The Bad Decisions Playlist (8 page)

“Okay,” he says. He drops the shears.

“Actually,” I say, “can I borrow those?”

Brad sniggers again.

“I don't like you, Methune,” says Todd.

“Really? Things seem to be going so well between us.”

“Why are you here?”

“Why am I . . . ? I love the land. I love the smell of grass and gasoline. What do you mean, why am I here? I need a job, Todd. And you know what? It's actually your fault that I'm here, so, yeah, there's a little poetic justice for you.”

Confused rottweiler expression from him.

“I want you off this crew,” he says.

“Off the crew? Listen, Top Gun, it's a lawn-care service, not a team of fighter pilots. Other than our stupid team meeting, we don't even have to talk or deal with each other ever.”

The Kent meeting, which of course ends in one of those hands-in-the-middle pregame-style “GO TEAM!” things.

“You know what, Methune? Just seeing you makes me sick. So you're gonna quit.”

“No, I'm not. I'm not gonna quit. You can beat me up if you want to.”

“Okay.”

“No! I'm just saying that! You can't actually beat me up! You understand that, right? You hit me again and I'll tell Kent, and I'll go to the cops, and I'll frigging tell my mommy if I have to. And if you come another step closer to me, I swear I'll poop in my hand and start throwing it at you.”

He hesitates. More brow furrowing that suggests there's some basic cave-bear-level cognition going on.

“Oh, just beat his ass already,” says Brad.

“Right,” Todd says, and starts stalking toward me again.

“Hey!”

A new voice, commanding and authoritative, freezes Todd in his tracks. Cue dramatic trumpet sound. Cue my savior, Kent, his golden mane backlit by the sun as he crests the rise on his trusty steed, a Simplicity Cobalt 32 hp riding mower.

“What are you doing!” he shouts down to us. “Get back to work!”

Todd goes to retrieve the shears. Brad fires up his weed whip. I head back to my mower, which requires me to walk right past Todd.

“You're gonna quit,” he says.

I point to my headphones and Brad's weed whip.

“What?” I say. “Can't hear you.”

∗  ∗  ∗

“Can I help you?”

“Uh . . . I think I must have the wrong house.”

It's the next morning. I'm standing at the front entrance of a massive mansion in west Edina. I think​—​thought​—​it's Josephine's house, but the person who answered the door and is standing here judging me is an insanely beautiful girl. I recognize her now​—​she was a senior and on the cheerleading squad when I was a freshman, and we all harbored impure thoughts about her. What was her name . . . ? Jacqueline. Jacqueline . . . Lindahl. Holy smokes, goddess-level hot Jacqueline Lindahl might be Josephine Lindahl's older sister.

“Okay, well, bye,” she says, and starts to close the door.

“Wait,” I say. “Is this Josephine Lindahl's house?”

She pauses, then reappraises me with amused curiosity, a literal head-to-foot, foot-to-head sweep​—​with special attention given to what I'm holding in my hands​—​and in that moment I think I understand something about Josephine.

“Are you a
friend
of hers?” she says, and there it is again, that amused disdain.
A boy,
she's thinking. There's an actual
boy
here to see my uggo sister.

“Yes,” I say. And then add, “I'm her boyfriend.”

You know how girls make that little disgusted OMG sound, a short exhalation like a cough, packaged together with raised eyebrows and an open-mouthed sneer? I earn one of those, plus a repeat of the full-length sweep.

“Is she home?”

“Hold on.”

I fidget on their front porch, waiting. It's probably a waste of time coming here, but I figured it was worth one last-ditch in-person effort.

I should not have said the boyfriend thing. It was just going to piss Josephine off, torpedoing my efforts to convince her to tutor me. I don't know why I did it. No, not true. I did it because of the way Jacqueline was looking at me, because of what her expression revealed about her and her sister.

