Cicada Summer Excerpt

Read a brief excerpt from Cicada Summer, Tracy Detz's upper middle grade work in progress set beneath live oaks, cicada songs, and the complicated truths of growing up.

Chapter 1

I lean on a pine to catch my breath and a cacophony of crows jerks my head back. Words of a spooky lullaby thumping in my mind. The black mass of mischief rockets from the crown. These woods drum up too many memories. Deep and dark ones. I can’t even run from them. I shiver covered in sweat thinking about old man Shmitty and what happened out at the shack.

Wispy shadows rise in the distance and the trees hum with the cries of children long dead.

I rest on a moss-covered stump dotted with lichen and squint against the mist. Thinking. Waiting. Hoping. Wanting answers. But that’s another story.

My story.

I better get home before Mama pulls a switch on me.

***

Collapsing on my swivel chair with a Runner’s World magazine, I spin and sift through pages of new treads—the soles of my shoes worn off and buried back in the woods with all the secrets.

              “Delta! Get your lazy butt up.”

“Lazy?” I mumble. More like Cinderella. That makes three times Mama has hollered at me. Her patience is somewhat thin these days, and mine is about as thin as my favorite blue jeans, frayed threads busting at the knees and mid-thigh. Not good for either of us.

Today is our annual yard sale, and Mama apparently thinks I’m still lying in bed instead of helping her bring everything downstairs. Little does she know I ran this morning, and I’m already in the hallway. I’m just having a hard time going into my sister’s room.

I stare at her door, palms clammy, heart drumming in a tug-of-war I don’t want to win.

Holding my breath, I reach for the crystal knob and the door creaks open.

Tiny dust balls dance across the room, magically lit by the sun’s ruddy glare, painting the walls as red as my hair. The sheer blue curtains sway and arch in the puff of air that swirls through the crack of the window. Hot and sugary, the room smells of Celia’s perfume—Heavenly, Victoria’s Secret. And when I push the window up, a breeze stirs in with a raven’s caw. He’s been hanging around lately, perched on a spidery branch of a two-hundred-year-old oak. Gold beady eyes watch my every move as I sit on the floor and sort through the books. Mama wants to sell them all.

“Oh, so this is where you’ve been.” I cradle The Vampire Diaries book and stare at a library receipt tucked between the pages. Way overdue. Memories play in my mind of Celia and me—good times of us at the library. I press the book to my chest and hold it a little longer before I put it aside for my collection.

Caw! Caw! I shush the raven.

A tin with colorful crests peeks from the pile. A mini treasure chest. Whitman’s Prestige Chocolates, Est.1842 written on the top. I can’t pass up chocolate. Ever. But by the looks of this box, whatever kind of chocolate is in there is not edible. I flip the lid open, and a flowery scent blasts my face. A vague familiar smell. I sigh, relieved not to find mummified wasted chocolate. It’s nothing but a box full of letters. I wiggle a nail file through one of the seals—paper as brittle as flaky pie crust. Squinting hard, I try to make out the faded handwriting.

Monday, May 13th

I’m tired. Too tired to write. My words blur together as I wither. The fresh blooms of springtime that used to excite me don’t inspire me anymore. I feel closer to the heavy earth below the roots. Cold and dark.  

Chills snake down my back, and I pick up another letter.

Tuesday, September 16th

The wolf struck again.

Wolf? My heartbeat quickens.

“Delta Mae Murphy!”

I slap the tin closed and stuff it under the mattress.

Mama’s tone is more urgent than ever. She formally addresses me when she’s angry. She’s probably standing a few steps up the staircase, hanging on to the wobbly banister.

“The animals need food and water before the yard sale! You’ll be the next one squawking without your livermush and cornbread if you don’t come down this instant.”

“I know, Mama, chores first.” And I love my livermush. Most kids grew up on it in this corn-fed, hog-fried part of town. But my gut is weaving a knot in my stomach.

Celia’s letters—I wish I never found them.

