Effortless With You

by Lizzy Charles

  “You’re a smart girl, Lucy, you’ll be fine,” Mom replies.

  “Crawling around on roofs? Hanging off the sides of houses? Lifting huge tubs of paint?” I squeak as my voice cracks.

  Mom’s face softens a bit. “You’ll be fine,” she repeats.

  “Can I leave now?”

  “Yes,” says Dad, still sitting on the couch with his hand held to his cheek. He looks worried. At least one of my parents doesn’t thrive off of being evil.

  I turn around to walk up the stairs. Dad calls after me, “One of the workers will pick you up Monday morning at seven.”

  I don’t respond. I walk quietly up the stairs only to slam my door so hard it shakes our house. Mom’s voice filters up through my vent. “She’ll be fine, Dan. I promise.”

  I scream into my pillow. She is clueless.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I drag myself out of bed at twenty to seven. My legs ache from jerking me awake all night long. Stupid dream ladders.

  Grabbing my best sports bra and an outfit that I welcome to be destroyed, Marissa’s advice echoes in my mind, “What if you meet a guy? Or what if you’re painting the home of a modeling agent?”

  I doubt either of those things will happen but I throw some mascara and eyeliner on anyway. At least I can look decent when strapped to a gurney.

  I hate walking into the unknown. It sucks. All I know is that this job will be dangerous and hot. I grab a granola bar from under my bed, hoping it will help calm me down. A motor sputters into the driveway. I run down the stairs to head off my new coworker from meeting Mom. That would be horrifying.

  But Mom’s already waiting for me at the door. I pray she won’t come outside with me. She hands me a water and lunch with a smug expression on her face. I take the water bottle but refuse the lunch. She’s not winning everything. Our exchange is silent. About time.

  A battered white pickup truck idles like a snoring troll in our driveway. Metal ladders stick out of the truck bed and a small sign hangs loosely from chains over the side of the bed, “Purposeful Painting Inc.” The sign swings in the breeze, banging loudly against the truck. I’m pretty sure that is illegal. The business doesn’t seem legit at all.

  A young guy sits in the front of the truck, sipping from a coffee cup, wearing a painter’s hat and a pair of sunglasses. He has a strong jaw and stubble. I look at his arm, bent up toward his face on the window ledge. He is tan and muscular. A goofy smile spreads across my face. Maybe the summer won’t be a complete waste after all. I climb into the passenger seat, thankful I put on mascara.

  “Good morning, Lucinda,” the driver says in a mocking tone.

  I stop breathing.

  No way. He takes off his sunglasses. Two piercing green eyes stare back at me. I don’t even try to hide my groan.

  Justin.

  He laughs. “What?”

  I roll my eyes before hitting my head against the seat. To any other girl in school, this would be Heaven. To me, it’s a humiliating nightmare.

  “Awesome party the other night, huh?” he prods.

  I shrug. There’s no way I’m giving him info to use against me. I pull out my granola bar, taking a bite so it’s impossible to speak.

  Justin stares cockeyed at the granola bar and my water bottle. “Is that all you have?”

  I swallow. “Yup.” Justin raises an eyebrow. “It’s all I need. Seriously, I’ll be fine.”

  Justin shakes his head and turns off the engine.

  “Um, are you listening? Let’s go. I’m fine.” It’s only been three minutes and already I want to strangle him. He never listens.

  Justin jumps out of the truck, bee-lining it for my front door.

  “What are you doing?” I jump out, following.

  “Getting you lunch.” He looks me up and down, shaking his head. “You won’t survive the day without it.” He pushes open my front door and walks right in. The nerve. I run in behind, reaching the entryway only a few seconds later. Justin isn’t waiting for me. I throw the kitchen door open and want to die.

  Justin’s shaking Mom’s hand. “Yes. Mrs. Zwindler. It’s great to finally meet you. My mom reads GardenLush.com every spring to prepare for the flowering season. She loves your blog.” Justin smiles at Mom and she flushes. Even my mom falls for his fake charm.

  It always surprises me when people say they are a fan of that blog. To me, the blog is just an extension of her gardening therapy, helping her recovery. It is a constant reminder of what my birth caused. Babies are supposed to bring their mothers joy. I just brought mine postpartum depression that turned into years of darkness.

