by Alice Archer
I brushed at the indentation in my cheek from where I’d slept on the journal.
The word OLIVER sailed into view as worthy of capture, but I didn’t rush to pick up the Sharpie. Despite most of my journal being about Oliver, I had yet to write his name, and I didn’t want to. To get him out of my system so I could move on, I picked up the ballpoint pen I’d found in a courtyard drawer, wrote an O, and circled it few times to turn it into something less personal, a doodle of overlapping circles.
I slowed the circular motion of my hand. My eyes lost focus. In my meditative state, the sloppy circles made me think of an onion. All those layers. I squirmed in my seat as I remembered perving on Oliver’s reluctant skin. I didn’t hide the same way Oliver hid, but I was also reluctant, like when Oliver asked questions and I got angry. He got under my reluctant skin too. He had from the very beginning.
I drew a round G for Grant next to Oliver’s onion and brooded over it, circled the roundness of my onion again and again, until the lines of our two onions began to touch.
We intersected, Oliver and I. Poked each other with our sharpness. Pierced and stung each other. Invade and evade. Lie and spy.
A flick of the pen and our two onions became a loop of infinity, a mess of swirls with mass and spin and hidden depths, an endless intrigue.
Chapter 51
Oliver
Grant had opened the toolshed’s sliding door all the way. Bright sunlight illuminated the interior into the far corners. He sat on a stool at one of the central tables with his head bent over a little book.
I tripped when I stepped inside, caught myself on the bicycle I’d brought over.
“Oops,” Grant said. “Watch out for those sudden patches of thick air.”
When I didn’t respond to his comment, Grant leaned sideways to slide the book into his back pocket. “See you next fall?”
I smiled before I remembered I was there to get rid of him.
Grant nodded at the bicycle. “Where did that come from?”
“It was Dad’s. I thought… you could borrow it, as a consolation prize, because I need to cut our deal short. This week will be our last.” In truth, I wanted Grant gone immediately, but I couldn’t quite make myself do that to him. My compromise was to give him week four plus the loan of Dad’s bike, to prompt Grant to leave the house more often before he left for good.
His brow furrowed and he stood. “You’re kicking me out? Already?”
The shock on Grant’s face made me look away. I wouldn’t back down on my decision. “You have until Sunday. I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sorry. I was desperate for Grant to be gone, but softening the blow seemed prudent.
“But what am I going to do?” Grant sat back down with a thump.
I shrugged, unwilling to do all the work. I’d given him space and time to find a job and a longer-term place to live. From what I could tell, he hadn’t done anything about either.
“How’s the job hunt coming?” I asked, to be a heartless prick.
The way Grant lowered his head and fidgeted said it all.
I’d given considerable thought to Grant’s final assignment. One of his fundamental challenges seemed to be envisioning a better future for himself. I’d come up with a way to give him a taste of something better. He would have to stretch for it.
“I have one last assignment for you,” I told him.
“Well, that’s a sucker’s deal.” He shot me a frown and a glare. “Why would I do an assignment if I won’t be around to use the amenity reward? What’s my motivation?”
Grant’s oblivion depressed me. If that was his attitude, it would take longer than a week, or even a whole summer, for me to persuade him to step up for himself. “I assume from your comment that the purpose of my assignments has gone undetected.”
“And there’s the Professor Snooty Pants I haven’t missed,” he said.
Our stare-off ended when I remembered Kai’s quiet voice the day I’d found them in the ditch: Uncle Grant is going through a rough patch because Aunt Laura refused to budge an inch. Sorrow for Grant and his tough life made me blink and look away. Get it over with.
“No shopping or manual labor this week,” I said. “Just an assignment, which is to write a proposal for a one-day workshop for tweens, including a financial plan, such that you net at least one hundred dollars. If I like the proposal, I’ll give you a hundred dollars to send you on your way.”
“You’ll… Jesus. Okay. Hell yes. I’m in.”
“You can use my computer at the desk, if you want. And you probably have more laundry to do.” Grant in the house meant I’d be stuck in the bedroom, but that was a small price to pay for full reclamation of my home in a week.
“I’ll try to remember to text you before I come over,” Grant said, “so you don’t freak out when I show up.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but the sound of girls’ voices stopped me. Jill, Penelope, and Clover biked into the yard and mobbed us with bright chatter. I said hello, smiled, tried to join in. They all seemed so far away, even though I was right there.
Jill saw Dad’s bike leaning against the wall and lunged for it.
“Oliver loaned it to me,” Grant told her.
“Can I?” she asked him.
“Have at it,” he said with a laugh.
She took the bike and rolled it to the bike repair cabinet.
Penelope pointed at Grant and said to me, “Grant’s doing a lot better since you let him use the outdoor kitchen. His camping skills still suck.”
It took a moment to process Penelope’s words. “Uh… good.” It was time for me to go, before I spaced out altogether and embarrassed myself. “Saturday works best this week for your trip to town in the van,” I told Grant before I turned to leave.
Penelope surprised me by walking away with me. “I wish you could have come with us into the blackberries.”
