carefully everywhere descending (7 page)

I pause. I do remember, mostly because of how excited Sam had been, and how concerned I had been that he would chop off a foot. He kept saying that it wasn't that complicated a mower, and when I appealed to Dad, he'd sided with Sam.

“Let him make some use of himself,” he'd said. Then, in an undertone to me: “It's just a little push mower. He'll be okay.”

Sam looks miserable as I tuck him into bed, mostly due to the loss of getting to mow for the first time. He's always been fascinated with machines. It also would have been his first real job. I remember very clearly the terror and responsibility of being left alone to babysit for the first time.

“They're gonna be mad,” he whimpers as I pull the thermometer from his mouth. He's got a slight temperature.

“It'll be okay,” I say. “I'll mow this time, and you can do it next time, okay?”

“Sure,” he says dully.

“Don't look so down,” I say. “You can't stop grass from growing; that's why they need someone to mow. There will be another shot. Soon you'll be
begging
me to take over for you.”

I leave him with some liquids and go to change into a sports bra and a ratty old T-shirt and shorts. I tie on my oldest shoes, small, so they pinch a little, and pull my shoulder-blade-length hair back into a ponytail.

I walk to the Pirinens', passing over the poor line and retracing my steps to Vapiano's. Instead of turning left at the beautiful, castle-like yellow-and-blue house, I go right. I pass four more colossal houses until I come to the Pirinens'. I knock on their door before spotting the doorbell. It's shaped like a fairy. This strikes me as odd. I ring it and step back a little on the porch to wait.

Mrs. Pirinen answers the door. From what I can tell by previous encounters, she's a spacey lady, hair like a cloud around her head. Today she's wearing a shirt with an airbrushed unicorn on it. That must be the influence on the doorbell.

“Hello, Mrs. Pirinen,” I say. “I'm Audrey Anderson. My brother Sam was supposed to mow your lawn today, but he's sick. I'm here to mow for you instead.”

“Oh! Oh, dear, I'm sorry to hear that,” she says, and I assume she means about Sam. “Oh, let me see…. I guess you need the mower, don't you?” She flutters away, and after a moment the garage door to my right churns to life and slowly lifts. Mrs. Pirinen's legs, then torso, come into view as it rises, so I gently shut the front door before walking over to her.

“It's that one, there,” she says, pointing at a small push mower. I can see why Dad wasn't too worried about Sam: it looks very basic.

“I don't know how to use it, though,” she continues, distressed. “And Mike's gone out to the grocery….”

“It's all right,” I say, going over and inspecting it. “I can figure it out.”

“Oh, you can? You angel,” she sighs. “I'll just be”—she points to the open door leading to the interior of the house, where a light gold carpet and shimmery blue walls are visible—“if you need me.”

I thank her and wheel the mower out to the yard.

It doesn't take me very long to get the hang of it. It roars to life immediately when I push a button, and I spare a moment to be relieved it doesn't have a pull-start engine before beginning to cut the grass in straight, neat lines. The constant rumble of the engine acts as a mantra, and I lose myself in random, wandering thoughts as I push. Soon the sun is higher in the sky, and I'm sticky with sweat under my arms, across the top of my shirt, and down my bare legs.

The lawn is cut in half by the driveway, and I've worked my way down the right side nearly all the way to the street when some sixth sense niggles before I'm even fully conscious about what distracts me. A silver car goes slowly past, then turns at the end of the block and comes back. The window rolls down and Scarlett West grins at me across the empty passenger seat. She slows to a halt near me and says something, which I can't hear over the roar of both engines. I kill the mower and say, overloud, “What?”

She turns her key and repeats, “Nice job! Can you do my lawn next?”

In furious humiliation, I stab at the button several times before I finally start the mower. I march away with my back rigid, determinedly not looking at her. So I jump when she unexpectedly appears next to me, face serious and apologetic. She wordlessly holds up her hands and then reaches over and stops the mower.

“I'm sorry,” she says immediately. “That was stupid, and I shouldn't have said it. I just meant to be funny.”

