Take This to Your Grave

Things were the same the next morning, but my dad sat beside me at the counter. His hand dangled off his lunch pail, his eyes meeting mine; "I've got a proposition for you."

I raised a brow at my dad, "What?"

He stuck his hand out, in between his forefingers was $20; "Cut the grass?"

"The grass?"

"Backyard. I would do it, but I get home too late."

I scooped cereal into my mouth, chewed, swallowed and then looked at my dad, "Do it on Saturday."

"C'mon, Naomi," my dad grinned, "Just cut it. It won't take long. Besides, you always complain that you have nothing to do while I'm gone."

I exhaled and snatched the 20, "All right."

He kissed my cheek, "Thanks, honey. I'll be home at 6."

"Bye dad." I waved as he headed out.

I looked at the 20, groaning outwardly. I stuffed it into the pocket of my pajama bottoms and finish my cereal.

It took me a good 2 hours before I actually put on sweats and a tank top to cut the grass. It was 10 am, and I could hear another mower going. I looked around the yard, seeing the grass was as high as my heel; "This isn't bad."

I went to the shed and began to pull the mower out. It's heavy and rusty, and I pushed it out, cutting my thumb on the loose melt bar. I hissed and sucked on the cut, "Dammit." I moved my thumb from my mouth and continued to push the mower around the front of the concrete and then I pulled the lever.

It started with a loud roar and I began to push it around; trying to remember how my dad taught me. I did a pretty horrible job until it sputtered and died. "Son of a bitch!" I cried out loudly.

A familiar husky laugh rang in my ears. I look for Pete; he entered through the back gate; "The infamous Naomi mows lawns along with walking dogs?"

"Hi Pete," I waved to him with my bum thumb, "I don't walk Princess until tomorrow."

"Nah, I came over to see you."

I fought the urge to grin; crushes suck. I swallowed the growing nervousness; "How come?"

"My friends suck and have jobs. You're the only person who isn't busy and isn't my brother."

"Oh, well," I cleared my throat, "Uh, I gotta finish the yard."

He looked around, grimacing, "You suck at mowing."

"I'm a girl!" I exclaimed, smiling, "I don't do yard work. I should be painting my nails or something."

Pete came over; he wore shorts, and a shirt with Arma Angelus written in sharpie across it. It was small, and looked homemade. "What's Arma Angelus?"

"My band."

My eyes widened as he took over the mower, "You're in a band? Cool."

He laughed, "Uh, I don't know how cool you'd think we are."

"What do you sound like?"

He shrugged, "After I mow the lawn for you, you can come over and I'll play you something."

No way was I hesitant; "Okay. I'll go shower, I'll be over if you're done before then."

"Sweet." Pete pushed the mower and then looked at the gauge. "It's empty. You got gas?"

"Check the shed."

He saluted me and headed towards it. I went inside, feeling excited. It has been so long since I actually got excited to go to someone's home.

It took me about 30 minutes to get ready. The mower had stopped while I was in the shower. But after I was dressed and gone downstairs, Pete was in my kitchen. I was surprised to see him, even more so that he made himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

He just looked at me when I confronted him; "I got hungry." His words come out muffled because of the mess of banana and peanut butter.

"My dad would kill me if he saw you in here." I went over and tugged at his arm.

"I'll pretend I broke in." He joked, he swallows all his mess. "You aren't mad are you?"

I shook my head, leading him out the front door, "No. Just... Y'know, don't do that stuff. Kinda freaked me out."

"Sorry," his reply was earnest, but he wouldn't look at me. "C'mon."

I followed behind Pete, out the front gate and to his. I felt a bit nervous as soon as he pushed the door open. It was quiet, and it was ultra clean; "Are you hungry?"

I shook my head, "No."

Pete and I entered the kitchen; he went to the fridge and got two cans of pop, sliding one to me; "Follow me."

Pete was quick to move out the kitchen and down a short, narrow hall. The layout of the house was a lot different that ours; our basement entry was in the garage, whereas theirs was a door beneath the stairs. Pete opened the door and I followed him down the stairs; the basement looked like ours; like a living room; but ours had boxes and tools, theirs had a pool table, a washer and dryer, a black refrigerator, couches and an old TV.

I popped open my soda can and took a drink, still walking behind him. He led me towards the plush, brown couch; I saw a black backpack, a few guitar cases and two amps. Pete and I sat down and he grabbed the back pack, setting his open can down.

"I got a CD." He told me, "CD player, too. I know we suck, so you don't need to say it."

I laughed softly, "I might like it."

"You'll be the first."

I shook my head as he took out the CD, The player and headphones; "How did you make an album then, if everyone hates your band?"

He looked up at me with a smile; "We play for the deaf. They like to watch us move around and scream on stage."

I laughed again; Pete placed the player in my lap, and then gave me the headphones. I took in a deep breath, dramatically to tease him; he just grinned and pressed play. I heard loud drumming and fast rhythm of guitars and a thump of bass. I liked the music; and then I heard screaming, and I looked up at Pete. He looked at me expectantly, the corners of his lips turned up.

I didn't hate it but I didn't like it. It was okay. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I mean, if that was even possible. Pete's like an iron vault.

Soon, the first song ended and it quickly moved on to the next. I liked the next one, "What's this one called?"

"Cold Pillows and Warm Blades."

I continued to listen to the CD until it was over. The whole thing was alright, and I prepared to tell Pete so.

"Alright, critique me, Naomi." He said as I handed the CD player over.

I tweaked my lips, "You guys aren't horrible."

He grinned, "I knew it."

"Wait," I began, "I don't like that kind of... Hardcore music. I like... Uh," I trailed, "I don't know how to specify."

"It's cool, Naomi." He put his bag away, and took a drink of his can.

"I don't want to be rude." I confessed.

"You're not."

"I liked that one song."

He patted my knee, "It's cool," he stressed, "Don't worry."

I gave a nod, "So, what do you play?"

"I don't play, I'm the singer."

My eyes widened, "That was you?"

He nodded, taking another sip, "Yep."

Gushing, I exclaimed; "How do you do that? Scream like that? That's amazing!"

He laughed, "I don't know... I just do it, y'know?"

I blinked and shook my head, "You're amazing."

"I suck live though."

I exhaled a small laugh, "I can't imagine you screaming like that."

"You want to come to a show?"

I shrugged, "Maybe... If my dad lets me."

This sneaky smile came across his face, "Sneak out."

"Are you trying to turn me onto the dark side?" I joked.

"Maybe."

I shook my head at him, "No thanks, buddy."

"It's not bad to let loose once in a while."

"I know that, but I can't disobey my dad. If it were my mom, I would totally sneak out and be a bad girl."

Pete smiled still, "Okay, okay. But, one day, you'll promise to come?"

I nodded, "Yes."

He stuck his hand out, and out emerged his pinky. I laughed; "Pinky promise."

I wrapped my little finger with his, "Pinky promise."