Cut Both Ways (5 page)

There's a box fan on the floor, though, new, still in a Walmart bag. My dad promised he'd get one because it's been so hot. I set it up in the window over the chair, aim it toward the bed. Then I unlace my boots and fall onto the futon.

My headache is back. And I feel a million kinds of fucked up.

Am I so desperate that it doesn't matter who wants to get me off?

No
.

I roll on my stomach. Take off my glasses. Shut my eyes.

Am I gay now? Is that what this all is?

No. Because Angus didn't get me off.

Still. I liked it. Liked him. I can't think a bad thing about it, except that I'm embarrassed. And I can't stop either thing: the liking or the being embarrassed.

But it doesn't feel like I'm gay. Because I can't see it happening
with anyone else. My other friends, either. Even DeKalb, who's better looking than me. I think about it for a minute: kissing DeKalb, kissing Jack Telios.

DeKalb's a big guy. And Jack Telios, who I've been friends with since we got stuck in ninth-grade choir, is scrawny and short. Plus his skin's got this pinkish color, like he's an albino practically. But . . . nothing. Not a chance. Never ever would I want that.

I try to sleep. If I could talk to Angus about this, about what to do, about what it means, I would. But I can't.

My head hurts. The blood's thumping in my temples. I try to slow my breath, relax. My mom is always saying that, especially to Kinney when she gets all cranked up:
Relax. Slow down. Breathe.

I slow down. My head sinks into the pillow.

It was just kissing. Just kissing. We were high and drunk.

I breathe, slow, then slower. I think about nothing but the sound going in and out of my mouth and nose. Every time I see Angus (or remember feeling him, my dick tightening underneath me) I just slow down. Breathe more. Count it out. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I'm like a dragon sending out fire, not breath, cooling my body off until it's just the sound of the fan and my lungs and I'm asleep.

“Hey! Brandy!”

“
BRANDY!!!
”

“BRANDY, COME HERE!”

“Come here right now! COME
ONNNN!
BRANDY!”

Two voices. A girl and a boy. They're hollering but not in a
this-is-an-emergency
way. My window overlooks the backyard, so it must be the backyard neighbors. People with a big sheepdog that we've never spoken to. At least I haven't. I sit up, put on my glasses, and look out the window. There are new people there now. Before, the people owned a giant sheepdog that ripped up the lawn to bare mud, and they had a giant shed between their fence and the alley. But now the shed and the dog are gone and there's a little gate with one of those little hook-and-eye latch deals. The grass is nice and green; there are pots of flowers on the deck; a garden with bamboo tripod poles that green things are climbing up in twists.

I rub my eyes. I feel a little better, though I have drool on my pillow. I get up, head to the attic bathroom to take a piss. Stare at the picture above the toilet the whole time. There's something I've always liked about this picture; it's a dog curled up and sleeping on a big white bed. There's something about it that makes me relaxed, makes me feel better. We've never even had dogs but it makes me want to get one.

I go downstairs, pour a huge mason jar of water and go out to the backyard. Weave through the piles of wood. There's a new jigsaw thing—at least I think it's a jigsaw?—sitting beside a stack of plastic PVC piping. I sit down on the picnic table, pushing aside the full ashtray and citronella candle.

Then I see movement in the former-sheepdog yard. Two swings heaving back and forth, two kids in them, out of sync. Yelling.

I wonder if they are saying “Andy” for a minute until I hear a loud girl's voice:

“What is going on?”

And one of the kids jumps off the swing and the other laughs and there's more yelling and I see a glimpse of the girl coming out through the sliding glass door of the deck and it's Brandy Corvallis. She'll be a sophomore at Franklin and she was in my Studio Arts class all last year. She also lives by my dad's Laundromat and washes her family's laundry there. Which is sort of sad to me—I mean, I wash our laundry there, too, sometimes—but I guess I was just surprised. Because Brandy never seemed like someone sad and poor like that. She's the kind of girl who always takes pictures for yearbook, constantly moving around the edges of basketball games or the cafeteria, taking candid shots or lining up teams or whatever. The kind of girl that's always got stuff going on like that. Busy. In Studio Arts, she was always deep into her painting or ceramic jug or whatever. Taking pictures. Folding her family's laundry while doing her algebra.

But my dad's Laundromat is where we first started talking—not in Studio Arts. Because she was good at art and I was suffering through it, mainly. But also because she was younger and while I'm desperate, I just wanted to let her do her own thing.

When Brandy started coming to the Laundromat that spring I finally said hi to her. She told me her aunt's washing machine was busted and they were saving up for a new one. She seemed a little less hassled and busy at the Laundromat, even though she was obviously doing her family's laundry. She didn't have the camera—yearbook deadlines had passed, she said—and I felt better approaching her. Because I had a reason to be at my dad's
Laundromat and I could help her with stuff. Front her samples of detergent if my dad wasn't around, make sure she had her own rolling sorting cart, get her a Dr Pepper from the machine. It wasn't flirting. Just, you know. Friendly.

