by Sarah Dessen
Ginny was down on her hands and knees now, blotting the carpet with a T-shirt, while a few of her friends stood around uncertainly, offering cleaning tips. The crowd around the living room started to shift toward the door.
“This is lame,” some girl in a halter top said over her shoulder as she passed us. “And there’s no beer left anyway.”
Her friend, a redhead with a pierced nose, nodded, flipping her long hair back with one hand. “I heard there’s a frat party uptown tonight. Let’s go up there. It’s gotta be better than all these high-school boys.”
One by one Ginny’s friends drifted off, gathering their cigarettes and purses and backing out of the room. Brett Hershey, ever the gentleman, had found a brush and dustpan and was cleaning up the glass while Ginny sat down on the carpet, crying, as the house got quieter and quieter.
I just looked at Scarlett, wondering what we should do, and she glanced into the living room and called out in a cheerful voice, “Bye, Ginny. See you Monday.”
Ginny looked up at us. Her mascara had run, leaving black smudges under her eyes. “My parents are going to kill me,” she wailed, patting at the stained carpet helplessly. “That glass was a wedding gift. And there’s no way I can cover this.”
“Soda water,” Scarlett said as I inched open the door, hoping for a clean getaway. Ginny just looked up at us, confused. “And a little Clorox. It’ll take it right out.”
“Soda water,” Ginny repeated slowly. “Thanks.”
We slipped out the door, letting it fall shut behind us. Someone had left an empty six-pack container on the fountain, and a bottle was floating in its sparkling water and knocking against its sides, clinking, as we passed.
“What a drag,” Scarlett said as we came up on her car. She was being quietly respectful of my sulking. “Really.”
“I should have known better,” I said. “Like he was really asking me to meet him.”
“It sounded like he was.”
“Whatever,” I said, getting in the car as she started the engine. “I’m probably better off.”
“I know I am,” she said cheerfully, pulling out onto the street, the big houses of the Arbors looming on either side of us. “Now I don’t have to hear the sordid details of P.E. every day.”
“Leave me alone.” I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window. “This sucks.”
“I know,” she said softly, reaching over and patting my leg. “I know.”
When we got home we sat out on the front steps, drinking Cokes and not talking much. Scarlett blew her nose a lot and I tried to salvage what was left of my pride, making lame excuses neither one of us believed.
“I never really liked him,” I said. “He’s too wild anyway.”
“Yeah,” she said, but I could feel her smiling in the dark. “He’s not your type.”
“He isn’t,” I went on, ignoring her. “He needs to be dating Ginny Tabor. Or Elizabeth Gunderson. Someone with a reputation to match his. I was so stupid for even thinking he’d look twice at someone like me.”
She leaned back against the door, stretching out her legs. “Why do you say stuff like that?”
“Stuff like what?” Across the street I could see Noah Vaughn pass in front of our window.
“Someone like you. Any guy would be damn lucky to have you, Halley, and you know it. You’re beautiful and smart and loyal and funny. Elizabeth Gunderson and Ginny are just stupid girls with loud voices. That’s it. You’re special.”
“Scarlett,” I said. “Please.”
“You don’t have to believe me,” she said, waving me off. “But it’s true, and I know you better than anyone. Macon Faulkner would be damn lucky if you chose him.” She sneezed again, fumbling around for a Kleenex. “Shoot, I’ll be right back. Hold on.”
She went inside, the door creaking slowly shut behind her, and I sat back against the steps, staring up at my brightly lit house and the dark sky above it. Inside, my father was probably popping popcorn and drinking a beer, while my mother and Mrs. Vaughn talked too much during the movie so you couldn’t hear anything. Noah was still sulking, for sure, and Clara was probably already curled up asleep on my bed, to be carried to the car later. I knew those Friday nights by heart. But my mother didn’t understand why I couldn’t spend the rest of my life on that couch with Noah, a bowl of popcorn in my lap, with her on my other side. Why just the thought of it was enough to make me feel like I couldn’t breathe, or too sad to even look her in the eye.
Then, suddenly, I noticed someone walking up the street toward my house, dodging through the McDowells’ yard and through their hedge, then darting across the sidewalk and down the far end of my front yard. I sat up straighter, watching the shadow slip past the row of trees my mother was trying to nudge into growing against the fence, stepping smoothly over the hole where my father had sprained his ankle mowing the lawn the summer before. I got up off the steps and crept across the street, coming up on the side of my house.
Whoever it was finally came to a stop under my side bedroom window, then stood looking up at it for a good long while before bending down, picking up something, and tossing it. I heard a ping as it bounced off the glass and I moved closer, close enough to see the person more clearly as he tossed up another rock, missing altogether and hitting the gutter, which was loose and rattled loudly. I was also close enough to hear the voice now, a hushed whisper.
“Halley!” Then a pause, and another ping of a rock hitting the glass. “Halley!”
I moved behind the tree that shaded my bedroom in summer, a mere two feet away from Macon Faulkner, who seemed determined to break my window or at least weaken it to the point of spontaneous collapse.
“Halley!” He stepped closer to the house, craning his neck.
