by Sara Ney
Yeah—my peace.
He ignores me and his pale, scrawny arms give the seat another hard shove.
“Hey!” My voice booms. “I said knock that shit off.”
I don’t know why I even care—he’s leaving me alone and wasting time like I told him to—but for some reason, the sound of the tinging metal is grating on my last nerve. Making me aggravated.
“Are you going to actually sit and swing on that thing, or just continue to annoy the hell out of me the whole time?” I bellow, deep voice filled with impatience.
Kyle shoots another scowl over his lanky shoulder, a storm cloud of resentment passing over his dark blue eyes before the bright rays of sun make his expression unreadable.
My jaw clenches out a labored sigh. This is harder than I thought it would be.
“Do you want me to come give you a push?” God, what am I saying? I don’t think I’ve ever pushed anyone on a swing in my entire life. Plus, he’s eleven; shouldn’t he know how to pump it himself?
“Screw. You.” He releases the seat of the green swing, resuming his stomp through the wood chips toward the play set, kicking the toe of his tennis shoes into the splintered bed of chips along the way.
He’s at the twisty slide when I check my phone again and groan. Only eight minutes have passed since the last time I checked.
I click open the Spotify app, a failed attempt to drown myself in music.
“You’re not supposed to be on your phone during our activities,” he shouts at me. “Maybe if you had read the manual, you would know that it’s strictly prohibited unless absolutely necessary to promote the quality of our relationship.”
“Oh yeah?” I shout back, closing out my apps and shoving the phone in my back pocket. “What else shouldn’t I be doing?”
“What do you care? You’ve already broken like, five rules.”
I have?
“Fine, smartass, which rules have I broken?”
Kyle stalks in my direction, scrawny arms swinging with the momentum of his stride. He stops in front of me, hands on the waistband of his black track pants. “Well for starters, you’re not supposed to be swearing around kids. Everyone knows that.”
“Would you get over it?” I cross my arms over my chest. “What else.”
“You’re supposed to tell my mom where you’re taking me.”
Jesus Christ. “Your mom?”
“Yes. And you’re not supposed to be leaving me alone.”
“What are you talking about? I’m right freaking here.”
“Yeah, but you just let me wander around. You want me to get snatched?” He throws his arms up around and everywhere, waving them in every direction to indicate all the wandering around the park I’ve let him do, unattended. “You’re supposed to be spending time with me.”
“Kid, do you even want to be spending time with me? I’m an asshole, remember? Two minutes ago you called me a giant butthole.”
Silence meets my question.
“Kid, for real?”
“My name is Kyle.”
“Fine. Kyle. What do you want to do then? Ride bikes? Skateboard? ’Cause I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to be the one dreaming up shit for us to do.”
“Skateboarding and riding bikes? Those are things you do at the park, and I just told you I hate it here.”
“I don’t have other ideas. Sorry.”
Kyle fidgets with the zipper of his threadbare jacket. “Don’t you have any cool friends we can hang out with?”
My mind immediately strays to Violet and Summer, who are probably doing something fun right now.
I shrug off the notion, aggravated that he can’t just be happy swinging on the swings and climbing on the picnic tables and crap like a normal kid.
Why does he need to be entertained?
“Maybe next time, we’ll see.” Then, “Do you mind if I check the time, oh Keeper of the Rules?”
Kyle scoffs. “Whatever.”
Ninety-seven more minutes with this kid. One hundred twenty-seven more until wrestling practice. Two hundred sixty-two minutes until I can slam my bedroom door on this shit day.
“We only have to tolerate each other for the next hour and thirty-seven minutes. Can you live with that?”
The kid stares me down, large brown eyes framed in a skinny face with pasty skin. A smattering of dark freckles across the bridge of his nose looks like dirt. His hair, unkempt and sticking up in different directions, gives him a wild air.
He inhales a breath. “You…” Lets it out. “Suck.”
Violet
Zeke hasn’t come back to the library in days. Not to study. Not for tutoring. Not for anything.
I can’t say I’m surprised.
I can’t say I’m disappointed.
I’m relieved; the whole week has been riddled with tension. Every time that door to the library swung open, I literally held my breath to see if Zeke Daniels was going to be standing there.
I know he’s not done with his paper—not even close—so I can’t imagine why he hasn’t been back.
Unless he couldn’t stand studying with me.
I wonder about it as little Summer and I walk toward a picnic area, hand in hand on our Thursday afternoon together. We easily find a table, and I set about the task of unzipping our backpacks, removing the books, paper, and craft supplies I brought along.
“How’s your mom doing?” I ask, taking out a spiral drawing pad, holding it down when the wind kicks up.
“Good. She’s tired but she only has one…what’s that called when you go to school?”
“Semester?”
“Yeah. One of those left. We’re getting an apartment with Daddy or something so we can move out of Grandma and Grandpa’s house when she graduates.”
“An apartment! That’s exciting!” I give her shoulders a squeeze. “Will you have your own room?”
She squeezes her tiny eyes shut. They pop open a second later, excited. “I think so!”
“Aw, that’s great!”
