A & L Do Summer (15 page)

Laurel and I gulp in unison.

This is without question the worst summer of my entire life.

“
THIS IS THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I'VE EVER DONE. THESE
portable potties are grosser than pig poop,” Laurel whines through the scarf wrapped over her nose and mouth. “I swear I'm going to puke.” She swipes at the flies swarming around her face and hair, but it's pointless when we're outnumbered a million to two.

I dip my sponge into the bucket of disinfectant and water sitting outside the portable toilet. My gloves are industrial-strength rubber and reach almost to my elbows, but the infested water slops over the top and drips inside. “You've said that at least ten times. Just throw up and get it over with!”

Laurel's lucky that I haven't dumped a bucket of slop over her head. Because of her I'm spending my Saturday scrubbing crap from the portable toilets in the park instead of doing my shift at the Sub Stop. Saturday of the Fourth of July weekend is our busiest day of the summer, and Willie was monstrously pissed when I called this morning to bail on him. I hope I still have a job on Monday.

I suppose we're lucky that creating volcanic human waste in portable potties is the worst damage Buttferk did with their fireworks last night. Too bad the Parks Commission brought in ten extra toilets for the Fourth of July celebration. And Buster, Kong, and Ferret dropped M-80s into every one of them.

If I were in a thankful mood, I'd say that at least we're scrubbing the toilets before several thousand people use them to relieve themselves of their Independence Day hot dogs, corn on the cob, and beer. But my mood is not thankful.

It was nothing short of pathetic at twelve forty-five this morning when Laurel and I took our usual places on the wooden bench at the Cottonwood Creek Police Department. What kind of lowlife has a “usual place” in a police station? I was furious at Laurel for dragging me into another mess, but almost as pissed at myself for letting her. So I sat boiling mad on the hard bench and kept my mouth shut.

This time Laurel's dad didn't look the least bit sleepy when he marched in to get her. He was wearing a tan polo shirt neatly tucked into pressed khakis. His hair was slicked into place. But his jaw could have been made of cement, and he wouldn't even look at Laurel. When Officer Sierra spelled out the details of our latest crime, Mr. Piedmont's face turned from red to white and back again. Instead of taking Laurel home after Officer Sierra finished talking, he leaned against the wall and tapped his shiny loafers on the floor until my dad showed up.

By contrast, my dad seemed almost pleasant, but I wasn't fooled. The madder he is, the quieter he gets. And Mom's staying at home was a very bad sign. It meant she was too pissed to trust herself in public. Putting those two factors together spelled disaster for me.

After my dad selected a place on the wall beside Mr. Piedmont, Officer Sierra went over the specifics of our vandalism one more time. I guess he didn't want our dads to miss any of the juicy details. While he talked, he paced back and forth with his hands locked behind his back. Since I'd already heard more than I wanted, I tuned out Officer Sierra's voice and focused on more pleasant topics, like how I could survive living on the streets.

“—so I'll assess the situation at the park as soon as the sun comes up,” Officer Sierra was saying when I tuned back in. “After I see where things stand, I'd like your permission to put the girls to work in repairing any damage they caused.”

Laurel's dad answered first, biting off his words through gritted teeth. “Whatever consequences you decide for Laurel are fine with me, Officer Sierra. The tougher the better. She deserves anything and everything you dish out.”

Not to be outdone, Dad jumped in. “Mrs. Parks and I want you to be as hard on Aspen as you think is necessary. She will also receive consequences at home.” The tight control in his voice made my stomach seize up. I was so panicked that I almost gave in and told what really happened. But I'd kept quiet too long. It would sound like I was lying to avoid being punished.

Officer Sierra let us go home about one fifteen. After a silent car ride, Dad went straight to bed and left me standing in the kitchen. I waited, expecting Mom to rush downstairs and blow up at me. But the only thing I heard was my heart pounding. After about twenty minutes of bracing for the worst, I drank a glass of milk and went to bed. I could have saved myself the trouble of undressing because I didn't have a prayer of falling asleep. At least Carmine was glad to see me. He licked my sweaty knee a few times, plopped his head across my shins, and snored with happiness.

I was still awake when Officer Sierra called at four thirty a.m. to give Mom and Dad his park damage report. He picked me up at five thirty, and we swung by Laurel's house, where she and her dad were waiting out front. It's just after noon now, and I'm ready to drop. Thank God this is our last toilet.

Laurel and I step out to let Officer Sierra do his inspection. He looks around and says, “Good enough. Like you did with the other ones, leave the door propped open until it dries out.”

Laurel rips the scarf from her face and drags in a huge gulp of air. “Hallelujah! I can breathe again!”

We tug our gloves off and drop them on the ground. My fingers are white and pruney. Until I've scrubbed my hands with bleach and three kinds of soap, they're not coming anywhere near my face.