I crept up behind him, silent, and tapped him on the shoulder just as he was launching another rock; he jerked to face me, not quite completing the throw, so it rained back down on him, bouncing off his head and landing between us on the ground.
“Shoot,” he said, all flustered. He’d almost jumped out of his skin. “Where did you come from?”
“Why are you trying to break my window?”
“I’m not. I was trying to get your attention.”
“But I wasn’t home.” I said.
“I didn’t know that,” he said. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry,” I said, and I couldn’t believe he was here, in my yard, like some kind of ghost I’d conjured up with wishful thinking. “How’d you know this was my window anyway?”
“Just did,” he said simply. I was noticing that he didn’t usually explain what he didn’t have to. He was still a little shaken but now he grinned at me, his teeth white, like this was not unusual or amazing. “Where were you?”
“When?”
“Earlier. I thought you were coming to that party.”
“I was there,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I didn’t see you.”
“Oh,” he said confidently, “that’s a lie.”
“I was,” I said. “We just got home.”
“I have been there since seven o’clock,” he said loudly, talking over me, “and I was looking for you, and waiting, and you stood me up‾”
“No, you stood me up,” I said in a louder voice, “and I have Scarlett to vouch for it.”
“Scarlett? She wasn’t there either.”
“Yes, she was. She was with me.” I looked back across the street, where she was standing on the steps, one hand shielding her eyes, looking over at us. I waved, and she waved back, then sat down and blew her nose.
“I was upstairs,” he said. “I never saw you.”
“Where upstairs?”
“In the attic.”
“Oh,” I said. “We didn’t go there.”
“Why not?”
I just looked at him. “Why would we?”
“I don’t know,” he said, out of arguments. “I did.”
A light came on upstairs in my room, and I heard the wi
ndow sliding open. My father stuck his head out, looking around, and I pushed Macon into the shadow of the house, then stepped back into the brightness of the side porch light.
“Hi,” I called out, startling my father, who jerked back and slammed his head on the window. “It’s just me.”
“Halley?” He turned around, rubbing his head, and said into the house, “It’s just Halley, Clara, go back to sleep. It’s fine.”
Macon was looking up at my father; if he had glanced down, he could have made him out easily.
“I was looking for something,” I said suddenly. I hadn’t lied to my father very much, so I was grateful for the dark. “I dropped a bracelet of Scarlett’s out here and we were looking for it.”
My father craned his neck, looking around. “A bracelet? Is Scarlett down there?”
“Yes,” I said, and the lies just rolled out of me, on and on, “I mean, no, she was but we found it and she went back to her house. Because she’s got this cold and all. So I was just, um, getting ready to follow her. When you opened the window.”
In front of me, Macon was quietly snickering.
“Isn’t it about time for you to be in?” my father said. “It’s almost ten-thirty.”
“I’ll be home by eleven.”
“You two should come over now. We’ve got this great movie on that Noah brought and I just made popcorn.”
“That sounds great, but I better get back across the street,” I said quickly, stepping back under the shield of the tree behind me. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s right! Don’t you have a morning date with—” and here he paused, dramatically—“the Beast?”
I was about to die.
“The Beast?” Macon whispered, grinning. Above us, my father was making growling noises.
The Beast, of course, was my father’s pet name for his mower, his most prized possession. He was so embarrassing.
“Yeah,” I said, willing him with all my power to go away. “I guess.”
“Okay, then,” he said, starting to pull the window shut and having to bank it with the side of his hand at the point where it always stuck. “Don’t creep around out there, okay? You scared Clara to death.”
“Right,” I said as the window clicked shut, and I could see my room behind him until the light cut off. I stood there, breathing heavily, until I was sure he was gone.
“You,” Macon said, stepping out where I could see him, “are such a liar.”
“I am not,” I said. “Well, not usually. But he would have freaked if he’d seen you.”
“You want me to leave?” He stepped closer to me, and even in the dark I knew every inch of his face from all those hours of P.E., studying him across a badminton net.
“Yes,” I said loudly, and he pretended to walk off but I grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “I’m kidding.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” And for a minute it was like I wasn’t even myself anymore; I could have been any girl, someone bold and reckless. There was something about Macon that made me act different, giving that black outline some inside color, at last. I was still holding his arm, my face hot, and in the dark I might have been Elizabeth Gunderson or Ginny Tabor or even Scarlett, any girl that things happen to. And as he leaned in to kiss me, I thought of nothing but how unbelievable it was that this was all happening, in my side yard, the most familiar of places.
Just then a car came screeching around the corner, music blaring. It passed my house, horn beeping, and then turned onto Honeysuckle, where it sat idling.
“I gotta go,” Macon said, kissing me again. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Wait—” I said as he pulled away, holding my hand until he had to let go of it. “Where are you going?”
“Faulkner!” I heard a voice yell from down the street. “Where are you?”
“Bye, Halley,” he whispered, smiling at me as he slipped easily around the side of the house, disappearing into the darkness of my backyard. I leaned around the corner, watching him as he ducked beneath the kitchen window, where Noah Vaughn was standing. His face was stony, solemn, as he stared at me, holding a Coke in his hand. He couldn’t see what I saw: Macon, my last glimpse, vanishing into thin air.
