A & L Do Summer (13 page)

THE LAWNMOWER ROARS INTO MY ACHING HEAD LIKE A
chain saw. The vibrations plow up my trembling hands and through my ruined nervous system to what's left of my brain. The inside of my mouth is permanently coated with foul-tasting paste, and it's likely that my stomach has given up on food forever.

Mom and Dad dragged me out of bed at the butt crack of dawn and practically chained me to the lawnmower. If I survive this torture, I'm supposed to weed Mom's tomatoes. And the chores go on and on until I drop dead or the sun sets, whichever comes first.

A hand clamps onto my shoulder, and I drop the mower handle and spin around. The engine stops abruptly, and blessed silence ensues.

“Hey, you missed a spot back there,” Manny says. He's dressed for work in khaki shorts and a white polo shirt. In addition to his golf clothes, he's wearing an obnoxious smirk. If I had the energy, I'd punch him.

“You don't look so good, Sis. Feeling a little rough around the edges?”

“Shut up.” I wipe my sweaty face with the tail of my T-shirt. My skin, my clothes, even my hair, smell like recycled alcohol. When I finish today's indentured servitude, I'm going to stand in the shower until we run out of water.

“Being hungover sucks, doesn't it?” Manny's smirk grows into a full-fledged grin. “You know the saying, ‘If you're gonna play, you gotta pay.'” He hands me an insulated cup. “Drink some of this. Sometimes it helps.”

I sniff it suspiciously. “What's in it?”

“Traditional hangover cure.” He shades his eyes with his hand. “Tomato juice, Tabasco, salt and pepper, raw egg. Same ingredients as the omelet you made for me, but without the Tums and Pepto. Go on, try it.”

For once, my brother looks and sounds sincere. My first sip barely wets my tongue. The spicy saltiness tastes good, and I take a real drink. “Thanks.” I stand perfectly still while the liquid slides into my stomach. “Of course, the true test is if it stays down.” My insides gurgle to let me know they haven't decided yet.

Manny pulls a baseball cap out of his back pocket and puts it on. “So how long are you grounded?”

“Mom said six months, but Dad won't let her stick to it.” I
hope.
“She's really pissed about having to come to the police station to pick me up.”

After I barfed on Officer Sierra's shoes, he made each of us blow into his drunk-detector gadget. Since Manny and Clay hadn't been drinking, they passed with flying colors. Laurel's breath registered below the legal limit, which didn't mean squat because she's still underage. My level was so high that Officer Sierra considered calling an ambulance, but I convinced him that I'd barfed most of the alcohol out of my system.

He bundled Laurel and me into the back of his squad car. In case I wasn't humiliated enough, he made me carry an evil-smelling yellow plastic pail to catch any future offerings. With Manny and Clay following, he drove us to the station and called our parents. At the police station Laurel and I sat wrapped in towels on a hard wooden bench outside Officer Sierra's office. He told Manny and Clay they could go home if they wanted, but Manny said they'd stay until our parents got there. He and Clay sat on an identical bench across the hall, facing Laurel and me. Every now and then Manny looked over at me and shook his head. Clay just stared at the gray tiled floor.

Laurel's dad, who was the first to get to the station, seemed more sleepy than angry. He kept yawning while Officer Sierra explained where Laurel and I had been and why he picked us up. After Laurel said she'd only drunk part of one beer, I could tell her dad didn't think it was anything to get excited about. Mostly I got the feeling he wanted to get out of the police station before any of his bank customers came in for some reason and saw him there. I knew Laurel wanted to stay and see what my parents were going to do, but her dad dragged her off before they blew in.

Two minutes later, Mom stormed into the police station with wild-looking bed hair and wilder-looking eyes. There's nothing she hates more than to be embarrassed in public. And having your daughter hurl on a policeman's shoes ranks pretty high in embarrassing moments. The more Officer Sierra described what happened, the madder she got. Since my blood alcohol level was off the charts, I couldn't lie and say I'd had only half a drink. Mom yelled and lectured and threatened while I died of humiliation, knowing Clay was hearing every word. Dad sat beside Manny and let Mom rant for both of them. I think Dad felt kind of sorry for me, but he values his life too much to say anything.