“Wait a minute, girls,” Officer Sierra says. His face is shadowed with stubble, and the circles under his brown eyes look like bruises. “Don't take those gloves off yet.”

“Why not?” Laurel uses her forearm to brush back her hair. She's not taking any chances with her hands, either. “We've cleaned every one of those reeking portable potties.”

Officer Sierra scans the line of outdoor toilets by the park shelter. “So you have.” An unpleasant smile turns up the corners of his mouth. “And, after you pick up all the firecracker debris, you should be done for today.”

I look at the thousands of red paper scraps littering the road, the grass, and the trail. My breath comes out as a groan.

Officer Sierra's grin gets broader. “Hey, no problem, girls. Just think of it as the continuing saga of your harmless fun.”

I thought Officer Sierra would at least give us the stick things with the pointed ends to skewer the miniscule M-80 pieces. No such luck. We have to bend over, pick them up one by one, and drop them into trash bags.

I'm hot and miserable, and I smell worse than the toilets. My thighs and back are screaming in pain. My stomach is growling. And Laurel is the last person in the universe I want to talk to.

“Hey, look at the bright side.” I know she wants me to ask what she means, but the only bright side I see involves her lingering and painful death. “We're going to be in next week's
Cottonwood Creek Gazette
. You know, where they list the police calls. That's going to get us noticed.”

“And you think that would be a good thing? Your dad will be twice as furious if his bank's clients see your name in the paper.” It doesn't seem possible for my mom to be madder than she already is, but I'm sure she'll do her best. “In what universe is public humiliation something to celebrate?”

I fling a handful of M-80 guts into my trash bag.

“I'm not even allowed to watch the stupid Fourth of July parade tomorrow!” The fury I've been holding back explodes. “Thanks to you, my parents are threatening to handcuff me to my bed at night! Thanks to you, I've lost my shot at the one guy who's ever been interested in me! Thanks to you, Laurel, my life is ruined!”

The trash bag slips from Laurel's grasp. She slides to the ground like a melting ice cream cone and buries her face in her filthy gloves. Her tanned shoulders shake with sobs.

I grind my teeth together, steeling myself. Knowing Laurel, she's putting on a show to get my sympathy. Too bad I'm fresh out. I turn my back on her and scoop up some more firecracker parts.

Laurel deserves to be yelled at after everything she's put me through. All I wanted was a calm, relaxing summer. If anyone should have a good cry, it's me.

She earned everything I said to her, and more. I hope she cries so hard her eyeballs swell up like water balloons. Taking a stranglehold on the neck of my garbage bag, I drag it to the other end of the park. This time I'm not going to apologize. No way, no how.

When Laurel realizes she's not going to get any sympathy, her bawling drops a notch or two. From the corner of my eye I watch as she gets to her feet and goes back to picking up trash. She keeps glancing toward me, but I don't let her catch me watching her.

Two hours pass in stony silence while we clean up the park, piece by tedious piece. My anger carries me for the first hour or so. After that I'm too numb to think or feel.

Eventually the heat and stench of my own sweat make me dizzy. I dump my bag on the ground and stagger over to the bottles of water that Officer Sierra has kindly left for us in the shade. The water temperature is somewhere between lukewarm and hot, but it takes the edge off my dizziness. After several swallows I feel almost subhuman again.

“I'm sorry, Aspen,” Laurel says from behind me, causing me to slop water down my sweat-soaked T-shirt. “Everything is my fault. You wouldn't have been in any of this trouble if I hadn't dragged you into it.” She wipes her nose on the filthy tail of her T-shirt. “I understand if you don't want to be my friend anymore.”

I clench and unclench my jaw. “I'm definitely pissed at you….” By rights I should make her suffer for a few days—or weeks—but I've never been good at staying mad. “But we're still friends.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Laurel throws her arms around my waist, and our two sticky bodies connect with a wet splat. We pull apart, and our T-shirts stay stuck together for a second.

“OMG!” Laurel's lips curl away from her teeth. “That was the grossest hug ever!”

I turn my lips up in what might be a smile. At this point, it's hard to tell. “Crap, puke, and sweat have kind of been this summer's buzzwords. But they're all behind us now.”

“No, they're not!” Laurel's eyes fill with tears. “Dad's going to make me work at a chicken farm!”

That sits me back on my heels. “What?”

“Dad was really pissed when I lost my job at the Sub Stop. He told me to find another job or he'd find one for me.” Laurel splashes some bottled water on her face. “I figured he'd get over it, like always, so I blew it off. But on the way home from the police station last night or this morning, whenever it was, he said he got me a job at the EggstraGood Chicken Farm for the rest of the summer.” Laurel drags her scarf out of her pocket and blows her nose with a honk. “It's horrible! Dirty, smelly, stupid chickens and their dirty, smelly chicken poop.”