And it is. Summer’s Dad, Erick, just completed his degree and is interning at one of the huge corporations in the city, one of the largest employers in the county. He’s thriving, Summer’s mom Jennifer is on her way to graduating, and their little family is finally going to be together.
“Hey,” Summer interrupts my thoughts, poking me in the forearm with her pencil. “There’s that boy.”
I raise my head.
Give it a shake, fully expecting to see an actual little boy, but instead see Zeke Daniels and a child.
“W-what the heck is he doing here?” I wonder out loud apprehensively, tension growing in the pit of my stomach.
“Playing?” Summer suggests hopefully.
Except he’s not.
Zeke strolls forward across the grass, brows furrowed toward the rambunctious kid literally running circles around him. His nose is in his cell phone.
“Would you knock that shit off?” I hear him loudly complain. “You’re driving me insane.”
“You’re the crabbiest human alive!” the kid shouts, climbing on a rock and jumping off, jabbing at the air ninja style. “You suck!”
When his feet hit the ground, the kid takes off running, shoes kicking up pieces of sand surrounding the slide.
“Grow up!” Zeke yells after him.
It’s almost comical, and I bite back a laugh.
He halts in his tracks when he spots Summer and me at the picnic table, his eye roll visible from here.
“I am not following you,” he says cantankerously, approaching the picnic table. I busy myself with rearranging the contents of Summer’s tiny Barbie backpack so I don’t have to look at him directly.
I hand her glittery princess stickers and a half-empty container of orange flavored Tic Tacs.
“I-I didn’t think you were following me.” I shoot him a wan, almost patronizing smile. “I’m hardly the kind of girl that inspires a guy like you to follow her around.”
Oh god, what
on earth possessed me to blurt that out?
Thank god Summer interrupts, pulling on my shirt sleeve.
“Vi, can I go play with that boy?” Summer asks, already half off the bench and on her way to little Zeke Junior, who’s angrily stalking around the jungle gym.
Wow. The two of them are a fine match, and I have to wonder how Zeke Daniels was chosen when Big Brothers was reviewing their volunteer applications. Organizations like Big Brothers don’t just take anyone. They have standards. Expectations.
I highly doubt Zeke meets any of them.
“Sure, sweetie.” I call out after her, “Be careful. No running!”
Sigh.
Zeke gives me a peculiar look, eyes trailing my movements, especially when I flip my French braid over my shoulder. His light eyes settle on the pink silk flower stuck in the rubber band.
He shakes his head and stares off at the boy, now sitting on the ground in the sand with Summer. They’re working together, molding a small pile into a hill and jamming sticks in the ground around it, like a castle with a wall.
Zeke’s cell phone pings, and he palms it but doesn’t check it.
“H-How is your biology paper coming?” I will my stutter to disappear, but it’s not listening today. “A-Almost done?”
“It’s coming.”
I blink, trying to decide if there’s an innuendo hidden in there somewhere.
“Do you want me to take a look at it before it’s due?” I venture. “Proof it for you?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I’m sure it is, too, but let me know if you change your mind.”
I glance toward the young boy, who’s now gently helping Summer onto one of the swings. “We should get them over here and get Summer going. I know they’re having fun playing, but she wanted to make her mom a birthday card.”
I shout for them to rejoin us.
“We should probably just leave; he didn’t want to come here, I had to force him.”
“So why did you?”
“Because I don’t care what he wants?”
I stare, shooting him my best skeptical look. I’m trying to wade through his bullshit, assuming it’s waist deep, but don’t call him on it.
“Besides,” Zeke continues. “I don’t know where else to take the little shit.”
Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere.
“What about the batting cages?”
He raises his brows. “Do I look like I play baseball?”
“No, but I-I bet you’d be good at it.”
“Damn right I would.”
Talk about an ego.
“Are you into sports?” He must be with a body like that. I ask as casually as I can, trying not to ogle him.
“Yes I’m into sports.”
“W-Which ones?”
“Wrestling.”
“You wrestle?”
“Yeah. Ever heard of it?”
The sarcasm is palpable and changes the tone of our conversation. Tension fills the air.
“Yes. I guess I didn’t realize they had it at Iowa.”
I didn’t think it was possible for him to look shocked, but he does. “Are you being serious?”
“Yes. I guess athletics are the last thing on my mind.”
I’m spared from his reply when the kids reluctantly join us, dragging their feet along the grass.
“The park is lame,” the boy grumbles.
“Yeah!” Summer agrees, jumping on the kid’s bandwagon.
“I heard you’re not a fan of the park,” I tease with an easy laugh, setting a piece of paper, pencils, and stickers in front of Summer so she can start on her project. “But maybe we can think of some other activities for the two of you to do together. How does that sound?”
“It’s lame but he had no other place to take me.”
“There are a million places to go!” I turn toward Zeke. “Let’s discuss some more ideas.”
“No.”
Oh brother, what a grouch.
I ignore him, vowing to come up with a fun list later, and turn to the boy. “What’s your name?”
“Kyle.”
“Well Kyle, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Violet.” I hold up a sheet of paper, offering it to him. “I know you’re older, but do you want to craft? Your new friend is Summer, and she’s making her mom a card.”