  But Justin’s compliment makes Mom glow. “Oh, she’s a fan? Would you like to take her some samples of a promotional product?” She reaches into a sack, not giving Justin a chance to say no. She pulls out three palm-sized, moist bags. “These are tulip bulbs wrapped in a rich new fertilizer. They use cow and goat manure as well as catfish eggs.” She hands the three lumps to Justin. He looks down at his hands, now holding tulip bulbs and poop. He raises his eyebrows at me. Mom doesn’t notice; she’s oblivious as to how weird her gardening fascination is.

  “Tell your mom to plant them this fall. They will be the most beautiful tulips next year,” Mom explains. Justin flashes Mom a thankful smile. Fearing what he’ll say, I jump in.

  “Justin,” I almost growl at him. “Let’s go.”

  “Lucinda, be polite.” She takes a slow, therapy breath. “I apologize for her rudeness. She’s not normally so frank.” Justin nods, occasionally glancing down at the bags in his hand. He’s actually speechless. I grin and make a mental note: To make Justin shut up, add poop bags.

  Mom continues, “You see, this job is not exactly her choice … but her father and I believe it will do her well.” I cringe as Mom tells way too much information.

  “I understand, Mrs. Zwindler.” Justin recovers, now holding the bags of poop like hacky sacks. He casually starts to juggle them. “I promise I won’t judge her character off this first week alone.” He flashes his crooked smile.

  “Thank you.” Mom pats my back as if she’s done me a favor. I go stone cold, hating her touch on my shoulder. It takes all my strength to not shove it off. She turns back to Justin, her hand still resting on my shoulder. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Lucinda needs a lunch.”

  Did Justin want me to hate him for eternity? Only my parents have the right to call me Lucinda. And even then, I hate it.

  “Heavens.” Mom opens the fridge, pulling out my lunch bag. “I tried to get her to take it, but she refused.” She hands the bag to Justin. “Thank you for thinking of this. Her father will know she is in good hands when I tell him.”

  “Mothers always know best,” Justin responds with another flashy smile. Mom smiles back, not understanding that he’s mocking us from our fight the other night. Justin looks at me. “Okay, Lucinda. Let’s roll.”

  “Sure.” I quickly grab Justin’s arm and try dragging him through the door. He finagles his way out of my grasp, returning to thank her for the tulip poop bags. I can’t listen anymore. I storm out of the house, seeking refuge in his crappy white truck.

  Why did he have to meet Mom? Why did she have to give him poop?

  This was the cherry topping of my humiliation. I knew I’d get a call from Marissa asking how I let Mom give Justin poop. How does anyone explain that?

  Justin opens the door, chuckling.

  “Well,” Justin begins as he turns the ignition. “That was fun. When my uncle called and told me who I was picking up, I was thrilled. After your little show Saturday night, I knew I needed to meet your Mom. She’s famous, ya’ know?” He tosses me a poop bag. “And that! What a great welcome gift.” He laughs as the truck clanks down the driveway.

  I refuse to look at him. I act more interested in the crack in the windshield.

  Justin turns on the radio and, to my surprise, he stops bothering me. We listen to JSTP’s morning show. A woman calls in and complains about
having a fat bridesmaid. I hate listening to any talking on the radio. Isn’t the radio for music? But I endure it. At least it makes him stop bothering me.

  Justin pulls into the driveway of a small rambler house. I breathe a sigh of relief. One story—I won’t be dying today. Part of the house is a dirty, pale yellow while the other part is a rich grey. I hope the new color is the grey. The yellow looks like pee. Five guys sit on buckets in the driveway, all my age and relatively attractive.

  Justin stops the car and touches my arm. My instincts yank it away. “Sorry.” He seems offended. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll help you out today.”

  “Why?” My voice is a bit too harsh.

  He replies, meeting my tone. “Well, I assume you know nothing about painting and you’ll need my help.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “Fine.” He climbs out, leaving me alone in the truck. Not wanting to look lame, I force myself to follow. I trail him toward the group of guys. They all stand as I approach.