I'm suddenly starving. I bolt the rest of the water. A little bit of the headache comes back and I wish I had sunglasses. I never have sunglasses, though. Because I have regular glasses. And prescription sunglasses cost a lot. Plus, I think that is dorky. It's like giving up. Acknowledging that you're a full-time nerd or something. I'd rather just squint. I get up and go into the kitchen, then, because Brandy is rolling a blue circular swimming pool toward the yard, where she might see me, and I don't want to be caught staring.

At the sink, I pour another glass of water and keep staring. I'm creeping, I know. But Brandy's wearing cut-off jeans and a bikini top and it's kind of surprising, but she looks kind of good. I mean, she's a cute girl. Just younger. And I thought I'd have noticed it, her being kind of sexy. Being in one of my classes is a prime way for me to develop a huge obsession with you, actually. Nothing like sitting in class, being bored for ninety minutes and getting to stare at a girl in front of you, examine every bit of her body and face and watch her move and laugh and frown at her notebook and by the time the bell rings, you are in love with her.

Which was another reason I never talked to her in class, probably. School's bad enough as it is. No reason to add your stupid idiot boner into things.

Still, here I am, gay Will, fucked-up Will, creeping on Brandy Corvallis while she's babysitting new backyard neighbors. Her
boobs are pretty nice—the bikini is green and kind of smashes them together in a way that I can't stop staring at. The window is smudged—has my dad ever cleaned the windows in this house?—but I can see Brandy helping the kids into the little pool and then grabbing a lawn chair while the boy holds the hose. Brandy sits down with her bare feet in the water and shivers and the kids laugh. Then she sits back and puts on her sunglasses.

I feel jealous of her then. How she's working but also getting to kick back like that, her feet in the pool. The kids splash around her feet and she talks to them and splashes back. I'm looking at her tits. I'm half-hard again, sad to say. Or happy to say. I feel okay, really. Though I'm hungry. Starving. I reach for the last rubbery waffle and eat it without a plate or syrup, just staring out the window.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

MY DAD'S HOUSE
isn't big. None of the houses next to it are, either. They're all little boxes that look like the ones you use when you play Monopoly, with matching tiny squares of lawn—so I'm shocked at all the demolition crap we fill the Dumpster with. I shouldn't be; my dad's been saying from the get-go how houses are a complex structure, not just “a wooden box that sits outside and rots.”

Though once Roy whispered to me, “Actually, it is a box that sits outside and rots. It's just not a wooden one.”

But the next weeks go on and on, and the shit we haul out from my dad's house? It doesn't let up. Tile and wires and ductwork and insulation and rotting Sheetrock from the main-floor bathroom and the old carpet off the attic stairs and more tile and countertops and so much shitty, abused trim. Now it's really not a house. It's just mostly enclosed space. The kitchen's a card table and a coffeepot and a whole bunch of tools. The bathroom's a
toilet with half walls around it, bare studs mostly. Most of the time our breakfast is a bunch of pastries from the bakery on Johnson my dad likes.

Though I can see how much is getting done, I can also see, from the looks on people's faces (mostly Roy's), and the barer and less functional the house gets, how much it will take to build it back up, and there are less than two months of summer to do it. Minnesota's winter is too unpredictable to have anything left for fall. Roy goes back to college the last week in August. But the way the materials are piling up in the backyard—bathroom sinks and windows and cabinets and planks of new siding—you'd think my dad had all the time in the world.

One Friday, we replace two windows and start digging around the front to put in cement footings for what will be our porch. It's a long day, hot as hell. My dad has us knock off around six and so we start cleaning up the jobsite in our usual way: Roy having a smoke, my dad cracking open a beer, me cleaning my glasses for the billionth time.

The girl that comes to pick up Roy that night looks especially nice, in this short black dress, and I feel so jealous of Roy for a minute, I can barely speak. I don't know why, either. I like Roy a lot. He's always helping us and being in a good mood. We'd be fucked without him. So I don't know why I'm upset. Maybe it's just because of how easy he is with things. How he tucks his cigarettes in his shirt. Dumps his Nalgene in the neighbor's flower beds. And how, after a long day of working hard, he just gets that cute girl, that cool old Jeep-truck thing. Which is not old like my
dad's truck, with its awful topper and no power steering. But old in that it's kind of vintage and cool: it's a mint green and you can take the top off if you want. It probably cost a lot but Roy acts like it's nothing. Lets any old girl drive it. Lets her roll up in it, pick him up, too. Like it'd be nothing if she totaled it. I wonder if he'll fuck the black-dress girl in that car. I know I'd fuck her in that car. Or I'd want to, at least. I don't know how the version of me that could kiss a girl would ever act, but since Angus and all that, I'm kind of wishing I could find out. I don't know what I'm waiting for. Maybe Roy doesn't wait for things to happen to him?

