Damage

by A. M. Jenkins

  As you head toward the refrigerator, Curtis bangs on the back door.

  “Brought your mower back,” he says, peering at you through the screen. He’s got on old bleach-stained shorts, no shirt; his face is streaked with dirt and sweat. “Okay if I grab the keys to the tack room?”

  Glancing through the screen door, you see the lawn mower where Curtis pushed it, far across the yard, in front of the shed that once served as an equipment room back in your mother’s horse-training days. Now it holds fertilizer and lawn equipment and whatever else shouldn’t be left out in the rain. Next to it is the barn, which used to be a stable and now provides shelter for the few calves Becky raises for 4-H.

  “Don’t worry about the mower,” you tell Curtis. “I’ll put it up later.”

  “I’d rather take care of it right now. If my mom looks out and sees it sitting there, I’m going to get the lecture on taking care of other people’s possessions. That’s one of the long ones.”

  “’Kay.” You shrug. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” The screen squeaks open and Curtis’s lean sweaty arm reaches in to snag a key hanging on the peg next to the door.

  The screen bangs shut. “Hey,” you call. “Go ahead and mow our yard, too. That’ll show you can really take care of other people’s possessions. Go on—I’ll call your mom and tell her how good you did.”

  Curtis pauses at the bottom of the porch steps, squints up at you. “Sure,” he says. “And I’ll call your mom and tell her how you’re going to come over and paint our front porch.”

  “How about if we just call it even?”

  “Done,” says Curtis, and continues on to the tack room.

  You dig in the fridge for a Coke, and pull out a Dr Pepper, too, for when Curtis comes back. That’s the way it’s always been; whenever he drops by he comes in to shoot the breeze. Besides, you’re tired of skimming through those CDs. You just don’t want to have to look Heather in the eye and admit you didn’t bother to listen to them.

  You hear Becky coming down the hall, singing one of the songs you just played, one of Heather’s songs.

  “I ain’t invisible, baby, so don’t look thro-o-ough me. Our love is possible, baby, so come over to-o-o me.” She walks into the kitchen just as you hoist yourself up to sit on the counter to wait for Curtis.

  “That’s one of those songs that gets stuck in your head,” you observe—and it is. A minute ago it was just one of dozens you’ve heard this afternoon, but now, thanks to Becky, you’ll probably be humming it in your sleep tonight.

  “I’d rather have that in my head than ‘It’s a Small World After All.’ Or the commercial for Joe Ryan Chevrolet. You want me to sing that for you instead?”

  “No,” you tell her. “Don’t. Please.”

  Becky grins at you and takes a deep breath—but happens to glance out the window over the sink. She decides not to annoy you; apparently she’s been stricken with a sudden desire to straighten the sink area.

  First she rinses the plate you left on the counter earlier and places it carefully in the dishwasher. Then she unfolds the dishcloth that sits by the sink, shakes it out, and refolds it. All the time looking out the window toward the tack room.

  When Curtis stomps up the back steps, she says real loud, “Is that Curtis Hightower? Quick, lock the refrigerator before he inhales a week’s worth of groceries.”

  Curtis doesn’t bother to respond, just steps inside to hang the key to the tack room back up. You don’t say anything, either, but hold out the Dr Pepper.

  “Thanks.” Curtis takes the can from your hand and leans back against the counter by the refrigerator. He pops the top, takes a long drink. Flecks of grass and dirt are stuck to him, mostly on his legs but bits on his arms and chest, too.

  Becky makes a big deal out of refolding the dishrag again—carefully, eyes down.

  Curtis finally lowers the can and eyes Becky. One corner of his mouth goes up a little. “Hey, Becky. What’s this I hear about Robby LeBlanc being madly in love with you?”

  Becky’s brows start to come together. If it was you, she’d let you have it with both barrels. But with Curtis, all she says is, “He is not.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like him,” Curtis says, deadpan. “I thought for sure you’d want to run your hands through that flowing mane of his.”

