I look up at my sisters and put my computer down. I crawl over to where Ann Marie has abandoned her dolls and is unpacking Elisabeth’s purse.
“Pork chop,” I say, and pretend to take a bite. I hold it out to her.
She leans forward and pretends to eat too.
Elisabeth joins in, and the three of us make sloppy chewing sounds until we burst into a fit of giggles. I start a tickle war but soon regret it. They pin me and wiggle their small hands under my arms. Mom pokes her head in, wondering if I need to be rescued.
Later I help the twins into their booster seats and slide their chairs up to the kitchen table. They’ve got bibs, plastic plates, sippy cups, and little kid silverware, as if dinner is a sport that needs safety gear.
“Jamie,” my stepdad says while stabbing a chicken nugget with his fork, “I was talking with my friend Sal, and he said he needs some guys to fill out his crew this summer.”
Sal started a landscaping business back when construction took a nosedive. His crew fixes sprinklers and mows lawns—not my idea of a fun summer job, but I don’t say so.
“Frank,” Mom says. “Jamie has a summer job all lined up—”
“I know, I know. But this is outside. Fresh air and sunshine,” Frank explains to Mom. Then he fakes a punch to my shoulder. “Build up those muscles, get some color, huh, bud?”
I fake a smile. And wince inside. That’s so Frank—built, tan, construction contractor Frank with sawdust on his clothes and dirt in the laces of his steel-toed boots. And so not me—beanpole tall and prone to sunburn. Sure, I used to love tagging along to construction sites where he’d show me my mom’s designs being built. The last day was always my favorite—and not because of the new Day-Glo green grass—but because the signs would be up: shiny letters stating the name of the business inside, rows of numbers on the doors indicating the address, bright neon curls announcing that it was open.
I have no interest in mowing lawns this summer. I want to work at my mom’s architectural firm, running errands, redoing the website, updating the brochure, and photographing projects. And I want to remind Frank that I flipped burgers and asked people if they wanted “fries with that” all last summer to buy my Mac—tell him that I’ve earned this job.
But Frank is, as usual, trying too hard at the stepdad thing, as if he wants to be my receding-hairline superhero. “I thought you’d like to earn a few bucks. Sal pays more than your mother does.”
“Hey,” my mom says.
“It’s not about the money,” I say instead of hell no. “I want to work for Mom.”
A look of dejection crosses Frank’s face. “I put in a good word for you with Sal, that’s all.”
“Thanks, but I get all the lawn-mowing fun I need around here.” I do. He’s always away at a job site or just getting home or about to leave again. And I mow the lawn.
“Exactly!” His face bounces up into a smile. “That’s what I told Sal. That you have experience.”
I close my eyes and let my head fall into my hands. He doesn’t get it. He never gets it.
“Now, honey,” my mom says to me. “It would be nice to have a little extra to put toward tuition in the fall.”
That’s what happens when you get a new stepdad at fifteen, followed by two baby sisters and a Honda for your sixteenth birthday. Don’t get me wrong: I love my sisters. And my car might be a POS, but it’s mine. The college tuition money my mom had carefully saved for me, though, is no longer all mine. It’s divided three ways. And the new guy that lives down the hall? He’s not my dad no matter how hard he tries. And Mom? I have to share her, too.
My dad? He never married her. They were college sweethearts, but after graduation they found jobs in different cities and promised each other they’d work something out. They never did. Sure, he visited a few times when I was a kid, sent child support when he could. But that stopped the day I turned eighteen. He and I were always on tectonic plates, slowly drifting apart, from father and son to nothing over the course of eighteen years.
