Date: Fri, 18 Nov 2005 22:56:05 -0800 (PST)
From: Robin Eagleson <robineagleson@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Luckiest Summer Part 5

The Luckiest Summer
Robin Eagleson
robineagleson@yahoo.com

Part Five

The fact that I waited until Thursday before I decided to go over to Brad's
and see if he was home so we could play tennis had nothing to do with my
unexpected jack-off episode that he snuck into.  It wasn't even because I
was trying to keep from bothering him too much.  Actually, it was because
of the weather.  It had cooled down considerably this week, and there had
been perpetual drizzling interspersed with all out downpour on Tuesday and
Wednesday, leaving me with nothing to do but sit on the couch and watch TV,
occasionally breaking to use my Xbox and PC.  It hadn't been two eventful
days, but either I was adapting to my misery or things were improving
slightly, because I didn't have any trouble getting through them.

On Thursday, though, the sun came back out and the temperature approached
triple digits again.  I climbed all the way in the hall closet and threw
everything out until I found Dad's old tennis racket.  It was around noon
when I skipped across the lawn and tapped on Brad's door, an extra bounce
to my step.  I had been looking forward to learning how to play tennis.  I
got no immediate answer, so I jabbed at the doorbell a few times and waited
longer.  Just as I was beginning to think he must be at work (or somewhere
else), the door opened and he appeared, shirtless and sleepy-eyed.

"What's up?" he asked, apparently too asleep to notice that I was wielding
a tennis racket.  I held it up in front of his face to answer his question,
grinning.  "That's a real piece of shit," he observed, taking it and
running his fingers through the strings.  "What is this, like vintage
1945?"

"It's my Dad's," I laughed.  "It's all I've got."

"It'll work for now, I guess," he said, handing it back to me and looking
quite glad to do so.  "But if you ever get serious, you're going to want a
real racket.  One that doesn't suck, I mean."  I didn't think I'd ever
decide to get serious about tennis; it just sounded like playing with Brad
would be fun.  "So you want to play now?  In this heat?" he asked, looking
as though he'd prefer to go back to sleep instead.

"It's not getting any colder," I chirped.

"Fine," he sighed, motioning for me to come in.  "Let me take a three
minute shower and we'll go.  Sit," he ordered, and I obeyed like a well
trained pet, making myself comfortable on the black leather couch where
only a few weeks ago I had sat and watched the end of the Astros game next
to Brad on the night I met him.  He disappeared back into the hallway, and
a moment later I heard a door shut and the shower start.  I looked around
for the TV remote, but couldn't find it anywhere that it would be
logically.  I sat back for a few minutes, occasionally glancing at the
small digital numbers on the VCR clock.  Three minutes came and went, and
it became clear Brad had vastly underestimated the amount of time he'd be
spending in the shower.

Restless, I stood up and approached their mantel.  There were school
pictures of Brad and Tyler, and of Brad's dad with different people I
didn't know; nothing interesting.  I found my feet moving me into the
hallway.  I glanced in Tyler's room, but only for a second.  I'd already
been in there once and didn't care to return.  His bed was made by someone
who'd bothered to do it properly, indicating it probably hadn't been him.
I remembered Brad telling me he was away at a summer camp or something.
Good.

I turned the other direction and looked at what I assumed was the guest
room, currently occupied by Brad.  The room at the end of the hall was
likely the master bedroom.  I crept into Brad's room, listening for the
sound of the shower being turned off.  It wasn't that I felt especially
guilty about my exploration, but I'd rather not have to explain why I was
wandering around.

The room was fairly empty, as I would expect.  The bed Brad was stuck with
was small; an old twin bed that didn't look particularly comfortable.  He
had a dresser stuck in the corner standing by itself, and a desk in the
other corner with a small TV on top.  A very sleek laptop sat innocently
beside it, and I was impressed; I always thought laptops were cool.  Beside
it his cell phone was charging, the electrical chord dangling off the side
of the desk.  There was a bookshelf against the other wall, but I assumed
this was probably for his Dad's use; Brad didn't strike me as the reading
type.

The feeling of guilt I didn't have before crept into me slightly as I
quietly slid open the top drawer of his dresser.  It was littered with
socks and boxers, folded haphazardly.  I worked my way down, quickly
glancing in every drawer, but soon lost interest; it was only more clothes.
I decided I wanted to get a better look at his laptop.  Just as I was
standing in front of it, debating over whether or not I should risk turning
it on, the shower stopped and I scampered out of the room and jumped back
on the couch, my heart beating mildly.  Seconds later the door opened and
he came out dressed in a white pair of athletic shorts, but still no shirt.

"If we're going to suffer through the heat I might as well try and do
something about my blindingly white chest," he shrugged.  "I'll meet you in
the garage; I just need to grab my keys and cell phone and I'll be ready.

"That wasn't three minutes," I said, trying to sound as though I had been
very bored sitting idly on the couch all this time.

"Sorry," he grinned.  "I had business to take care of."  He flashed me a
trademark smile and disappeared, leaving me to ponder over what he meant by
that.  I opened the garage door and waited by his car as he had instructed.
He joined me seconds later, keys jingling in hand.

"You were right about my dad," I said as he started up the car and rocketed
backwards out into the street.  I was starting to get used to it; I didn't
even blink.

"He bought you something?"

"An Xbox game," I confirmed.  "I thought I'd be happy to finally see him,
but it was just weird," I sighed.  "It didn't seem like the same person."

"Yeah," Brad said, appearing momentarily thoughtful as he flew over into
the left lane to pass a car going merely ten over the speed limit.  "The
scary thing is he might not ever be the way he was.  Sometimes divorce can
change the way the parent interacts with their children permanently.  He'll
see you less, so he'll always think he has something to make up for."  I
didn't want that to happen.  It definitely didn't sound like there was much
hope for Mom and Dad getting back together, though, so if Brad was right,
maybe Dad really had changed forever.  "When do you see him again?" he
asked.

"I'm not sure; maybe Saturday.  He's taking Jesse out on Tuesdays and
Sundays, I think."  I didn't want him to get me on Friday.  I was planning
meeting Nadia at the bowling alley on Friday night.  From the sound of it,
I might be busy with her on Friday nights from now on.  Maybe in a few more
weeks she would even be my girlfriend.  I wasn't sure when that became
official.