I had nothing to say to that.
She didn’t say anything else until we were halfway across the yard. “Oliver, do you think Grant’s going to be okay?”
“Oh. Sure. He’ll be fine.” I didn’t believe it.
Penelope gave me a funny look. The concern in her expression sharpened my attention. I didn’t want her to worry about me too. “It’s all fine,” I offered with a smile I had to act the heck out of to keep from coming across as fake.
“Well. Okay. You take care.” She patted my shoulder and jogged back to the others.
For a few heartbeats, I watched them in my toolshed, then backed away, faded into the house, disappeared in my bedroom to resume work on the mural and think about Freddie.
His gentle kiss after the squabble with Grant had been… nice. I’d dreaded going into the garage to get Dad’s bike, so asked Freddie to go with me. With a rag grabbed from a drawer under the workbench, I’d brushed cobwebs off the bike where it leaned against the far wall under the window. Dad’s absence hit me hard. I lost track of Freddie’s cheerful words as I brushed away the years.
When I tuned in again, I heard Freddie say, “This place I found in D.C. is perfect for us, right in the city. You can walk to all the big museums. Best of all, it has two bedrooms plus a living room. I was going to use the second bedroom for an office, but you can have it. I know how much you like your privacy.”
What Freddie described sounded good. It also sounded like a theory, something that could be real, not a place where I might spend days of my actual life.
I lifted my head. A sloppy smiley face decorated the grime on the window glass. Grant, the intrusive jerk, must have drawn it during a snoop around the garage.
It wasn’t fair of me to push Grant to get real if I wasn’t willing to try it myself.
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” I turned to give Freddie my smiley face.
Chapter 52
Grant
When Oliver delivered th
e loaner bike to me at the workshop late Monday morning, I scanned him for signs he and Freddie had gone beyond the kiss I’d seen at the garage.
Inconclusive.
Then Oliver hit me with an eviction notice and walked away.
To tamp down my panic and avoid the issue of my future, I hopped up to sit on the edge of the worktable near the girls and the bike and asked, “How’s everyone doing today?”
“Kai and his family have visitors in from out of town,” Penelope said.
Clover nodded and added, “And Abelino’s not here because his mom is sick today.”
“Is the bike your reward for last week?” Penelope asked. Both of her parents were lawyers. She’d asked about the contract I’d signed with Oliver, and then pored over it when I’d shown her.
“I think the bike is more like a bonus,” I told her. I didn’t say I thought it was Oliver’s way of getting me off his property. “The main reward was washer and dryer access.”
All three girls exchanged eye contact then executed a synchronized cheerleader move that managed to be both ironic and cute.
“I can take a hint.” I laughed and hopped off the table. “I’m going to check my laundry. If the bike gets Jill’s seal of approval, what do you say we go for a ride when I get back? You can tell me about your weekends, and I’ll tell you about my assignment from Oliver for next week. Maybe you can help me with it.”
Jill nodded, which I took to mean the bike would pass muster, and I jogged off to the house. Oliver had taped a note on the back door saying to come on in, which I did. I heard faint sounds from the bedroom.
Plenty of times since he’d woken me in the ditch, Oliver had tried to get me to respect his privacy. I’d bitched, barged into his space, criticized his lifestyle. No wonder he’d resorted to avoiding me. My invasive presence had turned a recluse into a prisoner in his own home.
I berated myself the entire time it took to transfer a load to the dryer and start another washer load. After a grope in my pocket for the zodiac scroll, to confirm I hadn’t washed it, I ignored my internal smackdown and bellowed at Oliver over the laundry noise, “Thanks for the bike. We’re going for a ride. Want to live a little and come with us?”
As expected, no answer.
From what I’d seen, the people in Oliver’s life gave him plenty of alone time. I wasn’t convinced it was healthy. Oliver seemed to sleepwalk more and more as the days went by—maybe in response to my invasion. Or maybe not.
I stomped across the back porch to make more noise.
Before I left for good, maybe I could wake Oliver up.
“How did you learn to work with bikes?” I asked Jill as we rode north along a trail toward Bast Road. The competent way she had adjusted the bike to fit me made me feel like I floated on a cloud as I rode, even on the bumpy trail.
“It’s just basic stuff,” Jill said. “I read a manual.”
“Like, read it?”
“Yeah. I got it from the library,” Jill said.
“You are so cool.” I turned around for a second to blast Jill with a grin.
When we got to Bast Road and the girls turned left to head up the slight slope, I lagged behind to crunch a few gears.
Penelope slowed to ride beside me. “What’s your next assignment?”
I waited until we’d caught up with Jill and Clover to say, “Oliver wants me to plan a one-day workshop for kids that earns a hundred dollars after expenses. That means good enough for kids to want to do and for parents to be willing to pay for.”
“I think you already did a one-day workshop.” Penelope lifted her chin toward the blackberry bramble within view up ahead. “My parents definitely would have paid you for that.”
