Boys & Things

You know what really fucking sucks? Rude awakenings. And I can’t think of anything more awful than having someone murder kittens outside your window. Or, y’know, mow your lawn. But I think they make the same noise. Why do people have to mow at god-awful times? Wait until like noon! Then everyone’s awake and everyone’s happy. But when you mow at fucking 8am, you know you’re bound to piss someone off.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, rolling over in my bed and pulling my pillow over my face. “For the love of all that is holy, make it stop!” I press harder down on the pillow but it doesn’t stop the noise or make it any quieter. In fact, it gets louder. I sleep with my window open because it gets stuffy in my room. I throw the pillow across the room and sit up, sure that I look terrible. I’m a restless sleeper and my hair always goes crazy in the morning, like I stuck my finger into an electrical outlet. I pad across my room and throw open my gauzy curtains. I nearly faint.

Standing outside my window, earphones in, shirt off, pushing our rusty red lawn mower is none other than Tate Armstrong. I try not to stare but it’s hard. He is such a fine specimen. His tanned skin is smooth and shiny with sweat. I’m pretty sure my mouth has fallen open and my eyes are wide and bulging but I can’t look away.

I’m standing there awkwardly, drooling over Tate, when he looks up for a moment. Something must catch his eye, probably me, and he turns. I drop to my knees so quickly, I nearly bite my tongue off. For a moment, I’m on the floor, on my hands and knees, palms stinging, heart racing and then I realize: I live here. It is perfectly okay for me to be staring out my window in the morning when someone decides to skin puppies outside my house. So then I stand up and pretend like it never happened even though Tate is staring directly at me.

I pretend I don’t see him. I go about my merry way and when he goes back to his mowing, I sprint into my bathroom. I look even worse than usual. My hair is everywhere and my sunburn is still glaringly obvious and shit, does it hurt. I hadn’t felt it in my annoyance at being woken up but now it hits full force. My face feels like it’s on fire. It also itches something awful. I resist the urge to drag my fingernails across my skin and rip it off. Instead, I clench my hands into fists and then try to remember where the aloe vera is usually kept. It’s probably in the guest bathroom where we keep the first aid kit. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to face both my dad and Tate this early in the morning looking like something a giant monster chewed up and spat out but my face is screaming so I have no choice.

My house is quiet as I tiptoe through it, avoiding those pesky squeaky spots in the floor. As I enter the living room, I straighten up and frown. My dad’s car is gone. No wonder it’s so quiet. I ditch my lame attempt at being stealthy and walk normally into the guest bathroom. The aloe vera is sitting out on the counter with a note written in my dad’s scratchy hand.

Thought you might need this today. I really am sorry. Love, Dad.

I crumple up the note and throw it in the trash. Then I twist open the cap of the aloe vera and rub the gel all over my face. The noise that escapes my lips, a soft sort of moan, is embarrassing. I rinse my hands off and carry the aloe vera back into my bedroom. I make it as far as the living room when I notice someone sitting there. I stop.

“Um, the lawn is outside,” I tell Tate. He grins at me, his eyes growing crinkly. He stands and I note sadly that he’s put his shirt back on. It sticks to his body, suctioned by sweat, like a second skin.

“I know,” he says. “I’m done for today.”

“For today?” I ask. I can hear the dread in my voice. No more sleeping braless. With this reminder, I cross my arms over my chest and hope to god I haven’t been nipping. Tate’s eyes dip to my chest momentarily and then back up to my face. I give him points for not wincing or running away screaming.

Tate nods. “I’ve been hired to clean up your lawn. I only managed to mow half the front lawn and the side before it got too hot out.” In this weather, all manual labor must be done before noon or after six unless you want to roast. I’m glad I managed to stay conked out since he must’ve gotten here early. “So I’ll be back bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“Great.” We stand there awkwardly for a moment. “What are you still doing here?”

Tate shoves his hands in his pockets. “I need to get paid,” he says.