“First of all, how could you possibly think that was funny?” I say. “Second, you had, like, ten minutes to come up with something, and that was the best you could think of?”

I'm expecting another fight, both of us smarting from our last one, so it's bewildering when she chuckles instead.

“I don't know,” she says, shaking her head. “I was just trying to get you to laugh.”

This is such a remarkable statement that it stumps me momentarily. To cover my confusion, I pull the end of my large shirt up to wipe away the rivulets of sweat dripping down my forehead. Scarlett's gaze drops to my stomach as if pulled, and I release my shirt like it's burned me. I feel a different kind of heat prickling all over. There's something in her eyes…. All of a sudden, I'm aware of just how gross I look. Wisps of hair are clinging to my face and neck, and I'm sweaty and smelly. Nothing that I'm wearing is flattering.

“I should get back to work,” I say numbly.

Scarlett nods and steps back. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out. After a second she turns and goes back to her car. I watch her put it in drive and slowly coast down the street to my favorite house at the end. She parks and walks up to the door. She opens it with a key and goes inside, the freshly painted blue door swinging shut behind her and barring her from my sight.

 

 

I
FEEL
as if I'm looking at a different world as I finish mowing, dazed. I wheel the machine back to the garage and knock on the door to let Mrs. Pirinen know I've finished. She gives me twenty dollars, which seems generous.

I don't have pockets on my shorts, so I clutch the bill in a sweaty hand as I walk down the street. I stare at Scarlett's house as I approach and as I pass. It almost feels like every window is an eye, scrutinizing me. I never knew Scarlett lived so close to me.

Scarlett. I pull up her face in my mind, and it, too, appears different to my memory: more beautiful, more… golden. I don't know what to do with this change in me.

The rest of the day passes in a haze. The only thing I pay attention to is an e-mail from Scarlett with her revised papers. They're a big improvement. We won't have to spend much time together tomorrow at all.

When I go to bed that night, I curl up into a ball and hug myself.

I'm a wreck by the time I get to the library the next day, second-guessing everything I think or plan to say to her. For the classes we take together, I can barely stand to look at her, but I'm hyperconscious of her presence and my own bumbling: dropping things and turning too quickly and bumping into people. I'm so miserable, I just want it to be over, but at the same time, I want to see her so badly. There are more people in the study room this time, and I clear our session with all of them before I sit down and pull out the papers and my crappy old pen. I arrange them. Then I move them around a bit. I decide that looks stupid and put them back the way I had them.

I'm about to shift them again when Scarlett arrives and slides into the chair next to me, saving me from going insane.

“Hello,” I say rigidly. “Ready to get started?”

For her part, she's the same as always. I'm not able to fully lose myself in the work, which makes me feel impotent. It's the first time I've ever been failed by my ability to commit to an endeavor. At the end, she thanks me, looking a bit quizzical when I don't make eye contact. She offers me another ride home, even though I have time to catch the late bus this time.

Then we're in her car and driving, and before I know it, we're almost to my house. Scarlett chats about the cars we pass, pointing out makes and the features on the ones she likes, pulling the weight of the conversation. My thoughts have been racing the entire time, adding and subtracting the columns of a balance sheet in my mind.

She keeps giving me sidelong looks, and finally asks at a stop light, “Everything okay?”

“Listen,” I say. I've never been someone to hold back from attaining what I've wanted, so I continue, only a little shaky. “I seem to be… experiencing some… some attraction to you. I would… I have never dated anyone before, but… I would like to date you.”

“If you would like to,” I add lamely in the dead silence that follows. Scarlett is staring at me and doesn't move until the car horn behind us blares out a long, angry note. She starts and hits the gas. We jerk forward and she hits the brakes to reduce speed, yanking us nearly to a stop. She gets the speed under control and soon turns down the road to my house.

“I…,” she starts, and then stops. “I—”

We arrive at my house, but I don't reach for my seat belt when she stops and pushes the gearshift into park.