I look around. There's a shiny new Ford pickup truck parked in the driveway, I guess for all the hauling they have to do on the back forty. On the side of the truck is a vinyl campaign sign with a photo of a handsome, smiling, silver-haired gent, the sort who looks like an actor who would play a handsome, smiling, silver-haired politician in a TV series.
GERALD LINDAHL FOR STATE SENATE
says the sign. Aha. Mental note added.

It's taking too long for Josephine to appear. I've screwed myself with my unclever cleverness. Then, from somewhere inside the house: “He's
not
my boyfriend!”

So I
did
piss her off, but at least the sound of her voice is getting louder, meaning she's coming toward me. And then, yes, a few seconds later she jerks open the door.

“Why did you tell her that?” she demands.

“Tell her what?” Pure innocence. Am I lying here? No.

“That you're my b​—” She cuts herself off, unwilling to even repeat it. She looks back over her shoulder, annoyed. She must think her sister made it up to tease her.

She turns back to me. Then, not even in the ballpark of delight: “Oh, God. What is
that?
”

That
being the bouquet in my hands, a special assortment chosen with great care from one of the decorative planters at a retirement home.

“Um, I think these are irises, and these are snapdragons, and I'm not sure what​—”

“Austin​—”

“Josephine, I'm sorry. I'm
sorry.
I was late, and an asshole, and I'm sorry, and I'm here to say I'm sorry and ask you​—​
beg
you, be
seech
you​—​to please be my tutor again.”

“Austin, I don't think we're a good match,” says Josephine. “I think you should contact the school and get a different tutor.”

“There's no one available. And we're a
great
match! You're smart, I'm stupid​—​it's perfect!”

“You see? Everything is a joke to you.”

“I'll be serious! I'll be the best tutor subject, tutoree, whatever, in the world, ever. I swear. Here. Smell this.”

I pull my shirt collar toward her. She looks at me funny.

“I haven't had a single cigarette today, Josephine. It's killing me. I gave up nicotine
for several hours
just for you.”

“I appreciate it. I have to get ready for work.”

Starts to close the door.

“Hold on. Where
do
you work? You never told me.”

“Someplace mind-numbingly boring. Where I have to go. Now.”

Door starts to close again.

“Wait!”

She waits. I try to think of something. “Uh . . . that was your sister, huh?”

“Wow. You figured that right out.”

“All by myself. See? There's hope for me. I have to say, your sister, she's​—”

Josephine scowls.

“Hot,”
she says, exactly as I say,
“Awful.”

“I
get
it,” she rolls on. “I
know
she's hot, everyone
knows
—​What?”

“I said, she's
awful.
She's terrifying. I mean, yes, she's hot, but
yeeesh.
It must be like five nightmares at once to live with her.”

There's two seconds when she softens, like I might get a smile out of her.

“I don't know about five, but it's at least three,” she says.

“I bet. So . . .” I say, “wanna be my tutor again?”

This time she does smile, just a suggestion of one, shaking her head.

“Never mind,” I say. Then, before she can disconnect, I gesture at the truck with its garish sign. “Your dad's running for the state senate, huh?”

She glances at it, makes a face, does a bad job of hiding it. “You figured that one out too.”

“Amazing, right? My mom's psychic says I'm very intuitive.”

“Her psychic. Your mom has a psychic.”

“Well, strictly speaking she calls herself a shaman. Lots of herbs, turquoise, that sort of thing. You know.”

“Not so experienced with shamans, but I get the idea.”

“I could probably hook you up with a dream catcher, if you want.”

“I think I'm good.”

“Sure. How many can one person have, right?”

“Yeah, my room is pretty full.”

I indicate the truck again. “The pickup truck's a nice touch. Jes' folks. Man of the people. Proletariat.”

She looks mildly surprised.

“What? ‘Proletariat'? I'm not good at
math.
I like to read. I read Pynchon,” I say. “That's supposed to impress you.”

“I'm impressed. I didn't mean​—”

“It's fine. You're right to think I'm dumb. I told you so myself.”