I know Roy's parents have a lot of money—my dad mentioned this to me once—and that makes me jump from jealous to angry. I'd rather just be mad at someone than sit there feeling shitty about what I'd rather have in life. I'm supposed to be here, helping my dad, fixing this house that he's always wanted to fix, helping him get his dream and make everything the way he's always wanted, for once. My dad has been working his ass off. Finding crap from Craigslist. Coordinating schedules with his friends. Making deals on cheap materials. Even finding a kid like Roy. I shouldn't be wishing I was Roy.

But I get like this. Always wanting so much. Feeling greedy. Desperate. I hate it.

After Roy leaves, my dad and I go pick up some tacos. Though he's as sweaty and grimy as me, my dad is really happy. Smiling. Talking about what's happening tomorrow, and the week after. Saying it'll be in prime shape soon and we'll celebrate in spring, my graduation and a housewarming, all in one.

“Party like we've never had,” he says. “I'm inviting the whole neighborhood, so they can't complain about the noise.”

He flips on the radio, eats half a taco while he drives. Then turns in to the liquor store and lets the truck run. “Just a sec,” he says, and I sit with the hot bag of tacos on my lap, the truck vibrating in idle around me.

The liquor store is next to a Walgreens, a fake nails place, and the Little Caesars where DeKalb works. I consider getting up to see if DeKalb's around, but I don't want to miss my dad coming back—just a sec means maybe just a six-pack?

I stare at the people going into the Walgreens. There's a lot of people. Old people. Teenagers like me. Adults alone, adults in pairs, talking, holding hands. Two little kids come out eating ice-cream treats and they're wearing swimsuits. One kid even has the floaty rings around his arms. Their dad is behind them, shoving his wallet into his back pocket and grabbing for their hands. The kids are so focused on their ice-cream treats, they aren't looking for cars in the parking lot. The one little kid yells about hand-holding and the dad yells back and then the kid's crying and dripping ice cream until they turn the corner and I can't see them anymore.

My dad comes out of the liquor store pushing a shopping cart. Fuck.

He's not looking at me. Just goes around, lifts the back hatch off the truck topper. Starts loading cases of beer and a thing of wine in a box.

I twist around and before I can say anything he says, “Got a bigger crew coming tomorrow. A couple of guys we're paying.”

I nod. I hate how he's got to explain himself. Easier if he just says nothing.

All the way home, I eat tacos straight from the bag. The beer cases clunk around in the back and it annoys me. Not that he notices. He's still in an excellent mood. Someone calls his cell once we're back at the house, about something he's interested in buying and he gets even more happy. He gulps the beer he's opened, finishes his last taco, then he tells me he'll be back in twenty minutes and takes off in his truck again.

I shove all the taco garbage into the giant Rubbermaid bin that is now the trash for our kitchen. For the whole house, really. If you can call this a house.

I don't know what to do next. I'm bored. I'm feeling jittery. I fill an empty Gatorade bottle with a ton of water and hit the picnic table in the backyard. The night is lowering around the chain-link fence and I can smell grilling and burgers, and hear crickets. I think of the beer in the back of my dad's truck. He didn't even unload it. I wonder if any of it'll even make it back home. I check my almost-dead phone; it's 8:32.

“BRANDY!” Same yelling-little-kid voice.

“Yes?” Brandy, then. Part of me wants to go inside. Part of me wants to see her. Maybe even talk to her. Even though I probably reek. My shirt's still kinda damp from sweat.

“You have to say GOOD-BYE! BRANDY!” The little-kid voice again.

Then Brandy: “Good-bye, Anna. Good-bye, Rory.”

“Will you come back tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow's Saturday, Rory,” Brandy says. “Your parents will be home then.”

I hear steps on the little cement walkway. Hear the gate unhook. I try to stay still. I don't know what to do. I feel sort of strange. Scared. But excited, too.

But the gate clanks shut and then she's standing there in the alley and squinting toward me. I resist the urge to check my pits.

“Hey?” Brandy calls.

“Hey,” I say back.

She walks to the chain link around our yard and I make myself move. Stand. Don't know if it's just my social idiocy or if I'm still trying to hide from her, but I have to consciously propel myself across the lawn. Making sure not to stumble over the wheelbarrow or the piles of equipment and materials covered in blue tarps in case of rain. I'm making myself go say hello to a girl at my back fence. I'm a sweaty dirty idiot. Who smells like tacos.

“Will Caynes,” she says. “Thought I was seeing you all these days.”

“Yeah, that's me,” I say. Idiotic. “What's up? You live here now?” Though I know damn well.