"What about your girlfriend?" Brad asked suddenly, as if reading my mind.
He turned towards me with a patronizing smile.  "Are you going to be seeing
her again soon?"

"She's not my girlfriend," I mumbled.  "We're supposed to go bowling on
Friday, though.  When do you know when a girl becomes your girlfriend,
instead of just a friend?"

"Probably when you start having sex on a regular basis," he said, his voice
coming out softly, his eyes looking off in the distance.  He laughed.
"Sorry, bad answer.  If you're thirteen, I guess it's when you start
holding hands.  Shit, I don't know."

"We already held hands, though," I frowned.  "I told you that.  But we've
only seen each other twice.  I don't think we're boyfriend and girlfriend
yet."

"Okay," he answered.  "Then maybe the first kiss.  I would think that
should seal it."

"Oh," I said, blushing.  It would take me forever to work up the courage to
kiss her.  If I had to kiss her to be her boyfriend, it might never happen.

"What?" he asked, noting my embarrassment.  "You've never kissed a girl
before?"  He was teasing me.  I turned a darker shade of red.

"No," I admitted, starting to squirm uncomfortably in my seat.

"I'm just messing with you," he grinned, giving my ribs a nudge.  "You
don't have to be ashamed or anything.  It's a lot of fun, though, so if you
do get a chance, don't blow it."

"How am I supposed to know if I have a chance?"

"You've got to feel it," he said, extending his fist outwards and squeezing
it to demonstrate.  "You're the guy; it's up to you to make the move.  Most
girls give it away really badly with their body language.  Or sometimes
they just grab your dick."  I giggled and looked away, blushing again.
"I'm sorry," he said again.  "I know I'm a bad influence."

I turned then and looked at him as he drove.  I didn't think he was a bad
influence.  He was just honest, and I liked asking him things and getting
what I knew would be honest answers.  I wanted to tell him I appreciated
that he didn't treat me like a little kid, but my shyness won out again.
Besides, I didn't know how to word it anyway.

"Here we are," he said, pulling up to a vacated set of tennis courts in the
park.  "I think we're the only people in the world crazy enough to come out
and play tennis at noon when it's a zillion degrees.  Good call, Zach."  I
couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic, but I figured it was a safe bet he
was.  I didn't say anything.  "Grab your racket," he said, popping the
trunk and jumping out of the car.  "If that's what it is," he grinned,
taking another shot at Dad's ancient tennis equipment.

I got out and walked to the back of the car with him.  He had a trunk full
of tennis balls.  They were all in cans, so they weren't rolling around
with reckless abandon, but I seriously had never seen so many tennis balls
in any one place, except maybe in a store.  He grabbed a can, tossed it to
me, grabbed another one for himself, and then led the way to the closest
court, slipping on his sunglasses while we walked.

"Okay," he called out as we took opposite sides.  "I'll assume you don't
know the first thing about tennis.  Basically, the scoring system is really
strange, so you'll have to pay close attention."  He rattled off some of
the rules, including the faulting and double faulting on serves (you were
allowed one fault without penalty, but if you messed up a second time you
lost the point), what was considered "in" when you were playing singles
compared to doubles, and how the game was scored.  I waited patiently,
baking under the sun as he went on and on without even so much as opening
one can of the tennis balls.  "Any questions?" he finally asked.

"Yes.  Can we play?" I asked meekly.

"Don't be a smart ass," he grinned at me.  I hadn't meant to be.  "Okay,
fine, since you apparently understand everything, we can start.  I'll serve
first.  Which side should I serve from?"

"The right," I answered dutifully, recalling what he'd told me correctly.

"And do you want to stand directly across from me or diagonally to return
it?"

"Diagonal," I said in a dull tone.  I felt like this was a practical exam
in a PE class.  I thought he would be able to tell I knew the answer to
that question based on the fact that I was, in fact, already standing on
the right side of the court.

"Okay, I won't hit it very hard yet.  See if you can get it back to me
inside the lines."  Finally, he pulled out a ball.  He bounced it, set
himself into position, and tossed in the air, lobbing it in a high arch
over the net.  It landed right in the center of the serving square, and I
ran up to it and smacked it, hoping I wouldn't make a fool of myself.  The
ball moved faster than I thought it would off my racket on a quick line,
just over the net and in the corner away from Brad.  The shot seemed to
have been in from my vantage point, so I looked at Brad to gauge his
reaction.  His mouth was hanging open.

"Did you mean to hit it there?" he asked, almost demanding.  I shrugged.
"You were aiming for that side?"  I shrugged again, nodding slightly this
time.  "Holy shit," he said under his breath.  He grabbed another ball and
we reversed directions; this serve came from the left side.  "Love serving
fifteen," he said, still sounding shocked.

This second serve was much faster than the first.  It came whistling off
his racket, barely clearing the net, where it landed right on the line of
the serving square.  I closed my eyes and swung at it, but this time came
up with nothing.  He had hit this one to my backhand side, which made it
seem impossibly more difficult to manage a fluid swing.  I heard the ball
clink up against the fence behind us that separated the court from the
street.  I had definitely missed the ball altogether.

"Okay," I heard his voice call out.  "Sorry about that.  I was just seeing
if you were the chosen one or something freaky like that.  I'll go easier
from now on.  Fifteen serving fifteen," he said with a smile he was trying
to hide.  I scampered back over to the right side to return his next serve,
which was much easier to return, just as he promised.  My shot was another
solid one, although nowhere near as hard as the last, and he returned it
back over the net to me easily.  We went back and forth a few more times
before I messed up and hit the ball straight into the net.  "Nice rally,"
he said, a lot more encouraging now that it wasn't me that was getting the
points.

It was a while before I scored again, but it didn't take me long to realize
I was having a lot of fun.  I was terrible at serving when my turn came,
but after a few double faults I began to get it over on a more consistent
basis.  Occasionally he would quiz me about things I was supposed to
remember, like how many games one had to win to take the set (six), and
what the 40-40 tie was called (deuce).