The ride home was endless. Mom had moved beyond ranting to silent, seething rage. After asking me if I was okay, Dad kept quiet, too. I was a sick, soggy lump of misery shivering in the backseat. The minute we got home, Mom turned her back on me and stomped upstairs.

Dad waited until their bedroom door slammed shut. He patted my damp shoulder. “Take a hot shower, drink a big glass of water, and try to get some sleep. Your mom is pretty mad right now, but she'll calm down in a couple of days. Maybe I can talk to her about getting your sentence reduced.” He rubbed his eyes. “But I'd strongly suggest that you avoid any parties for a good, long time.”

Manny tucks his shirttail into his shorts. “Yeah, Mom and Dad look the other way about my partying, but it's different with you. And the police station thing was the icing on the cake, especially for Mom.”

My stomach does a pirouette. “Don't mention food!”

“Been there.” Manny gives me a knowing nod. “Is Mom going to make you quit your job?”

I sip some more of Manny's hangover cure. “No. She thinks working will keep me out of trouble. And I still have to walk Miss Simmons's sk—stupid cat.”

“Yeah, Mom and Dad are heavy into the work ethic.” He unhooks the sunglasses from the front of his shirt and slips them on. “Listen, Aspen, I'm in no position to lecture you about drinking. But that jungle juice is lethal. It's laced with Everclear, which will knock you on your ass.” Manny clears his throat. “And guys make it taste good to get girls drunk and…well, you know.”

I almost choke. “Thanks for the brotherly concern, Manny, but I'm the last girl anybody wants to hit on.”

“My buddy Clay seems kind of interested.” Manny scratches his head. “I can't imagine why.”

My heart gives a happy jump, which dies immediately. “Last night took care of that.”

Manny shrugs. “Guys generally aren't turned on by projectile vomiting, but you never know.” He looks back at the house. “Uh-oh. A certain mother who shall remain nameless is giving us the death look. You'd better get back to it.”

“I guess.” As he starts across the lawn to his car, I add, “Hey, thanks for the magic potion.”

He turns and touches his cap. “And I expect you to remember it when you make my next omelet.”

All day Sunday Mom outdoes herself in inventing chores for me. Her fury is charged to maximum power. Dad sends me the occasional sympathetic look, but that's as far as it goes. I don't blame him. It wouldn't do either of us any good. I'm banned from talking to Laurel, and Manny doesn't come home until long after dark. I've never been so glad to see Monday morning.

“OMG, that party was such a bust.” Laurel sighs and props her elbows on the counter by the Sub Stop drive-up window. “I didn't meet one cute guy, the music was lame, and the beer wasn't even cold.”

“Almost getting arrested wasn't that much fun, either.” We're having the usual lull before the Monday noon rush at the Sub Stop. The day after my marathon of chores, my stomach is still yucky, but I'm beginning to believe there's hope for survival.

Laurel sets her jumbo soda under the spigot and tops it off. “At least if we'd been arrested, we could have bragged about it. Who wants to hear about getting off with a warning?”

“It was more than enough excitement for me.” I shudder when I remember the look on Officer Sierra's face after I barfed on his shoes.

A car pulls up to the order screen, and Laurel grabs the headphones. “I've got it.” She closes her eyes and coos, “Welcome to Sub Stop. How may I tempt your taste buds—or other erogenous zones—today?”

She rips off the headphones as if they're charged with electricity. They land on the counter with a whack as we hear an outraged screech from outdoors.

“What the hell, Laurel! Who is that?”

Laurel bites her lower lip. “I was thinking about Saturday night, and I forgot to look.”

I hear another screech, and a car skids to a stop at our window. Willie's wife, Renee, sticks her head out the window, her face flushed with rage. “Which of you girls said that?”