  “This is Lucy,” Justin begins. I wait for him to provide further introductions. He doesn’t. Instead he ditches me, grabbing paint and a bag of brushes before walking away and setting up at the front door. I stand alone in front of a group of cute guys. Marissa’s dream. My nightmare. They eye me and I know I’m being judged. But I don’t have to be. I have Zach. I stand up straight, meet each gaze without a smile, and their eyes dart away. Message sent—I’m taken.

  “Hi,” I say as they examine the asphalt. The tallest guy is the first to recover from being caught in total assessment mode.

  “Hey.” He walks forward, extending his hand. “I’m Troy, project manager.” Got it. My boss. He points to each of the other guys. “That’s Luke, Emmanuel, Jake, and Alex.” Jake shoves Alex off balance. After the brief introduction, Troy tells them to get started. They all gather supplies from the truck and go separate ways. Troy walks right past me.

  Am I supposed to grab stuff to start or wait for instruction?

  “Um, Troy?” I ask, forcing myself to follow him like a helpless puppy.

  “Right, sorry. You’re working with Alex.” He scans the yard. “I think he’s in the back. You’ll be his protégé.” A sigh of relief slips from my lips. A protégé’. I can handle that. I’ll be like Alex’s assistant or something. Troy grabs a ladder from the truck bed and easily tosses it over his shoulder. “I’ll bring your ladder down for you.” I eye him as he tosses the clunky metal over his shoulder. Is he going to help me move it all summer?

  When we reach the backyard, Troy drops my ladder, waving Alex down. Alex hops off his ladder from much too high, keeping his ear buds in as Troy gives an instruction in whispered tones. He nods, still bouncing to the music, until Troy leaves.

  With Troy gone, he bounds over to me, taking out his ear buds. “I’m Alex. I’ve never gotten a protégé’ before.” He’s upbeat, holding up his hand for a high five. I give him a hesitant slap back. “I can’t believe they trust me with this.”

  My confidence soars.

  “Not that you should be worried … I’m awesome.” He smiles at me, and it is genuine. He can’t be over fifteen.

  “Thanks. Where can I start? Near the ground?”

  “Ha. No way, girl. If I start you there, you’ll never get up that ladder.” He nods to the humongous metal structure leaning against the house.

  “I’ll be fine,” I lie. “It’ll be nice to just get the feel of the paintbrush before climbing up that thing, you know?”

  “Nope. I watched Troy make that mistake with Luke. Look at him, always clinging to the ground.” Luke stands, grounded, painting the edge of a lower windowsill. “He only paints up high when he’s forced. He’s a slacker.” He puffs out his chest. “My protégé won’t be a slacker.” Tapping the ladder, he lifts his eyebrows. “You know you want to.”

  I take a deep breath. I can already feel my feet flying through the air.

  “Come on.” He motions with his hand.

  I take a step back. Nope. I’m not getting up on that thing. It’s over fifteen feet tall.

  Alex watches me, his fingers tapping his lips. “Okay. What if I can promise that the ladder won’t move and there’d be someone here to catch you if you fall?”

  “Alex, there’s rarely anyone to catch you when you fall,” I say matter-of-factly.

  He looks at me blankly, not quite understanding if I’m talking about falling or life. His face scrunches up. He’s thinking too hard. I can’t have that.

  “That’s why they call it a fall. If people caught you, wouldn’t they call it a catch?” I try to lead him astray. He smiles. It works.

  “Okay. Then, at worst, you’ll have a catch today.” He beams and holds out his hand. He has a little dimple in his right cheek. “Come on … please? The boss’ll be pissed if I don’t get you on that ladder.” Alex is so sweet and too young. I can’t make him suffer. I take a breath and walk up to the ladder. I can at least try.

  I reach up, grabbing the middle of a rung. Alex moves my hands to the side rails. “It’s easier this way. Don’t worry. I’ll stand at the bottom all day if I have to.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but I hated the ladders in the beginning too.”

  I like Alex. He is good people.

  “Okay.” I clear my mind with the same deep breath I used to take before every free throw. “Here we go.” I start climbing. I don’t need to be told not to look down. Thankfully Alex knows better than that. But I can totally imagine him staring at my butt. Good kid, but still a guy.

