by Crystal Chan
Anyway, we don’t have a crap house or anything—it’s small and nice and a little on the old side—but stuff breaks down, and it’s a whole lot cheaper to fix things yourself than to get someone to do it for you. And it doesn’t break down all at once, but it will eventually, and you gotta know your shit when it does. No one’s ever going to take you by the hand.
People in Makersville know all about us—we’re the mixed-race family with two helpless parents, the genius kid sister, and the fix-it son. No one’s said a word about it, like they don’t say a word about how Dr. Manuel hits his wife or how the Raul family has a seventeen-year-old daughter who sleeps in their car. It’s amazing how you can turn a blind eye to stuff sometimes. With practice you can get really good at it.
Dad would call in for me. I knew that much: For him, it would be easier than getting dressed. We have a mutual understanding—I do the things he can’t do, like fixing the roof, and he does the things that I can’t do, like explaining my absences to the principal. He’s been calling in for me for about two years—it started when he got depressed. After the suicide attempt six months ago, they kept him in the psych ward of the hospital for a while to monitor him and get him into therapy. Now we’re paying for medications that he doesn’t take, which doesn’t help, and he’s seeing a shrink a couple times a week, but that can’t be all that effective either, because he still sits around the house all the time and calls in for me whenever I tell him to.
George would be pissed I stayed home to work on the roof. I texted her to let her know not to wait for me, that I was working on a project. That’s what I call the stuff I do around the house. Projects. “But, Ronney,” she always says, her lips puckering up in frustration, “you gotta go to class. They have projects too.”
We have this conversation all the time. “Those projects aren’t real,” I say back.
“Of course they are,” she says. This is when she usually shakes her head and the gorgeous mane of her hair. It’s so thick I gotta shove my hands in my pockets or I’ll reach for it, I swear. “You get real As, then you get real scholarships, then you get into a real college without really going broke, and then you get a real job and a real life.”
“Yeah, well, that’s for normal people,” I say. “For me, if I don’t fix that real heating system, my real ass is going to freeze and my real family is going to die. And that happens faster than any little class project due date.”
Then a certain look deepens in her eyes, and in that moment I can tell she gets what my life is like. Usually I change the subject before her eyes get all wet, but sometimes I’m not fast enough, and a tear slides down her ivory skin. When that happens, I get this sudden, frantic urge to rip open the world for her. That’s when I have to walk away, or I’ll do something stupid. I don’t know what I’d do, but it would be something really freaking stupid. She’s never accused me of being a jackass when I suddenly leave like that; sometimes I wish she would, because that would mean she didn’t understand, and well, it’s kind of weird when girls understand just how hard it is to be friends.
I was going through the refrigerator when Mina bounced in, all decked out in her typical Mina-monochromatic-orange outfit: orange T-shirt, orange pants, orange socks, orange tennis shoes, orange plastic bracelet, and a huge orange scrunchy holding back her spiral curls. Mina says that everyone’s favorite colors are green, blue, purple, red—everything but orange, and so she wears orange so it won’t feel unloved. Or lonely.
“Ron-Ron,” she said, hoisting on the backpack that was too heavy for a fourth grader, “Mom said that school was almost called off today, but then Mr. Rockfeller got on TV and said that everything is under control.” She gave a little hop and adjusted the weight on her back. “So now we’re going to school. I’m glad, because I want to do well on my quiz.” That was when Mina noticed that I didn’t have my backpack. “You’re staying home today?”
“Yeah, Min-o. The storm really ripped up our roof.”
Mina nodded, her face suddenly all solemn. “Mom was worried about that when she left for work this morning.”
“Really? What did she say?”
“She said she couldn’t handle one more thing.”
My jaw tightened.
Mina gave her orange bouncy ball a good bounce on the kitchen floor and caught it with one hand. I had given her that thing from a vending machine a year ago, and she still carried it with her everywhere. “You can fix anything, Ron-Ron.”
“Bus is coming,” I said. “What kind of quiz is it?”
“Science.” She stuck out her tongue. “The teacher treats us like we’re idiots.”
“That’s because the other kids are idiots.”
“But why do I have to listen to her go through the same stuff over and over?”
“It’s the curse of being smart,” I replied, turning her around to stuff her sack lunch in her backpack.
Mina went to the door and slipped on her orange shoes. “Dad’s still in bed?” she asked. Her voice changed.
I tickled her to get that look off her face. Normally, that’s when I would kick her out the door, but when I heard a siren in the distance, I decided to walk her to the bus stop and wait until she got on the bus. Just in case.
• • •
By the time Mina’s bus pulled away, it was still really early in the morning—I probably could have gone to world history, my first class, and made it home in time, but if the guys came over, I couldn’t really be positive Dad would answer the door. So, fuck it. Whatever world history I was missing would still be history when I made it back to class.