Laurel and I look at the floor, the ceiling, everywhere but at the irate woman. “Said what?” Laurel simpers in a phony, high-pitched voice.

“Oh no, you don't!” Mrs. Johnson floors it and skids around the corner of the building. Our day is about to get much, much worse.

Laurel takes a swallow of her drink. “I'm afraid we might be in a little trouble.”

I take a deep breath to keep from shaking her. “
We
are not in trouble. But
you
are in mind-blowing, ten-on-the-Richter-scale trouble because—”

“Come on. It won't be that bad,” she cuts me off and refills her cup with soda.

As Renee Johnson storms through the front door, my skin breaks out in goose pimples. “It's exponentially worse than you can imagine, Laurel. Because that woman you just propositioned is Willie's wife.” Mrs. Johnson marches behind the counter and crashes into the back room with such force that her lacquered blond hair actually bounces. For Willie's sake,
I hope
he has both hands on the table.

Laurel chokes on her drink and breaks into a coughing fit. Soda spurts out her nose, which does nothing to help my semi-queasy stomach. I hand her a wad of paper napkins to mop her face.

Before she can catch her breath, Willie stomps out of the back with his angry wife on his heels. Until now, I've never seen a face that red without a second-degree sunburn. “Which of you said those things to my wife? No backtalk or excuses, just the truth. Right now!” His cheeks puff as the words explode from his mouth, and he seems on the verge of a heart attack.

Knowing Laurel, she's going to try to bluff her way out of trouble. “I saw Mrs. Johnson in the monitor, and I played a little joke on her.” She smiles sheepishly. “I guess it wasn't such a good idea.”

Willie's wife starts to speak, but Willie is way ahead of her. “Are you out of your mind? Making lewd remarks to a customer could ruin my business. This is a family restaurant!” Mrs. Johnson props her hands on her wide hips and glares at Laurel and me. In her bulging navy capris and overstuffed tank top, she looks like a wrestler waiting to attack.

Brad, a Cottonwood Creek freshman who's working the counter, has stopped to listen. For some unfathomable reason, he idolizes Willie. “Are you serious, dude? Because she does it, like, all the time.”

Willie's eyes are the size of bowling balls. “How long has this been going on?”

Brad picks at a zit on his chin while he thinks. “A couple weeks at least. No. More like a month.”

My stomach feels like I swallowed the smoothie mixer and it's stuck on high speed. It kicks into sonic mode when Willie turns on me. “Have you been saying those trashy things, too, Aspen?”

“Nah,” Brad answers for me. “She keeps telling Lauren, Laura, whatever, to knock it off. But the bit—girl won't listen.” He pops his gum. “Women. Whatcha gonna do?”

“I'm going to fire her, that's what.” Willie is so pissed he can barely talk. “Laurel, turn in your hat and apron. You have five minutes to clean out your locker. If you're still here after that, I'm calling the cops.”

Laurel's face is white with shock. I wonder if this is the first time she hasn't been able to talk her way out of trouble. She looks hopefully at me, but I clamp my lips together. If I lose this job, I'll be on house arrest until fall.

Willie taps his foot impatiently. “Well?”

“Fine, I'm going.” Laurel rips off her hat and apron and drops them on the floor. “But you still owe me for last week.” She turns on her heel and heads for the back room.

When I try to go after her, Willie blocks me. “You've been a good, reliable employee, Aspen. But if you don't get back to work immediately, I'll have to let you go, too.”

I swallow hard before I answer. “Whatever you say, Willie. You're the boss.”

He nods solemnly. “See that it stays that way.”

TUESDAY MORNING I PICK UP SAMMY STRIPERS AT MISS
Simmons's house to take him for our daily walk. I tried to call Laurel last night after I got off work and twice this morning, but she's not answering her cell. No doubt she's pissed at me for not backing her up yesterday, but for once I had to think of myself. Jobs in Cottonwood Creek are scarce, and Mom and Dad expect me to buy most of my own clothes. With Laurel gone, Willie will bump up my hours again, which means more money but not much time for myself. That's too bad because being under house arrest is so enjoyable.