The next morning my father was grinning when I came outside. He loved this. “Well, hey there, lawn girl. Ready to take on the Beast?” Then he made the growling noise again.
“You’re not funny,” I said.
“Sure I am.” He chuckled. “Better get started before it gets any warmer. It’ll take you a good two hours, at least.”
“Shut up,” I said, which just made him laugh harder. My father believes our lawn is impossible; over the years it had sent yard services and neighborhood mowing boys running for their lives. My father, the only one who could navigate it safely, saw himself as a warrior, victorious among the grass clippings.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” he said, now suddenly serious. “There’s the Hole between the junipers that got me last summer, as well as a row of tree roots by the fence that were made specifically to pull you to the side and cut your motor. Not to mention the ruts in the backyard and the series of hidden tree stumps. But you’ll do fine.”
“Just let me get it over with.” I leaned down and started the mower, pushing it to the front curb, with him still behind me chuckling.
It was hot, loud, and too bright out in that yard. I got sleepy, then careless, and hit the Hole, which of course I’d forgotten; my ankle twisted in it and I fell forward, the mower flying out from under me and sputtering to a stop. By this time my father had gone to the fence by the driveway and was busy talking lawns or golf or whatever with Mr. Perkins, our neighbor. Neither one of them noticed me do a faceplant in the grass, then kick the mower a few feet out of pure vengeance.
I heard a horn beep and turned to see a red pickup truck sliding to a stop by the curb, a green tarp thrown over something in the truck bed. It was Macon.
“Hey,” he said, getting out of the truck and slamming the door. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I said. “Actually, it’s not. I just fell down.” I looked over at my father, who was staring right back at us.
“That your dad?” Macon said.
“Yep,” I said. “That’s him.”
Macon looked around the yard, at the small patch I’d done so far and the high grass that lay ahead all around us, spurred on by a straight week of rain. “So,” he said confidently, “you want some help?”
“Oh, you don’t want to...” I said, but he was already walking back to the truck, pulling the tarp aside to reveal a mower twice the size of mine, which he wheeled off a ramp on the back. He had on his BROADSIDE HOME AND GARDEN baseball hat, which he flipped around backwards, readying for action.
“You don’t understand,” I said to him as he started checking the gas, examining the wheels, “this lawn is, like, impossible. You practically need a map to keep from killing yourself.”
“Are you underestimating my ability as a lawn-service provider?” he asked, looking up at me. “I sincerely hope that you are not.”
“I’m not,” I said quickly, “but it’s just... I mean, it’s really hard.”
“Psssh,” he said, fanning me off with one hand. “Just stand back, okay?” And then he stood up, pulled the cord, and the mower roared to life and started across the lawn with Macon guiding it. It sucked up the grass, marking a swath twice as wide as I’d been managing with the Beast. I turned around to look at my father, who was staring at Macon as he glided over the tree roots and past the Hole, and edged the fence perfectly.
“Halley,” my father said from behind me, yelling over the roar of the mower, “this is supposed to be your job.”
“I’m working,” I said quickly, starting up my own mower, which puttered quietly like a kid’s toy as I pushed it along between the juniper bushes. “See?”
I didn’t hear what he said as Macon passed us again, the mower annihilating
the grass and leaving a smooth, green trail behind him. He nodded at my father, all business, as he turned the corner and disappeared around the side of the house, the roar scaring all the birds at the feeder on the back porch into sudden flight.
“Who is that kid?” my father said, craning his neck around the side of the house.
“What?” I was still pushing my mower, circling the trees by the fence. The smell of cut grass filled the air, sweet and pungent.
“Who is he?”
I cut off the mower. In the backyard I could see Macon mowing around the hidden tree stumps. My father saw it too, his face shocked. “He’s my friend,” I said.
There must have been some giveaway in how I said it because suddenly his face changed and I could tell he wasn’t thinking about the lawn anymore.
My mother came out the front door, holding her coffee cup. “Brian? There’s some strange boy mowing the lawn.”
“I know,” my father said. “I’m handling it.”
“I thought that was Halley’s job,” she said like I wasn’t even there. “Right?”
“Right,” he said in a tired voice. “It’s under control.”
“Fine.” She went back inside, but I could see her standing in the glass door, watching us.
“This was supposed to be your job,” he said, as if reading off a script she’d written.
“I didn’t ask him to do it,” I said as the mower roared around the corner of the house, edging the garage. “We were talking about it last night and I guess he just remembered. He works mowing lawns, Dad. He just wanted to help me out.”
“Well, that doesn’t change the fact that it was your responsibility. ” It was an effort, but he was fading.
The mower was roaring toward us now as Macon finished off the patch by the front walk. Then he came closer, until the noise was deafening, before finally cutting it off. We all stood there in the sudden silence, looking at each other. My ears were ringing.
“Macon,” I said slowly, “this is my dad. Dad, this is Macon Faulkner.”