Poesy (Low Book 5)

by Mary Elizabeth

  When I emerge from the house with an ice-cold bottle of Aquafina, all three landscapers are packing up their equipment but stop to stare. The sun’s more down than up, and I pray bluish-pink evening light hides the blush bleeding across my face.

  “Need some help?” the water thief asks, clapping dirt from his hands. He comes forward, a foot taller than I am, to block his co-workers’ view of me.

  “Thought you might be thirsty.” Condensation wets my hand and numbs the tips of my fingers. I pass him the bottle.

  I study his face as he unscrews the top and takes a sip, never removing his eyes from me. I’m electric under his stare, sizzling from the inside out, the outside in. My smile is so grand, I wouldn’t be surprised if the sun shot right back to the highest part of the sky because it’s so jealous of my radiance.

  “What are you smiling at?” rose trimmer asks. His lips slightly turn up as he slips the water bottle into his back pocket.

  “You,” I answer, consumed by my blush.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Poesy Ashby,” I say, meeting his stare.

  My heart expands inside my chest, nearly knocking me down with its rocking beat, but I remain steady.

  “I’m Low. Lowen Seely.”

  “Why do you have a tattoo on your face, Low … Lowen Seely?” I ask, bending my toes in the just-cut grass. Even his name shocks my senses, and the entire world is effervescent.

  “God forsakes me,” he answers, sweeping the tips of his fingers across the etched marking. The ghost of his smile disappears, and worry instantly carves lines around his eyes. “I have some making up to do.”

  “False penance. Tattoos do nothing for our King,” I say. The streetlights flicker on, shadowing Lowen’s face. “All you have to do is ask for forgiveness, boy.”

  I CHILL WITH the black girls at school because they keep it real.

  And they share their lunches with me.

  “He’s your gardener?” Latisha asks, unwrapping the extra sandwich her mom sent for me. The savory scent of shredded rotisserie chicken topped with lettuce and tomato between thick bread makes my mouth water. “Somethin’ tells me your parents don’t know about this, Poe.”

  I shrug, sitting between Shaunee’s legs on the lunch table while she braids my hair. My scalp is used to the harsh pull, and I love the looks Jenna and the other basics give me when my long locks are styled this way.

  “Girl, betta not let that mom of yours find out you’re messing with the help,” she says with small rubber bands between her front teeth. “She’ll bury your ass under those flowers she loves so much.”

  “I’m not messing with anyone,” I say.

  “Yet,” Latisha murmurs. She laughs out loud, picking onions out of her sandwich with her super-long acrylic nails.

  “You know Poesy don’t mess with no one,” my personal stylist says, manipulating my hair between her fingers. “She got that dusty pussy.”

  I turn to look at one of my only friends, but she pulls my hair until I face forward. Her own cornrows look tight.

  “I do not have a dusty pussy,” I reply, trying not to smile.

  “Tre’s trying to see what’s up with you,” Shaunee says. “But you’re cold.”

  “Please, Tre can’t handle this.” I roll my hips against the bench seductively.

  “Whateva, girl. When are you going to see that lawn boy again?”

  This time, I don’t try to hide my smile.

  “Today.”

  ONE THING I’VE never considered myself is shy. When there’s nothing to lose, being afraid of what other people think of me is irrelevant. But when I see Lowen and his partners turn onto the block in a forest green “Flaco’s Lawn Service” Chevy, I’m suddenly timid.

  There’s a chance I’ve put too much thought in the five minutes I spent with our rose trimmer a week ago. Maybe I dreamed the entire encounter in my emotionally deprived head, and to Lowen Seely, I’m nothing more than a customer who offered him a cool refreshment on a warm evening. Maybe my kindness wasn’t extraordinary. How many clients offer him nourishment after he bleeds for their flowers?

  All of them, I hope.

  It’s the decent fucking thing to do.

  I was the one swaying my hips like some type of hussy, and then spying on the guy through mini-blinds like a prowler. But it’s the way my heart stamps behind my ribcage in his presence that keeps me on the porch as he spills out of the truck. And it’s the affection in his smile that drives me to speak.