She takes a deep breath, and right away I know this isn't going to be good.

“Audrey, I-I'm flattered,” she says, and I bury my burning face in my hands.

“Oh, no,” I say, not sure if I'm intelligible from behind my palms, but also not particularly caring. “Please, end it quickly.”

“It's not you,” she says, and I snort. “Seriously, it's not. I'm… I'm, uh, kinda committed. To someone. Else.”

I peer out from between my fingers.

“Oh,” I say in a tiny voice.

“Carolina Murphy. Specifically,” she concludes softly, and looks…. Well, she doesn't look smug, for which I'm infinitely grateful. She looks a little sorry, actually.

“Well,” I say, fumbling for my bag and my dignity, “thank you for the ride. I think you're certain for an
A
on those papers, I really do.”

“Wait,” she says before I get out. “I have something for you, as a thank-you.”

“You don't—” I start in exasperation.

“Yeah, I do,” she says, shoving a Walmart bag in my hand. “You kept saying how much you hated your pen, so….”

I part the top of the white plastic bag and see two sets of beautiful, new Inky pens. One pack is just blue and black; the other has a rainbow of colors. My throat closes up, and I can barely speak to thank her.

I fumble open the car door, and in short order, the door to my house also, parting me from Scarlett for the last time. The Walmart bag rustles as I walk inside. My mom is standing by the table, showered and dressed. This must be a good day for her. Her short graying, crinkly hair is fluffed out around her head. Her sagging upper arms sway a little under the sleeves of her old T-shirt as she turns around, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

“Hello, sweetie,” she says tentatively. She always tiptoes around us after one of her spells. “I'm making chicken casserole for dinner. How are you?”

Without warning, I burst into tears. I run over to her and throw myself in her arms. She looks alarmed but immediately hugs me tightly.

“What's wrong?” she asks, gently lowering me into a chair. She pulls another one close and takes me back into her arms, smoothing a hand down my back.

“I'm such an idiot!” I wail. I pour the whole story out to her, building up to my rejection so she understands just how mortified I am.

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighs when I'm done and cried out.

“Where's Sam?” I ask, now horrified that I might have had him as an audience for the whole embarrassing ordeal.

“He's asleep,” she says. Sam had stayed home sick that day. “I gave him a bunch of NyQuil, and it knocked him out a little while ago.”

I chuckle, watery.

“He needs the sleep,” she says. “He wouldn't stop watching TV, even when nothing was on but the news about that awful state senator.”

I don't know what news this is, but at the moment, I also don't care.

“What do I do, Mom?” I ask, bracing my head in my hands, elbows on my knees. “Now I have to see her every day, and I don't know how to… turn this feeling off.”

“Just keep on being you,” she says, brushing back my hair. “Be friendly to her, but don't hang too much on your interactions. Focus on the other things that make you happy.”

I don't feel very happy about anything at the moment, but I hug her again and offer to set the table. It's not often that we have a home-cooked meal, even if it just consists of canned soup and chicken poured into a dish and baked, so I try not to drag everyone down with my bad mood. It doesn't seem to have worked, because as I escape to my room, I hear a groggy Sam ask, “What's up with her?”

The next couple of days, I don't see Scarlett very often, even in the classes we share. I don't know if this is by chance, or her design, and I fret that it may be that she's avoiding me.

This is awful. Is this the feeling I always hear other girls my age go on and on about when they talk about boys? Why would anyone want this?

At her house Wednesday evening, Amber gently pressures me into telling her why I'm so glum. I spill the whole story, though less damply than I had with my mom. A huge grin crosses her face when I'm done, which strikes me as an inappropriate response to my pain.

“I knew it,” she says. “I knew it.”

“Oh, no you didn't,” I say crankily. “I barely knew myself.”

“You know how I knew?” she asks, ignoring me. “She made you laugh. And do you know the full list of people who make you laugh?” She holds up one finger. “Sam.” Then she holds up another finger. “Scarlett West.” She drops her hand. “Not even I can, really. That's when I knew she had a hold on you.”