussin’ like that.”
In the midst of an ocean of fury, I feel a drop of guilt.
Living with kids is new territory for me and the Mordecai’s house is practically infested with them. In addition to my rat bastard of a bitch-ass step-cousin Brooks, my step-mom’s older brother, EJ, has four kids of his own.
Four!
Our household has enough kids for a starting lineup with a player riding the bench (Brooks, obviously).
And I fear Uncle EJ and his wife, Genesis, aren’t done yet, judging by the grotesque amount of smooching and canoodling I accidentally walk in on around that house. It doesn’t matter the room, the time of day, or whether there are witnesses present. Every time I turn a corner, EJ’s looking at Aunt G like he just emerged from a desert and discovered water.
Can’t give him too hard a time about that though, because Aunt G is what we call a mighty fine woman.
Jeez, imagine being her husband...waking up to the sleepy greeting of her gentle voice, getting led astray by the permanent twinkle in those dark eyes. She’s a vision, and therefore there are children everywhere.
Children whose parents would be pissed to find they’d picked up the full range of my colorful vocabulary.
My expression probably looks about as pleasant as a rabid raccoon, but for the children I decide to forgo my initial response to Brooks—since that would involve forcibly shoving him to the ground and a couple more swear words.
Let the record show, Avery Moore is not too proud to acknowledge the extremely rare occasion when Brooks is technically right!
The screen door creaks open and—speak of the devil, Uncle EJ steps onto the porch, cupping his hands around his mouth to holler over at us, “Brooks, how long does it take to tell your cousin it’s time for dinner?”
Brooks’ expression goes positively pleasant as he turns to face our Uncle.
“I’ve been tryin’ to tell her!” he calls back, punctuating the lie with a forced laugh.“You know it’s near impossible to come between Avery and her little ball game,”
EJ smiles big at that. Crosses his thick forearms over his chest and nods toward the hoop.
“You likin’ the setup, my darlin’?”
Like would be an understatement.The wooden backboard stands at the edge of the yard, its fresh white paint radiant against the fading evening sky. My name is painted across the surface and surrounded by my baby cousin’s handprints.
It wasn’t here the last time I visited. According to EJ’s eldest, Azariah, a step-cousin I actually like, a month before we moved in Abigail had mentioned to Bubbe I was “pretty into basketball.”
Without a second thought, Zeyde Ezra recruited his son EJ, borrowed a post-hole digger from the neighbor, and spent an entire weekend building a court off the detached garage—two hoops, a concrete pad, the whole shabang.
“It’s really nice,” I blurt out, my voice catching on the last word as heat crawls up the back of my neck and settles squarely in my face. The words are so much smaller than what I actually feel, but they’re the only ones I can seem to force out.
Luckily, Uncle EJ doesn’t seem to mind my lacking eloquence. His grin only grows wider. He ducks his head, scuffs the toe of his boot against the porch, and pulls off his sweat-stained ball cap to scrub a hand through his dark hair before tugging it right back on again.
“Glad you like it, Sugarbee,” he says, clearing his throat around a smile that refuses to leave his face. He jerks his head toward the house. “Now come on in so we can bless the food and get on with our night, hm?”
Without waiting for an answer, he gives the brim of his cap a quick tap and ambles back toward the house, looking altogether too pleased with himself.
The screen door groans open, then slaps shut behind him. Voices spill out onto the porch. Silverware clinks against plates.
I turn to follow.
Brooks glides sideways into my path.
Jesus.
I forgot that ugly fuck was still hanging around.
“You know,” he says, falling into step before I can slip past, “you won’t find yourself a half-decent husband with that mouth of yours.”
The last of the evening sun catches him from behind, outlining his slight frame in molten gold while the rest of him dissolves into shadow. He reaches over to smooth an invisible wrinkle from the shoulder of my T-shirt.
“It just isn’t becoming of a young lady to be so vulgar.” He gives my shoulder one final, patronizing little pat. “Boys ‘round here don’t care for that.”
I stop, turn my head, and hawk the biggest loogie my body is capable of producing. It lands with a wet splat centimeters from his pristine little shoes. He lets out a high, involuntary squeal and hops backward.
“Oh, for the love of—you are positively vile!”
“And you are positively butt-ugly.”
I stick my tongue out at him before turning to leave. Behind me, I hear him suck in a sharp breath through his nose.
“I don’t know why I even bother trying to help a bitch like you, Avery Moore!”
“Aww, Brooksie.” I grin, walking backward with my hands folded behind my head. “Keep talkin’ like that and you’re gonna have one hell of a time finding a husband ‘round here!”
I tip my head back to laugh maniacly at my own joke. His careful smile vanishes as color climbs his neck,“you’re gonna take that back Avery Moore.”
“Oh nooo,” I grin wider, teasing him with a sing-song tone “Have I struck a nerve?”
“Take it back.” The words come out clipped, shoulders drawing tight beneath that darling salmon-pink polo.
“Right now.”
He takes one deliberate step into my space. Cute.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of moving a fucking inch.
Our chests heave in sync as we silently assess who’s gonna throw the first punch. At least that’s what I’m assessing. Brooks might be busy wondering which villa on the Amalfi Coast he’ll beg his Mommy to book once she remembers she ditched her only kid down here.
