I stood up again, ready to go across the street to the park. It wasn’t a big park, but there was grass and a few trees growing up around the empty bottles and McDonald’s bags.
The girl on her bike completed another lap of the park. She stopped her bike and looked at me. She seemed like she was about my age, but it’s hard to tell. Her skin was golden brown, and her black hair poofed out from under her helmet. She smiled at me. I hadn’t seen anyone my age here in this neighborhood. I was about to go across the street to try to get her attention when I heard the door to the apartment building open behind me, then rattle shut.
I turned around. An old man walked out carrying a watering can. He didn’t even look at me. He tottered across the rocks to fill the can at a spigot before walking over to the gold-flowering shrubs and pouring water over them. He leaned back to balance the heavy watering can. The rocks clattered under his feet as he went from one bush to the other.
I looked back across the street to where the girl had stood, but the sidewalk was empty. I sat back down and watched as the old man watered each shrub in turn. When he finished, he sat across from me on the stoop, breathing heavily.
Beads of sweat sat on his forehead even though it wasn’t hot yet. His wispy white hair stuck out in all different directions, but his shirt was neatly pressed. The top several buttons were open, showing gold chains hanging from his thick neck.
He pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one. His eyes narrowed as he stared at me.
“What?” the old man asked in a dry, dusty voice.
“Nothing,” I said.
The man took a long draw on his cigarette. “Those are Potentilla Fruticosa,” he said as if we had actually been having a conversation. He nodded at the bushes, their yellow blooms still holding the sparkling drops of water.
“Cool,” I said.
He blew out a mouthful of smoke. “If we don’t get any rain around here, they’re gonna dry up like figs.” He looked at me again. “Who are you? You live here?”
“I’m Jeremiah,” I said, holding out my hand. He didn’t take it, just looked at me. I continued, “I live in number 30 with my dad. Just for the summer.”
“Number 30?” he said. He let out a puff of smoke and coughed. “Your dad isn’t that pansy that’s been flitting around here is he? What’s his name? Michael?”
“No,” I said. “That’s not my dad.” I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by pansy, but apparently, he didn’t like Michael all that much either. I decided that I might like this old guy. He seemed to have good judgment.
The man finished his cigarette in silence. He flicked the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk where it joined several others. With a grunt, he stood up and walked up the steps to the front door.
“See you later,” I said.
He turned and stared at me again. “Sure,” he said before disappearing into the building.
No sooner was he in the building than the girl on the bicycle appeared again. She walked her bike across the street towards the stoop. She smiled at me, her green eyes bright and alive as leaves. The sequins on her shirt made little halos of light all over the steps.
Normally, I would have been annoyed by someone so completely bright, the same way I was annoyed by Michael. But I think I was just relieved to see another person here under the age of 25.
“That man was Mr. Keeler,” she said. “He’s mean. On Mother’s Day, I was out picking a bouquet. I was going to take one of those flowers and he yelled at me.”
“They’re Potentilla Fruticosa,” I said.
“Oh.” She said it like it explained everything. We stared at each other for a minute before she said, “You’re new here. Let’s be friends.” She said it like it made perfect sense. Like it was obvious. Although that had been my original plan, just saying it out loud felt weird.
“I live right there.” She pointed at the building just across the parking lot. She held out her hand. “I’m Sage.”
I shook her hand. “Jeremiah.”
She smiled and stood there like she could have done it all day. I shifted. My cheeks got hot. Because I’m the kind of person who finds staring at other people to be weird, I tried to make conversation. “Why do you ride in circles?”
Sage sighed. “Mom thinks I’ll get lost or captured or something if I go out on my own.”
I laughed a little. “Me too,” I said. “My dad is the same way.” Although Dad probably didn’t care at all. It was just Michael. Dad really didn’t worry about stuff like that.
“Do you have a bike?” she asked. “We could go somewhere. Together. And I bet we wouldn’t get kidnapped.”
I laughed again.
In a few minutes, I found myself upstairs looking for my helmet and having to explain the whole situation to Michael.
“You would rather ride with a strange girl than help me wash walls?” Michael said with a smile.
As I turned to leave the apartment, he called out, “Make sure you two stick together. And don’t go too far. And don’t forget to bring water.”
“We’ll be fine,” I said.
“It’s supposed to be a cooker today,” he said. “You need to stay hydrated. And bring one for your friend, too.”
I went to the fridge and grabbed two bottled waters.
“And watch out for potholes,” Michael called after me as I left the apartment.
I finally managed to get my bike and all the water through the front door. Sage took a bottle of water and drank about half of it right there in front of the building.
“Is it okay with your dad?” she asked.
“He’s working,” I said.
“You have to hang out all day by yourself?”
I thought about Michael upstairs scrubbing the walls. I hesitated, but decided not to tell her about him.
“I don’t mind,” I said, trying to keep it from being a lie. I slipped my water bottle into the clip on the frame of my bike. “Where are we going?” I said.