Our sets didn't last long because I didn't ever win a single game.
Typically sets took a little longer and the winner alternated a little more
often, so full matches tended to last a few hours if the opponents were
equal.  In this case, the opponents were far from equal, even though he was
playing at half speed most of the time.  The best I ever did was force a
deuce; I could never even get an ad-in, which would have meant I was one
point away from taking the game.  After what added up to two matches (we
played the bare minimum of six sets combined in those two matches because I
didn't win any), Brad wanted to take a break.  I was pretty tired, too.

He set down his racket and leaned against the fence, wiping sweat from his
forehead.  I was tired of dripping through my shirt, so I took it off and
hurled it in the corner after using it to mop my face and hair.  I walked
over to him against the fence and sat down next to him, looking over at him
as he cooled off.

"I should have brought a cooler with some water bottles in it," he groaned,
looking miserable.  "We'll be lucky not to die of dehydration."

"There's probably a water fountain around somewhere," I suggested, looking
around but finding nothing.

"I would kill someone for an ice cold glass of water right now," he panted,
looking at me as if I might be the person he'd kill.  "I hope you've
enjoyed playing, at least, because we won't be able to play again after the
heat stroke I'm about to suffer."

"It's really fun," I said honestly, bending forward to scratch my leg and
ignoring the sarcasm.  I drew my knees together and stretched out so our
legs would be in the same position.  I compared them.  His were muscular
with a faint coating of blond hair on them, while mine were comically thin
and pretty much devoid of any signs of hair, except for the occasional
glimpse of sparse, white downy fuzz.  I was wearing low cut ankle socks; he
was wearing no socks at all.

"I'm glad you like it," he responded.  "We'll have to play more often."

"Are we done today, then?" I asked, slightly disappointed despite the heat.

"I don't think I can play anymore," he answered after mulling my question
over.  "I feel like I'm going to overheat or something.  It's really
dangerous to work this hard in this kind of heat without fluids.  For both
of us," he added, "but especially me.  I'm two-hundred pounds, so if my
body starts to get too hot it's not as easy to get my core temperature back
down as it is for you."

"I feel fine," I shrugged.  Aside from my profuse sweating and general
discomfort, I really was.

"You just think you're fine," he retorted.  "You can't tell me you wouldn't
rather be sitting inside my air conditioned car, the vents blowing straight
in your face, rustling your hair," he elaborated, playfully blowing on my
hair to demonstrate.  "Look, there's a Sonic right there," he said leaning
over me to point ahead.  "Let's walk over there, get drinks, and find some
shade.  If you still want to play after that, we can.  Fair?"

"Fair," I agreed with a smile.  He stood up, yanked me off my feet, and we
were off.  It didn't occur to me until we seated ourselves at a table right
outside the entrance that I hadn't brought any money with me, which meant
he would once again have to take care of the finances.  I felt so horrible
about it I didn't even say anything when we ordered.  Mom gave me a weekly
allowance for mowing the lawn; I had plenty of money for things like this.
I made a mental note to get him some money very soon.

We each got Route 44 drinks.  He had decided instantly on a vanilla
Dr. Pepper, whereas I had taken quite a bit of time scanning through every
drink on the menu before selecting a Root Beer float.  I spooned a scoop of
ice cream out and savored the taste as we walked back to the courts.  I was
already sweating again after briefly cooling down when we had rested in the
shade.

I followed Brad just past the court we had been playing at to a small
enclosing of trees.  He walked into the middle of the shade and flopped
down on the ground, momentarily lying completely on his back as he took in
the blessed cool air.  I ate another spoonful of my Root Beer flavored ice
cream and then sat down beside him, looking out into the street, which we
were nearly hidden from.

"How is it?" Brad's tired voice floated up to me.  He was still on his
back, his right arm draped across his forehead.  I looked down at him, took
a glance at his naked torso and felt my stomach tingle again, just like it
had a few days ago after we swam together.  Actually, it wasn't really so
much in my tummy as it was somewhere a little lower than that.  Somewhere
just below the belly button.  In my confusion I took longer to answer than
I should have, and I must have been frowning a bit.  "What?" he laughed.
"Surely they couldn't mess up a Root Beer float?"

"Oh," I answered quickly when I remembered his question.  "No, it's really
good," I said, brushing a tangled bit of damp hair out of my eyes.  I
spooned another bite of ice cream in my mouth, and then followed that up
with a long sip through the straw.  "Really good," I added, trying to make
an effort not to look back down at him in case it happened again.

"Give me some," he said.  "I haven't had a Root Beer float in forever."  I
hesitated.  Did he want me to just hand it to him with my straw in it?  Or
was I supposed to spoon feed him while he laid there on his back?  He
mistook my hesitation for reluctance and laughed.  "I bought the damn
thing," he reminded me playfully.  "I'll let you have some of my
Dr. Pepper."

"No!  It's not that.  It's just, here," I said lamely, my voice trailing
off as I hastily shoved my cup into his hand.  In my rush to give it to him
the cup slid at a slight angle and some of the ice cream dripped out onto
his chest.  He drew in a sharp breath over the shock of the cold.

"Thanks," he said, accepting the drink and choosing to say nothing about
the spill.  I glanced down at the spot on his chest, and felt another pull
right below my belly button.  I looked away quickly, but the thought had
already entered my mind.  I had wondered, however fleetingly, what it would
be like to lick the ice cream directly off his chest.  It was an
outrageously forbidden thought, and even thinking of it repulsed me now.  I
felt a slight stir in my shorts, however, and I wondered if my brief desire
was a legitimate one or just a stray, meaningless thought that I hadn't
been able to filter out of my mind.

I watched him closely to see what he would do about the straw situation.
But he didn't even seem to give it a thought.  He just put his lips right
around the tip of the straw and drank.  It was a quick drink, but the fact
remained that his mouth had been right where my mouth had been.  Didn't
that bother him?  I couldn't decide if it bothered me.  Just as I was
deciding, he had handed me his drink, and now I was faced with the same
dilemma.  After considering it for as long as I could without seeming
suspicious, I decided to follow his lead.  I reluctantly wrapped my lips
around the straw and sucked on it briefly.  The Dr. Pepper burned my
throat, but tasted great.  I got a slight tinge of vanilla at the end, and
I could see why he had ordered this without even having to think about it.
I resisted drinking more and handed it back to him, trading drinks so we
each had our original one again.