  Becky tries to give him one of those scathing looks she’s been practicing lately. The kind that sweeps from head to toe and back again, withering everything in its path. Only this one doesn’t make it all the way. It travels up Curtis’s legs, loses steam somewhere over his sweaty shorts, and falters completely in the vicinity of his bare chest.

  You don’t know how Curtis feels about Becky having a crush on him. But he’s got to be aware of it; he’s not blind. And it’s his own fault, for all those years when you ordered Becky to quit following the two of you around, and he’d always feel sorry for her and say, “Aw, let her tag along.”

  That stupid song is already replaying in your head. It ain’t just physical, baby…something, something.

  Becky’s face is pink; she won’t meet anybody’s eyes. Luckily for her the phone rings. She snatches it off the wall. “Oh, hi. Hi, Aaron,” she adds, a little too loud. She ducks her head and her hair falls to shield her face.

  “Aaron, huh?” Curtis says to you. “Dang, she’s going to have to beat these boys off with a stick.”

  “Nothing much,” Becky tells Aaron, but you see her smiling to herself. She heads down the hall slowly, cradling the phone. “Uh-huh. I know.” She glances back right before she disappears into her room, but Curtis isn’t looking at her anymore.

  “So,” he’s saying to you. “Dobie and I haven’t seen much of you around lately. Been busy with Heather?”

  Don’t be so cynical, baby…da da da da-a-a da. “Yeah. She’s all right,” you add, just to let Curtis know how things stand.

  Curtis doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod. After a moment he takes another long drink from his Dr Pepper.

  “Listen, if you got to know her, you’d see she’s not as bad as you think.”

  Curtis doesn’t look at you, just examines the silver rim of his can.

  “It wouldn’t kill you to open up your mind a little.”

  “It’s open,” he says abruptly. “Open enough to see that she’s using you for her senior-year escort.”

  “She is not.”

  Curtis shrugs. “Okay. She’s not.”

  That’s Curtis. He thinks he’s right, so he’s not going to argue about it. You ought to keep trying, though. Explain how Heather’s not always the same as she is at school. And that even if she is, it’s not her fault. She’s always been the center of attention—so how could she know what it’s like to be treated as if you don’t matter? How’s she supposed to learn to think about other people if everybody’s always thinking about her?

  Curtis frowns down at his Dr Pepper. “You know, Austy, it doesn’t really matter what my opinion is. You’re the one going out with her, not me. And whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be around.”

  He means, if you and Heather split up.

  Finally that stupid song gets driven out of your head. Curtis is being ridiculous. Things are just getting started. Things are going great. No way you’d split.

  Sometimes you wish Curtis would just keep his mouth shut. Keep his thoughts to himself—Curtis’s thoughts are like dark fingers, trying to wrap themselves around your ankles and drag you down.

  The truth is, Heather fills all the little bitty gaps you didn’t even know you had. Nowadays you’re completely different from when—well, you’re not even going to think about that. There’s nothing to think about. How you used to feel—well, you just don’t feel that way anymore, that’s all.

  You remind yourself how, when Curtis was immersed in Kat, you and Dobie used to tell him to his face that Kat had him pussy whipped. Curtis never got mad, never once got upset about it. Curtis just let the comments rain down
around him, brushed them all aside, and went about his business.

  That’s what you need to do right now. Just brush all his talk about Heather aside. And go on about your business.

  One of Becky’s calves bawls somewhere in the field behind the barn. The old screen on the kitchen door vibrates in the grip of an unseen breeze. It’s a bright, sunny day outside. A beautiful day. You can smell the fresh-cut grass.

  “Hey, guess what?” Curtis says out of the blue. “I actually spoke to the old man on the phone.”

  “What’d he want?” you ask. You don’t have to ask who “the old man” is. Even though Mr. Hightower eventually married Tiffani-with-an-i, Curtis still hasn’t gotten around to forgiving him for being unable to keep his pants zipped in the first place.

  “Get this. He asked me if I wanted to go skiing over Christmas with him and What’sherface.”

