Peaches 'N Cream

1. Heaven

JERICHO'S SHIFT WAS ALMOST OVER. He had already spent roughly two months of his summer vacation working at the only convenience store for the next few miles in Alamance County.

It was your run-of-the-mill bp gas station; the air conditioning only cut off during the hottest summer days. And the sun would shine straight into every crystal clear window until relatively 7:30 pm every day.

It was the only place where he could work within walking distance of his house, though, plus the view to and from wasn't too bad; the sun rising and setting was akin to a watercolor painting, drenching the sky in shades of peaches and cream.

Mountains piled onto the horizon as far as the eye could see, and if you looked hard enough, you could see cows, goats, and chickens grazing the lush farmland.

He almost liked the rusticity of it all; he'd never say that out loud, though, being a city boy at heart, living in the Caucasian part of northwest Brooklyn with his dad until he was 13.

He was allowed to settle down south in North Carolina with his mom and have an ordinary American teen life or live with his dad and stepmom in Toronto, Canada.

The former was chosen; even now, he doesn't regret it because it took him a few years to adjust here. He couldn't imagine how long it would've taken if he had moved to an entirely different country.

Today, however, was something else. He woke up with a migraine, which happened more often than he'd care to admit, but it didn't stop there. It just had to storm the night before, and the exact path he usually walked to get to the little store was riddled with puddles.

This trail also runs along one of the only main roads in the relatively large town, so he was splashed with mud and rainwater more than once on his way to work. And the dirt that caked his sepia-brown skin took more than enough of his precious time to scrub off in the tiny employee restroom.

An upside was that his favorite cream-colored hoodie remained entirely unscathed in his backpack. The downside? His dark blue jeans were filthy, and his hair also got wet; when he took out the twists, and it finally dried; let's just say it was big.

So, he remained behind the counter at the register after mopping up a slushy spill. Blood-red ice stained the cracks between the pearly-white tiles because some people don't know how to watch their kids, and he checked the state of his afro for the umpteenth time with his phone camera.

He screamed silently but eventually gave up, throwing his hands down and letting the thick, carob-colored corkscrews tumble over his shoulders. After attempting to put it up in a bun for the second time and the hair tie broke, landing god knows where; he was done bothering it for the rest of the night.

Getting up to look around for it seemed like a mighty excellent idea, though, because if Anne, his cross-eyed manager, found out he left anything, she would blow a gasket. But alas, someone pulled up to the small parking lot out front with their high beams on.

He already knew who it was. He'd recognize those matte black rims anywhere. The low growling of the navy blue Ford F-150's engine cut off along with the lights, and out stepped Joseph fucking Turner, son of one of the wealthiest farmers on this side of Carolina.

Calfskin Tecova's kicking up the sandy topsoil on the ground as he removed his hat and ran tanned fingers across his buzzed, sun-kissed blond hair. Jericho was pleasantly surprised that he had managed to avoid him all summer so far, him: one, Joseph: zero.

Joseph was practically the poster child for every white boy in the dirty south. He was the dreamy, six-foot-three quarterback of the best football team in the region, after all.