Clay is already getting out of his truck at the curb when I see him. His chestnut hair is mussed, and his freckled nose and cheeks are sunburned. The way his white T-shirt pulls tight across his muscled chest and shoulders sends little ripples up the back of my neck. “Hi, Aspen,” he says, “mind if I walk with you?”

“Sure, that would be great.” I can't imagine why he wants to see me again. At my last viewing, I was drunk and dripping like a soggy sheepdog. I won't allow myself to think about how revolting I smelled.

Clay lets Sammy sniff his hand before scratching him under the chin. Sammy half-closes his eyes and tilts his head back and forth to make sure Clay hits all the good spots. If I didn't like Sammy so much, I'd toss him out of the stroller and take his place. But the little black-and-white stinker has grown on me. I'm getting used to Miss Simmons, too. She's actually pretty funny if you don't take her crankiness seriously. It's been almost a week since she shook her walker at me, but I'm not ready to turn my back on her yet.

“So, Manny tells me you're grounded until your thirtieth birthday,” Clay says as we fall into our side-by-side walking formation.

“If Mom had her way, she'd write the terms of my grounding into her last will and testament.”

Clay chuckles. “Yeah, moms can be like that sometimes.”

I try to concentrate on the conversation, but I keep noticing how awesome Clay's arm feels rubbing against me. “Was your mom strict when you were in high school?”

“Mom never grounded me, if that's what you mean, but I was too busy with school work and farming to get into trouble. When I was younger, she volunteered at school and with my 4-H group, so if I got out of line, she was always right there. Made it hard to be a delinquent.” His blue eyes have tiny crinkles in the corners. “Every Labor Day our family hosts a barbecue at the farm for family and friends. If you're out on parole by then, you could meet her. That is, if you'd like to come.”

Under no circumstances will I jump up and down and shriek. “Sounds like fun. Maybe—”

A rusted-out white truck pulls alongside us, and Buster hangs his flabby face out the window. “Hey, whatever Ass-wipe said, she's lying to you, dude!” Buster yells at volume ten, even though he's close enough for me to see the gross tobacco stains on his chin. “That baby ain't yours!”

“It's not Ass-face's, either.” Ferret leans over. “She's so skinny it'd show if she got knocked up by a gnat! But no self-respecting gnat would go there.”

“Ignore them,” I tell Clay. “Those two have the collective mental capacity of a fruit fly.” Then Kong's ginormous face rises from the back of the pickup, smooshed and red on the side where he was sleeping. “Oops, their mental capacity just plummeted to sub-amoebic levels.”

Clay isn't in the mood to appreciate my humor. He's gone rigid from the hairline down. The way he's glowering at Buttferk would make me pee my pants. If I don't do something fast, I'm afraid he'll go after them. With three against one—two and a half, considering how wimpy Ferret is—Clay could get hurt.

“Shut up, morons! I'm babysitting.” I step in front of the stroller to make sure they can't see Sammy. “You're scaring the baby.”

“If your ugly face doesn't scare it, nothing will.” Buster stuffs a wad of tobacco into his left cheek.

Clay covers the distance to the truck in three long strides. He grabs the front of Buster's grubby T-shirt and pulls the top half of his body out the window. Buster's eyes pop. He chokes, and chewing tobacco shoots out of his mouth.

“I disagree with the way you're talking to my friend,” Clay says in a voice he might use to tell Buster the catfish are biting in the Raccoon River. “So the smart thing is for you to drive away now while I still have control of my temper. Got it?” Clay shakes Buster so that his head wobbles up and down. “Good. Now get out of here.”

Kong bellows, “I don't think so!” and scales the side of the truck. Sadly, his shoelace snags in the crack between the tailgate and the truck bed. He halts abruptly in mid-leap and topples face-first onto the pavement.

Now that has to be humiliating.

