Authors: Jan Blazanin
A & L Do Summer (4 page)
Clay's handsome, built, and environmentally aware. He couldn't be more my type if I'd ordered him online. My mind is drifting to our romantic first date when it dawns on me that he's stopped talking midsentence.
“Sorry. Pretty boring, huh?” Clay says with an apologetic smile. Behind him, Laurel is sending frantic eye signals while pointing at her wide-open mouth.
Which is when I realize my mouth is gaping open in a rude, jaw-stretching yawn. “No, I'm not ⦔
But Clay is telling Manny to hold the door open, and I'm looking at Sunflower's rump as Clay guides her out. Laurel leaves Rose long enough to hiss, “Why were you yawning? Clay is totally your type.”
Exhaustion and sleep-deprivation are two reasons that come to mind.
Clay comes back through the door. “One in the truck. Two to go.” With Clay and Laurel on either side of Rose, she trots out, too.
As they walk out, I hear Laurel ask, “What keeps Sunflower from jumping out of the truck while you're in here?”
“I just close the tailgate,” Clay says. “No pig is going to jump over that.”
While I've been busy humiliating myself, Daisy has shuffled a few feet away. I walk over to tap her to the exit. “Don't go wild on me now. Girls in our situation have aâ”
“What situation is that?” Without making a sound Clay has come up next to me, so close that his breath warms my neck. Shouldn't he be wearing those loud, clunky farmer boots?
“The being exhausted situation,” I manage without stammering. “I've spent the weekend getting the house ready for Manny's graduation party. And Daisy here is worn out from trying to adjust to the high school experience.”
Clay smiles. No dimples, but he doesn't need them. “Are you saying my prairie seed monologue wasn't the reason you yawned?”
“No. I mean, yes.” Now I'm back to my usual self. “I mean, I'm totally interested in environmental issues, prairie restoration, and all that nature stuff.”
“Gotcha.” Clay touches two fingers to his eyebrow in a salute. “Then let's get Daisy loaded into my truck so all the virgins can go home to bed.”
If humiliation can kill, I'm a dead woman.
I stay a few steps behind while Clay persuades Daisy out of the building. Laurel and I scratch her ears while he lowers the pickup's tailgate and props a wooden ramp against it. With a tap on Daisy's side, he coaxes her up the ramp to the bed of his pickup, where Sunflower and Rose are standing. He detaches the ramp, slides it in beside the pigs, and slams the tailgate shut with practiced ease. He opens the driver's-side door, and I have to hold on to the flagpole to keep from diving into the cab with him.
“Nice meeting you, LaurelâAspen.” In the dark it's hard to tell, but I imagine Clay is gazing at me with longing. “And, Manny, it's been an interesting experience. See you next weekend at the golf course.”
Then, in a haze of dust and lingering pig odor, the guy of my dreams drives out of my life.
AS WE WALK BACK INSIDE THE SCHOOL, LAUREL BRUSHES HER
palms together. “Well, I'm glad that's over. Let's get our stuff and go home. I could sleep for a week.”
“At least.” I yawn so wide it hurts. As I wander over to the bottom of the stairs to pick up my flip-flops, I hear a muffled howl floating down from the second floor. “Crud! I forgot about Carmine.”
“Carmine's not all you forgot,” Manny says in his superior older brother voice.
“Nice try, bro.” I pause with my left foot on the bottom step. “Three pigs came in, three pigs went out. Case closed.”
Manny chuckles. “But they left numerous reminders of their time at Cottonwood Creek High.” He nods at a yellowish pile in front of the office.
I press the heels of my hands into my skull. “Crap, crap, crap!”
“You're right about that, Sis.” Manny hitches up his baggy shorts. “You girls better clean up this mess before the custodian gets here at five thirty.”
Laurel sidles up to Manny with a smile I'm sure she thinks is sexy, but the mascara streaks under her eyes kind of ruin the effect. “If you helped us, we'd get done a lot faster.”
“You're probably right, but I'm going to take a nap in my car. Wake me up when you finish so I can make sure you get home okay.”
Laurel's eyes follow Manny as he walks away scratching his butt. “I think your brother's finally starting to notice me.”
“It's probably the pig poop in your hair.” I rub my eyes. “Since I've got to let Carmine out of the lounge before he scratches the door to shreds, we might as well start upstairs.”