  “What’d you say?” you ask, although you already know. Curtis has never gone to visit his dad in Nevada. Won’t get on the plane, won’t get in the car to go to the airport. He’ll barely even talk to his dad on the phone.

  “I told him, ‘Sorry, I got things to do.’”

  “Gave up a free ski trip?”

  Curtis shrugs, takes another sip of Dr Pepper.

  “Might not be so bad,” you point out. “The skiing part might make up for the rest of it.”

  Curtis just shakes his head. He’s never understood what an opportunity he’s dismissing with his dad. He just doesn’t get that he has a chance some people will never have.

  “When he was here he never came to a single one of my games. Now all of a sudden he’s asking what position I play. So I just tell him I’ve got to go, that’s all. Tell him I’ve got stuff to do—which is true. And he always says, how about if I call back later? And I always say, sure, do that. But somehow I’m always busy, when later rolls around. And mostly, so is he.”

  “But he did call in the first place,” you tell him.

  Curtis shrugs again. “He made his choice. I’ve moved on from there.”

  That’s the way Curtis is; everything tallied and weighed, and while he turns his back on whatever he decides isn’t worth his while, he also digs his heels in on whatever he cares about. Nothing you ever say can change that—one way or the other.

  “Thanks for the DP.” Curtis tosses his empty can into the bin. “I’ve got to go get cleaned up. Dobie and me and Stargill are going to a movie in Burlington. I guess you probably already got plans?”

  “Yeah. What’re you going to see?”

  “Mayhem.”

  “Which one’s that?”

  “The one where a bunch of terrorists take over the Pentagon. It’s supposed to be good,” Curtis adds. “You’re welcome to ditch Heather and come along.”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  Curtis just nods—that’s what he expected. “Later, then,” he says, unconcerned, and heads out the door.

  The screen bangs shut. You hop off the counter and head back into your room, taking the half-finished Coke with you.

  Da da—da da da da. “Don’t be so cynical, baby,” you sing under your breath, and turn up the volume.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Used to be you’d hang around practice to give Dobie ride home. You’d wait for him to finish straightening locker room, and then drive along in the truck listening to him talk about whatever was on his mind that day-usually food or girls, and in that order.

  Nowadays, Curtis is the one who takes Dobie home. Nowadays you spend more time with Heather than with your friends.

  Can’t wait for practice to be over, because most days she waits for you. Sometimes you go to the Dairy Queen, where Heather orders a Diet Coke while you get a jumbo ice water or a Sprite. Sometimes you even order fries because it seems like you’re hungry more often these days.

  Whenever you take Heather home, she doesn’t move to get out when you pull up in front of the house. Sometimes you make out with her, but a lot of times you just sit and listen to her talk. You like the way her voice sounds, like music that doesn’t have anything to do with anything.

  It’s as if you’ve been treading water furiously, and now you can stretch your foot out and just barely touch bottom.

  One night after a game, you and Curtis and Dobie come out of the field house, and there she is, standing in that same circle of her friends under the streetlight. Your pickup stands alone a few yards off, where the light starts to fade away.

  “Hi!” Heather says, coming to meet you. Curtis gives her a stiff nod, which is as friendly as he can ever get to someone he doesn’t like. She doesn’t return it. “Excuse me, my face is up here,” she’s saying to Dobie.

  Dobie’s eyes flick quickly away from Heather’s breasts, his face turning dark with embarrassment. He pulls his cowboy hat down over his eyes.

  “And on that note,” Curtis says, “I guess we’ll be heading on out. See you tomorrow, Austy,” he says, moving toward his own car a few rows over.

  “Great game,” you call after him.

  Heather follows you around to the passenger side of the pickup. “I’m sorry,” she says as you open the door, “but I couldn’t take being leered at by Hopalong Toothpick. And I hope you don’t mind if I don’t want to pal around with Curtis. It’s not that I don’t like him,” she adds, sliding into her seat. “He’s really cute and all. But this is senior year, and it’s like, do I want to hang out with King Tightass when this is the primo party year of my life? I think not!”

