Shiny new homes dotted the surrounding mountains. They were built for retirees or as summer houses for people escaping the heat of Florida or the crowds of New York, Atlanta, or Charlotte. In the dead of winter, those mountains were dark. In the summer, the lights from the homes flickered from the slopes like distant fireflies flittering far above us.
When the houses’ occupants came down into the valleys, they headed to Asheville, Hendersonville, or Waynesville—places with restaurants, shopping, and art galleries.
They didn’t come to Millerton. No one did. It was a place people were from, not a destination.
Sarah was the exception. Her father had grown up in Millerton and left for college, a common path. He’d married and lived in Charlotte with his wife and daughter, Sarah. When they divorced, he’d moved back to Millerton, sold insurance from a storefront, married a local woman, and moved into the house between Xander and Blake. Sarah had stayed with her mother, except for a few weeks each summer with her father.
Her annual arrival caused a stir. She was an outsider, of course, someone we didn’t see every day at school. She carried a spice of big-city sophistication we weren’t accustomed to. But unlike a lot of the visitors who flocked to the mountains, she didn’t think of herself as above us. She was friendly to everyone and fun to hang around.
As if that weren’t enough, she was beautiful. Each summer, she grew prettier. Bright, sparkling eyes. Thick, luscious hair. Ever-developing curves to her body. I suspected every boy in Millerton fantasized about her. During her summer weeks in Millerton, she had a constant stream of boys hanging out on her porch, under the watchful eye of her father.
Xander also monitored the comings and goings. The day she arrived each summer, he would call me and announce the news. From his den, he could peer through his blinds and watch her without her knowledge. He would bitterly tell me about boys who chatted for hours with her, asked her out on dates, or attempted to kiss her. And he gleefully shared the times he saw her reject a suitor.
Blake certainly noticed her, too, though he was less circumspect. He was often sitting on her front steps, much to Xander’s disgust. That, of course, meant his best friends Dean and Russ were there, along with most of the other popular kids from school. We waited for them to leave before visiting her.
Someone like Sarah would normally never give losers like Xander and me the time of day, but she was different. She was as friendly to us as she was to them. Maybe she didn’t stay in Millerton long enough each year to learn the social pecking order. Or maybe she just didn’t care about cliques.
Our attraction to her only grew when we discovered she loved to sing. When she found out I played, she asked me to bring my guitar to her porch. I learned dozens of songs just because she wanted to sing them and I didn’t want to disappoint her.
The first time I played in front of a group of people was on her porch. We were thirteen. My hormones were running rampant. A sudden squeak in my voice would punctuate every other sentence. A whiff of her shampoo drove me wild, the memory of which would feed many a late-night fantasy when I was alone in my dark room.
When Blake and a mob of his buddies interrupted one of our music sessions on her porch, I wanted to slip away, but she stopped me. She begged me to accompany her in a song. Nervously, I picked my way through the first chords. When her voice rose into the air, the thought of our audience disappeared, and the notes came flawlessly to me. My fingers danced, building the foundation for her voice as it soared.
When the song ended, the other boys cheered. She beamed, wrapped her arms around me, and hugged.
Blake shouted, “More! More!”
I didn’t have a choice but to continue. Partially because I couldn’t move the guitar out of my lap without displaying how her hug had affected me. More because I didn’t want to disappoint her. Mostly, though, their applause tickled my soul.
Of course, they were celebrating her voice more than my guitar, but I was there. I was a part of the song. I wasn’t the shy kid sitting in the back corner away from the action. My peers, who only had ever seemed to know me as Dean’s brother, were applauding me. It was my first taste of what it was like to play music for others, even if they were just other kids from school.
The heat came early in the middle of May, several weeks before the start of the summer vacation between our junior and senior years. We saw it as the last summer of childhood freedom. A year later, some would be preparing for college. Others would be taking jobs in the local mills or on the farms. A few would head off to the military. I was already mapping out a plan to pursue my rock-and-roll dream.