Laurel picks up the mostly empty water bowl and chucks the torn popcorn sack into a trash can. Then she follows me up the steps. On our way to the lounge, we scout out pig piles. We count seven on the second floor, which is at least a dozen too many.
I try to push open the lounge door to let Carmine out, but he keeps lunging against it and doesn't listen when I try to explain about doors that open in versus those that open out. Finally, Laurel and I use our combined weight to overpower him. As soon as Carmine sees daylight, he wedges through the opening and disappears through the swinging doors at the top of the stairs.
“You're welcome!” Laurel calls after him. She walks in and sets the bowl by the sink. “Do you think I should wash it?”
I shake my head. “It was full of rancid popcorn and cockroaches. Pig spit seems like an improvement.” Something swishes around my feet, and I realize the floor is ankle-deep with shredded toilet paper.
Laurel notices, too. “Looks like Carmine got bored. I wonder how many rolls he went through.”
I sigh. “As many as he could find.”
After Laurel and I pick up the TP and stuff it into a trash can in the hall outside the lounge, we raid the custodians' closet for cleaning supplies. Even if you ignored the gross, mushy texture and putrid smell, pig poo would still be the most disgusting substance on the planet. Which makes gag control a priority.
To prevent a major puke outbreak, we try to distract ourselves by talking. As I wring another mop-full into the custodians' rolling bucket, I ask, “So, you're a pig lover. How long has that been going on?”
Laurel wipes her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. “It's not just pigs. I'm wild about all animalsâcows, koalas, hyenas, whatever.”
“Why don't you have a pet?”
“AllergiesâMom's and Dad's, not mine.” Laurel's mop slaps the floor. “They swell up like dirigibles when they're near anything with fur. It's a mystery how I avoided it.”
“That's too bad.” Carmine is a pain in my rear, but he's like the sweet, loving brother I never had.
Laurel shrugs. “I've gotten used to it. In a couple of years I'll be able to have all the pets I want. Until then, I stick with temporary, random pets like my new friends the pig triplets.”
Whatever works, I guess. “Now that you have pig friends, are you going vegetarian?”
Laurel cocks her head to one side. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, you don't want to end up eating one of your new girlfriends.”
She laughs. “I was worried about that, too, so I asked Clay while we were helping Rose into the truck. He said the girls would be fine. Female pigs spend their lives eating, sleeping, and having piglets. And when they get too old to have babies, they're put out to pasture. Just the males get eaten.”
Only a big-city girl would believe that fairy tale, but Clay told that story so Laurel would feel better, which makes me like him even more.
“So they're like my great-aunt Evelyn,” Laurel says. “She and Great-uncle Cecil had sixteen kids. He died, and now she spends all her time playing canasta and going on cruises.”
“I see.” I'm not going to ruin her fantasy. “Well, we're finished up here. Let's see if your new friends left us anything on the first floor.”
A few minutes after three a.m. we dump the last of the pig goop water into the utility sink and replace the mops and buckets. Laurel grabs her hoodie from where she hung it on the office doorknob, and we drag our limp bodies out to the parking lot. The pile of poop outside the door is a squashed mess, and we decide to leave it.
The driver's seat of Manny's car is reclined all the way back, and he's leaned against the door with his mouth hanging open. No wonder Laurel finds him irresistible.
With my fists clenched, I pound on the window above his head. He bolts awake, bumping his head against the steering wheel. I wiggle my fingers in greeting, and he sticks up one of his.
“All done,” I say through the window. “We're ready for a ride home. Pop the trunk and we'll load up our bikes.”
He powers the window down an inch or so. “Are you insane? You're not tracking pig crap into my car.”
I tug on the door handle, but it's locked. “But you saidâ”
“I said I'd make sure you got home okay. And I will.” Manny moves his seat back to vertical. “You pedal; I'll follow. Safe as can be.”
I am so using his golf letter jacket the next time I dust the furniture.
Since Laurel's house is on the way to ours, we go there first. I'm almost too tired to gag when she gets all gushy thanking Manny for helping us.
At home Manny parks on the slab beside our garage and waits while I put my bike away. When I move into smelling range, he holds his nose. “Holy crap! You smell worse than the pigs! You'd better shower before you go to bed.”