  “He’s my best friend,” you point out, and shut the door a little harder than necessary. When you walk around to the other side, you can feel how you’ve stiffened up—a lot more than when Curtis said he thought Heather was using you. That’s different, somehow, from Heather telling you she doesn’t want to be around a guy who’s been like a brother ever since your mothers put two of you in the same playpen.

  “He’s so irritating,” Heather says when you get “He always acts like I’m such a bimbo. You know blames me, don’t you? Just because his little girlfriend told him off at my party last year. Like it was my fault she got puke drunk.”

  “I don’t think he even remembers—”

  “I’m hot,” Heather interrupts. “Could you turn the air?”

  It’s not really that hot; not since the sun went down You think it’d be a good evening to drive with the windows down, to let the warm grass smells wash around. You don’t like the way she makes you feel about your best friend.

  But you roll up the window and obey.

  As soon as you start the engine, Heather twists rearview mirror around and peers into it, fluffing picking at her bangs. “Curtis needs to stop acting like he’s so virtuous. Everybody knows he and Kat broke because she didn’t want to have sex, and he did.”

  “I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “That’s what I heard, and I believe it.”

  There is a story about Curtis—the story about him crying in the tack room when his dad ran off with Tiffani-with-an-i—that might make Heather see him in a different light. It’s why Curtis takes sex so seriously, even now, even though he’s about to turn eighteen. It’s why Kat was the only one he ever did it with; he was crazy in love with her.

  Problem is, you can’t tell the story. For one thing, it’s not yours to tell.

  What “everybody knows” is partly true. It’s true that after a few weeks of “doing it” Kat wanted to back the whole relationship up, while Curtis—having gotten used to enjoying all the benefits—wanted to keep things the way they were. By the time Curtis was ready to agree, Kat was off on a “if-you’d-really-loved-me” jag, and it was too late.

  You didn’t see that it was anything to break up over In your opinion, Kat might just as well have asked him give back her lost virginity. Kat was lucky to have Curtis in the first place. She could have gotten any of the hundred other guys you know who don’t see sex as the first step on the road to matrimony, three kids, and Suburban.

  But you can’t te
ll Heather any of this. She wouldn’t understand; she’s a girl, and besides, it’s obvious she doesn’t care to see it any way but hers.

  Heather stops picking at her bangs and pulls her purse up off the floorboard. You reach for the mirror adjust it so you can back out.

  “Wait a minute.” She digs in the purse, pulls out small brush, and starts fluffing again.

  So you shut the engine off and roll down your window again.

  Then you sigh.

  “It’s just so humid,” Heather says, as if that explains something.

  You lean back against the headrest and try to get interested in watching Heather and her hair. She must feel you looking at her, because she glances at you. You don’t bother to give her a smile, and she examines a moment before returning her gaze to the mirror.

  She starts fishing in her purse again. Her hands make a scrabbling, shuffling noise as they search and dig some mysterious girl thing.

  This—waiting for hair to be brushed—is the price dating Heather. This, and avoiding your best friend.

  “Now, don’t be mad.” Heather snaps her purse shut, drops it onto the floorboard. She slides over, tucks her arm into yours. “It just kills me when you get all frowny and quiet. It’s like, God, I’m going to be the first person in the history of the world that Austin Reid doesn’t like. I’d die.” She lays her head on your shoulder. She’s light against your arm, and she’s not wearing any perfume tonight; there’s only the faint scent of her shampoo or lotion—something clean and sweet.

  “I know I’m a snob,” you hear her say. “That’s why I’m counting on you to be a good influence.”

  Well, it’s not like you aren’t used to being around people with strong opinions. One thing Heather and Curtis have in common is that they’re both opinionated. Honest, too.

  The only real difference between them, you think, is that Heather’s thoughts seem to fall out of her mouth without much presorting. That’s all Curtis does, is sort.