Early one Saturday morning, Xander called me at the house with exciting news. Sarah had arrived early. She almost never came for a weekend, so we didn’t know what it meant.
I hurriedly finished my chores and took off for town in the clunker of a car I’d bought with my busking money. She wasn’t on her porch when I arrived, so I walked into Xander’s house without knocking on the door. Anna would already be down at the store, so I never knocked.
Xander was standing in the den at the side window, peering through the blinds, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sarah. His infatuation with her had grown over the years. His fantasy had evolved to the two of them marrying, moving to Charlotte, and raising perfect children. He didn’t have a job in this narrative, but it didn’t really matter. It was just another childhood dream that would never come true.
We paced, chatted nervously, and paced some more. Every few minutes, he would walk over to the blinds and peer through. His fear, uttered over and over, was that Blake would see her outside and get to her first.
When he parted the blinds and gasped, I knew she was there. I raced over and looked out the window. She sat on their porch swing, rocking slowly. Alone. No Blake in sight.
Xander beat me out the front door because I paused to grab my guitar, but I was right on his heels. We were climbing the short flight of steps to her porch when we saw the tears in her eyes. When we asked why, she blurted, “My mom died.”
My heart cratered. Our excitement at seeing her turned to a crushing sorrow. Our ill-conceived fantasies of asking her out vanished. Our friend was hurting and needed us.
I sat on one side of her on that porch swing and Xander on the other, rocking and talking throughout the day. We let her tell the story haltingly as she struggled to explain.
Her mother had dropped her off at school, waved goodbye, and headed to her office job downtown. A speeding driver had cut her mother’s car off on the interstate, clipping the front bumper and sending it careening into the concrete barrier. The car had come to rest in front of a semi with brakes squealing as it tried—and failed—to stop in time. Firefighters struggled to cut her out of the car. Paramedics rushed her to the hospital. The principal knocked on the classroom door and asked for Sarah. Then came the horrifying news and the suddenness of being alone. Her father arrived a few hours later and held her as she sobbed.
We didn’t ask questions. We didn’t really need any more details. All we could do was sit with her and listen. Sometimes, she spoke clearly. Sometimes, the words devolved into sobs.
Blake came over midmorning, heard the news, and hugged her. Rough, tough Blake reduced to teary eyes. Soon after he left, word spread quickly. In small towns, it never took long. Others came and went throughout the day, but we didn’t leave her side until it was fully dark and she finally went inside.
We arrived early again on Sunday and sat with her. Monday, we had school but joined her as soon as classes were over. We let her talk about her mom, her life in Charlotte, and her friends back there. The teachers at her old school said she’d done enough work to pass her courses for the junior year. She was moving to Millerton for her senior year, was going to graduate with us then return to the city and her old life.
On the fourth day, we arrived after school to see her rocking in the swing. When we mounted the steps, she stood and shook her head. “Let’s go do something. I’m tired of sitting here.”
I looked at my old Honda Civic sitting in Xander’s drive. Neither one of them owned a car, so that put the onus on me. And I was never sure if the old thing was going to break down. “Where?”
She closed her eyes and thought. “I’ve never seen where you rehearse.”
Xander shrugged. “It’s just the back of my mom’s store.”
“Sounds cool. Let’s go.”
She stuck her head in the door and told her father. After the usual admonishments from him—“Drive safe, and be home before supper”—we piled into my car and headed the few blocks to downtown. With a wave to Xander’s mom as we passed through the store, we carried my guitar and amp into the converted space in the rear. Xander’s drums waited in the corner.
“Play something,” she begged, so we did. Slow and mournful to match our spirits. I sang the opening chorus with my weak, warbling voice. When she joined in, I let her take the lead. Her voice rose, echoing off the brick walls.
When the song ended, we stood looking at each other. A slow clap drew our attention to the rear entrance to the store. Anna Stewart leaned against the doorframe and applauded.
The Wicked Centipedes were born.