Feeling a little strange, I used my spoon for the next several bites of ice
cream.  He had set his drink down beside him, and I wanted to wait until he
drank more of his before I put my mouth back on the straw that we had now
shared.

"What do you keep looking at me for?" he asked suddenly, sounding amused.
I tried to act innocent.

"I'm not," I said.  In my need to keep myself busy, I took a sip through
the straw, foiling my plan to make him do it first.  Maybe it really wasn't
that big a deal to share a straw.  I started to feel silly.  "Aren't you
going to drink that?" I asked him after he was silent for a few more
minutes.

"Yeah, I'm just a little dizzy," he answered quietly.  "I'm glad we quit
when we did or I'd probably be passed out now."  I didn't know what I'd do
if he passed out; probably panic and run all the way home.  I noticed that
he still hadn't wiped the spot of ice cream off his chest.  It was starting
to melt off him.  The wind picked up a bit and my mind wandered off as I
enjoyed the breeze gently caressing my cheek.

"Better?" I asked him when I saw him sit up and take a long drink.

"Much," he replied.  "I can't believe I let you talk me into this.  From
now on we're playing after the sun goes down."  I started to tell him we
couldn't play at night because I wasn't supposed to be out with him at all,
and if we left at night Mom would know about it, but I didn't want to hurt
his feelings, so I didn't say anything.  "You ready to go?" he asked,
sipping from his straw until it was making rude suction noises.  I had been
drinking my float at a leisurely pace, and it was still half full.

"I guess," I said, not wanting to leave; I liked sitting here in the shade
with Brad.

"We'll play again soon," he assured me, mistaking the reluctance on my face
for merely wanting to play more tennis.  "You can practice in the meantime.
I think you're pretty good for a first timer.  A natural, even," he smiled,
and it was hard for me not to beam.

"How am I supposed to practice?" I asked him.  "It's a bit hard for me to
hit shots to myself."

"Take a can of balls out of my trunk and hit them off your garage or
something," he suggested.  "Work on your backhand especially.  That's where
you need the most improvement."  He was slow to his feet, perhaps still
feeling slightly dizzy.  I pushed my weary legs off the ground to follow
him; it seemed like I had to take three steps to match one of his.

He was right.  The air conditioning did really good.  I hunched over in my
seat and positioned my face right in front of the vent closest to me,
welcoming the full force of it.  Brad had it cranked to the maximum power,
and yet another band playing on his CD player.  This time it was back to a
softer genre; this particular song was especially full of piano and
sprawling, pretty melodies.  I listened to it in silence as I continued to
thoughtfully spoon ice cream into my mouth.

"Who is this?" I asked curiously.

"Ben Folds," he said.  "I can put in something else if you want."

"No, it's good," I responded quickly.  "Kind of sad."

"It's not sad," Brad replied.  "Well, the piano notes are sad, but you're
not listening to the lyrics.  `Where was I before the day that I first saw
your lovely face?  Now I see it every day, and I know that I am the
luckiest.'  It's a love song."

"Oh," I said.  I didn't usually listen to lyrics.  "It's really pretty," I
commented.  I didn't have much a career ahead of me in reviewing music with
insightful remarks such as those.

"It's fucking beautiful," Brad agreed.  "I've got other stuff by him, but
this album is particularly good.  It's my favorite; not a bad track on the
whole thing."  We listened to the song's conclusion, and then the CD
started over; it was the last track.  I reached over and hit the back
button so the song would play again.

"I like it," I said again, softly.  He didn't object to hearing it again.
When it ended and I played it for the third time, he gave me a look,
though.

"I like this song, too," he said, "and I'd like to continue to liking it.
If you keep repeating it you're going to ruin it for me and I'll have to
revoke your music choosing privileges."  He let it play a third time
without interrupting it, though, even though he kept looking over at me and
shaking his head as if I thoroughly disgusted him.  I grinned widely every
time I saw him looking.  When it was over this time he quickly ejected the
CD and put it away, inserting a new one.

"What's this?" I asked, crinkling up my nose.  He had alternated back to
something loud and fast-paced.

"A Perfect Circle.  Do you ever listen to music?  You don't know anything."

"Not really.  Mom doesn't approve of MTV, so I usually can't watch it.
Whoever this is, I don't like them," I said, wanting to hear "The Luckiest"
again.

"I told you who they were already.  They're only one of the best technical
bands ever."  I wasn't impressed, but I didn't say anything.  It was his
car, after all.  We turned onto my street and he came to a stop at the
beginning of it.  "Here's your stop," he grinned at me.

"I live eight houses down," I said, frowning.  He knew where I lived.  I
wondered if the excessive sun had somehow ruined his memory.  Maybe he
really did suffer a heat stroke.

"Last time I dropped you off in your driveway.  This time you get to walk,"
he explained, still grinning.  I looked at him carefully, completely unsure
of whether or not he was serious.  Finally, when he continued to look at me
expectantly, I shrugged and started to take off my seat belt.  He laughed
and slammed on the accelerator then, jerking me backwards hard into my
seat.  "Just kidding," he said, reaching over to give me his typical nudge
in the ribs.

"You're an asshole," I giggled, cocking my fist and hitting him in the arm.
He snatched my fist immediately and squeezed it tightly.  I tried to pull
it back but couldn't.  Bringing my left arm into the foray, I started
clawing at him.  He retaliated by slamming hard on his brakes, sending me
back into the dashboard.  I gave him a pretend glare, but couldn't help but
smile when he put his arm around me.

"Ah, Zach, I love messing with you," he said, giving me a light squeeze.  I
rested my head on his shoulder instinctively, and then pulled it off
hastily when I realized what I was doing.  "Practice tennis," he reminded
me as he pushed me back to the passenger side.  "Take these," he said,
handing me an unopened can of tennis balls.  "The next time we play I
expect your backhand to be a lot better."  I promised him it would be and
left, scurrying up the driveway so I could watch him pull his car into his
garage through the bay windows inside.  Then I took a cool shower and
jacked off again, still unsure why Brad was flickering in and out of my
thoughts but starting to formulate a few very sound theories.