I slap a Tar Heels hat on my fly-away curls and teeter down the stairs with a box of books. I stop at the bottom step like I have time to spare and stare at the pen marks etched on the foyer wall. Oldest to youngest for the girls—Darcy, Celia, and mine. I stand on my tiptoes and try to stretch to the highest mark. Celia’s. I’m still a foot shorter. Mama says I’m petite like Great Granny Julia, yet another person who is gone from our lives. I’m 4’10, and Granny was taller by two inches. I never got to meet her; she died before I was born. Death is sad and greedy, but growing up isn’t easy either. I swear if one more person says I’m cute—and being little has advantages—I challenge them to squeeze through a cat door. Don’t ask.

 An iron skillet on the stove pops bacon and snaps me back into attention.

“Finally,” Mama says, catching sight of me. “Hurry up, and don’t forget to put the price tags on everything after you’re done with the feed.” She slides a plate of hot mush on the table. I inhale the mush, nibble at the bread.

My faithful hounds, Tinker and Shag stand at my heels, and the screen door slaps behind us.

The last of the mountain’s morning breath wafts around me like I’m walking through a cloud. The smell of steamy pines mingles with the mist. And for a moment I feel like I’m in a dream until Shag bumps the back of my legs trying to herd me, and Tinker licks my hand bringing to my attention the empty water bowls. I make them sit pretty and reward them with the crispy ends of the cornbread, then top their tins with spring water, icy cold from the beat-up well.

The chickens scurry in their pen like minnows in the creek zigzagging back and forth, pecking the crumbles faster than I can toss them. Roc the rooster broods above them, chest puffed out and feathers fluffed. I gather the eggs and head to the beehives for my morning sugar fix. Weaving through grapevines I walk the garden’s edge, a mini baseball field, to a shady path at the foot of the woods. I collect honeycombs, slurp the sticky mess, and chew on the wax. Another muggy hot day in the Piedmont.

The good thing is it's summer break. It scares me to even think about being a Freshman More homework, more responsibility, and more drama. Towels, shirts, and panties whip around the clothesline, caught in a breeze, Mama wrestling them. 

“Where’d Darcy, sneak off to, Mama?”

Mama pins the clothes tight on the line. Even though her back faces me, I can feel her eyes on me. A glassy look she wears most days like she can’t decide whether to be happy or sad. 

“She went with your Pa to the steel mill. And nobody better be sneaking anywhere.”

“Seriously Mama, like I have time to run off,” I say, words garbled still sucking on a honeycomb. Mama would love to have me washing clothes on a rock down by the creek. She thinks we’re living off the grid like the Alaskan Bush people.

Darcy is Pa’s favorite now, ever since Celia’s been gone. They both love hunting, wrenching on old cars, and fishing. She can change a tire with her eyes closed, bait and hook a Koke in five minutes, and catch catfish with her bare hands. She wants to be an engineer of some kind or another. And Darcy cleans up good—real pretty. Although she doesn’t think so. Darcy and Celia inherited the dewy tan skin—Cherokee Indian blood on Mama’s side. And me—white as a slice of Wonder Bread—the luck of the Irish genes from Pa, I suppose. NOT.

Celia never thought of herself as pretty, either. She’d say, “My hair is too wild. My legs are too long. And are you sure this dress looks good on me?”

 But the boys thought differently. Celia was the bae. They hung around the house like gnats to fruit.

 I miss Celia terribly. I ache for her throaty laugh and sneaking out late, feet skimming the stairs so they wouldn’t creak while we sucked in our laughs trying not to pee ourselves. We’d lie on a blanket, tucked beneath the moon— listening to the crickets fighting for love— whispering pines spilling our secrets.

“The Murphy girls. Curls of raven and fire, green cat eyes, and smiles brighter than a colony of fireflies.” That’s what the townsfolk always said. Pearl at the Country Corner says we favor Mama for sure, but the cat eyes we got from Pa.