We rode on amid a constant stream of ideas the girls had for workshops. Penelope and Jill, whose families seemed to have plenty of money, had attended many camps and taken lessons in a range of subjects. The issues they brought up in the form of stories about things gone wrong made me cringe. That would likely be my fate, since I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. The more they talked and the more excited they got, the less capable I felt. Even Clover, with her sketchy parents, seemed to have a better sense of how to plan and budget than I did.
Deep into a discussion with Jill about pricing, which I could barely follow, Penelope said to me, “Your workshop wouldn’t have to be only for us. If Clover, Jill, Kai, Abelino, and I were the only ones to do the workshop, you would have to charge us each more than twenty dollars.”
“Inviting more kids makes the fee less per kid,” Jill said with an approving nod and a glance at Clover.
Asking kids for money when all we wanted to do was play outside felt terrible. I hung back a little, then a little more, and lost track of the conversation. The girls were being so nice, but I didn’t feel worthy of their excitement.
“Hold up a sec, guys.” I didn’t want to fake an excuse, like Oliver had done at the brambles, but that didn’t stop me from doing it.
The girls braked and turned to face me.
“I… um… suddenly don’t feel very good. I think I need to head back.” I held up a hand to keep them from coming at me with their sympathy. “Thanks for all your great ideas. You keep riding. Next time you see me, tell me what else you came up with.”
From the skeptical looks on their faces, I could tell they didn’t believe my flimsy story.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it.
It took a little more persuasion, but they eventually rode on without me and out of sight. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and bent to puke my breakfast onto a cluster of pretty yellow flowers by the side of the road. “Sorry,” I said again, bummed my inability to solve basic life problems like earning a living had caused me to murder some innocent flowers.
There was just enough water in the bottle I’d tucked in the bike’s wire holder to give my mouth a rinse and to pour over the flowers to give them a chance at recovery.
I sat at the edge of the road and closed my eyes. For the first time, I saw a connection between my problems and the rules I lived by.
Huddled there beside my own puke, I gained a new level of respect for the devious jerk who’d crafted my assignments, because the tasks Oliver had given me—tasks I’d considered worthless and unnecessary—had shifted something, in spite of my resistance.
My gaze lost focus on the asphalt between my knees as I considered the rules I’d identified. Rules repeated through my childhood in the monotony of my parents’ voices.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
No playing until your work is done.
There’s always more work to be done.
School is play.
I added the rules I’d unconsciously made for myself.
Creativity is play.
If I don’t like it, I leave.
Which I’d just done when I excused myself from riding with the kids.
Annoyed, I stood and picked up the bike from where I’d dropped it. I needed to go lie in my tent and think for a while, even if it hurt. Then I needed to follow New Rule #1 and ask for help.
I rode toward the sharp left turn onto Bast Road, stared at the pavement in front of the spinning bike tire, and mulled over the possibility of another new rule. I could feel something trying to muscle its way into my awareness, something to do with Jill and the bicycle, and with Penelope poring over my contract with Oliver.
A spurt of tires on gravel interrupted my thoughts. I looked up, expecting to see a car.
It wasn’t a car. It was Oliver on his bicycle.
I caught a glimpse of hair as Oliver flew in from the left on Bast, blasting toward the sharp turn that would put us face to face. Before I could brace myself for an interaction, Oliver veered left instead of right and shot off into the woods. He disappeared in an instant, absorbed by the thick forest.
I didn’t t
hink he’d seen me.
My new rule snapped into focus.
New Rule #2: Follow the fascination.
Chapter 53
Oliver
Grant’s invitation to join them for a bike ride, shouted from the great room in the rumble of his deep voice, gave me an idea. Instead of brooding indoors, I would practice taking a trip away from home.
I cracked the back door to watch Grant and the girls bike away, then ran to get my bike from the carport and follow them. At Bast Road, I hid behind a tree to let them ride on down the road. They stopped at Mrs. Montgomery’s bramble and huddled close, bikes clacking against one another with metallic pings. Grant listened with a huge smile as the girls relived the experience. I could hear them when I stood very still.
Bast Road ran due west, toward the cliffs on the western side of the island. Grant and the girls carried on to the end of Bast Road, until I could barely see them, then took the right onto Willow Way and rode out of sight.
I eased my bike onto the pavement and found my balance, averted my eyes as I passed Mrs. Montgomery’s bramble. I needed courage, not a reminder of failure.
At first, I thought the itch at my neck was a bug. I lifted a hand to brush it away. After the tenth time, with no change in the tickle when I brushed at it, my vision pulled in from the sides. The road ran on in front of me, on and on.
My mouth went dry. My heart sped up.
I pedaled faster, to force myself not to turn around in defeat, but the erratic beat of my heart drained my legs of coordination. I thought if I could get to Willow, catch sight of Grant, I might be okay.
The tremors in my legs and arms became a full body shake. I couldn’t keep my balance when I hit a patch of pebbles and veered onto the left shoulder with a jerk. I made it through a jarring descent into the ditch and a hard pedal up the other side, dodged a tree trunk, then another, bumped hard through the sparse underbrush, and scraped my knuckles on a branch when I didn’t course-correct fast enough.