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THREE
In gym class the next morning, a rough-and-tumble game of two-hand touch is tied at 21–21. Coach Callahan has given up on the soccer unit and let the guys play football instead. It’s shirts vs. skins and Brodie Hamilton vs. Kellen Zalaba. They look like they’re having fun—not that I want to join them. The skins part of shirts vs. skins can be a little distracting when you’re trying to catch a ball and run at the same time—oh, and not run into Lincoln High’s defensive MVP, Nick O’Shea, a six-foot-three wall of muscle. His friends call him Red and everyone else refers to him as the Redneck—and not just because he drives a vintage two-tone Chevy Silverado. He’s the kind of guy you don’t want to run into on the field or off. In fact, guys like DeMarco, Michael, and I walk wide circles around him. So I’ve opted out of the game in favor of running a mile.
Today I walk an extra lap to cool down and, on my way back inside, I find Mason staring up at the sky. His back is to me, the game ball tucked under one arm. He looks like a modern day Greek god in a faded John Deere T-shirt—his dark curls his personal brand of halo.
I stand beside him and follow his gaze. A plane passes overhead, its contrail neatly dividing the brilliant blue sky in two. The line is as crisp and as white as the snow lingering on Shafer Butte.
“I can’t wait to get outta here,” he says. “Live my own life.”
“So with you, man,” I agree. “Frank wants me to mow lawns all summer.”
“Lawns, as in plural?”
“Yeah. For his friend Sal.”
“And you don’t want to, I take it.”
“Bingo.” I bump his shoulder and start toward the doors.
“Jamie,” he calls out, and when I turn, he tosses me the ball.
I catch it, backpedal, and launch it to him in a graceful arc.
He snatches it from the air and runs toward me, zigzagging as if to dare me to tackle him.
I bend at the waist and spread my arms out to my sides.
Mason fakes left and zigzags right.
I catch him by the waist and his momentum spins us around. In a dizzying flash, he grabs my arm and holds it tight against his ribs. I feel them shake as he laughs. One more revolution and we stumble to the ground.
“Dork,” I tell him, and flop onto my back. “I was tackling you.”
Spread out like he’s making a snow angel in the grass, he lifts the ball from under his arm. “Nah, total touchdown.”
“Touchdown? Not even close,” I protest, and reach for the ball.
But Mason points up at the split-in-two sky. I lie back to look.
We watch the contrail as it fades away. I wonder about college next year and the million things that will change in our lives, like living away from home, on our own without parents and siblings. I wonder if college will feel like home, if I’ll make new friends, if coming out will finally let me feel like I fit in.
I know Mason’s itching to leave, probably because he shares a room with his older brother, Gabe. And his sister, Londa, can be a royal pain. He’ll be the first one to go away to college. (Gabe works at the family garage, and Londa goes to Boise State; they both still live at home.) One thing’s for sure: he’ll be glad not to be working in his father’s garage.
“Just a few more weeks,” I say.
“I hope I survive,” Mason says. “Five APs and Purdy’s exam. It all just might kill me.”
“You’ll ace ’em,” I say.
Mason chuckles. “Thanks, man.”
I stand up. I reach for Mason’s hand and pull him to his feet. “So, about prom. You want to share a limo with me, Holland, DeMarco, Lia, and Michael?”
“Don’t you need a date first?”
“Ouch,” I say, and clutch my chest.
This makes him smile. “See?” he says. “McCall.”
Grinning as if he’s pulling my leg, he shakes his head and walks toward the building.
I follow him through the door. I’m so confused. He says he’s going to prom because I’m going to prom, but then he goes and mentions McCall again—like he doesn’t want to go to prom. I don’t get it. I don’t know about him, but I want to get dressed up, ride in a limo, dance, and party until sunrise. It’ll be one of those things you never forget. Besides, I’ve never gone to a school dance because of the lack-of-date problem. But I like to dance. Well, I think I’d like to dance. I want to go to prom, and I know it’ll be one hundred times better with Mason there. “It’ll be fun,” I say, trying to convince him. “Promise.”