As much as I wanted to be practicing tennis over the next few days, I had a
busy weekend that kept me from doing it.  First there was Friday night with
Nadia.  In a coincidental twist, we ended up sharing a drink from the snack
bar (still no kiss, though).  I told her about Dad calling and the awkward
time we'd had together.  It was nice to have someone besides Brad I could
talk to about that.  I was a horrible bowler, and so was she, so we'd only
bowled one game and then spent the rest of the time hanging around in the
arcade playing pool and air hockey.  I never realized hanging out with a
girl could be so easy.  She'd wanted to walk to the Chinese restaurant just
down the street, and I felt her hand feeling for mine once we were outside.
Was this what it meant to have a girlfriend?  Was it just a friend you
could hold hands with?  I decided that holding hands was a nice enough
bonus in itself, and even if I never did kiss her, it would be fine.
Inside, she'd touched my hair and asked me why I'd stopped gelling it.

"It wasn't mine," I admitted.  "I just borrowed some from my friend."

"Too bad," she said, taking me in with quick up and down glances.  "I
thought you were really cute with it gelled like that.  It's nice like
this, though," she added, pulling gently on a wavy tuft that was partially
concealing my left ear.  "Soft," she observed.

"I like your hair, too," I said shyly, not sure of what else there was to
say in response to her comments.

"I think I'm going to dye it red," she said airily.  "What do you think?"
I hated red, that's what I thought.

"That'd be cool," I said.

"You're so dark," she observed, placing her arm next to mine.  "I've been
going to a tanning salon all summer and I'm not as dark as you.  You're so
lucky.  What do you do to get that tan?"

"Swim, mostly," I shrugged.  "We have a pool in our backyard."

"I'm coming over," she said with a cryptic grin.  "All my friends will be
so jealous when I tell them I made out with a hot guy in his pool."  I
choked on my water.  She looked at me smugly, as if that was exactly the
kind of reaction she wanted.  "I'm only kidding, Zach," she laughed softly.

"Oh, right," I said, still bright red anyway.

"Or maybe I'm not," she replied softly, giving me yet another cryptic
smile.  Girls were weird.

And then there was Dad.  He came and picked me up on Saturday afternoon.
We saw a movie, ate dinner, and then drove around afterwards while he tried
to have another serious talk with me.  Dad was smoking now, too.  He asked
me if I minded him lighting a cigarette, and I shook my head, even though I
did mind.  I wanted to know why being separated gave Mom and Dad the right
to pick up old habits they'd supposedly kicked a long time ago, but of
course I didn't ask that.

"Your mom says you've been very quiet this summer," he said to me, as if
this was something that needed to be addressed and fixed.  I shrugged.

"I guess," I mumbled.  "It's kind of hard to talk a lot, though.  Jesse's
never home, and Mom is usually busy."

"She says you've got a girlfriend, too," he added, giving me a meaningful
look.  "Is that true?"

"No," I answered, feeling embarrassed.  Why were they talking about me?
They couldn't live in the same house together, but that wasn't stopping
them from gossiping about be behind my back.  "We're just friends."

"Ah," he said, pausing to inhale a puff of his Marlboro lights.  "I think
I've heard that one before.  About a million times."

"Dad," I protested.  "We really are just friends."

"Okay, I believe you," he said, squeezing my shoulder with a laugh.  "And
you've apparently befriended some older kid your mom doesn't want you to
hang around."  Too bad it hadn't stopped me, I wanted to say.

"Yeah," I said instead.

"I'm glad you're being social, anyway," Dad said.  "You shouldn't be
sitting around the house moping all day, if you ask me.  None of this is
your problem, anyway."  How did he work that out?  It was absolutely my
problem.  When my family was being broken apart, it was my problem.  "I'm
really glad we're getting to spend time together, Zach," he said, and it
was all I could not to roll my eyes.  At least he hadn't tried to buy me
another Xbox game this time, or a car or something.

And then Mom had an expedition planned for us on Sunday.  Jesse had failed
to come home the previous night, so by the time I woke up around ten she
was pacing around and filling the house with smoke.  She gave me a tired
smile.

"Good morning, honey," she said.  "Did you have a nice restful sleep?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to squeeze past her into the kitchen without getting
hugged, but failing.  Lately every time I came anywhere near her she had to
reach out and squeeze me.  This morning she even kissed my head and looked
me over at arm's length.  She smelled like smoke, but her cigarettes were
cheaper than Dad's, and smelled even worse.  Thankfully her perfume sort of
offset it.

"I'm making you a hair appointment," she announced, reaching out and
methodically brushing every stray hair that was hanging in my eyes out of
the way.  I knew better than to argue, even though I was kind of irritated.
I had really started to get used to having longer hair.  Going to the
hairdresser was better than having Mom buzz it all off, though, so I didn't
protest.  I finally brushed past her and rifled through the cabinet.  There
was no food.  I took a granola bar and chewed it on grumpily.

"We're getting groceries today," she said glancing over at me, although
most of her attention was directed out to the front yard.  "As soon as your
sister comes home, we can go.  Whenever that time comes," she sighed.  A
full cup of coffee was sitting idly at the spot on the table where she
usually sat.  It wasn't steaming anymore, indicating it had been sitting
there a while.  It looked like she had only been going through the motions
when she poured the cup.  I sat down in her spot and took a reluctant sip
of it out of curiosity.  "Quit drinking my coffee, you little sneak," she
said, grabbing it away from me with a smile.  "You don't drink coffee.
Surely you haven't grown that much without me noticing."  Even if I had,
she wouldn't have noticed.

"Why didn't she come home?" I asked, looking out the window with her.

"I don't know, Zach," she answered shortly, and her tone gave a warning
sign that she didn't want to hear my thoughts on the subject.  "I can't
help it if she bends her curfew, can I?"

"Bends it?" I asked.  "How is it `bending' it if she didn't come at all?
I'd say she broke it into thousands of pieces."

"Thank you for clearing that up," she snapped, walking quickly to the sink
and dumping her coffee down the drain.  "Listen, just go take a shower and
we'll go the store ourselves.  If she's home by the time we get back we can
all go out to lunch together like we planned."