I cover my mouth, but a chuckle sneaks out around the edges. Buster is swearing and trying to break Clay's hold, but being half in and half out of the window limits his options. With his buddies temporarily disabled, Ferret is keeping a low profile in the passenger seat—literally. He's scrunched so low I can barely see the top of his head.

Clay looks over his shoulder at me. “Aspen, take Sammy and get out of here. I'll catch up with you later.”

“Are you sure?” I hate to leave Clay with those three brutes, but he seems to have things under control. And they can't find out about Sammy. Who knows what awful things they'd do to him?

Clay motions me away with his head. “Yes. Now go!”

When I reach the corner, I stop behind a tall hedge and peek around it to see what's happening. Clay is holding Buster through the driver's window of the pickup while Kong climbs into the back. Kong sits down and hands his shoes to Clay. Then Buster slaps an object into Clay's open palm. One at a time, Clay tosses Kong's shoes into different parts of the lawn. Keeping an eye on the truck, Clay turns and heaves the object—Buster's truck key—into a trio of spiny bushes.

When Clay drives safely away in his pickup, I let my breath out. My legs are wobbling, but I push Sammy at warp speed to put as much distance as possible between Buttferk and me. I'm not that concerned about what those losers are going to do today. Buster and Kong are too lazy to come after me on foot, and Ferret is too much of a wimp. By the time Buster and Kong retrieve their stuff, Clay will be halfway home and I'll have Sammy safely back in Miss Simmons's house. But that only takes care of today—

“Hey, Aspen, are you all right?”

I yip and jump about a mile before I realize Clay has pulled his truck alongside me. Sammy goes on stink alert. “It's okay, Sammy. That's your good friend Clay. You like Clay.” I stroke Sammy's back and talk softly until he lowers his tail.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you,” Clay says through the open window. “I couldn't leave without making sure you're okay.”

I stop petting Sammy and check up and down the street. “I'm fine, but you need to get out of here before Buster and Kong come looking for you.”

Clay chuckles. “They won't. Buster's busy looking for his ignition key in the bushes where he thinks I threw it.”

“Didn't you? I saw—”

“Hey, you were supposed to be running away, not watching.” He shakes his head at me. “What I threw was a rock I picked up off the street. I stuck Buster's truck key in an old envelope from my glove compartment, wrote his name on it, and dropped it in the mail collection box in front of the bank.” Clay grins. “I'm sure Buster has a spare. If not, the post office should get his key back to him by the end of the week.”

“I'm impressed!” And in love. If it wouldn't scare Sammy, I'd dive through the open truck window onto Clay's lap.

“I was kind of proud of that one myself.” Clay checks his rearview mirror. “Well, I'd better get to the golf course. We've had so much rain this summer that the grass is growing an inch a day.” He shifts his truck into gear. “If those guys give you any more trouble, let me know.”

I nod and wave as he drives away. It's reassuring to know that Buttferk is out of commission for the moment. But my sense of relief is temporary because it's only a matter of time before the Three Steaming Piles pool their evil energy and wreak revenge. Now they're not just going after Laurel and me. Clay has given them a brand-new target.

Laurel pouts for two more days before she finally answers my calls. Because we're both on house arrest, the best we can do is e-mail and message each other on Facebook and sneak in the occasional text or call on our cells. As part of my punishment Mom took away my laptop for three weeks. Until I get it back, I'm using the family room computer while my parents are at work.

Laurel's usually laid-back dad exploded when Willie phoned and gave him the details about why she had been fired. Apparently it's bad business for the bank manager's daughter to be talking like a hooker, especially when her prospective clients might be bank customers, too. The good news—if there is any—is that Laurel's mom and her second family are hiking in Colorado until the second week of August. If it weren't for that, her dad would ship her off to Chicago in a heartbeat.

At the Sub Stop, Willie watches me like he's afraid I'll climb out the order window and give the customers a lap dance. He hasn't hired anyone to replace Laurel, so the rest of us are working extra shifts. Brad, the freshman who kind of saved my job, seems to think I owe him. Either he developed a serious coordination problem overnight or he's bumping into me on purpose. After it happened five times in one evening, I gently told him to back off or I'd push him into the deep-fat fryer. That seems to have taken care of the matter.