“Exploring.” Sage began to pedal. “Follow me.”
I followed her down the alley to Stevens Ave, the street that ran in front of our building. We rode south to Franklin Ave, switching to the sidewalks to avoid the heavy traffic.
Being on my bicycle always felt free, but this time especially. There were no parents. No Michael. And most importantly, no Uni-cycle.
This felt a little more like summer.
Chapter
3
I sat on the couch in the living room while Michael rolled paint onto the walls. All the furniture was piled into the middle of the room so Michael had space. The air was thick with the smell of fresh paint. I flipped to the next page of the book on gardening I had checked out from the library on my adventure yesterday with Sage.
I couldn’t help smiling as I remembered how she used the library. She wandered the shelves, plucking books until she had a stack up to her chin. She sat next to me, opening to random pages, studying them, then moving on to the next book. I thought whimsical was probably the right word for her. I heard that word once and it seemed to fit.
“What are you smiling about?” Michael asked, turning from his work. He wiped a dot of paint off his finger onto a rag. Apparently, he couldn’t get his perfect painting clothes painty.
I adjusted my face. “Nothing,” I said. I watched him roll another line of white paint onto the wall. White seemed like a strange choice for a guy who rode a sparkling bicycle around the city. A faint shadow of the old peach paint showed through.
Whenever Mom and I painted, we added colors to the walls, turning our house into a collection of paint swatches. Yes, I had a lot of experience painting, but I wasn’t going to surrender that information to Michael.
“You know, I’d be on my second coat by now if you and Allen had remembered to tape off all the trim last night.”
“Sorry,”
I said. Although I wasn’t. When Dad had forgotten, I purposefully chose not to remind him. “We were at that Shakespeare play you wanted us to go to in Loring Park.” Michael had created a calendar with all the “activities” that Dad and I were supposed to do on our nights together.
My name wasn’t on the calendar tonight. The calendar said “M&A Cocktail Hour” which is apparently a thing they do with their friends every Thursday.
“Why are you painting everything white?” I asked. “Weren’t there any colors you liked?”
“White?” he said, sounding scandalized. “White? This is not white. It’s Hazelnut Cream.” He set the roller in the paint pan, marched to the printer and snatched a piece of paper. “Look,” he said, holding the paper up to the shiny paint. “See the undertones of golden brown?”
“I see undertones of peach.”
Michael sighed. “I think it’s going to take several coats. I was hoping it would be done before Pride. We’ll be busy all weekend. Hopefully I can get two coats on tomorrow.”
I turned to a page about turning and aerating soil. I thought again about the garden in front of the building and all the dirt suffocating under the plastic and rocks.
The door opened. “Honey, I’m home.” Dad walked in, adding the smell of engine oil and leather into the already full air.
“I can’t believe it’s that time already,” Michael pecked him a kiss. “I’m already late. I’ve got to throw together something for supper.”
“It’s looking good in here,” Dad said. “I didn’t know you picked white.”
“Hazelnut Cream,” Michael said.
“That’s exactly what I meant,” Dad said. He went to shower and Michael’s arms moved faster, frantically trying to finish off the wall. There was something kind of sad and desperate about it.
I sighed. “I can do that. You can go make supper.”
“You know how?” Michael stopped, staring at me.
“More or less,” I said. I definitely knew better than he did, zigzagging paint all over the place. “I’ve painted six or seven rooms at Mom’s house.”
Michael arched an eyebrow. He was probably wondering why I had waited so long to admit this, but he sighed, shrugged and handed me the roller.
I heard him clunking around the kitchen while I rolled. I had to admit that I liked rolling paint. I liked the stick of the paint, the way it left the wall looking perfect and clean. I moved the roller up and down the wall in long lines, each one extending the wet edge of the paint. I finished and was wrapping up the supplies as Michael brought a new smell to the table.
Dad walked out, wrapped in a towel. “What’s cookin’ good lookin?”
Michael waved his arms over the pile of pasta like the woman on Wheel of Fortune. “This is the new kale, hemp and flaxseed pesto from Real Foods.”
When we sat down to eat, it was annoyingly good.
After supper, Michael washed the dishes and I dried. Dad stood in the doorway to the kitchen. The bulk of him nearly filled the frame.
“I just got a call,” he said. “Mary and Jo can’t host cocktails tonight; Emma came home from daycare with a temperature.”
“Allen,” Michael dropped the plate he was washing back into the sink. “Please don’t tell me you volunteered us.”
“Why not?” Dad shrugged.
“Are you serious?” Michael’s voice was higher. “Have you noticed the living room? The walls are wet. Our furniture is pretending to be Mount Everest.”
“We can slide it back to make space.” Dad shrugged. “It’ll be fine.”
Michael stood with his hands on his hips. “What am I supposed to serve for drinks?”
Dad opened the fridge. “We’ve got a few beers. Some of this kombucha stuff. It’ll be fine.”