But she still wasn't home when we returned.  I could tell Mom was really
upset now, but she tried to hide it from me.  So we went to lunch.  It was
horrible.  She seemed nervous and distracted the whole time.  I felt so
uncomfortable by the silence it was actually me that tried to make the
small talk for once, but my attempts were in vain.  I couldn't cheer her
up, and I couldn't get her mind off Jesse, so eventually I stopped trying.
We took the long way home, I think to give Jesse more time to be there when
we got back, but she still wasn't.  I disappeared into my room to get away
from Mom, who was now pacing around the house with more intensity than
ever.  I didn't want to be conscious when Jesse finally did return; there
would be a screaming match unrivaled in the history of mankind.  I thought
about playing tennis outside, but decided now wouldn't be the best time to
be out in the driveway, since Mom was staring out into it.  I turned on
Halo instead and pretended to be paying attention to it.  Before long I
felt sleepy and took a nap, relieved that at least that would be something
that filled up time without me having to think.

The sun was just starting to set when I woke up, my hair mussed and my eyes
bleary.  I made the mistake of venturing out into the living room, where
naturally Mom was still pacing and smoking.

"She still isn't back?" I couldn't help but ask.  She gave me a small frown
and shook her head quickly.

"She's in a lot of trouble," she muttered darkly.  "I just talked to her
yesterday afternoon.  I told her we were all going out to lunch this
afternoon.  Not only does she miss her one o'clock curfew, she doesn't even
come home at all.  And then she just doesn't return all day."

"Maybe you should call Dad?" I asked, trying to be helpful.

"What would your dad be able to do about it?  He's been letting her smoke
when they go out together.  It's probably his fault she's been acting worse
lately.  If she was with him, he would have let me know," she said, more to
herself than to me.

"You could try," I said, irritated that she didn't want to do anything
about it.

"I'm not wasting my time, Zachary," she said, a note of harshness in her
tone.  "I know she isn't with him because I know who she is with.  She's
with that boy who's so much older than her he might as well be her father."

"He's only twenty," I said, deciding it wasn't very likely for a father to
be three years older than his child.  "I don't think he's old enough to be
her dad."

"It's an exaggeration," she said, looking pained.  "I'm trying to think,
Zach.  You're making my headache worse.  Go back to your room for a little
while."

"Why am I being punished?" I demanded, taking a step backward in my
surprise.  "I didn't do anything!"

"I'm not punishing you," she said in a forced tone of calmness.  "I'm
simply asking that you don't disturb me just now."

"Why?" I asked.  "You're not doing anything.  You won't even call Dad and
see if she's with him."

"We've already been over this a thousand times!" she turned, almost
shouting.  I took another step back, but wouldn't budge any more than that.
"If I really believed there was even the slightest chance the reason Jesse
wasn't coming home had to do with a desperate need to spend more time with
her father, I would call and check.  But I know who she's with, and I have
no way of getting hold of him.  So will you please quit bothering me?" she
asked again, only this time with considerably less patience in her voice.

"You don't have to be so mean to me!" I shouted back, determined to have it
out now.  "It isn't my fault Jesse hates being here.  I can't blame her for
wanting to be with her boyfriend all the time the way you act sometimes."

"Oh, here we go," Mom sighed, giving me her full attention now.  "Is this
where you tell me it's my fault?"

"Yours and Dad's!" I answered, my face flushing with heat.  "I doubt she
would have been avoiding the house this much if you guys hadn't separated,
would she?  I wouldn't be here if I had a choice, either."

"Then go," she said, turning away from me and looking back to the window,
sounding almost bored with our argument.  "I can't stop Jesse from running
off, and I guess I can't stop you either.  So go if you're so unhappy."  I
knew she didn't mean that; it was just a ploy.  She was just trying to make
me feel bad, but all it did was make me madder.

"I wish I could," I spat.  "I'd rather be anywhere than here with you.  I
hate it here."  I knew I shouldn't have gone that far, but when the words
had left my mouth I was still too mad to take them back.  Instead I stood
defiantly, fists clenched at my sides, my teeth gritted together so hard it
felt like my jaw was going to break in half.

"Go to your room, now," she said in a soft voice.  I knew I had hurt her
feelings, but didn't care right now.  When I didn't move, she gave me her
full attention again.  "Didn't you hear me?" she asked.  I said nothing,
and she started to walk over to me.  "I told you to go to your room.  Do
you want to be grounded, too?"

"I'm not going," I said.  I hadn't done anything.  Why should I have to go
to my room?  Well, I had said something mean, but so had she.  I was tired
of her having the final say just because she was the adult.  Being an adult
didn't mean you were always right, which was an indisputable fact I had
suspected for a while but had seen first hand this summer.

When I held my ground and returned her stare without blinking, she slapped
me, hard, on my right cheek.  I was stunned, my previous plan of not
budging altered without me even thinking about it.  I backed up awkwardly
and bumped into the hall closet.  Without looking at her I ducked into my
open doorway and slowly pushed the door shut behind me, leaning against it
because if she followed me I didn't want to talk to her.  I put my hand up
to my burning cheek and held it there, staring blankly at the wall.  Until
my vision became cloudy I didn't realize I had started to cry.  Without
even bothering to wipe my eyes, the first thing I did was cross my room,
open my window and climb out into the backyard.

Gunther ran at me happily, thinking I had come out to play with him.  I
ignored him and jogged quickly to the gate, where I quietly unlatched it
and then kept running.  My feet took me right to Brad's porch, where I
knocked softly a few times.  I could hear the TV on inside.  It was a
baseball game.  I knew, then, that it would be Brad, and I would be safe.
I knocked harder, and this time a voice informed me that I could come in.
I pushed open the door and stood in the entryway.  Brad's back was to me,
the standard bag of sunflowers seeds in his lap.  He was leaning against
the back of the couch with his arms spread out on the top of the frame
behind him.  I stood there and watched him until he finally turned and
acknowledged me.