“McCall would be fun,” he says, and walks down the hall toward the locker room, leaving me standing there, looking at the back of his green T-shirt and at how the worn fabric is pulled taut across his shoulder blades. He runs one hand through his hair, his bicep rising in a smooth hill of honey-colored skin. I watch, mesmerized, as his hair tangles between his fingers and springs free again, one curl, then another.
What is up with him?
What’s up with me?
I didn’t just check out my best friend. Did I?
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FOUR
No. No, no. No.
I did not just do that. I can’t believe I just did that! Mason and I have been friends since third grade, and I have never looked at him like that. Other guys, yeah, but not him. It should be in the Bible. Thou shalt not check out thy best friend.
I wait a minute to catch my breath and the last shred of my sanity before I follow Mason into the locker room. I head for the sinks and splash water onto my face in an attempt to straighten out my thoughts. I’m okay with bent thoughts—I have them all the time—but checking out Mason? That’s going too far. He’s my best friend. And everyone knows friend crushes are the worst—even guy-girl friend crushes—drama, angst, broken hearts, you name it. It’s bad—real bad. And straight-guy-gay-guy friend crushes? I don’t even want to think about that apocalypse.
I take a deep breath and watch as the water collects along my upper lip. I mouth the words, Mason. Is. Not. Cute.
But I’m so lying to myself. Under his glasses, mop of curls, and total lack of fashion sense is a square jaw, a straight nose, and an amazing smile. And, well, totally kissable lips. Mason. Is. Not. Cute. Not cute. Not cute. I chant in my mind as I splash more cold water on my face and then rub it dry with the hem of my shirt.
I check out my hair in the mirror. It’s in need of a major overhaul. Sweat is so not a hair product. I pick a piece of dandelion fuzz from over my left ear and stick my head under the tap. I pull off my T-shirt and dry my hair with it. I grab my emergency hair gel from my locker and run a dollop through my shortish sandy-blond hair, arranging it so and into a perfect rolled-out-of-bed sexy mess. Satisfied, I get dressed and apply half a stick of deodorant.
By the time I’m done, Mason is gone.
In art class, I sit in my usual seat next to Eden.
“Challis was looking for you,” she says.
“In a good way?” I ask with a flicker of hope. Maybe Challis would ask me to prom. That would save me a whole lot of trouble in the date-finding department—she’s the president of the Gay-Straight Alliance and clearly batting for the home team. We’d go as friends.
“Not exactly,” Eden admits.
I see Challis, tall and thin, stomping into the room like a moody runway model.
She whips out a sheet of paper then slaps her hand down on it, cementing it to the table in front of me. “You rejected my drawing!”
I peer around her fingers and recognize the image on the paper: the manga-style drawing from yesterday’s Gumshoe meeting. “We vote by committee?” I say, but it sounds more like a question.
She barks half a laugh. “No, you don’t. You do art. Lia, poetry. Holland, flash fiction. Michael, shorts.”
I ease the drawing out from under her hand. It’s a guy dressed like Magellan, only wearing a beret and holding a paintbrush. He looks familiar, like he’s from a game or a book.
Eden leans over to get a better look. “Nice,” she says, admiring the picture.
“You have something against Leo?” Challis accuses.
Now I recognize him—a young Leonardo da Vinci from Assassin’s Creed. “No, but I am looking for original characters, not fan art.” Phew. A legitimate reason actually popped into my brain and came out of my mouth!
Challis’s arched eyebrows form a straight line.
“And”—I fish for another brilliant answer—“I’m really looking for art that I can pair with writing, like a story set in the Renaissance and a painting inspired by da Vinci—that’d be cool.”
This explanation does nothing to lift the eyebrow frown from her face.
I try again because I like Challis. “And I’d kill for a graphic short—give me one of those, and I’ll get it in.”
“A graphic short story?” she echoes.
I nod. Truth is, I admire Challis, maybe even wish I was more like her—out, proud, and in the GSA. Plus, she’s an amazing artist.
“Any topic?”
“Um—” Eden chimes in, as if warning me against agreeing to this.
