Peaches

third week of June, when Birdie would trek across the acreage and go pick them for Poopie to make pie.
    Birdie could see a few of the newly arrived workers crisscrossing the grounds, and this made her smile too and give them little waves. Spring meant the return of all of the workers, who were old friends to Birdie and her dad. She looked forward to seeing them all roll in the way other people might look forward to visits from relatives. They were so much family that Birdie couldn’t imagine life without them.
    Every year the orchard produced batches of cider to distribute to farm stands in the area and batches to distribute to wineries that would turn the juice into wine. Birdie had been handedthe job of supervising the press two years ago as her first major responsibility. Now it was just one of her many duties.
    When she got to the cider house, tugging at the leaves of the nearby magnolia as she passed it, she could hear clanking inside, and she slowed down, wondering if a possum had gotten in. She held the bucket back over her shoulder like a weapon, prepared to throw it if she needed to.
    She peered around the corner of the door. But there was no possum in sight. Instead a boy leaned over the press with his profile to her. He had a nice, straight-bridged nose, brown hair, and almond-colored arms, which were stretched over the press, scraping a scrub brush back and forth. Crap. Birdie would have preferred the possum.
    Birdie’s hands immediately flew to her sloppy ponytail. She hated talking to strangers. Especially guys her age. Especially good-looking ones. Living on an orchard and being homeschooled, she had the social prowess of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
    “Um,” Birdie began, preparing to say hi, and introduce herself, and ask him if he was the new cider guy. But instead she took one step forward and squish. Birdie went flying, her feet sliding forward and up into the air and her butt landing with a thud, followed by her head. A splurt of goo came flying out of nowhere into her face. Another soaked its way through her shorts and onto her butt cheeks.
    Birdie had a straight view of the ceiling for a moment before the guy’s face appeared above her, his eyebrows knit in concern and his mouth pursed in an “ouch” expression. He had perfect eyebrows. Damn. He looked good.
    Birdie remained lying with her eyes on the ceiling, toomortified to stand up and a surge of heat racing through her stomach. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” She wanted to wait till the red ran out of her cheeks. But she felt his hands on her shoulders and he was pulling her up, and she felt herself go redder.
    Birdie looked around her. She was sitting in a pile of old moldy peach sludge.
    “Lo siento,” he said.
    “It’s okay. Not my fault. I mean, not your fault, totally my fault,” she said, trying to climb onto her feet. She was halfway up when she realized that her butt was sticking out and that her boobs were probably looking all lopsided and big.
    “I’m Birdie,” she said, reaching out a hand.
    “Enrico,” he said with a heavy accent. “Nice to meeting you.”
    He took her floppy, halfhearted hand in his strong one and shook once, the rough of his palms scratching against the rough of hers.
    “Okay, well, I just brought a bucket down,” Birdie said, wiping the slime off her right butt cheek. “If you need one. Um, if you need anything else…”
    Enrico was looking at Birdie with a strange smile. She lost her train of thought. Her voice stuck in her throat and she swallowed. He wiped at his forehead.
    “Come se dice…tienes la cara sucia.” He rubbed harder at his forehead.
    Birdie tried to remember what little Spanish she knew. Why had her mom made her take French when they were surrounded every summer by a ton of Spanish speakers?
    “You want something for your itchy forehead?” Birdie ventured. Maybe the guy had poison ivy.
    Enrico shrugged. “P-pardon me,” he stammered, grinning, “but you have peaches on your forehead.”
    Birdie rubbed at her forehead with the back of her wrist and looked at the spot it left on her arm.
    “Oh. Thanks. That’s, um, very polite of you.”
    Enrico broke into a smile, then started laughing softly. He rolled his pretty brown eyes. “Pardon me, but you have peaches on your forehead,” he repeated, laughing at himself.
    The laughter was contagious, especially with Birdie’s nervousness. She giggled.
    “Pardon me, but there are peaches on my butt,” she replied,