“I babysit here. Rory and Anna. The Vances. I'm like their nanny. I hope there's a bus this late. They've never kept me this late.”

“Oh.” I should offer her a ride. Right? Or would that seem like I'm trying to get rid of her? I'm a million times sweatier all of a sudden.

We stare at each other. She nods. She smiles. I nod. I smile. This was never this hard at the Laundromat.

She's so fuckin' cute, though. She really is. Her little shirt's this white thing with little green stripes and it buttons up the front. But the front's low and the top two buttons aren't buttoned. I can't stare at it. I already stared at it. I'm looking at her face like my life depends on it.

Finally she says something. “So. This is where you live?”

“My dad lives here. I mean, I do, too. But I also live out in Oak Prairie. My mom's house is out there. They're divorced.”

She nods. I am studying Brandy Corvallis like there's going to be a quiz. She's kind of narrow through the shoulders, and her hair is all dark and thick and long around her shoulders. Messy but nice. Her face is splotched with sunburned skin, and her eyes have all this makeup around them, which is sort of flaking off a little. All of this makes her really cute, though.

I clear my throat and look away from her. At least with Angus, I didn't get caught looking at his boobs. Dick. Whatever. I'm trying to relax myself on the inside because just now I'm so fucking excited that she's here. But I don't want her to see it or she might get weirded out and leave.

I think for a minute. What can I tell her?

“You want something to drink?”

She looks at her watch, then looks up at me.

“Sure,” she says. “Sure. Why not.”

Brandy Corvallis likes white wine. I'm lucky in that, because it's an hour later and we're drinking white wine from this bottle my dad had on top of the refrigerator. It was all dusty, so I think he
forgot about it. We're sitting on the picnic table and we're talking. Acting like this is normal, even though it's obviously a step beyond bullshitting in my dad's Laundromat.

And she's doing most of the talking. I'm just kind of answering. Laughing. Handing her the wine bottle. Brandy Corvallis doesn't mind that I don't have a lot to say, though I can't tell if that's because we don't know each other or if she's a little buzzed. I'm not buzzed, but I still feel all nervous and excited and I'm trying to hide it. She's asked me about all the crap in the backyard and I've tried to explain what everything is, or at least what we're doing inside. But mostly I'm just sitting here, feeling good again. Shot of happy. She smells like orange Popsicles. I wonder if she ate one or if I'm nuts. I'm macking a mosquito on my arm when I get a text from my dad.

        
stopping by laundromat need anything

Brandy looks at my phone and I put it in my pocket.

I smack another mosquito. She shivers.

“Want more wine?”

“No,” she says. “Who was that?”

“My dad,” I say.

“Oh.”

Then I kiss her. I don't plan it, either. I just do it because I can't think of anything to say. Her mouth is so soft. And I'm lucky. So lucky.

Because it's perfect, perfect timing. We're shoulder to shoulder so it's not a big move. It's just our faces close to each other and she doesn't do anything at first. Well, she kisses back. She's not just a
mannequin or anything about it. Her mouth is nice, and it tastes like wine. And she isn't doing anything nuts, and so I feel normal. Good. Like it wasn't a bad idea.

I want to take my glasses off but her tongue is in my mouth. And I'm like, this is really the best thing. Her tongue in my mouth. My tongue in her mouth. Both of them together.

I put a hand on her shoulder and we get a little closer. I am still completely surging. Excited. My dick, hard. Instantly. I'm kind of impressed with myself, really. I pull back and smile. And she's looking down at her hands but she's smiling, too.

“Want to come inside?” I say. I'm prepared for her to say no and then I'll just say it's to see the remodel, not anything else, in case she's worried . . .

But she just gets up. And we go. I don't know if she likes me or there's just too many mosquitoes, but I kind of lead her through the yard and toward the side door.

I am glad the house is dark and none of the utility lights are on. And I'm glad that she doesn't stop or ask about anything. She just takes my hand and we go upstairs to my room. I'm breathing like a motherfucker and I'm trying not to, but that doesn't make it any better.

She sits down on the blue chair and sets down the little bag she's had across her body since I first saw her in the alley. I pull my keys and wallet out of my pocket and put them on my desk. I don't know what to do at all now. I feel like maybe I fucked things up.

“Will your dad get mad if I'm here?” she asks, very quiet.
This makes my dick even harder; I know she's not here just to talk or anything.

While I reach over her and flip on the fan—it's still
hot
up here—I tell her that he'll be gone for a while. I don't tell her that his code words—
need anything?—
is his way of asking me if I can be left alone so he can go get loaded. I'm guessing he's at his friend's. Or at the Laundromat. Stocking his office fridge with the beer. It doesn't matter. I've gotten that same text before, though it's been a while. Before this summer, he must have saved his benders for when I'm in Oak Prairie. But he can't avoid me now so I guess he's giving up hiding.