I pat her shoulder. “Hey, chickens aren't so bad. When I was in third grade our class hatched out some baby chicks, and they were adorable.”

“Those were fluffy little chicks.” Laurel blows her nose again. “I'll be up to my butt in big, ugly, stupid chickens.”

“Granted, chickens aren't known for their high IQs, but they're not that ugly. And, they're kind of funny to watch. Remember that YouTube video of the rooster chasing the Rottweiler around the yard?”

Laurel smiles a little. “Yeah. That was pretty hilarious.”

“And EggstraGood is a free-range farm, so you'll get to be outdoors all day. That's way better than being on house arrest.” The more we talk about it, the better it sounds to me.

“Really? Maybe you're right.” She wipes her eyes. “Chickens are animals, after all, and I love animals.”

The little warning bell tinkles in the back of my head. “Just remember that chickens end up being chicken sandwiches. So don't get too attached to them.”

Laurel dismisses that with a wave. “Who could possibly get attached to a chicken?”

WHEN I COME TO WORK ON MONDAY AFTER THE FOURTH OF
July, Willie treats me to a soul-stirring lecture about the American work ethic and assigns me to perpetual deep-fat-fryer duty, but he doesn't fire me. I'd like to think it's because I'm such a valuable employee. More likely, he's keeping me on because most high school kids aren't looking for work in July. By the time he got a new person trained, it would be time for him or her to go back to school.

The next two weeks drag by. My parents have me under twenty-four-hour surveillance, which means my life consists of the Sub Stop, Sammy, and the ten thousand chores Mom and Dad dream up for me. According to Mom, working me to the bone will ensure that I'm too tired to get into trouble. What she doesn't say is that she and Dad derive sadistic pleasure from watching me suffer.

Once or twice I mention Clay to Manny, but he just shakes his head. No wonder. Clay has probably written me off as a criminal in the making. At least Carmine hasn't deserted me. At home he sticks to me like a burr, so every time I turn around I trip over him. For the past week or so, he hasn't wanted to go for our walks. When I take him out, he plants his butt on the sidewalk and whines until I let him back into the house. He seems to be limping a little, too, and I wonder if he's getting arthritis. If he's not better soon, I'm going to ask Mom if we can take him to the vet.

Despite Laurel's prediction, our names don't even make it into the paper. Since neither of us is eighteen yet, we're listed as “two juvenile females, age seventeen” even though my birthday isn't until next week. So much for notoriety.

That doesn't mean we're forgotten. Every day when I'm biking to or from work, one or more of the Buttferk gang just “happens” to be driving by. Whatever piece of crap they're driving slows to a crawl, then they stick their ugly heads out the windows and snarl. I do my best to be cool and ignore them, but I feel like fire ants are running over my skin. They never say anything, which is even creepier because I don't know what's on their evil minds.

The only time I see Laurel is when we have to appear in court on the fireworks charges. We meet in a small courtroom that's nothing like what I've seen on TV. Judge Boris—according to the little sign in the holder by the door—is sitting at a small, elevated wooden desk shuffling through a sheaf of papers. She's wearing a black robe just like TV judges do, with a white collar sticking out the top. Her hair is chin-length, brown, and curly, and black-rimmed glasses hang off the end of her nose. From the little I can see of her body, she's on the thin side, but not super-thin. She looks a lot like my fourth-grade teacher, only with frown lines where her laugh lines should be. Laurel and I are seated with our parents in the gallery, which consists of two rows of folding chairs lined up against the wall.

My heart kicks against my ribs like a wild stallion. Sweat pours down my sides, and I'm afraid I'll pee myself if I uncross my legs. Officer Sierra said we'd have to pay fines, but what if the judge has a surprise for us—like time at juvenile hall?

It took some pleading from Laurel and me, but our parents graciously permitted the prisoners to sit side by side. Laurel leans into my ear and whispers, “You were right about the chicken farm. Chickens are kind of funny and cute—and so is the owner's son, Steve. Working there is the best thing that's happened to me all summer.”

Well, isn't that lovely for her? Maybe Steve and the chickens will bring us an omelet while we're in jail.

“And that's not the best part,” she continues. “Dad got tired of driving me all the way out to EggstraGood, so he bought me a car.”

“A car!” I practically shout. Next she'll say her dad's letting her move into her own apartment to be closer to the fowl.

Mom frowns and shushes me, but it's too late. Judge Boris has stopped shuffling her papers. She'll probably give me extra jail time for contempt of court.

The judge asks Laurel and me to stand up and approach the bench, which is the only TV-like thing that's happened so far. My leg muscles are quivery, but somehow I wobble over. It does me good to see that Laurel's a little shaky, too.

When Judge Boris asks for my plea, my mouth sticks shut. Every fiber of my body wants to scream, “Innocent, innocent, innocent!” But with Buttferk stalking me, I can't risk it. So I mutter, “Guilty” in a strangled voice and prepare to take my punishment.