  “Long day?” I ask, swallowing my insecurity whole. It falls heavy in the pit of my stomach, plowing through my intestines with razor-sharp you-are-not-worthy talons.

  Eyes the color of Neptune fall on mine, and lips faintly burned by the sun curve into a side smile. Lowen’s lush mouth upturned brightens his entire face, overshadowing dark sleeplessness beneath his lower lashes.

  “Long week,” he replies, pushing his hands into his front pockets. The other two men on his crew set up their equipment, nosy behind their lawn mower. “This is our last house.”

  “Better late than never,” I say stupidly, blushing … again. Heat floods my senses from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair, and I’m in flames.

  “Is that for me?” He nods toward the bottle in my hand.

  “Yeah.” I smile, pulling my lower lip between my teeth. Rough, hardworking hands brush over mine when he reaches for it, and my heart click, click, booms.

  The way my body catches fire when he’s around is addictive, and I wait every Friday with a bottle of water for Lowen to arrive, chasing the hit I need desperately. Like a junkie, I seek him out, following temptation through the thorns. Small talk and the way he makes me feel are worth a little torn skin.

  Late spring burns like summer, and we’re both sweaty under the dwindling sun. I extend my legs and lean back against the house as the damp grass wets my bottom. Flaco mows around me, uninterested by my company. Low aims a stream of chlorine-scented water at my mother’s roses, drenching their dark green leaves, losing a petal or two.

  “You’ve never had a boyfriend?” he asks. Water drips from his hands and wrists, reflecting light.

  “I already told you. I have these really fucked-up father issues.”

  He looks over at me. “How old are you again?”

  “Eighteen,” I answer under my dark sunglasses. “And I’ve had boyfriends. Just nothing serious.”

  Flower boy nods. A bead of sweat streams down the side of his face.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask, lifting my sunglasses to the top of my head. I squint against light that’s turned Lowen into a silhouette.

  “You’re not the only one with issues, Poe.”

  My name moves across his licked-wet lips like a whisper, and he’s the only one who should be allowed to say it ever again. I want him to own it like he owns the heat that erupts beneath my skin, and I melt.

  He squirts me with the hose, saving my life.

  “Asshole!” I scream, jumping to my bare feet. Shards of clipped grass stick to my thighs, and water chills my overheated skin.

  Lowen shoots me again, laughing.

  “You better stop.” I point to him, faking seriousness.

  He makes it rain, and I run, incapable of controlling the joy that escapes my throat. Maneuvering around Flaco and the other guy, chrome-like water drenches my hair and runs down my back under my shirt. The lawn mower shuts down first, and then the leaf blower, leaving only my happiness hanging in the air.

  “Poesy!” My father’s deep voice suddenly rushes through the neighborhood, ricocheting off rooftops and sending birds from trees. “What’s going on here?”

  Lowen drops the stream of water and turns toward my dad in the driveway, standing firm. The grin on his face dims to a grimace, hardening his entire expression into something I haven’t seen from him in the last four weeks during our short time together.

  Dad closes the car door, fisting his keys and looking at me for the first tim
e in a month. Unlike Lowen’s ruthless glare, my father scarcely tips indifferent despite his stern tone of voice.

  “We were just playing around,” I say, wiping drops of water from my brow.

  “Go inside and leave these men to their work.” The man I share eye color with waits for me to walk ahead of him, but gives no other indication of emotion. “Dry yourself off.”

  From the porch, I watch my dad walk the perimeter of our yard with his hands deep inside his pockets. Lowen drops the hose and crosses his arms over his chest while the rest of his crew stand like statues, waiting for the fella in charge to break the spell he’s cast on all of us. Dad bumps the toe of his shoe into the corner of the lawn before walking across the grass to inspect the roses.

  “I don’t pay you to waste water, and I most certainly didn’t hire you to keep my daughter company,” Dad says, turning from the flowers toward the hired help. “Understood?”