Kyle scrambles onto the bench and eagerly snatches the paper out of my hand. “Sure! I can make one for my mom, too. And Summer’s not the worst—for a girl.”
I laugh again. “I’ll consider that a compliment.”
Zeke snorts. “A backhanded one.”
Kyle looks up, confusion on his face. “What’s a backhanded one?”
“A backhanded compliment is saying something nice and being rude at the same time.”
“I wasn’t being rude!”
I step in, spreading out some more paper to give the kids a broader selection, and to inhibit the argument brewing between a twenty-one-year-old guy and an eleven-year-old child.
“Paper? Crayons?” Zeke groans. “Ugh, seriously? Jesus. How long is this going to take?”
“I-is this not okay?” I pause. “Do you have somewhere to be? If he needs to get back…”
“I don’t have to get back!” Kyle replies helpfully, already digging into the crayons.
“Fine.” The storm across Zeke’s face darkens as he crosses his bulky arms. “Make it snappy.”
Zeke
“Hey Mom.” Kyle bounds up to his mother two excruciatingly long hours later. Two painful, irritating hours spent watching him craft, color, and glue with Summer and Violet at the park.
“Hey kiddo. How was it?” She reaches for a lock of his brown hair, running her fingers through a short strand with a grin. “Is this glitter?”
“Yeah, we got into a glitter fight.” Sheepishly, the kid hands her his drawing of a lion. “Here, I made this for the fridge.”
While she studies the picture—a blue piece of construction paper covered in crayon and yellow, furry balls—I study her. Young, with frazzled brown hair, her black mascara is smudged under her eyes. Tired. Drained.
Kyle’s mom extends a hand toward me, and I take it, pumping it up and down. “Hi, I’m Krystal, Kyle’s mom.”
Normally, when I shake anyone’s hand, I squeeze it, but Krystal’s fingers feel frail and weak. Cold as ice. The bones brittle as a bird’s.
Exhausted.
She ruffles her son’s mop of unkempt hair with hands that know a hard day’s work. “Sorry I’m a little late, pal. I had to wait on Donna to take over my shift.”
“Are you a nurse Mrs. Fowler?” I wonder out loud.
“It’s Jones. Ms. I was never married.” She frowns. “And no, I’m not a nurse. I’m a waitress at the truck stop off Old 90 and just worked a double. You must be the new Big.” Krystal looks me up and down critically. “What did you say your name was?”
“Zeke Daniels.”
She purses her lips my direction, checking me out again from head to toe. Krystal’s shrewd brown eyes take in the sweat-stained hoodie I wore running, black puffy vest, mesh track pants that haven’t been washed in over a week, and the two-hundred-dollar tennis shoes I’m wearing without socks.
Her penciled-on eyebrows rise before she glances down expectantly at her son, giving him a nudge with her elbow. “Well? How was it?”
“It was okay,” I drone at the same time Kyle gushes, “It was so great, Mom! Zeke and I are already best friends.” My brows shoot up into my hairline. “He’s the best Big I’ve ever had!”
I scowl down at the little shit. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
Kyle shrugs and his mom’s disapproving gaze shoots back and forth between us; she knows one of us is bullshitting about the truth, but can’t decide who.
Still, she says, “All right, so you’re going to be his once-weekly.” Krystal digs in her purse, producing her car keys. “I work every day, sometimes doubles, so I’m always running late.�
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Great.
“His dad isn’t in the picture, so if you want to have him more than once a week, make sure you give me plenty of advanced notice. I know it’s against the center’s policies, but it would really help me out if you could take him more than a few hours, especially on Thursdays.”
She is completely out of her fucking mind if she thinks that will ever happen.
“My number is…” she starts.
I stand with my arms crossed, leaning against the front counter.
“My number is…” Krystal repeats.
A pointy elbow jams me in the ribcage. “Zeke, get your phone out.”
Fuck. My. Life.
“Hey Daniels. I heard you’re a babysitter now,” one of my teammates calls out in the weight room just as I’m lifting a solid three hundred pounds above my head.
“That poor kid,” someone else laughs.
I grunt, puffing out a breath of air, perspiration coating my upper lip, chest, back, and forehead. A bead of sweat slides down my temple as I build a wall, mentally blocking out the sound of Rex Gunderson’s irritating voice.
“Does the kid have a hot mom?”
What the fuck?
I try raising my head, despite the amount of weight I’m currently bench pressing.
“Shake it off man, you’re almost done. Six more.” Sebastian Osborne—my teammate and roommate—glances down at me, mouth set in a hard line. “Shut the fuck up, Rex, he’s in the middle of a set.” Then to me he adds, “Five more.”
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The metal bar hits the rack with a clatter at the same time the air leaves my body, a long, loud breath expelled from the exertion. I lay motionless, breathing in and out to catch lungfuls of air.
Flex my pec muscles. Raise my torso up, straddling the seat of the weight bench.
“I hear you’re doing more than babysitting.”
“Oh yeah?” I snap. “Where did you hear that?”
“My RA volunteers at the tourist information center next to some park. She saw you yesterday with some kids and a blonde chick.”
“Well isn’t she just a wealth of information.”
“I see you’re not denying it.”