“Anything I can get past Taylor. So, like, no f-bombs, okay?” I clarify, already imagining how a comic would look awesome in Gumshoe.
Challis bites her lip while the corners of her mouth curl up into a smile. “You’ll accept it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“’Cause it’ll be a ton of work,” she explains.
“Yeah,” Eden says. “Original characters are more time consuming.”
“Promise,” I tell Challis. “Original characters, and it’s in.”
After school Mason sags into the locker next to mine. “Gabe got my shift,” he says about his brother. “Wanna save the world from the zombie apocalypse?”
“Sounds great,” I say, and glance over at him. He looks like he always does at the end of the day, tired but content, and as if he just put an X through the calendar square in his day planner. His curls have straightened a little, and they hang in a curtain around the frames of his glasses. See, I tell myself. He’s not that cute. No way I have a crush on him.
I throw my books in my backpack, and we walk out to the student parking lot, grumbling about the pop quiz in government. Mason tells me the correct answers, and I calculate that I scraped by with a C. I drive the three blocks while Mason cranks the radio.
After a few hours of Mason killing zombies and my character getting killed by them, Mason’s cell chirps with a text. He pauses the game to read it. He frowns.
“What?” I ask.
“My mom’s working late,” he says.
Mason’s mom works at the twenty-four-hour supermarket, and late can mean really late. But this isn’t why he’s frowning. “And I’m hungry.”
Personally, I’m famished. One of Mrs. V’s home-cooked meals would have really hit the spot.
“She said there’s hamburger in the fridge,” he adds, standing up.
Soon we have a couple of burgers sizzling in a skillet on the stove, and rolls are toasting in the oven. Mason has his head buried in the pantry, looking for a can of chiles, when his dad and Gabe come in.
“Smells good,” Gabe says. “What’s for dinner?”
“Ham—” Mason starts to answer, appearing again with a can in hand.
But Mr. V cuts him off, asking questions in his rapid-fire Spanish. Not angry but not kind, either.
“At work,” Mason manages to answer one before another round of questions begins.
I pull two or three words from the volley: little girls and cooking or maybe kitchen.
Mason presses h
is lips together, his skin darkening with embarrassment or anger before he tries to hide it. He opens a drawer and rummages around for a can opener.
Mr. V continues, gesturing to the backyard and saying something about huevos.
I flip the two burgers over, getting the gist. We are, in his opinion, playing house like little girls by cooking in the kitchen instead of grilling like real men.
Gabe finds two beers in the fridge and gives his father one, ushering him out of the kitchen. “Put on another two, would you, Mace?” he asks on his way out.
“Effin’ A,” Mason mutters. “Make your own goddamn dinner.”
We eat our chile and-cheese-topped hamburgers on the steps that lead to the backyard, sharing a bag of chips and drinking orange soda from cans. We’re quiet for a while, and I remember when Mason went from idolizing his father to antagonizing him.
The summer after seventh grade—the summer Mason spent in Mexico—was the worst summer of our lives. Mine because Mason was gone. His because he dug up a family secret. See, Mason’s father has two families: one here and one in Mexico. Mason is the youngest of five children total, Londa and Gabe being his full brother and sister.
His half sister, Clara, had come to visit the summer before. The trip was a birthday present. She had just turned twenty. She made the best tortillas, and we ate our fill while teaching her dirty words in English. We said she’d need to know them now that she was living in the States. She laughed, ruffled Mason’s hair, and said he was just like their brother Pedro. He’d shrugged off her comment, thinking he was nothing like Pedro. Pedro, he imagined, was more like Gabe, a tall, muscular teenager interested in cars and girls. Or maybe girls, then cars.
But when he met Pedro the awful summer that followed, he learned Clara was right. Pedro wasn’t much older than Gabe like he had thought he would be. He was fourteen—just a year older than Mason and me. And the math was off. Seriously off.
Fan Art Page 2