I'm not sure why I'm working to keep her here, not giving up. Maybe just to overwrite our first two conversations, the real one in the classroom and the virtual one while I was mowing.

“I suppose the pickup's probably useful for all the hauling you have to do on this here farm, milk the chickens and whatnot.”

“I'm pretty certain you don't milk chickens.”

“Pigs?”

“That sounds closer. Look, you think it was
my
choice to get the truck? Or live in this house?”

“I didn't say it was. And let's be honest​—​this is really more of a mansion, right?”

“It's got six bathrooms, so yeah, I think that's fair.” Now she checks her watch again.

“What's it like?” I say quickly.

“Having six bathrooms? There's never a line.”

I laugh. I have a flash of her deadpanning jokes in that manner at the family dinner table, dry as dust, offhanding them for no one's entertainment but her own. “I mean,” I say, “your dad running for senate and all. Is it . . . fun?”

She regards me for a moment, then twists around, double-checking to make sure no one is listening. Then steps out onto the front porch and lets the door close behind her.

“Is it ‘fun'? You mean, being a prop in campaign appearances? That? Standing next to my parents and my sister and smiling and pretending that I'm happy to be there, when I'd rather someone just lit me on fire? Yeah, I adore it. That's what I am to them, a prop so that my dad can get his prize, because he got rich firing people and that means he deserves to be a senator.”

“So . . . pretty fun.”

“Yeah, it's great. And you wanted to know where I work? I'm going to campaign headquarters to spend all day calling really unpleasant people to ask them for money. For him.”

“I'm guessing candidate Lindahl shouldn't depend on your vote.”

“If I were old enough, I'd vote against him twice.” Then she says, “I don't know why I'm telling you this.”

“Do you love him?”

She looks at me oddly.

“What kind of question is that?”

“I don't know. A bad one. I forgot we're not really friends. You might have noticed that stuff just comes out of my mouth now and then.”

She leaves that one alone.

“So . . . do you?”

“Love him?” She shrugs. “He's my dad. Can it be the thing where I love him without liking him?”

“Yeah, sure. That counts.”

“Do you love
your
dad?”

“I don't know. I love my mom. I like her too, 'cept when she's moody. Which is usually my fault, so . . . But my dad, he was dead when I was born.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay​—​he got better,” I say, and start to laugh again.

She watches me. “You going to expand on that?”

“Ah, it's complicated.”

“Sounds like it.”

There's another space where neither of us says anything, and she doesn't seem to be trying to flee. Like we are, sort of, friends.

“I find it hard to believe this is your family,” I say.

“You and me both,” she breathes. “I'm sort of counting the days until I can go to college.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Columbia. That's my top choice.”

“That's New York, right? That's where I'll be. We should hang out. I mean,” I add, “if we were actually friends.”

“Right.”

One more glance at her watch.

“I really do have to go,” she says.

“Okay. You want the flowers at least?” I say.

“Um . . .”

“Don't tell me. You're allergic.”

“I forgot to mention that one.”

“Of course,” I say. “So, tobacco, gluten . . . and flowers.”

“Flowers. Yes.”

“And assholes.”

“That too.”

“Right. Never mind, then.”

I toss the flowers over my shoulder, hear the soft sound as they land scattered on the grass behind me. This earns a sort of weary sigh from her. But also another ghost of a smile.

“Don't worry. I'll clean them up. Lawn-care professional.”

“Great.”

“I guess I'll see you at school. Or New York.”

“Why are you going to New York?”

“You know.” I mime playing a guitar and singing.

“Oh. Right. Your big music career.”

Another pause, this one very different.

“What?” she says.

“You know, you were right the other day,” I say. “This would never work.”

I turn and take the three steps down to the pathway that leads from her door to the street where my motorcycle is parked, not bothering with the scattered flowers, not bothering to look and see if she's still watching me.