Except his are the real sneaky kind. Not mysterious and kind like ours. But now, nobody talks about Celia anymore. Not even a whisper. Pa forbids it.

I hurry to the garage and stamp the tags on the sundresses, knick-knacks, jewelry, and all sorts of miscellaneous things. Mostly, Celia’s.

“Why are we selling all of Celia’s stuff, Mama?”

 I grab another dress.

 She slaps my hand away, giving me a sharp look for speaking her name. “That’s enough, Delta. Someone else could use these clothes.” She nervously folds and unfolds them again. Finally having the strength to part with them, I guess she just wants them gone.

When Mama turns away, I slide Celia’s butterfly necklace into the back pocket of my fringed cut-offs, another one of Celia’s treasures I took from her belongings. I already hid Celia’s iPod in my room. I play Beyonce’s greatest hits non-stop like we always did. Pa growls to turn it down, but the Queen Bee rules.

***

A silver SUV dusted with red dirt inches up the driveway. Carolina dirt, tough as nails, leaving a stain in one way or another, so you’ll never forget. A white woman and three fair-skinned kids pile out. The kids all posh, like social media influencers, about my age.

“That’s some climb to get up here,” the woman says, hair tousled in a bun, sipping on a Dr. Pepper. “But so worth it. It’s like we’re closer to heaven.”

The city folk and their twangy talk. I like it though. “I’m Delta. Y’all come have a look.”

“I’m Sophie Bridges, and this is Ty, Sara, and Tawny.” Her index finger points at them one by one. “We just moved from New Jersey, and we never pass up a yard sale.”

  One of the girls is short and curvy like me. The other, tall as her brother, long legs, a pouty smile, and a waterfall of brown hair down to her tiny waist. I give a long glance at the boy, wavy blonde hair, shirtless, wearing Nike pants with big feet wrapped in high-tops.

“Hi,” the girls say, then laugh together. They look like dolls.

“Are you twins?”

“We’re eleven months apart to the day.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the taller girl, Tawny says.  “So many people think that” and “yeah, Mom calls us her Irish Twins. She’s older.”

“Older but smaller.” Sara giggles a wide smile with spaced front teeth pearly white.

“Taller and smarter.” Tawny shoots back.

I raise an eyebrow and flash a crooked smile.

“But this guy.” Tawny pulls the boy by the arm and gives him a big kiss on the cheek. “He’s my other half.”

“The good half,” he says. “And fifteen minutes older.”

“Brat.” She digs her perfectly pink fingernails into his side and pushes him away.

Their eyes are deep blue outlined with turquoise and glimmer like the ocean. I am drawn to Ty but watch Tawny as she floats around the tables. She smooths her hand across the peach sundress, one of Celia’s favorites. Feeling every crease and wrinkle, like a swan preens her band of chicks, gentle and soft.

“How do I look?” Tawny asks her mom. She holds the dress under her chin, swaying, and batting her eyes.

“Lovely, silly.” Her mom smiles and turns to me, hands snug on her hips. I shove my hat under the table and run my fingers through my curls. They spring back. “Wow! You have eyes like a cat! Beautiful. And I’d give anything for that auburn hair.” 

“I’d love all those curls,” Tawny says. “Sassy and wild. No more curling irons and brushes, a shake of my head and I’m ready to go.” She reels closer, and her finger feels a curl. “Yep, just like silk. I knew it.”

I turn away. My cheeks warm and I’m sure I’m blushing. I can’t believe she touched my hair. My lips curl under and pinch tight. “Why thank you, so sweet of y’all,” I say with my best southern charm. “My sister Darcy has black curls with eyes like mine too,” I awkwardly add. “She’s off with my Pa; they should be back anytime now.”

“How about these dogs?  I’d love to take them home. They for sale?” Ty asks.

Ty’s one dimple pinches tight on his left cheek. So dreamy. My heart pounds and the rainbow on my shirt rises and falls with steady thumps. I swear they sound like thunder and loud enough to hear. “Never! Ain’t nobody taking my fur balls anywhere.”