"I thought it might be you," he said, unable to see my face clearly in the
dark foyer.  "Are you just gonna stand there or come sit down?"  I stepped
into the light and silently took a seat beside him on the couch.  "You're
just in time for the third inning," he said, as if the baseball game was
the reason I had come over.  He handed me the sunflower seeds, which I
accepted.  I even put one in my mouth and worked the seed out of the shell.
That was when he turned to look at me for the first time.  "What the hell
happened?" he asked, startled at my face.  By the time I had gotten to his
door I could barely see.  The tears had kept coming, even though I wasn't
making any sound.  My entire face was streaked.

"My mom," I said weakly, shaking my head to indicate I didn't want to
discuss it right now, and maybe not ever.  I knew I wouldn't be able to
tell the story without doing more sniffling than talking right now, anyway.
He understood my gesture, and didn't say anything else.  He only got up,
disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with a box of tissues.

"Blow your nose," he instructed me softly.  I took it from him numbly and
did as he asked.  "Now wipe your face," he said, handing me a paper towel.
He took the box back from me, set it back down in the kitchen, and returned
to the couch.  When he sat beside me he looked at me for a few seconds, and
then decided he'd have to put his arm around me.  Maybe it was because I
was still crying.  Instead of feeling comforted by his arm as I know he
thought I would be, I just cried harder because I felt pathetic for bawling
in front of him a second time.  I tried to push his hand away and scoot
apart from him, but he wouldn't let me go.  It wasn't that I didn't like
him touching me.  I just felt stupid crying on him.  All the same, since he
wouldn't let me go and he was a lot stronger than me, I had no choice.

"I don't want to go back," I hiccupped.  "Ever," I added, turning to look
directly in his eyes so he would know I meant it.  I wanted him to see how
serious I was so he would let me live with him the rest of the summer.  I
could stay in Tyler's room until the bastard got back from summer camp.  He
could even take me back with him when he left for his Mom's at the end of
the summer.  I didn't care.

"That might be difficult," he said soothingly, rubbing my back now.  I felt
like I was four, but it was helping.  "I don't think my dad or mom is
interested in adopting another son."

"You can do it, then," I said, noticing my tears had finally subsided a
little.  I was still snuffling, though.  He laughed.

"Yes, I'm sure eighteen-year-olds still in high school adopt kids all the
time, especially ones that are five years younger than them.  That wouldn't
be a problem at all."  I didn't laugh.  I really wanted to live with him.
"You can stay for the night, though," he consented.  "If your mom isn't
going to stop you, that is.  If she comes over here for you I can't do
much."

"Yes you can!" I said, reaching up to my right shoulder where his arm was
draped around me and squeezing his hand.  "Just tell her I'm not coming
home tonight no matter what and there's nothing she can do.  You're a lot
bigger than her.  She can't slap you."  I almost clamped a hand over my
mouth.  I hadn't meant to give away what had happened, not even to Brad.
Frowning, he leaned over me and turned on the lamp beside the couch.  Then
he studied my right cheek closely in the light, cupping my chin and turning
it so he could see the other one.  He must have found the mark.  I hadn't
seen it yet, so I didn't know how bad it was.

"She hit you pretty hard," he said, his face taking on a considerably
darker tone now.  He turned off the lamp.  "Has she done it before?"

"No!" I answered quickly.  "It's not even her fault, really.  I wouldn't
leave her alone.  I told her I hated living with her, and then I wouldn't
go to my room even though she asked me a hundred times," I stammered.

"I'm sure she didn't just hit you for fun," he acknowledged.  "Still," he
said, letting his thought trail off unfinished.  "Maybe you shouldn't go
back tonight."

"I'm not going to," I agreed firmly, pressing myself harder into him.

"She needs to know you're here, though," he mused softly, and I knew
exactly where his thought process was headed.

"Don't!" I pleaded.  "She won't like it if you talk to her tonight.  She'll
make me come home.  She doesn't trust you," I finished, ashamed to have to
tell him finally.

"Why should she?" he asked, shrugging.  I thought he would be offended.
"She doesn't know me.  For all she knows I'm some kind of crazed criminal
who rapes little kids."  My eyes widened at how directly he'd worded it.
He never danced around any topic, no matter how awkward it seemed to be.  I
had never even really giving a thought to him being a child molester.  I
knew my mom was paranoid of me getting kidnapped, maybe, but honestly I'd
never even thought about it the other way.

"That's why I think I should talk to her," he continued.  "Maybe it'll help
her decide I'm not some shady guy trying to seduce her son behind closed
doors."  I looked up at him and smiled, and with another lurch in my
stomach I decided, once and for all, that he really wouldn't have to work
very hard to seduce me.  He peeled me off him and pulled me to my feet,
cutting off my impromptu fantasy.  "Come on, let's get this over with," he
said, dragging me to the door.  I fought him the whole way, still convinced
this was a very bad idea.  He practically carried me the whole way across
the lawn and up to our porch, where he rang the doorbell and made me stand
directly beside him.  My heart very nearly quit on me when the door opened.
I had flashes of a horrible, ugly confrontation and never being allowed to
see Brad again.  Mom looked at Brad first, appearing confused.  Then she
looked down and saw me, and seemed to piece it together.

"Hello, Brad," she said, sounding extremely tired and stressed.

"Zach came over to my house in tears," Brad said, skipping the greeting.

"I told him to stay in his room," Mom said, looking down at me.

"It would seem he snuck out," Brad said dryly.  "Anyway, I've brought him
back because he wants to tell you he's sorry."  I snapped my head over to
him so quickly my neck burned.  I had been looking straight at my feet,
waiting for Brad to chew her out.  It had sounded like he was going to do
just that at first, but now he was switching tactics.  What was I supposed
to apologize for?  I looked up at him, bewildered, and then back at Mom,
who looked just as surprised.  I sat there like an idiot until Brad nudged
me.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I said mechanically, and then I looked at her, really
looked at her for the first time in a while.  I'd stopped looking at her
ever since the first day I'd noticed her eyes were puffy when she'd stayed
up all night waiting for Jesse, a month ago right when the separation had
first happened.  So when I looked up at her face and saw how much different
it looked now than it used to look back when everything was boring and
typical, it scared me.  Coupled with the fact that I could easily read the
regret she felt over hitting me, I suddenly had never felt so genuinely
sorry in my life.  "I'm really sorry I said those things to you," I
mumbled, looking back down at my feet as my eyes started to get wet again.