“It’ll have to be.” Michael said it as though there was no way it would be fine.
Dad wrapped his thick arms around Michael. “It’ll be fine.”
Michael relaxed a little, then strained against Dad’s strong arms. “I need to finish washing the dishes.”
Dad released him. “I’ll set up the living room,” Dad said.
As Dad left the kitchen, Michael shot me an exasperated look. I actually felt the same way about Dad’s spontaneity. He was always doing things like this, just flying by the seat of his pants. It drove me nuts, but there was no way I was going to show that to Michael.
I shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. It’s not like he’s springing a dinner party on you or something.”
Michael shook his head. “If he ever does that, I swear to…”
Dad returned the living room to a state of usability, keeping everything a safe distance from the walls. I pulled in some extra chairs. Michael produced a platter of chips and salsa and set out a neat row of glasses.
“We probably won’t need the beers,” Michael said. “The paint fumes are probably enough to get anyone tipsy.” Michael froze. “Heather! Heather is pregnant.”
He and Dad rushed to collect all of the fans from around the apartment. They made the living room feel like standing inside a tornado. The fumes blew away. Or, at least, most of them.
Pretty soon, the buzzer rang and people started filling the apartment. At his old place, Dad had a few friends from work, but nothing like this group. His old friends were a lot more…boring, for lack of a better word. Normal. His old friends looked more normal.
As the people came in, they all shook my hand and introduced themselves.
Emily had short, spiky hair and arms covered in star tattoos. She came in with someone named Robi, who I wasn’t sure was a man or woman. Robi had a wispy beard, but also boobs.
A woman named Sarah pulled me into a hug. Beads hung from her dreadlocks.
Jonathan and Ben looked older, their hair dusted with gray. They were perfect opposites. Jonathan was short with pasty white skin. Ben was tall, his gray hair bright against his dark brown skin.
“Little Jon and Big Ben,” Ben said. “Robin Hood and the clock. It’s the easiest way to remember us.”
“Big Ben is actually the name of the bell, not the clock,” Michael said.
Heather waddled in, obviously very pregnant. She pointed at the walls of the living room. “Cute color, Michael,” she said. “Like cream and hazelnuts. I want to pour your walls into my coffee.” She disappeared into the bathroom. Dave, her husband, followed her, saying that Heather needed his help to get up off the toilet these days.
“See?” Michael said to Dad. “She gets it.”
Then Michael leaned close to me. “She helped me pick out the color.”
When Heather and Dave came back into the room, Dave shook my hand and introduced himself as “Dave. The straight one.” Everyone else laughed.
As they all settled in, Michael got them all something to drink. I stood at the edge. Dad invited me to sit with them, but I left to go outside.
“Don’t go too far,” Michael said as I left. “It will be dark soon.”
I went across the street to the park, lying down on the prickly grass. Looking up at the building, I could see the shapes of people in the apartment. Dad had friends now. Something about the thought made me feel a little jealous.
I pulled a handful of grass and tossed it into the air. I lay back and watched the clouds moving. The sun was behind the line of buildings now, leaving the park cool and shady. I closed my eyes.
“What’s up?”
I opened my eyes. Sage stood over me.
“You’re bored a lot, aren’t you?” I asked her.
She laughed. “Yes.” She laid back beside me.
I looked back at the shapes of people in the apartment building. Then I looked over at Sage. Maybe I was getting a friend, too.
I wished I could tell her about Michael and how annoying he was and how right that very minute, my dad was upstairs with a whole
group of new friends. For some reason, though, I still didn’t want her to know any specifics about Dad or that he had a boyfriend.
I wondered how long I would be able to keep the secret.
She stared up at the sky. “Look at all these clouds,” she said. “Sometimes I name them.”
I stared at her, not sure what to say.
She went on, her face still turned to the sky. “I like to think what type of personalities they have. Like that one. It’s big and squishy. Maybe Erma. She’s always baking things for the other clouds. They go to her when they’re sad. She probably hugs them while they rain.”
I laughed a little.
“Is that weird?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, but I looked up at the clouds with her. We watched them float across the dusky sky.
“Iggy,” she said, pointing to a small one. “He’s Erma’s grandson. Great grandson maybe. He’s her favorite, although she would never admit it to the other clouds.”
I tried to see what she was seeing. To me, all the clouds just looked like clouds. Water vapor.
“That one.” Sage pointed to another cloud. “That one is a Jeremiah. It has very precise edges.”
I smiled, my cheeks burning a little. I could tell which cloud she was looking at. It was lower than the others, compact, not one of those sprawling wispy clouds.
Chapter
4
“Hey, Jer Bear,” Mom’s voice called from the phone. “How’s the weather up there? Iowa’s got a heat wave. And the humidity! I feel like I’m swimming just walking through the yard.”
I leaned back against the bricks on the stoop of the apartment building. Even from down here I could smell the fumes from the third-floor apartment where Michael was rolling another coat of paint.
Second Dad Summer Page 2