  Flaco moves forward to apologize, red in the face and contrite. I can’t stomach the sight of him groveling and dash inside, dripping water onto the carpet to my room. My father follows me in shortly after, but doesn’t make it past the living room before he and Mom argue, tossing responsibility of their offspring back and forth, until Dad gives up and cracks open a beer, and Mom turns up the volume on The Young and The Restless reruns.

  My ability to tolerate their self-seeking bullshit reaches its threshold, and I slam my door before reaching for a dry shirt from the bed. Amid my parents’ battle for the last word, my anger is dismissed, and they won’t give me a second thought for the rest of the night.

  I can leave through the front door. I can smash a me-sized hole through the side of the house to make my exit. I can jump up and down, waving my arms above my head and scream, “I’m fucking out of here!” It wouldn’t matter, and the outcome in each scenario would be the same: indifference. So I kick out the screen and spring from the window, crushing my mother’s roses beneath my shoes.

  “Can you give me a ride?” I ask the lawn crew, clapping dirt from my hands.

  SITTING BETWEEN FLACO and Low in the front seat, with weed whacker guy in the back by himself, we drive from Culver City into Inglewood. An orchestra of trumpets, violins, and guitars clatter from blown speakers in a Mexican symphony that has Flaco bouncing up and down with rhythm and joy.

  When two of the three men begin to sing song lyrics in a language I don’t understand, I look to find Lowen’s blue eyes set on me. I elbow him playfully before resting my bare arm against his on our own laps. The slight burn of his skin soaks deep within me, melting away lingering bitterness for my parents.

  They become an afterthought … an indifference.

  “Should we take you somewhere?” Low asks as Flaco pulls the truck in front of a small blue house. A Hispanic woman and three dark-haired children wave at our arrival from the porch, illuminated by an orange doorway light.

  I shrug, unbuckling my seatbelt. My ears ring from the sudden silence when the engine is cut and the stereo silences a mid-trumpet solo.

  “I can find my way around,” I say, stepping out after Lowen onto the cracked sidewalk.

  “By yourself?” My unlikely friend scoffs, slinging a backpack over his broad shoulders and smirking. “No fucking way, Poesy.”

  The pre-summer day has fallen into early night, setting off streetlights that cast shadows across Low’s face. Unlike the domestic hum my neighborhood sings at night—primetime television, pool filters, and crickets—this is East Los Angeles. This town doesn’t hum; it shrieks.

  Police sirens pollute the air, and backyard-bred dogs sprint up and down chain-link fences, guarding the homes they surround. Homeboys drink 40s in front of open garages, and homegirls hang on their arms. The scents of marijuana and exhaust fill my lungs, gangster beats shake my bones, and I lean against the green Chevy to soak it all in.

  “I’m not afraid.” I lift my chin.

  “You should be,” Low says, holding his hand out for me.

  Taking it without a second thought, I place my small palm in his large one. Hard work and struggle roughened his skin, a blatant contrast to my own. I don’t lace my fingers with his, but keep our hands cupped together as he leads me down the street.

  “Have friends here or something?” my chaperone asks. His grip tightens slightly around mine.

  “No,” I answer.

  Lowen lets out a small laugh. “Is jumping in trucks with strangers something you do often?”

  “You’re not a stranger.”

  “I’m your gardener,” he replies.

  “You’re my dad’s gardener,” I say spitefully, turning my gaze from him to the broken sidewalk passing beneath our feet. “That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  Lowen drops my hand to rest his arm across my shoulders as we exchange neighborhood sidewalks for city streets. The night is alive and thriving as the freaks come out, crowding street corners and tramping through gutters. Eventually, liquor stores and laundry mats taper to apartment buildings and run-down houses in a part of town that has the hair on the back of my neck standing straight.

  “This is me.” Lowen stops, stepping away from me toward a yellow house with white trim. Stucco has fallen from it in clumps, the brick steps leading toward the door are chipped, but the lawn is on point.

  “Okay,” I say, looking around. Most of the streetlights are broken, there’s not a star in the sky, and the thick sense of being watched is suffocating.

