Weeds

November 15

The weirdest thing happened to me today.

I had to go over to Taylor’s house today to work on that stupid Multimedia project. It was absolutely terrifying. I mean, we’re from two completely different worlds, and this fact was thrown front-and-center from the moment I pulled up in front of his house.

I had taken Mom’s car (like I do every day for school. It’s not like she uses it) and showed up at eleven this morning, like he had asked me to…ordered me to, really… (He has terrible manners….absolutely no respect whatsoever) Anyway, I pulled up in front of this freaking mansion and, afraid that I’d read the address wrong, I rechecked the note he’d given me. But the numbers on the paper matched perfectly the numbers on the front of the house.

…Oh my word. All I saw was rich, brown stone that looked imported (there’s no way that America could produce something that exotic), polished glass that soared for two full stories in a perfect half-hexagonal shape, and the greenest patch of sweet, rolling grass that I have ever seen. There were islands of mulch dotted around the yard that were so brown they were almost black. In this mulch were trees cut into perfect shapes: spheres, cones, and cylinders. There was an actual plan in how the flowers were placed. The house was only two floors, like ours, and it was fairly close to the curb, like ours, but it was much more imposing than ours could ever dream of being.

Quite frankly, it scared the shit out of me.

Cautiously, I opened the creaky car door and stepped out, flinching as my chain scraped along the metal, making this slithering shink sound that seemed almost foul. The street was so quiet. There were no dogs barking or cars backfiring or boys running around in color-coordinated sweatshirts shouting and yelling insults. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Just standing outside, my arms seemed too long, my torso too bulky, and my head too fat and heavy. I was a fish out of water, a bird out of sky, a hardcore rocker jammed into a Classic Lit book club!

I wanted to go home!

Sighing and mustering up some non-existing courage, I stepped up on the curb (the sidewalk was white. I thought sidewalks were supposed to be gray…!), took a deeeeeeep breath, let it out, took another deeeeep breath, and practically peed myself when the front door to the mansion flew open.

A dark shape stood in the doorway: a thick, t-shirted frame with a slouched posture…and a fat head wearing only a scowl. Automatically, I adopted the same body language. I’m sure it looked more punked out and awesome on me than it did on him. His two hundred dollar hair-do kinda screwed up his attempted tough/don’t-mess-with-this persona, making him look more jackass than bad-boy.

“Come on in,” he grumbled when I made it up the walk. He stood aside and let me through the door. Standing in what I think rich people call the ‘foyer,’ I almost passed out. The stupid, useless waste of space was almost bigger than our living room!

Dammit. What had I gotten myself into? I think jumping headfirst into one of the teen parties back in my hometown would have caused less trauma, and those things were death traps!
He led me to what he called his father’s ‘office,’ which is just a fancy-shmancy word for a goddamn computer room. It housed ancient books and a high-tech desktop…and thousand dollar leather furniture. A real ‘office’ has the cheapest chair/desk set possible and a twenty year old dinosaur of a computer. This room did not qualify as an ‘office.’

Taylor collapsed into the computer chair and slouched down, looking up at me with a pettish scowl.

I stood there, staring around the room. “Sooo…Nice place.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Stop pretending. We both know this situation is crap. Let’s just get it over with. Quit the small talk.”

…Ooookay. Whatever you say.

Before we could even get the software up and running, the doorknob turned, snatching my attention. Oh, shit, now what? Was a young woman in a black-and-white French maid costume gonna come in bearing a feather duster, her black hose stretched over her perfectly lengthy legs? Or would it be an older woman, her hair clenched in a tight bun, her clothes ironed severely, and a cold glare shooting down her sharp nose? Or how about an old, bald man in a silken nightgown sporting a cup of English tea? None of that would have been out of place.

A woman in her early thirties poked her head in, two thick ropes of beads clanking around her neck. “Taylor, dear? Is your…” Her words died in her throat.

She’d seen me, you see.

I swallowed hard, pressing my lips together tightly. I wanted to leave so badly.

“Yeah,” Taylor grumped. “This is Jordan.” He glanced at me coolly. “This is my mom.”

I nodded uncertainly, not entirely sure how to respond.

“Right,” the woman said hastily. “I’ll just…ah…bring some refreshments, then? You like chocolate chip cookies, Jordan?”

I blinked, surprised at the acknowledgement. “Um…yeah, actually.”

The woman smiled. She smiled. No, not an icy wish-I-didn’t-have-to-look-at-you smile, but a real one. I almost had a heart attack. I had no idea what expression was on my face, but I was sure it wasn’t a positive one. Taylor’s mom nodded once and retreated, shutting the door behind her. I flinched as the door clicked into place. Leave it open! I wanted to cry out. It’s my only escape route!

Twenty tortured (verrrry quiet) minutes later, she came back, bearing this tray with a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies and two tall glasses of milk. This image was a little scary. Mothers actually do this sort of thing? I had always thought it to be something the cookie companies invented for their commercials.

She set the tray down on the desk and stood there for a minute, biting her lip. Taylor never looked up from the computer screen. “Jordan?” she ventured, finally.

“Yeah?” I croaked. I cleared my throat hastily. “Yeah?”

“Would you help me with something?” She gestured toward the door.

Oh, shit. My mom is yelling at me to fix supper. I’ll have to finish this story tomorrow. Trust me, you’re gonna want to read what happened next.