I figured I had some time to pick up the debris in the yard and maybe check out the siding—like if some huge branch had slammed into it or something—when I got a reply text from George:
Another project? Do you want me to drop by after school with some of Dad’s cookies?
This is a question that doesn’t need to be asked.
I’ll be over as soon as I can.
George’s whole family is cool. I mean, hell, her dad actually bakes cookies. Whose dad does that? Her family moved to Makersville four years ago from Chicago to get away from the congestion and crime, George said. I guess being a neurosurgeon in rural Indiana is more relaxed than in a big city, although many times her mom still drives like a freak to respond to emergency calls. The regional hospital is over an hour away in Bloomington, and it’s small—nothing like in Indianapolis—but if your brain is going to pop and you need a neurosurgeon, it’ll do the trick. Her dad works from home on his various engineering projects and travels a lot. And bakes cookies. The three of them actually play board games together in the evenings just because they want to. Her parents often tell her how happy they are with her, sometimes right in front of me.
I put on my work jeans, grabbed a bunch of garbage bags and my gloves, and stepped outside. Some big branches were down, but nothing that I couldn’t haul to the curb, and anyway, while I was outside, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to start raking the leaves. The September leaves had just begun to drop, but if I stayed on top of it, the yard wouldn’t be so bad. There’s something about the air this time of year too—nice and crisp, clean.
That’s what I was thinking as I was picking up a branch. Then I heard something behind me. I spun around.
Freaking-A, it was that hoodie kid. Without the hoodie.
I froze.
His eyes were bright. “I’m not leaving until you give them back.”
5
THAT LITTLE PUNK WAS JUST a couple feet away from me, his body all tense, hands clenched.
I took a step back. “What the hell?” I said, almost shouting.
His hair hung over his eyes. “I want the jeans,” he said.
“Who said you could come here and follow me?” I asked. I raised the branch in my hand. I swear to God, give me a wandering lion or some other crappy cat, but do not give me a stalker kid in my backyard.
“They’re not yours,” he said, scowling. His voice was a thin,
taut wire.
Now I was pissed. It’s not like I don’t have enough problems in my life. I was trying to fix the goddamn roof, and this kid teletransports into my backyard and accuses me of shit. “I don’t know who you are, and I didn’t steal anything,” I said through my teeth. “Now, I’m warning you: Get off my property or I’ll fucking hit you.”
His eyes flashed. I had been right not to help him yesterday: Never help a stalker.
The kid lifted his chin as he stared up at me. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said.
It was a direct challenge, practically a dare. I raised the branch higher. “Leave.”
His eyes squinted into a glare.
I swung the branch at him, smacked him across the side. He staggered and fell a couple feet away on some shingles. I loomed over him and raised the branch again. “I warned you,” I said. “Now get off my property.”
“But they’re not yours,” he cried, jerking his chin at my work pants. Then he made this little whimpering sound—the sound Mina makes when she’s hurt. My chest tugged when he made that sound; I must have smacked him harder than I thought. I immediately wished I hadn’t just clobbered him broadside with a tree. Stalker kid or not, he looked really small right then, huddled on the grass.
“Look,” I said, suddenly tired, “I bought these jeans with my own money.”
“I’ll pay you for them.”
I stared at him. “You’re freaking weird. They’re mine, okay? Now get out of here.”
He winced a little, and I stepped back. He hauled himself to his feet and limped away. I kind of wanted to help him walk home, because I felt like shit right then. But more than that, I wanted him out of my yard. I had enough garbage to clear out as it was.
• • •
“You hit a kid?” George’s hazel eyes were wide. She dropped the bag of cookies onto the kitchen table.
“I did warn him,” I said.
“You hit a kid?” she repeated.
I groaned inside. For some reason I was expecting her to say, Hell yeah, he had it coming. “What else was I supposed to do,” I said, “shed my jeans right there on the spot and stand in my tighty-whities?”
She paused, then pressed her lips together, trying to hide a smile. “You wear tighty-whities?”
My face heated up. “I meant boxers.”
“You wear tighty-whities?” she pressed.
“They give more support,” I said. My cheeks were a furnace.
She threw back her head and laughed. Like gold, I tell you. Every time.
I reached for the cookies. She slapped my hand away. “You could have asked him about those jeans, helped him out,” she said. “Clearly, he was confused.”
“Clearly,” I said dryly, and snatched the bag from her. The cookies were warm. I popped two into my mouth. Freaking amazing gobs of chocolate and sugar. “I don’t think I broke anything,” I said through the cookies.
“Ronney!” She sat down.
I swallowed. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t think I—”
“I don’t care about you eating with your mouth full,” George said, rolling her eyes. “I do care about you going around beating up little kids.” She had her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, exposing her neck. I forced my eyes away.