“Thanks for your concern about my hygiene. You don't mind if I roll on your bedroom rug a few times first?”
He yawns. “Go for it. Just do it quietly.”
I yawn back. “I'm not sure I have the energy to climb the stairs.” I unhook the gate. My sweat cools as we walk through our pitch-black backyard, and I shiver.
Manny unlocks the kitchen door and lets me in first. Except for the humming refrigerator, the house is quiet. As in no Carmine jumping on us at the door.
“Carmine's not here. Suppose he got lost?”
“Are you kidding?” Manny pulls grapefruit juice from the fridge. “When you girls were cleaning up, he blasted out of the side door and raced toward home at about fifty miles per hour. I'll bet you a hundred bucks he's asleep on your bed.”
By the dog door are muddy pawprints leading upstairs. I point them out to Manny. “You're right. There's the evidence.”
“Problem solved.” He sets the empty juice carton in the sink. “See you in a few hours.”
“Too few.” As he's walking out of the kitchen, I add, “Thanks. Seriously.”
He waves and heads upstairs.
I lock the back door and head for bed. As Manny predicted, Carmine is sprawled crosswise on my bed like a cheap bearskin rug. I kick off my flip-flops, shove him to one side, and sink into unconsciousness.
“ASPEN, WHY ARE YOU STILL IN BED? YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE
at school in fifteen minutes!” Dad roars from the hallway, yanking me from dreamland.
I reach out blindly and pull a pillow over my head. I just crawled into bed. It can't be time to get up yet.
He tosses the pillow onto the floor. “Come on, Sprout. You can do it. Only a couple more weeks to go.”
I roll onto my back. Dad's face is pink and shiny and what's left of his hair is wet from the shower. His mint green polo shirt and khaki slacks don't have a wrinkle. How can an old dude like Dad look all fresh and alert in the morning when I feel like roadkill? “Two weeks and three days. It's a lifetime.”
“Speaking of life,” Dad says with a frown, “it smells like something died in here. Not recently, either.” He sniffs near Carmine, who is still doing his rug impersonation on my bed. “Phew! He found something extra ripe to roll in this time!”
Dad ruffles Carmine's ears and tugs on his collar until his eyes open. “Come on, buddy. You're exiled to the backyard until somebody has time to give you a bath.” He leads Carmine to the door.
“Here's the deal. If you're downstairs in ten minutes, I'll give you a ride,” Dad says on his way out.
When he's gone I pull my mud- and poop-covered feet out from under the covers. The stench makes my eyes water. As I race for the shower, I silently apologize to Carmine for letting him take a bum rap. After school I'll splash a little water on him so he looks like he's had a bath and take him for an extra long walk to make up for it.
Dad drops me at the corner to avoid the chaos in the school parking lot. I scan the area for Laurel and see her waving from the cubby in the wall where we stashed our bikes last night. This morning. Whenever. My brain is foggier than Manny's windows last winter when he and Cynthia parked in our driveway.
When I'm within striking distance of Laurel, she grabs my arm and drags me into the cubby. If she keeps up the arm grabbing, her fingerprints will be embedded in my skin.
As if carving trenches in my flesh isn't enough, she shakes me. My limp arm flops like an overstretched rubber band. “We forgot to clean the elevator! And I'm pretty sure Rose had an accident on the way down.”
I yawn and rub my grainy eyes with my free hand. “There's nothing we can do about it now, and I'm too wiped out to care. Who's going to notice on a Monday morning, anyway?”
“Butâ”
“But nothing.” I pry Laurel's fingers loose and shake the blood back into my arm. “Unless they call in CSI to do an analysis, nobody will know what's in that pile. I guarantee that the custodian's not going to give it the sniff test before he mops.”
“You're right.” Laurel sighs. “I guess I'm too tired to think straight.”
I slump against the wall. “That makes two of us.”
A hulking shadow blocks the sun. “There are two of you, all right,” a high-pitched male voice mocks. “Two major losers asking to get their faces busted open.” After delivering the line that earned him his nickname, Buster Reese exposes the tobacco wad in his cheek in a brown-toothed sneer. With his tattooed arms crossed over his beefy chest and his flabby stomach almost sucked in, I'm sure he strikes terror into the hearts of children under ten.