June, Reimagined (38)
“Put your weapon down, Peanut, or I’ll be forced to give you another wet willy.”
June turned. Lennox was in his full Viking costume, minus the helmet that had covered his face this morning. Sunbeams streaked across him, making him look almost holy. His entire face came into stunning focus.
“Don’t move.” June angled the camera up to his sharp jawline, more anxious than she had ever been to capture an image. The sun reflected off Lennox’s armor and made his dark hair glow auburn. Yes, he looked beautiful through the camera. Maybe the most beautiful image June had caught yet, but the gravity of the shot was in the faint crinkle lines around his eyes, his cocky half smile, the lift of one eyebrow.
June captured the image: a brave, gorgeous, and chiseled Viking, but also a boy yearning to let go and have fun.
She lowered the camera. Lennox was like a Van Gogh painting. He was a distinct, concrete image, complete and whole, but on closer examination, June saw all the individual brush strokes, a vast palette, each conveying a feeling that made him much more complex. And it only made her want him more.
She turned away and resumed taking pictures of the band, attempting to calm her racing heart. Lennox stood directly behind her, his body faintly touching hers, bringing with it heat.
“Then you like it?” His breath warmed her ear.
God, June was about to lose herself. Between the Viking costume, bagpipes, and idyllic sunny weather, Eva’s Scottish erotic novel wasn’t far off. June gathered herself before she did something she’d regret, like rip off her bodice and make him satisfy her burning loins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even like you.”
Lennox stepped back. “I meant the camera, Peanut.”
His voice was cool, a smack to her face. June pivoted, thoroughly embarrassed. “I love the camera. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever given me.” She wanted to say more—that with a simple gift Lennox had brought out a forgotten desire in her, changed her in a way she wasn’t even aware she needed.
But she never got the chance. Lennox was due back with the Jarl squad for an afternoon of visits to the local schools before the big event that night.
“How about one more?” June raised the camera to her eye, but Lennox gently lowered it.
“Don’t waste your film on me,” he said. “Save it for the things you like.”
SIXTEEN
The burning of the Knockmoral galley was like nothing June had ever seen in her twenty years. Over a thousand men marched through the streets, dressed in costumes ranging from Smurfs to astronauts to Saturday Night Fever disco outfits, complete with multicolored wigs, all following the Jarl squad at the front of the procession. The Guizer Jarl himself stood on the bow of the ship as it was paraded to the waterfront, the dark night lit with torches carried by the men as they chanted and sang the Up Helly Aa song.
Since the general public was not allowed at the burning site, Amelia took Eva, David, and June to a spot where she knew they would be out of the way but still able to view the men throwing their torches into the galley.
Surrounded by thick rings of people, the burning finally began. Torches were thrown into the ship. June had never seen so much fire in her life. She was humbled by how quickly the galley was engulfed in flame. As the longship burned, the men sang “The Norseman’s Home” in unison, a slow and haunting song June had never heard.
Fireworks lit the sky in a vivid display as the ceremony came to its end. They made their way to the hall, where all forty squads were expected to visit throughout the night. They would arrive in a parade, each squad with its offering of an entertaining act or dance. More music and drinking and dancing would follow.
Amelia, Eva, and June had dressed up for the evening. Amelia wore a tight green dress that accentuated her auburn hair and long, thin limbs. Eva opted for her usual all black—in fitted pants and a V-neck shirt that teased just enough of her neckline—but with a pair of red heels that made her look almost of average height.
June had dug deep in her dresser drawers for the only somewhat-festive outfit she had happened to pack, an off-the-shoulder black sweater and shimmery purple pants. June had last worn the outfit on New Year’s Eve, when she and Matt had attended a party at Janie Langdon’s house with their high school friends, all home from college. She had put particular effort into her appearance that night, wanting to look extremely put together so no one from Sunningdale would see the mess she really was. In truth, June had felt as if she had been living in the world’s tiniest closet since Josh’s death. Each person who gave their condolences, each person who came by with food, each person who called to chitchat—they entered the closet, took more of June’s air, made it harder to breathe.
She had not felt like going to a party, but two and a half years of sorority training had served her well. Her hair had hung in loose waves down her back. Her makeup was precise, not too much but not too little. The statement piece—purple retro pants, tight at the waist, butt, and thighs and descending into wide bells at the bottom—had been found in a small boutique in Nashville when June and her roommate, Allison, had gone shopping one Saturday that fall. Allison had called them “fuck-me pants.” June had laughed and spent the money, but until New Year’s Eve, she hadn’t had the guts to wear them. That night June had slipped into the pants, hoping Allison’s declaration was true—that someone would pull June from her claustrophobic life, even if only for a few minutes, and numb the anger and sadness with kisses and sex.