Of course. Who willingly mows someone’s lawn this early without getting paid? But I have no money and even if I did, there’s no way I’m paying Tate for something my dad bought. I shrug. “I don’t have your money. Sorry.”

“I know,” Tate says. “Your dad left about fifteen minutes ago. He told me to wait for him if I finished before he got back. He’ll pay me extra for the inconvenience. Nice guy, your dad.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Do you have anything to drink?” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen and then I follow him into it.

“I’m sorry, but did you just call my dad nice?” My dad is a lot of things. Manwhore. Fat. Ugly. Hairy. Lazy. Maybe nice used to be on that list. But then he started fucking my best friend and now I just don’t feel any sympathy for him anymore.

Tate opens my fridge and digs around in there. I don’t actually know if we have anything to drink besides water but Tate comes up with a carton of orange juice. Personally, I hate orange juice. I didn’t even know Dad liked it. But then, as Tate’s pouring the juice into a glass with Bullwinkle on the front, I remember that orange juice is Kelly’s favorite. I grab the carton from Tate and pour it out onto the floor. Tate stares at me like I’ve just magically grown another head. The carton is still in my hand, upside, dripping into the puddle on the linoleum.

“Uh,” Tate says. His fingers twitch in the air and he curls them into a fist. He lowers his arms. His jaw clenches.

“Kelly likes orange juice,” I say by way of explanation.

“Right.” We stare at each other a little longer. The aloe vera has dried on my face and feels weird. I wonder if Tate can tell. That would be just perfect.

Now that it’s morning and the initial awfulness of yesterday appears in full force, the words just keep coming out. “Kelly was my best friend but she’s not anymore because she’s sleeping with my dad which is why my dad’s not nice because why do you sleep with your daughter’s best friend that’s just wrong,” I ramble, “and her brother, Greg, is dating Ben now and I’m not dating Ben now because he’s gay and now people keep asking me if I’ll help them find out if they’re gay and how am I supposed to react to that.” I say all of this with one breath and by the end, I’m panting and my eyes are all watery and my chest is really tight. I try to breathe but I can’t.

“Whoa, are you okay?” Tate asks. I reach my hand out and feel around for something to grab on to. My hand closes around the back of a chair when lights go off in my vision. Everything feels like it’s spinning. I don’t even notice that Tate helps me to sit down and then makes me stick my head between my knees. For some reason, all I can think about is that if I were a guy and removed some lower ribs, I could give myself a blowjob. My whole brain just focuses on that thought until the spinning stops and I can breathe again.

“Are you okay?” Tate repeats. I nod. My head is starting to feel heavy with blood so I look up. Tate hands me a glass of water, which I sip while he grabs paper towels and then kneels down to clean up my mess. His movements are methodical, every wipe the same length. I stare at him because I just bared my soul to Tate Armstrong and then nearly fainted and now he’s cleaning my floor. I hear a car door slam and then Dad walks in, whistling with Kelly on his arm. Tate stands up and his eyebrows raise as he surveys the odd couple. I just feel sick again and drop my head into my hands.

“Oh, Tate!” Dad fishes around in his pockets and hands Tate two twenties. “Thanks, son.” I make a gagging noise. I’m ignored. Tate accepts the money and hesitates. I can see his sneakers out of the corner of my eye. After two beats, though, he leaves. I don’t stay long after that. I go into my room without looking or saying anything to either Dad or Kelly. I toss my pills, sunscreen, aloe vera, and a change of clothes into a backpack, slide on flip flops and crawl out my window. I don’t want them to know and I don’t want to see them. The grass looks nice now that it’s cut.

In the backyard, Henry gives a pathetic bark and starts whining. I glance back at my room. His leash is in the garage. But I crawl back into my room and unlace a pair of shoes. I tie the ends together and get Henry. He’s pretty well-behaved and I’m thankful. My shoelace leash is pretty weak. If he really wanted to he could easily get away.

“Now Henry, behave,” I tell him sternly. He wags his curly tail happily. “Come on, I need a bathroom.”