Not Tinker, a broad, lean Doberman with a red coat the same auburn color of my hair. And not Shag, a tri-color blue merle Australian shepherd that likes to herd people, not animals. We found him out in the woods when he was just a pup, and Celia rescued Tinker from the animal shelter on her 9th birthday when he was yet another malnourished pup.

“These fur balls are sticking with me for life,” I say.

“Aw, but animals love me.” Ty grins.

“We call him the animal whisperer. They all flock to him,” Tawny says. “I love animals, too. After I graduate high school, I plan to do animal conservation work in Kenya.” She smiles, chin up, dipping her hips left to right, as if an ice cube slid down her shirt. Her big dreams interest me.

I raise my head like a deer in a thicket. “Traveling to far away countries helping animals would be amazing. Pure love. One of my new dreams. Not a bad breath in their body.” Unless a bad human gets in the way. Trying to tame the wild ones or hurt the domesticated ones.

“Well, don’t lose the dream, good things happen when you believe. Maybe we could go together?”

 I kind of like this edgy girl. Celia would have too.

“Yeah, maybe.” I tuck my head back into my shoulders and straighten the items on the table. But how would a girl like me ever get out of this mess?

Mama comes from the house whistling the gospel song, Way Down Yonder with a pitcher of sweet tea in one hand, and paper cups in the other. Showing her enthusiasm, for public display only, of course. “Y’all want some sweet tea? The mountain summers are hotter than a witch brewing a spell.”

 “I love sweet tea,” Tawny says. She holds her cup like a fancy glass of champagne pinky tipped up. Everything about Tawny is pretty—wide eyes and a chiseled nose, a bit long, snug between high cheekbones like Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty.  

“If you need anything, holler.” Mama walks toward the garden, shovel in one hand and trowel in the other.

The sisters continue to browse the tables touching and lingering. I know the feeling. Mama has to hog-tie me to get me out of the stores. Although I haven’t shopped much since Celia passed. Celia had a passion for fashion, which she got from Mama, which Mama got from Gran, which rubbed off on me. Genetics of family is not to be taken lightly. Especially when it comes to style. Celia planned to go to a fashion design school after she graduated. Clothes were her specialty. She could take a piece of fabric and create a masterpiece.

 I search for Ty. He swings in the shade of a tree, dogs stretched out close by. The tattered tire hangs by a frayed rope. If that swing could talk. It could be trouble. But it may be good, considering no one in the family talks much anymore. Been tied up way too many years. Something else Pa needs to fix around the house.

“Time to go troops.”

“Coming Mom,” The sisters say in unison.

“Maybe you can come over? Tawny says. We’re just down the road, the yellow house with the big columns.” I know the Healy Plantation well—everyone does. It’s one of the few good plantations; the Healey’s used their wealth to help people—not enslave them. A historic landmark, with tons of flowers, trees, and plants. The pale pink magnolias are my favorite.”

I play with the idea like a dog chasing his tail. “Maybe,” I push the word out. “Bye, y’all.”

“And bring my dogs,” Ty says.

I can’t decide whether to smile or stand guard. I feel my lips curl.

I watch them drive away until the last flicker of taillights gets swallowed up by the mountain. My heart thumps happy beats—about time some new people move in these tired backwoods. A bit pushy, but I think they mean well.

A smile lingers on my face, but my moment of happiness fades as Pa’s truck speeds up the driveway, then jolts to a stop.

Darcy hangs out the window. “They’re planning on tearing down the library. I know how much you and Ce—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know. Pa gives her a sour look and storms toward the shed lugging a metal sheet on his back.

Celia and I spent many hours in the library, you’d think it was our home.

 I step back, palm to mouth, and squeeze my eyes shut. My body limps like a pot of cooked greens and my brain clicks like balls rolling through a pinball machine. Destroying the library would crush Celia. She’d never stand for it. And what will happen to the Wayward Witch?