  “Great,” Alex says. “Now stop. You’re halfway. How does it feel?”

  “Ugh, okay.”

  “That’s as high as you have to go today.” My stomach relaxes. I can deal with this. “Tomorrow we’ll work higher up.” I let myself look down. At most, it’d be like an eight-foot fall. Not fatal, just a broken arm.

  “Now come back down and I’ll set your supplies up nice.”

  I take extra caution stepping back down the ladder. I can hear Alex behind me, taking supplies out of a huge bucket and moving around the base of my ladder. When I get down, the ground has transformed. Large drop cloths cover the grass. A variety of brushes and rollers are arranged on the ground. He grabs one and hands it to me. He shakes his head and grabs another. I hold it and he nods. Alex assesses the remaining supplies. He knows his stuff.

  “How old are you?” I have to know.

  “Fourteen. Almost fifteen.”

  Younger than I thought.

  “You look older than that,” I offer. He straightens his shoulders, making them broader. He’s kind of adorable. “You know a lot about this painting stuff, huh?” I give him a little ego boost. I need an ally.

  “Of course I do.” He hands me a small bucket of paint while he climbs up my ladder. He holds out his hand, and I hand up the bucket. “I’ve been with the company since it started.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two summers ago.” I must look confused because he continues to explain, “Family connection. At first I just hung around watching. Then I got so annoying they had to give me a brush … and then a paycheck.” He laughs as he hooks the paint holder to the underside of the ladder. “Not many thirteen-year-olds can purchase their own HD flat-screen TV.” He tightens the paint holder. “Now I’m saving for a car. I’m technically only allowed to work five hours a day so I help out the other three.”

  “You want to work full time?” I blurt. My cheeks burn. This is my first job and I already dread every hour.

  “Absolutely. An outdoor gig, hanging out with friends, listening to music, building muscle without thinking about it, and getting paid? Sweet deal.” He climbs back down the ladder, switching places with me. I climb back up. He hands me the brush. “Dip the bristles in only a third of the way.” I do. “Yup. Now gently wipe the excess off on the inside lip of the bucket. Now brush with the grain of the siding. Not up and down, but side-to-side.” I do. The grey paint goes on smoothly. I smush
the paint into a crack in the board, covering up all traces of the ugly yellow. Perfect.

  This isn’t as bad as I thought. It’s kind of hypnotizing. Alex shuffles his feet at the base of my ladder. I bet holding my ladder all day is probably as miserable for him as me being on one.

  “Alex, you can let go.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Yup.” I nod to the ladder set up a few yards away from mine. “You won’t be far. I’ll holler when I need help with a refill.”

  “Awesome. You’re already doing great. A natural. But don’t tell anyone that. Tell them I taught you everything there is to know, okay?”

  I laugh, gripping the ladder. “As long as you keep me alive, consider it a deal.”

  “Can do.” He winks playfully and bounds away. The kid has energy. He scales his ladder to the top, with supplies in hand. He steadies himself, plays with his iPhone, and puts in his ear buds. Mental note: bring music tomorrow. He bobs his head in rhythm. A smile seems permanently glued to his face. He really does love this job.

  Assessing the siding in front of me, I carefully re-dip my brush while clutching the ladder. I reposition my grip and begin to cover the wood. Back and forth. I let my mind slip into blankness. It feels nice.

  Back and forth.

  Progressing down toward the ground isn’t so scary. I manage to unhook the paint bucket and move it with me. This isn’t too horrible.

  The sun gets hotter and the air stickier. Alex takes more frequent water breaks and eventually takes off his shirt. My tank top glues itself to me. I want to just wear my sports bra but there’s no way I’d put myself on display here. And, worse, they’d probably think I thought I was super hot or something. I’d just be embarrassing myself.

  The heat gets more suffocating with each stroke of my brush. We’re on the sunny side of the house. My only solace comes from knowing that eventually the sun will pass over and our sunny side will turn to shade.

  Like Alex, I start taking sips of water between each board I paint. I don’t know what causes me to sweat more, the sun or climbing up and down because of my thirst. Staying hydrated is a work out in itself. My progress slows.