Peaches (eBook)

Every spring since she had turned thirteen had started the same way for Murphy McGowen. She started feeling restless at the very same time as the crocuses began busting out of their buds every year. She'd start to want to bust out of her skin too, into a skin that lived, say, in New York, or Paris, or Buenos Aires, anyplace that wasn't Bridgewater, Georgia. Outside the historic downtown district -- which was basically unlived in and which barely any tourists came to -- the town was mostly a strip of motels, fast-food joints, and traffic lights.

From then on, each spring had started with

A. The restlessness

B. The ache in her chest for the thing she didn't know was missing

C. The guy with the hand up her shirt

At fifteen, there was also the addition of the other hand, down the pants -- usually cords, sometimes army surplus, all three dollars or less at Village Thrift. The boys she hadn't bargained for, they had just sort of come. Because like many girls in Georgia, Murphy was as girl as a girl could be. Green eyed and smooth skinned with beauty marks here and there on her cheeks, with brown wavy hair and high apple breasts. Like most young girls at the Piggly Wiggly on any given day, she was more juicy than fine, more sexy than delicately beautiful. In a word, Murphy McGowen was yummy. A few more words that had been used to describe her were brilliant, bold, and rotten.

Her favorite spot for C. was the edge of the Darlington Peach Orchard, just two miles out of the center of town, but what felt like a million miles from anything resembling the Piggly Wiggly. Most of Bridgewater felt like a collision of old southern big-porched homes and a giant strip mall. The orchard, with its endless acreage and overgrown greenery, felt like the Garden of Eden.

Murphy, who wasn't much into nature, didn't know why she liked it. In lots of ways it was a mess. The white fence that ran along the property line was chipped and rotting. An old tractor had been abandoned by the train tracks and was grown over with weeds. The farm itself was obscured by layers of overgrowth along this edge so thick that even now, when there were no leaves, Murphy could see only tiny glimpses of the peach trees themselves and the white farmhouse through the brush.

The cold metal of the tracks dug into her butt as she took a sip of warm Mello Yello. She kicked off her sticky old Dr. Scholl's sandals from Village Thrift, letting her bare soles bask in the warmest night they'd had since the fall. Across the grass behind them, Gavin's car was choking out staticky Coldplay, a band Gavin said was brilliant, though Murphy claimed all their songs sounded exactly the same.

Murphy watched lazily as Gavin, whose last name she didn't remember, ran his fingers lightly up and down the back of her calves like they were made of gold. His eyes trailed up and down her legs.

'What do you wanna do?' she asked, pushing her toes into the grass. She mentally urged Gavin to say something original. Impress me, she thought. Already she was wishing she'd come alone. Gavin was oblivious to their surroundings, which was depressing.

The truth was, there was nothing she wanted to do. She wanted to float out of her body, out of Bridgewater, up to the moon. Coming to the orchard always made her restless. Energized with nowhere to put it. Stuffed up.

When her mom had used to take her here on picnics, before the onslaught of boyfriends paraded into their lives, Jodee had said, 'It makes me feel young, baby.' And maybe that was it. Sneaking onto the orchard grounds made Murphy feel the way she figured a girl her age was supposed to feel -- awake. Though Gavin was making a valiant effort at...