Neither of us speaks. Neither of us looks away.
The unfortunate byproduct of looking at him longer than I can usually stomach is being reminded how often folks mistake us for twins despite our completely unintercepted gene pools.
Two tall, pale, green-eyed blondes in a family otherwise full of dark hair, brown eyes, and skin tones ranging from olive to deep brown. Obvious outsiders, so naturally we must belong to each other. I have trouble acknowledging any physical resemblance to a boy who often looks like a soaked rat, but Dad says Brooks and I rub each other the wrong way because we’re too much alike.
We’re left in charge of the younger kiddos, everybody brags on us for being good and mature, we’re the kind of kids who know better and do better. Now, Brooks is an asshole about it, but I suppose I can recognize that usually we’re both just trying to be someone this family can count on.
Which means right now one of us should choose to be the bigger person and walk away. But after everything that little snake has said to me tonight...
Ha, I’ll be mature tomorrow.
“Make. Me.”
His eyebrows pull together, wrinkling his whole face into an expression of constipated rage. For one glorious second, I think I’ve finally cracked him.
Then he inhales, slow and measured.
The color recedes from his freckled face as he straightens the hem of his shirt and smooths a careful hand over the front. When his eyes find mine again, the anger is still there.
Just folded neatly behind good manners.
“Oh?” I tip my head. “Takin’ the high road to make me look like the asshole, huh?”
The corners of his mouth lift.
“You’re not runnin’ buckwild through some run-down trailer park anymore, Avery.”
Well, high road be damned.
“Your daddy might’ve married a Mordecai,” he says, more and more of his big bleached white teeth appearing as his smile keeps on growing,“but don’t fool yourself into thinkin’ that makes you one.”
Okay, well, if that’s the only insult he’s got, I can let it go.
Easy.
“Keep carryin’ on like the white-trash Moore you are, and you’ll end up right back where you belong.”
I press my tongue against the back of my teeth and keep smiling.
“Surfin’ couches with your meth-head mama.”
My smile drops. My hands curl so tight my nails bite into my palms. I should let it go, I know that’s what Dad would want me to do. But I just can’t allow those who live in glass houses to feel so bold throwing stones my way.
“You’re right,” I reply, forcing my voice steady. “My mama did put me in some rough situations. I’ve seen things I’m sure you couldn’t begin to imagine.”
I nod like I’m agreeing with him.
“But you’ve helped me feel grateful for those times.”
His smug little smile widens. Good. This will hurt much worse if he doesn’t see it coming.
“Grateful she never left me to share a bathroom with five people in South Carolina while she was off gettin’ fucked by some Saudi billionaire on his blood money yacht.”
I have just enough time to finish my statement before he swings.
The son of a bitch catches me around the waist by pure luck. My heel slips in the loose dirt, one of his stupid boat shoes skids sideways, and suddenly we’re both crashing into the yard in a tangle of elbows, knees, and flying fists.
The impact winds me, stealing the air from my lungs. Brooks gets off easier, landing on top of me. He throws a wild punch that whistles past my ear before I can catch my breath. Instinct takes over. I hook one of his legs with mine, twist my hips, and roll us hard. Now he’s flat on his back, wrists pinned above his head, my knees planted on either side of his ribs.
“You done embarrassing yourself?”
“Get your big-boned behind off me, you trailer park hussy!”
He bucks hard and thrashes his legs wildly to no avail. With ease I adjust to pinning his bony wrists in one hand, while drawing my other arm back to wind up the first blow.
“You can get this trailer park belt then—”
Movement catches my eye. Out past the pasture, where the clipped grass gives way to marsh elder, mud, and black water.
A deer?
No, it’s white cotton catching the last scraps of daylight. Long black hair spills down the narrow line of her back, bouncing against the loose fabric of her nightgown as she runs. Her bare feet skim over the marsh, hardly seeming to disturb the water below.
My wisp.
My grip loosens. My whole body follows her without meaning to, leaning in the direction of that retreating figure.
Brooks uses my lowered defenses to tear an arm free. He surges upward.
Crack!
The crown of his head slams square into my nose. For a heartbeat the whole world flashes white. Pain explodes through the center of my face. I stagger backward, both hands flying to my nose as something hot spills between my fingers.
Brooks freezes. Every trace of fury drains from his face, leaving behind nothing but a terrified twelve-year-old.
“Oh God.” His own hand flies over his mouth. “Avery... I... I didn’t...”
I attempt to wave off his concern, but my head is spinning. I’m disoriented by the pain but my eyes are searching for one thing only. Where did she go?
Blood drips onto the dry grass. He takes one uncertain step toward me.
Then thinks better of it.
“Stay right there! I’m getting an adult!”
He turns and tears toward the house. The screen door slams behind him so hard the handle rattles.
I barely register it. Too focused on watching the fading beacon of my wisp’s white dress disappear into the deepening blue of the marsh.
You think you’re following the North Star...
Big Bubbe’s warning drifts through my head.
...but all you’re really seeing is Venus.
“This,” I mutter to nobody at all, already climbing over the fence,“is a damn terrible idea.”