The day after Laurel and I start talking again, Sam and Tyler pull into the Sub Stop drive-through in Sam's yellow pickup. Sam's blond buzz cut is almost white from the sun, and his lips and nose are peeling. “Hey, Aspen, how's it going?” he says as they pull up to the window. Tyler leans forward and waves.

“Okay,” I say with twice the enthusiasm I feel, which is none at all.

Sam hands me a wad of crumpled dollar bills. “Did you and Laurel make a clean getaway after the party last weekend? We didn't see you when the cops rounded everyone up.”

“Yes and no.” I glance at the monitor to make sure no one is waiting to order. Willie is in the back room doing the end-of-June payroll, and I can hear him muttering and swearing through the closed door. “We escaped the raid but a cop picked us up on the road.” I give Sam and Tyler a shortened version of the night's events while I pass their drinks and food through the window.

“You and Laurel got hauled into the police station! That is excellent!” Sam pumps his fist in the air. “All of us in the barn had to stand around while the cops called our parents and made them come and pick us up.”

“Did the cop cuff you?” Tyler's chubby face is pink with excitement.

“Forget the cuffs,” Sam says, licking his lips. “I want to know if you were strip-searched! Come on, give us some—”

I slide the window shut and walk away. Haven't I been punished enough?

I haven't heard from Clay since our brush with the Gruesome Threesome. Since he knows I'm in social quarantine, the best I can hope for is the two of us taking another stroll with Sammy. Miss Simmons is so happy with the way Sammy and I have bonded that she's mellowing out a little more every day. She hasn't turned into Mary Poppins, but I've stopped sniffing her cookies and lemonade to check for poison. Most days we sit on her front porch for a few minutes after I've walked Sammy. Miss Simmons tells me about her younger sister who lives with her husband in Vermont and her favorite niece who calls every Sunday. Of course, her number-one topic is the people who get on her nerves, who seem to be at least half the population of Cottonwood Creek. I listen and nod and make appropriate comments. It seems to work for both of us.

The real beneficiary of my punishment is Carmine. Since I'm willing to do almost anything to escape the house, he gets treated to several walks a day. He'd gotten chubby after a winter of lying around the house, but all the exercise has whipped him into shape. By running behind him, I'm getting into shape by default.

But having a skunk, a dog, and a semi-cranky old lady as best friends isn't what I had planned for my summer.

Late Friday night I'm enjoying an R-rated dream starring Clay and me when “Sweet Home Alabama” jars me awake. For the past week I've slept with my cell phone on my pillow at night—just in case Clay decides to call. I've practiced my sexy hello, and it comes out perfect. Until tonight, all that's come of my preparations is a rectangular imprint on my left cheek.

“I have to get out of this house!” Laurel howls. “I haven't seen another living person for days!” She's been texting me all day, each one more frantic than the last.

I say good-bye to R-rated Clay and stack the pillows behind my head. “What about your dad?”

“I said a
living
person. My father doesn't qualify.” Laurel groans dramatically. “Please, Aspen, I have to see you. I'm losing my sanity.”

Wisely, I refrain from commenting. “Sorry. I'm getting time off for good behavior, but I still can't come over for another week. And that's only if it's okay with your dad.”

“A week? No way!” She's working herself into a hysterical frenzy. “The walls are closing in on me! If I don't get out of here tonight, I'll go insane!”

“Come on, Laurel. You can get through this.” I haven't used my “talking down from the roof” voice for a while, and it's a little rusty. “Take long, deep breaths, drink some warm milk—”

“Nooooo! I can't! Please …” Everything else she's saying drowns in sobs. After a long minute, she recovers her voice. “Please, please, please, Aspen,” she says between hiccups, “meet me in the park by the swings. We can swing and talk and pretend we're little kids again. Please.”