The judge removes her reading glasses and peers at us. “Officer Sierra isn't able to testify today, but he submitted a written statement concerning your case.”

Laurel's gulp is so loud that Judge Boris quirks an eyebrow at her. I clench my pelvic muscles and pray the wetness on my inner thighs is sweat.

“Since he is the officer of record—and seems to know you young women quite well—I've chosen to follow his recommendations.”

If I do whatever the prison guards tell me and avoid all the women with neck tattoos, I might—

“Therefore, each of you is fined fifty dollars plus court costs. And, per Officer Sierra's proposal, you'll serve six months unsupervised probation.” Judge Boris looks down on us from on high. “The next time you see Officer Sierra—which had better not be in his official capacity—you should thank him for requesting leniency.”

“We will, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor,” Laurel and I babble.

Before we leave, I write a check for $157 to the Clerk of Court—apparently courts don't come cheap—and say good-bye to Laurel.

While our parents are talking in the corner, she says, “See, everything worked out okay after all.”

“You mean it worked out okay for you. You ended up with a fun job, a cute guy, and a car.” I shove my checkbook into my purse. “My only source of excitement is betting the other workers at the Sub Stop how often Willie's wife will drop in to make sure he's not boinking the help.”

Two days later, my life—which is already in complete shambles—takes a turn for the worse.

Now that Willie thinks he's whipped me back into shape, he's allowing me to man the drive-through window again. To make sure I don't have time to get into trouble, he has me doing both jobs—taking orders and delivering the food. During the lunch and dinner rush it gets so busy that I'm talking to people at the menu board and the window at the same time. But working the drive-through is better than standing over the deep-fat fryer, so I'm keeping my mouth shut for the next five weeks. Besides, when I'm swamped with work, time goes faster, and this summer can't end soon enough for me.

This morning Willie has already retreated to the back room. Since business is even slower than usual, I'm leaning on the window ledge, daydreaming. Clay and I are having a picnic on a grassy bank of Cottonwood Creek. He gazes adoringly at me while dappled sunshine filters through the leaves—no mosquitoes, floating trash, or swampy creek smell. Our hands clasp and his head inclines toward mine. I close my eyes in anticipation of his kiss—

“Hey, Ass-wipe! Are you puckering up to kiss the boss's ass?”

Daydream to nightmare in two seconds. That has to be a record.

I open my eyes to see Ferret's pointed snout poking out his car window. He's grown a soul patch, which nicely complements his dangling nose hairs. Someone should braid them together and shut his mouth permanently. Buster and Kong are mercifully absent.

“If you want to order something, you have to drive around to the order screen.” Without the other two-thirds of Buttferk to back him up, Ferret is more creepy than intimidating. “If you don't want to order, you'll have to leave.”

“I hear you and Low-rent had the good sense to keep your mouths shut in court the other day.” Ferret's eyes shift from left to right like he's a covert operative for the CIA. “See that it stays that way.”

“Listen,
Ferret.
” I put extra emphasis on the nickname he hates. “Laurel and I didn't say anything—this time. But if you keep following and threatening me, I'll be happy to change my mind.”

“Is that so?” He rubs his index finger across the caterpillar hanging under his lip. “On another topic, me and the guys are wondering what you push around in that buggy every morning. It sure ain't a baby.”

My mouth goes dry. “Of course it is. I babysit for my neighbor.”

“Yeah? Well, we've been watching you—and that dried-up, crippled old hag. She ain't raising no baby. No way, no how.”

They've been watching Miss Simmons, too! What do they want with her? “Get your head screwed on straight, Ferret. What else would I be doing?”

“That's what we've been wondering.” He nods sagely. “But it's a known fact that old hags hoard valuable stuff—money, jewelry, antiques, all that crap.”

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. “Now I know you're insane! Miss Simmons is a poor, lonely old lady who's recovering from a hip replacement.” A stroke of genius hits me. “Since you have to know, she owns one of those super lifelike dolls they sell on the Internet. The poor old thing treats it just like a baby, including taking it for a daily stroll. I'm pushing it around until her hip heals.”

Feeling triumphant, I add, “It's a big stroller, Ferret. If you want, I can squeeze your dolly in, too.”

“By the way, Ass-face, it's a bad idea to let your mangy dog run loose.” He guns the engine of his junky car. “Next time he annoys somebody, they might shoot him with a shotgun instead of a pellet gun.”

Ferret's lips pull back in an ugly smile. “And if you change your mind about shooting your mouth off, your mutt could end up under the wheels of somebody's car.”

As Ferret's piece-of-crap car squeals away, all I can do is stare in horror. Carmine never hurt anyone, and one of those three psychos shot him. What would they do to someone they hate?