"I know you are," she said softly, and when I looked back up at her I saw
her eyes weren't entirely dry, either.  She pulled me towards her and gave
me a hug while Brad watched us.  I returned it with more force than I had
in years, since I was a little kid and she would pick me up from daycare
and I'd come running at her as soon as I saw her and throw my arms around
her, because back then she was my whole world and I couldn't get through a
day without her.  "I promise that will never happen again," she whispered
into my ear.  She finally let me go and looked back up at Brad, seeming to
realize for the first time how much he meant to me.  "Thank you for
bringing him back, Brad," she said, looking as though she would have liked
to hug him as well.  I knew, looking between them as they made eye contact,
that I wouldn't have to worry about being allowed to spend time with him
from now on.  I reached over and tugged on Brad's sleeve and give him a
meaningful look.

"I think he wants me to ask you if he can stay at my house tonight," Brad
said, correctly interpreting my look.  I had thought that's what we came
over here for in the first place.  Mom chewed on the idea for a second, and
then shrugged.

"Of course," she said.  "You know, I'd really like it if you could watch
him whenever you have time during the days, too," she added, reaching out
and putting her hand on my shoulder.  "I think he gets bored and lonely all
by himself during the day.  He could use the company."

"He knows he's always welcome," Brad said, and I was momentarily confused.
Had I disappeared from sight?  Was I no longer present?  Why were they
talking about me like I wasn't there?  I started tapping my foot and
finding any excuse to move my limbs so I could remind them I was there.
"If I'm not working I'm happy to look after him."  I reached out and poked
him in the ribs because he still didn't seem to realize I was right beside
him.  He absent-mindedly swatted my hand away.

"Do you need anything from the house, honey?" she asked me, finally
acknowledging my presence directly.

"I'm only going to be next door," I said, embarrassed.

"Okay, okay," Mom laughed, reaching out to hug me again.  I accepted it
grudgingly this time; one was enough.  "Have a good night, boys," she said
as we finally turned to leave.  "Thank you again," she said to Brad, who
waved at her and lead me back inside his house.

"I told you," he said to me as we settled back on his couch.  He was right.
I felt much better.  One thing was bothering me though.

"Why'd you have to surprise me like that?" I asked him.  "You could have
told me you were going to have me apologize.  I wasn't ready."

"You don't need to `get ready' to tell someone you're sorry.  The longer
the chance you have to rehearse it the less you mean it.  I wanted you to
mean it," he explained, shrugging as if it was the simplest thing in the
world.

"You're weird," I said, knowing it wasn't a very effective insult and not
caring.  He still hadn't asked what we fought about, and I guess he wasn't
going to.  I decided I wasn't interested in talking about it, anyway.  Now
I actually felt good, and I didn't want to focus on the things that had
gotten me in the mood I was when I'd come over.  "Can we eat somewhere?" I
asked, cuddling up to him again as my stomach growled.  I hadn't eaten
since lunch.

"Not now," he said distractedly.  "I already missed five minutes of the
game for you.  I'm watching the rest.  You can go play on Tyler's Xbox if
you want.  He won't mind."

"He's not here," I said.  "Of course he won't mind."  Brad rolled his eyes.

"You are the most literal minded little shit I have ever met," he laughed,
hitting me softly in the back of the head.  "That was the whole point of my
comment.  It was a joke."

"Oh," I said, rubbing the back of my head with a puzzled expression on my
face.  "Well, it wasn't funny, because I didn't get it.  Your jokes suck,"
I grinned, running my hand across the hairs on his right arm in a
subconscious manner.  He didn't seem to notice.  I pinched him just to see
if he had nerves of any kind in his arms, and he jerked away.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he asked, seeming mildly annoyed.  I
looked at him so innocently that he had to smile.  "I'm watching the game.
Go play in Tyler's room."  But I didn't want to get up, so I didn't.  I
snuggled in next to him, wishing he would put his arms around me again like
when I was crying earlier, and tried to get interested in the game.

"Let's play tennis!" I said suddenly, getting excited.  Now that Mom knew I
was with Brad, we could actually play at night.  With a sigh, Brad reached
over and put his hand over my mouth.

"Baseball," he said simply, keeping his hand clamped over my mouth until I
touched his palm with the tip of my tongue.  He yanked it back then and
rubbed it off on my knee.

"I took a nap earlier, you know," I told him, feeling playful.  "So I'm
going to be up all night.  And you can't sleep until I do."

"Bullshit," he said, still watching the TV closely even though nothing of
importance had happened in the game for the last two minutes.  The batter
was standing in the box and the pitcher just kept throwing the ball to him
and he still wouldn't hit it.  "I have to work at eleven tomorrow, so I'll
be in bed by two at the latest."  I said nothing, disappointed he had to
work early.  He watched the game until the inning ended and a commercial
came on, and then he turned back to me, a frown on his face.  "Scoot over,
will you?  We've got the entire couch to sit on and you're on top of me."
He put a hand on my chest and pushed me back, but I immediately returned
back to where I was, giving him a smile to suggest we could play this game
for quite a while.  But he didn't push me away this time, so I snuggled in
tightly against his left side and turned my attention to the game.  If I
wasn't content about what I was watching on TV, at least I was content
about who I was watching it with.

I had been sadly mistaken about having the energy to be up all night.
Whether it was the baseball or the heated conflict with Mom, by the last
few innings I was exhausted again, and was regularly dozing off.  I would
open my eyes every few minutes, feel Brad beside me, and then fall asleep
again.  Eventually Brad woke me by shaking my shoulders.

"What time is it?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.

"One," Brad answered.  "I accidentally found a good movie and then couldn't
quit watching it."

"I've been asleep that long?" I asked, incredulous.  He nodded.  Then he
led me to Tyler's room, said good night, and shut the door behind him in
his room.  I had wanted him to hug me and tuck me in, or better yet, scoop
me up and bring me with him to his bed so I could sleep there instead.  But
instead all I could do was stand in Tyler's room looking across the hall at
Brad's closed door as these desires filled up in my chest.