“I wasn’t going around beating up kids,” I said. “He came onto my property—trespassing—accusing me of shit that I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Twice.” I took a bite of another cookie. “And anyway, I only give my clothes to people I know.” I kicked off my shoe and started peeling back my sock. “Like you, for instance. Want a sock?”
George grinned. “I do not want your sock.”
“How about my shirt?” I asked, starting to yank my T-shirt over my head.
“Ronney!” She laughed again and stopped my arms.
I straightened my shirt and gave her a look. “When was the last time someone came up to you and demanded you remove your clothing?”
The moment I said that my face started heating up for real.
George went to our refrigerator, plunked down a gallon of milk on the table, and glanced at me coyly. A wavy lock of hair snuck out of her ponytail, and she tucked it behind her ear with her finger. Then she drank right from the container. I shook my head admiringly. Mom and Dad have never found out.
“And anyway,” I said, pulling my thoughts away from her, “the kid challenged me.”
“You could have walked away.”
“You don’t get it,” I said. “He challenged me. I couldn’t back down. And may I remind you, it was my property. Where was I going to walk to? Should I have hidden in my bedroom and let a ten-year-old take up residence in my backyard?”
George went silent, and her silence was condemning.
“So it wasn’t the best thing to do,” I said quietly.
“Not ‘the best thing to do’? Ronney, that was awful.”
I threw up my hands. “Fine, I confess. I was an ass.”
“Um. Yes. You were.” Her eyebrows knit together.
“I even regret it, okay? But I got caught up in the moment.”
Her face softened, like it usually does when I give in and admit my stupidity. I’d tattoo all the stupid shit I’ve done across my chest just to see her face like that every day. She’s got these really great eyes, the kind that can look right into you and make you forget where you are. And when you admit that she’s right—which, okay, she usually is—you can see her visibly relax, like that tension string inside her goes slack now that she knows that you know that she’s right.
But it’s more than that. For instance, she gets straight As because, like I said, she’s amazing. But last year she was teetering on getting an A- in AP Biology, and she nearly had a mental breakdown. She was sobbing that she couldn’t lose her perfect GPA. And it was kind of ironic, because I’m in school just enough to keep the principal off my back, and she’s moaning about how she’ll have a little fly’s fart of a scratch on her GPA. When I tried to explain this to her, she cried even harder. George always says that she likes how I can put her grades back in perspective, but that looming A- was somehow an A-bomb to George World.
It has to be pretty precarious, to have only perfection or the abyss as your two real options in life. Whenever I tell her she doesn’t have to be perfect, she gives me a look like How can you expect me to believe that? But she keeps coming back for more, like she’s somehow starving and I’m somehow giving her food. I don’t know. Maybe no one else tells her that imperfection is okay.
I could see she was going to say more things about that kid, so I said quickly, “The roofers came today.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really? What’d they do?”
“The south side of the house.” I gave her a look. “Just repairs.”
She grinned. “You mean, you didn’t tell them you wanted a vaulted ceiling?”
We both reached for the bag of cookies at the same time. I let her go first. “The guys really like me,” I said, “but they wouldn’t exactly consider that part of their repair quote.”
George was looking up at our ceiling, her eyes sparkling away, imagining some sort of palatial roofing. She’s always talking about buildings—she sketches them all the time. Some people know from birth what they want to do with their lives. George wants to be an architect. Once she showed me her list of Twenty Steps to Be an Architect, which she made up when she was nine, which she has taped above her bed, which shows she’s on step fourteen.
Then you have people like me, who don’t know what to do from one bladder of piss to the next.
She grabbed a handful of cookies and was making some sort of cookie house out of them, pinching the soft cookies at the edges to hold them upright. “You see,” she said, “if you tell them to lift the roof over your foyer like this”—she tilted upward the cookies that served as a roof—“and then put in a couple skylights”—she jabbed her pinky through the cookie, twice, I guess to let the sunlight in—“it’ll really open up the whole fe
el of the house.”
“My parents, I think, would disapprove,” I said.
“And maybe you could add a little loft over the living room,” she said, breaking off a chunk of cookie and wedging it into the inside of the roof.
“That’s an attic you just made,” I pointed out.
“Whatever,” she said playfully. I found myself grinning and reaching for a cookie to build with and not eat, despite myself: Somehow George can do that to me.
She licked her fingers and grabbed another cookie. “And you must add a sunroom.” Through all of her cookie building, a smudge of chocolate got on her cheek. When I saw the smudge, my grin deepened.
She paused. “Why are you smiling like that?”
I shook my head, trying to stop the stampede of images: Wiping it off. Licking it off. “Maybe one day when my parents are gone for the weekend,” I said, “I’ll take your advice on the roof. But your folks would have to help me get the lumber.”