  As Low heads toward his front door, leaving me alone on the sidewalk, the fright balled inside my chest reminds me of exactly who I am: a scared white girl from the ’burbs.

  “Poesy,” the deserter calls out to me. “Are you coming in or what?”

  My feet move before I inhale a breath to answer.

  LOWEN’S HOME IS everything mine isn’t: adored.

  The TV is set on an old dresser, the couch has holes in the arms, the coffee table is missing its glass top, and the artwork on the wall looks like it was taken from a cheap motel. But there’s a young blonde-haired girl sitting at the dining table with a notebook and calculator, doing her homework, and another woman in front of the stove, jumping away from popping oil with the sound of her laughter filling every inch of the kitchen.

  “Motherfuck, that hurt!” she shouts, shaking her left hand while flipping chicken with the right and some tongs.

  “Mom,” the younger girl groans, rolling her eyes.

  “I know, Gillian, but the fucking oil keeps biting me,” the chef hoots, swapping the tongs for a wooden spoon to stir the pot of mashed potatoes. “Shit, my language. Dammit, I’m sorry. Fuck!”

  Low places his hand on my lower back, guiding me to the commotion. Gillian, who’s maybe twelve years old, spots us and drops her pencil. The blueness of her eyes puts me under arrest, enchanting me with the same spell Lowen has for weeks now. She shares the roundness of his lips and the sharpness of his jawline, too.

  “Who’s this?” she asks suddenly.

  I smile at her boldness and answer, “I’m Poesy Ashby. Who are you?”

  “That rude girl is my sister, Gillian,” Lowen says before she can reply, pulling out a seat for me to sit at the table. “Ignore her. She was raised by wolves.”

  Gillian sticks her tongue out at her older brother.

  “Excuse me. I take offense to that,” the woman at the stove interjects teasingly. She wipes her grease-slick hands on her pants before reaching out to shake my hand to introduce herself. “Patricia Seely, but I guess you can call me Mother Wolf.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand with both of mine, taking notice of the coarseness of her palms. They’re the hands of a woman who’s lived a hard life.

  The wooden table wobbles as I take a seat, unbalanced on four legs. None of the chairs around it match, and the varnish has rubbed away in some places on the aged surface. But there’s a green vase with fresh flowers in the center, and red cotton placemats faded from use.

  Lowen takes a seat at the head
of the table, unlaces his work boots, and sits back. He closes his eyes, working his neck back and forth to release tension from the day. Patricia sets a glass of ice water in front of him, and Gillian pushes her workbook toward her brother, looking for help.

  It’s a display I’ve only witnessed in movies. No one uses the kitchen table at my house. I don’t remember a time when I had a meal with my parents that wasn’t in front of the television, or had anyone help me with schoolwork without huffing and puffing about what an inconvenience it was.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” Patricia asks, lowering the flame on the stove to simmer the packaged gravy. “We have plenty.”

  I look to Low for assurance before I agree. I’m the girl who jumped out of a window and into his work truck without a clue as to where I was headed. He let me tag along and saved me from wandering amongst gangsters and thugs on the streets, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t want me making myself at home in his space.

  “Stay, Poe. I’ll drive you where you need to go after you eat,” my knight in shining armor replies.

  We eat fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and applesauce, and drink grape soda from coffee mugs, occupying all four chairs around the table. Gillian talks about her day at school, and Patricia complains about the garbage disposal not working again.

  “I called the landlord, but he didn’t answer, of course,” she says before popping a piece of chicken between her lips. Patricia’s wearing bright green eye shadow with heavy pink blush across her cheeks. Her curly bleach blonde hair is pulled back into a clip, and her nails are painted red. She’s outrageous and fantastic and true all at the same time. “And he still hasn’t sent anyone to fix the faucet in the bathroom.”

  “Don’t call him again,” Lowen says. He wipes his mouth clean with a napkin. “I’ll take care of it this weekend.”

  Simple gestures and the genuine affection this family so obviously feels for each other burns my cheeks with awe. Hiding my smile behind my mug, I drink the rest of my soda to keep from embarrassing myself in front of Low.